Chapter Three.
The next days were like rudderless ships. He went to work and did what was needed, but there was no passion, no interest. The comments on his peeling nose and burnt ear-rims died down and everything seemed back to normal -- ah well, except for him, of course. He knew he'd been changed and he didn't think he'd ever change back.
On the morning of one more day promising drudge and misery, he sat at his kitchen counter -- thinking. He should have been at the office for at least two hours by then, but wasn't able to move. The woman had forced him to confess out loud why he made his trip to the mall -- that he'd done it because he had to, not because she told him. Admitting something like that to yourself can be hard, but saying it out loud is something else altogether. It had taken a lot of courage to expose the truth; he'd had to dig it up from deep and scary places. Admitting it out loud had opened long-forgotten windows -- windows that had been locked shut with nails of shame for as long as he could remember. They'd been hammered close by the repeated violence and ridicule of his classmates, friends and family.
Through the years the hinges had rusted and the panes had blackened with dust and cobwebs, hiding a view he could hardly remember. Miss A had led him down to them -- ah, she'd pummeled and slapped him to return to this place of pain and humiliation. But, like in the saying of horses and water, she could lead him there, but she couldn't make him open the windows. No one can do that for you. You have to do it yourself. And he did.
He broke panes and hinges, disturbing dust and scurrying insects. But then, after letting the rush of fresh air in, he hadn't known how to go on. He'd stood in front of the open passage, still shuddering from the sheer audacity of his actions. He felt the long-forgotten wind blow, smelling a freedom that gave him goose bumps all over. He drew the fresh air deep into his lungs. But he dragged his feet, afraid to make the final step and climb through the inviting rectangles. He needed time, he thought. Ah, no -- he needed courage; he needed help.
Picking up his phone he called the office telling the editor's secretary that he wouldn't be in for the rest of the week. She protested that he should take it up with his boss. He just said she should do it and hung up.
A huge weight fell off his shoulders.
He went to his bedroom and packed a bag. On top of his clothes he put the pink apron. His fingers carefully straightened a few wrinkles. Then he filled a cool box with whatever he found in his fridge, closed his flat and went to his car. He drove to his favorite market, buying fresh fish, vegetables, meat and wine. Twenty minutes later he parked outside the ornate gate of the mansion. Walking through it and into the secluded court brought back a wave of memories.
It is true that locations burn themselves into the memories of painters and photographers after having worked there. They usually remember every detail, every wall and corner, the slant of light and every stone and crack in the pavement. André now knew that being forced to sit in the sun for hours had the same effect. Returning to the place was like meeting old acquaintances, intimate friends: a cracked flower pot, a garden hose, the gnarled skeleton of a dead vine hugging the top of a crumbling wall -- and the scents, of course, the acrid smell of dust, the subtle sweetness of sunbaked herbs. And he remembered sounds -- buzzing flies, far away birds, the lazy wind rustling through the leaves of an ancient oak. Everything came rushing back, overwhelming him until he sank to his knees. He knew this house would never be the same again, just as he wouldn't. It had swallowed him, making him part of it -- a room, a chair, a servant waiting for his mistress.
Neither he nor the house would ever be complete again unless his mistress came home. It was a truth that hit him like a hammer. His hands searched nervously for his phone. He pushed her number with shaking fingers. Waiting for her to pick up became agony. Her hello shook him. It sounded annoyed and was embedded in a background of blaring music.
"It is me, Miss -- André," he mumbled, wondering if his voice would be audible over the music and the beating of his racing heart. "I hope I don't disturb."
"Who?" Her voice was a razorblade.
"André..."
"Do I know an André?" she said as if asking someone she was with. "Are you the damned hairdresser who almost ruined my last show?"
He felt devastated. Had she already forgotten him? He stuttered things to re-introduce him, feeling perfectly ridiculous.
"Ah,
that
André!" she cried out, laughing merrily.
"Yes, Miss," he answered. "I just wanted..." She cut him off.
"André," she said in a warmer tone. "You are calling
me
..." He exhaled his pent-up breath. She sounded sympathetic.
"Yes, Miss, I'm at the house, the mansion, and I just..." She once more cut into his words.
"Didn't I tell you?" she said, some of the ice returning.
"Eh," he wondered. "Tell me what, Miss?"
"You
never
call me, you hear? Never." And she hung up.
With the background music still booming in his head, he scrambled to his feet, a lost child on the brink of tears.
The afternoon crept by like a snail. He tried to speed it up by keeping busy. He stored away all he'd brought. Then he cleaned an already clean kitchen, dusted spotless furniture and mopped a shining floor. Finally he sank to his knees and hands on the exact spot where he had been chair to the woman he adored, imagining her squirming bottom rubbing the burnt skin off his back.
The sun sunk behind the walls; it would be dark soon. He didn't feel hungry; he just felt miserable. Then a car's claxon blared into the quiet evening, repeating its rude sound twice more before he was at the gate. A convertible BMW stood askance on the driveway. From it poured three women, obviously tipsy and very loud. One of them was Miss A, the others he'd never seen. From their appearance he'd call them girls. They wore short, colored cocktail dresses, except for Miss A, who stuck to her favorite black.
Earlier that evening they might have looked impeccable, but by now their hair was mussed, their mascara smudged and their lipstick smeared. They giggled, tottering on high heels and bumping into each other. One of the women held an open bottle of champagne.
Miss A reached the gate first. She looked drunk, but her voice had no slur and her eyes were as intense as ever.
"André," she said. "My darling chair, please meet my friends Marijke and Gigi." The first girl she pointed at seemed a natural red head. Her almost translucent skin was dusted with freckles that spread from her face down her throat and all over her chest -- of which she showed enough to know she hardly had breasts. She was tall and gangly, thin as a model and swaying on endless legs. Gigi on the other hand was petite, five feet and maybe a few inches if he subtracted her breakneck heels. Even for a Latin girl she looked dark, wearing her black hair in a crown of curls, while her body sported the curves of long gone Italian movie stars. Her face had a round and open look with generous lips that betrayed African ancestry. Her dress was red and smoothly tight -- he suspected it was all she wore. Between the three of them they scared the shit out of him.
"Andrécito!" Miss A cried out, rattling the gate. "Don't be a gawking statue. Let us in!"
Mixing their drinks he watched them walk about. The skinny redhead had kicked off her heels. She admired the horse paintings, making lewd comments about the potential size of their penises. Gigi, the petite one, had dropped onto the overstuffed settee, drinking from the neck of the champagne bottle. She didn't seem to mind what vista her spread thighs offered. She burped, then asked Miss A: "Is he in any way close to them?" Her accent was foreign; it had a buzzing singsong quality -- Portuguese maybe? Brazilian?
At first he had no idea what she might mean, until the black haired woman answered with a chuckle: "We'll know, honey, when he at last succeeds in getting it up." The redhead guffawed, turning in surprise. "You mean..?" she said.
André pretended not to hear, as it obviously wasn't directed at him. It seemed as if he was supposed to be a household utility; he was talked about, never talked to, and it suited him. He filled a tall glass with ice cubes, pouring a white Sancerre over it. He silently condemned the poor taste of the redhead that made him kill such a fine wine. Damn, he should have bought cheaper stuff too.
