The umbrella and the key

Damn rain. I’m late again, sodden shoes and frozen to the bone.

The apartment is in a plush neighborhood, the door is twice as high as that of my condo. I ring. A bean pole opens up and looks at me without a word, doubtful. Finally she lets me in. She too, is twice as tall as my landlady. I take off my jacket, throw it on a sofa in the hallway on top of a pile of other coats. There must be a lot of people. But I don’t hear music, what kind of party is this? The giant umbrella holder is crammed, I force my black dripping umbrella into it. In the lounge, everybody is dry and elegant. Oh no! I blurt out. No one told me that it is a special night and you had to show up with your hair combed back and a tie. Me, wet curls stuck to my brow, three-day beard and an old green sweatshirt with baggy sleeves, and I have a feeling that because of the ride, and the rain, and waking up at dawn, and the leaking rusty shower in the new apartment with uninviting sudden cold water, perhaps I even smell a bit.

Are they looking at me? They’re looking at me all right. I search for Thom Thom, but he is nowhere. What a friend. First he invites you, then doesn’t answer your calls and finally doesn’t even show up.

Miss Duncan, however, does show up, right in the middle of the living room. Alone. That is, not alone. Alone, she’ll never be, she is with three men. Alone without her boyfriend, I mean. Then it could be true that she left that arrogant guy, born with a silver spoon in his mouth, he is, that crap-at-playing-football arsehole. They say now he plays golf. I’d like to see that, him hitting that tiny ball on that tiny tee, he with the sense of balance of a drunken camel on rollerskates on a soapy floor. So, they really aren’t together anymore. Well, well, it just serves that bastard right. Titus Mallory, that the devil may take his balls and make minced meat for cats. Before cutting them off, I mean.

A hunched guy in a huge cardigan, with round glasses, has asked for attention and is speaking softly and slowly from a corner near the window. Not much of a talker. People around keep chatting quietly distracted, two are laughing. At him or me? I lean against the wall in a barely visible corner and I hope they will leave me in peace. He is explaining what is going to happen tonight. I understand Ms. Duncan will sing. I did not know that she sings. I want to see that.

The guy mumbles something about a certain Gustof Moller, or Maller, he’s saying a man of great sensitivity, and I’m tired of hearing, I walk away in search of the bar. There must be someone who pulls out and gives out all those giant glasses that I see around.

I am like that. I get tired with long speeches. I get tired watching a full movie. Books, my eyes blur between the lines and I get sleepy. At school mostly I used to sleep. Thom Thom, he was my classmate, would wake me up when there was danger in the air, mostly I would muddle through, maybe a note every now and then, but nothing serious. I liked this Twitter thing that Thom Thom explained to me the other week, that you have to keep it short, very short, like ten words. The idea is cool. But when I tried with his computer there were all these small kinds of telegrams with pictures and strange signs and they were writing to each other and spoke of things I did not understand and people who I had never heard of, it took more effort than reading the list of foreign beers at Callahan’s Pub. And, yes, I have tried them all. Those are easy though, they go by number. Like, give me a forty-seven, Callahan.

They say I have a drinking problem. I am careless and unreliable, they say. I have a problem with women, because I never have any around me. Then, I say, you can’t say I have a problem with women, but oh well. And with keeping a job. And with attention. Attention, in particular. So they say. I don’t know if what I have is really a problem with focusing, it’s more that people talk fast, long sentences, and move from one thing to another, and they put in names that they think you should know, never stop a damn second to explain, to ask are you there? Do you follow? And I try, but I get so tired. Also as a child I would get tired all the time. At school they thought I was an idiot. But it is not intelligence, it’s energy. I just get tired. And when I’m tired I forget.

They think I’m stupid. Not so. I do look stupid, that is true, what is right is right. I blame the bone inside my nose. I am chubby and round, a face with red cheeks: like a piglet, as mum would say. And my nose is too small. But the bone in my nose is too big, so I can’t breath, I snore at night and by day I keep my mouth open, and that doesn’t make me look intelligent. So at least says Thom Thom. I don’t see why keeping your mouth closed shows you are all that intelligent, unless, of course, you say less bullshit. But even open-mouthed, I don’t talk.

Red cheeks and mouth open, in short, seems to be a terrible combination. To me, however, this thing that it’s not what I say or don’t say, but it is how I look, that I can’t stand.

At school, one year, when I was little, we did a test. It measured intelligence, it was called: The IQ. We’ll see how many geniuses we have in this class, Mrs Warren said, and looked at me and giggled, the old bitch of a lousy teacher. I said to myself: here is when they see who you are. Before we began I had a strong coffee, although coffee makes me sick, and a slice of bread with half inch of butter and a mountain of sugar on top. Energy: full out. I skipped all the long questions, I thought, those would put me to sleep, and answered the short ones fast. There were many of those. I raced through the papers. Finished first – and the highest. Not in the class; in the school. Look who’s the idiot now, I thought. But since everyone knew that I’m stupid, I was accused of copying (but who from? I was first all the others had done worse), and punished. It serves you right. You will learn not to cheat, they all said.

I did learn. I learned that everyone has his place. I learned that you have to be like you look, and if you don’t, all the things in the world will hit you like the spring of a trap and eventually crush you like a rat. Things must be done a certain way. You don’t stroke the dog the wrong way, don’t swim against the stream, don’t sleep with boys, don’t pretend you’re intelligent trying to pass a test nobody believes in. That IQ does not measure anything, really. How you look, that’s the true measure of your intelligence. I mean, if you look smart, you can open your mouth to say any bullshit and that shit will look smart, right?

Now I drink, I forget things and I don’t show up for appointments, and no one dreams of complaining. I’m okay this way. This behavior doesn’t surprise anybody, like a sweater that suits me just fine. It suits the bone in my nose. It is an agreement between myself and the nature of things, like Thom Thom says. When he said it the first time I understood nothing, but now it is clear to me. It is a passage: you become adult when you understand the fucked-up nature of things.

Finally I find the bar. It is where it should be, in the kitchen. But they hid the kitchen, deep down at the end of a corridor. A sad bar. A carafe with something that seems tea with fruit pieces floating in, two types of wine, and nothing else. I walk closer, read the labels: Chardonnay, Chianti, but I want to down a pint of bitter. As dark as it gets. I ask if they have it, they don’t have it. Give me that one, yes, the Chianti, then. Dark, it is dark.

He pours a drop in a giant glass with a stem so long that it takes two hands to hold it. Me, the stemmed glasses I would have them abolished by law, they are designed to get in your way. Once a self-satisfied bastard told me that the stem isolates and protects the glass from warm and dirty fingers. Make them with a handle then, I say, like a damn beer mug.

Two fingers, he puts in, less than my grandmother has in a sherry. Either pour more or use small glasses, I say. It takes twenty glasses before I am not thirsty anymore. I glare at him, he glares back. Well, I’ll be back, sir. Soon.

I leave the kitchen with the glass already half empty and I see that a bloke has sat down at the piano and Miss Duncan is standing next to him, and they look at each other, and the pianist begins to play. A twee thing. There are no other instruments. Drums, I understand it, there is no space. But not even a guitar.

Now people don’t talk any more, everyone looks interested. Miss Duncan is wearing a black dress down to her feet all made of little round things that shine. The back is open almost down to her arse. Her cheeks are certainly not as red as mine, she has skin as white as the marble steps down at the public library, where you can see all the blue veins and where I, while Thom Thom was going to bring back a book, would sit imagining animals, monsters and aliens inside all those complicated lines in the stone. That I liked. Reading between the lines, I think they call it.

Now I know what they are playing. Classic music, I’ve seen that stuff a couple of times on television. Slow, sad. Boring. I don’t understand a word, maybe it’s a foreign language. Or maybe it’s Miss Duncan who sings badly. Well, I think, now people will crack and start talking, but instead they stay and listen and are all very concentrated. There are guys that love this stuff. I certainly don’t, but look at Miss Duncan, with her throat that vibrates like a idling diesel engine, and her bare back and her eyes closed and her head thrown that looks like she’s going to cry, it’s just spectacular. I have a feeling that it is her who they all are gaping at, and no one is listening to the music, I tell you.

Someone touches my shoulder, it’s Thom Thom! Where have you been hiding, bastard? But he puts his finger on his lips, you have to be quiet. But look, he is stylish as hell, too.

“Are you having fun?” he whispers in my ear. And then: “How are you dressed?”

“Shit, you didn’t tell me that I had to come black tie” I say. He shakes his head, and again gestures me to be quiet, and he says in a whisper, “Yes, I did tell you, but it’s you who never listen”. Then I grasp his head and tell him softly in his ear: “Excuse me, but if one has to dress like that, if they sing these crappy songs of Gustof Mallory or whatever the fuck he’s called, and if there is no beer and they give out wine by the drop, why did you call me? “He continues to shake his head. “Stay put and listen.” He says.

But I’m thirsty.

“Look, Thom thom…”

“What is it now ?”

“Aren’t you thirsty?”

“No,” He makes a face like he doesn’t want to hear.

“Well, then go and order a glass of this. It’s called Chianti. You can’t miss, it’s the only dark one. Or rather get two, one for you and one for your girlfriend, tell him. Then I’ll chuck them both in my glass.

He goes, I watch Miss Duncan. Beautiful, she is beautiful. Much, much more than back in school. Cute, elegant, rich, she was. But now there is something, how she moves, how she has such delicate skin, that seems to say: watch and remember, watch and remember, as if in a moment she would disappear in a low fog like that that comes out of those pipes in the concert stage, and she makes it seem like there is no one else in the room, even if there are two hundred, and all the other beauties in the living room do not look beautiful at all, just nice legs and arses and beautifully painted eyes and with a nice front rack, of course, but not beautiful, and it makes me feel my throat itching here, where there is a dimple right above the crucifix on my silver chain. Or maybe it’s the thirst. Thank goodness Thom Thom’s coming with the glasses.

I finally pour them together to make one decent drink. I hide the empty glasses behind a plant, and this makes me think of one thing.

“Thom Thom ?”

“What is it now?” He looks really annoyed. Why do you invite me, I say, if it upsets you when I come.

“The bathroom. You know where it is?”

He points to a door. ” Hold it,” I say, and leave him the glass. He grins, even more annoyed, it seems to me that he is ashamed to have a full glass, it is just an upside down world, the only normal person in the room and he is embarrassed.

In the bathroom. Beautiful green marble everywhere. I touch a giant tile, full of lines that look like the face of a mouse, it would be nice to continue reading between the lines, but I have to go, now. Did I shut the door? Yes, yes, I did. I look in the mirror, I look like shit. How could I have guessed, in the morning, that I will end at a penguins’ party with hair melted around their skulls like cheese on a pizza. I smell to see if my armpit stinks. Well, just a little, just a bit, I expected much worse.

I don’t even have time to unbutton my pants and start to piss when I hear the handle rattling. “HANG ON”, I say loud enough to be sure that they hear, and it stops. I end up in a hurry, do not like to make them wait, I open and I see the bean pole waiting there. “Free” I say, pointing with my thumb the door that I left open. She looks at me without a word and enters. I wonder if she can speak. I think she is really bursting and has to run in.

I’m heading back to the hall. The usual fly check. Did I flush? Oh well, too late now.

The song has ended, but they are silent all the same. Ah, now I see, they are going to play another one. Gustof Mallory again A lead, he says, who knows what a lead is.

I taste the wine. A nice big swig, I am thirsty. Come to think of it I don’t like it so much, it’s thick and salty, doesn’t relieve your thirst like a good pint. But at least the alcohol begins to kick in, I am listening and this whining Mallory song almost begins to seem beautiful.

Two sips and it’s finished. Back to the bar, where the bartender is speaking with a girl, not even looking at me. I am about to take the bottle but he stops me. “Can I help you?” he says, stopping my arm. And what should I say? I get it, you don’t want me to touch your things, give me that fucking wine and I’ll be off. Without a word, I hand him my empty glass. Another tiny drop.

I take it and I realize that the song is over. Miss Duncan is approaching this way. I would like to step aside, sneak out of the bar, but there is no place. She’s right in front of me.

I don’t know what to say. “Hello, Sara”, comes out.

She pauses, narrows her black bottomless eyes. “Do I know you?” She has a terrific mouth, without lipstick, with many thin furrows now that she is pouting slightly.

“St. Mary’s School. When I was seventh grade you were third.”

“Strange,” she says. “It seems strange that I could forget these eyes.”

“But you have forgotten them,” I say. She’ll not be offended.

“I was in class with Thomas Thompson. Thom Thom”, I add.

” Ah yes, him I do remember”.

She comes very close, almost touching me and I can not go back, I have already my bum against the counter. It bothers me when they get that close, now I’ll begin to sweat. She’s studying my face like I do when I read between the lines.

“Do you always keep your mouth open?”

“Always. But before, while you were singing, everyone had it open”.

She laughs, and I’ve never seen anything so beautiful. With her face upturned, her throat exposed, white like cottage cheese. I must find a way to make her laugh again. Just a shame that she’s touching my shoulder, now I begin to sweat and sweat.

“You’re wet” she says.

I shrug and point to the window where the rain’s beating on the glass.

“Oh, yes, I am luckier, I live in this same building, just upstairs. Aren’t you going to tell me your name ?”

“Theodor”.

“And what do you do, Theodor?”

“I work down at the dog training center”.

“Instructor?”

“Well, almost. Not really. I clean the cages.”

She is laughing again! I made it, even without wanting to.

“Did you like the concert?”

“The songs, well, not too much.” She opens her eyes with a half smile. “But you,” I say, in a voice I have never heard before, “You are spectacular.”

Laughs again! Three-nil. And she leans onto me and whispers in my ear:

“You’re nice,” I hate this word nice because you never know if they are speaking about actual beauty or the way you behave. Being me, it must be the way I behave, I’d say. Not that I behave that well, but I suppose, between the two she must mean my behavior.

She also gets to speak in a voice I never heard.

“And, when you don’t work, what do you like to do? ”

I think about it for a moment.

“To read between the lines”.

She doesn’t laugh. Too bad. It is difficult to understand when someone will laugh. But she gets even closer, takes my hand and is almost breathing in my face, “And what kind of lines do you like to read?”

I don’t have time to respond when I see behind her a tall bloke with broad shoulders, who I don’t know why, but I know he’s someone that never sweats. In fact he is not sweating. The bloke puts his hand on her bare shoulder in a way that makes it clear that they go to bed together.

“All right, here? Is someone bothering you, Sara? ” Come on. He says someone and looks at me. I hate him already. He looks at me with a look of disgust and says, ” Shouldn’t you have a uniform, here in the bar?”

“Not working here,” I say. “I’m invited”.

” Oh, excuse me,” and almost unwittingly he makes a gesture with his hand that you understand that it means you’re dressed like a slob and how could I imagine you’re a guest. Looking at my sweatshirt, I realize that there is also a stain on my stomach, ketchup from the X-large hotdog that I had for lunch at the kiosk in front of my house, no doubt. I cross my arms, so I hide the stain and give myself an air.

“I went out early this morning, it was late, I could not get changed.”

And that’s when I see that the thing happening, he turns on a light of extra contempt in his eyes. Disdain in people’s eyes I can see like that, zip, in a flash. One of the things that they do is that they begin to talk in a tone that you understand that you stink more than a cockroach, but they manage to make it sound respectful, so you can’t say anything, because they are respectful.

In fact, as I expected, he starts talking seriously, all polite, that the devil may straighten out his tongue in a nine thousand watt hair straightener and grill his genitals in a toaster, the kind they use in bars, with the heavy plate. He says a phrase so full of contempt that seems to speak to himself and no one is around :

“I believe that a person should dress in a certain way regardless.”

When he said regardless I went berserk.

I’m not sure what that means, but it is enough to hear his tone. Nobody says that to me. Your sister, you bastard. Bring her here and I’ll regardless her. And I take him by the collar. Two guys came from nowhere and take me by the arms in a flash. They push me into a closet, one grabs my hair and whispers in my ear now you shut up and come with us. They drag me to the entrance with my arms behind my back like a jailbird. They try to do it quickly, but people notice all the same, they look at us. Let me at least take the jacket and umbrella, fuck! I tell them, and they push against the umbrella stand that almost falls, then they remain standing with their legs apart, one here and one there. I put my jacket on. Which is my umbrella now, damn. Ah, yes, the one with the red ribbon around the handle, good idea to distinguish among others. All black like fucking bats.

They open the door, one holds me by the arms and the other gives me a punch in the stomach and I roll down three steps. I remain bent on the steps. For a while, I can’t get up. I can hardly breathe, fuck. Then I find the strength to pick up my umbrella and open it up, ‘cos it’s pissing down.

Something shiny falls down with the sound of metal, bouncing on the steps. Ting, ting, ting. I go down to the sidewalk, bend to pick it up, and sit on the bottom step to examine it.

A key. I hold it between two fingers and look at it closely. Water trickles up my sleeve. Is it mine, fallen from my jacket pocket when I put it on? I look into the pocket to see if the house key is still there. It is there, almost the same as the one in the umbrella, a very common type.

It is not my key. That means someone put it in there. They put a key in my umbrella. Why? Who?

Thom Thom? No, his house key is different; one of those long skinny keys, I remember it because it has that plastic keychain with that little woman with legs that can open beer bottles.

A thought freezes me. Miss Duncan! Why, is it possible that while the two pushed me in the closet she went and slipped the key into my umbrella, I thought she likes me, and maybe wants to invite me to her room, she even told me where it is. Just upstairs, she said. Is it possible that she has invited me up in her apartment? But how did she know that that umbrella was mine? Did she see it  when I entered the house?

A key is a promise. Or a hassle, if you lose it. Maybe someone just dropped it, by chance, in the confusion? But this idea of Miss Duncan… If I look up, in addition to getting water down my collar I can see her through the window laughing with her friend who does not sweat, may hell swallow his balls and  grill them to perfection. Laughing with him, but maybe waiting for me. Maybe laughing, thinking about the key, she knows that at this point it’s in my hand.

Maybe there’s a chance for me to wait for one of these arseholes to come out, slip inside while the door is open, go upstairs, and try the key. If she put it there herself, the door will open. If it doesn’t open, I’ll just go home.

And what if she put it there, but she thought that the umbrella was someone else’s? She’ll call the police and I’ll take a few more punches, get another taste of the bitchy nature of things.

Damn it, it is precisely these long thoughts that make me so tired, all these lines that grow in the brain like the branches of a tree, and you can follow only one at a time, but in the meantime they multiply like mould on a slice of pizza forgotten in the fridge. Am I sure of what I’m saying? Is it really my umbrella, or I did I take another person’s? Just a moment, let’s keep calm. Let’s reason. I recognized it because there is a red ribbon. But that ribbon, where does it come from? When did I have an umbrella with a red ribbon, me? When did I have an umbrella, now that I think about it, that every time it rains it reduces me to a piece of shit like this? Is it that I picked up a random one when I left the bookies where I lost a few quid? Perhaps there at the party I just thought that the ribbon was a good idea to recognize umbrellas, and in the hurry and with those two blokes I just thought it was mine, fuck it. Now that I think of it, how can I be the type to put a red satin ribbon on the handle of an umbrella, me?