A Different Corner

Maybe it was the architecture. Or perhaps it was just the angle at which the boutique was perched on the mezzanine level of what was otherwise a brutalist building, that gave the place the feeling that it was floating. But it was especially at night when one drove by, especially when the street-level businesses had turned off their lights for the night, and when the neon shelf lights were in full glow, that it took on the effect of a spaceship hovering, of a spaceship about to land.

And on such evenings, especially in summer when life was looser, but also in winter when it rained sideways and the wind howled, pedestrians on their way to the slew of restaurants, nightclubs, or gyms that dot the neighborhood would crane their necks to see the latest designs, eyeglasses one could never imagine wearing oneself, let alone afford, but that perfectly framed the faces of the models in the advertising posters and shelf talkers.

—∞—

It was my first week in the city, and I had not yet figured out the flow. My apartment was temporary and smelled corporate, which it was.It still had the smell of carpet glue.The only saving grace was the oversized, foor-to-ceiling Palladian window that allowed one to spy on the street. Not so much during the day because I would be at work. But definitely at night, when if one turned off all interior lights, one could observe the comings and goings of the locals, confident cowboys on the night out, strapless, braless maidens trying their best to be coy, drunken laughter upon their return, whether paired off or rejected and, if I was up early enough to catch the sunrise, my favorite: walks of shame.

The first time I saw her, she wore plaid in shades of blue. She was standing on the sidewalk, cigarette in hand, with an absentminded look, daydreaming perhaps as she finished her cigarette. She seemed troubled, smoking with one hand, and between puffs, biting the fingernails of the other. She stands out in my memory, not because of the matching Alice band that held back her straw-colored hair which she wore high on her head, but because of her turned-out feet when she paced, like that of a ballerina. On what seemed like a perfect spring day, she seemed perfect under a perfect sky, the epitome of spring and youth. Just then, a convertible pulled into frame (the window had become my frame) with the top down and gave a small hoot. She looked up, smiled, flicked her cigarette into the firebed, and hopped into the car without opening the door. A man of mixed Asian descent wearing a white vest handed her an ice cream cone before zipping off. The vest suggested someone who spent much of his time at the gym. I would later learn that he went by Johnny.

The newly acquired business account, the reason for my temporary relocation, kept me working late and I did not see her for a while. When I did see her again, she was not on the street, but in a well-lit apartment across the street from mine, above where I had originally seen her standing, and where like a movie, I could watch her pace from one room to another. And when that happened, I would picture the turned-out feet. Summer was now in full swing, and the windows were usually open. The curtains breathed in and out and the flowers in the window boxes seemed to sprout love.I can’t say that I was not attracted to her. One night, as a film played on television, the actress’s desperate dialogue on screen seemed to match perfectly with what she was saying to someone out of view. She seemed to be in a state, her arms wildly gesticulating. I still remember the line that appeared to be perfectly synced, “Maggie the cat is alive, I’m alive!” On other days, I would glimpse the man from the sportscar standing before a mirror, practicing on a pair of nunchucks.

The campaign that I was working on kept me busy. I would stroll off to work each day after a bowl of muesli and only make it home after dark. My line manager began to linger in my cubicle for chats that seemed to grow longer. She too was from out of town, on loan, as she liked to say. I kept my distance as I had heard her mention a boyfriend back home during my first week on the project. One evening, when I was still at my computer, she stuck her head around the cubicle and said she planned to have a drink at the bar downstairs if I was interested. I assumed she meant with others from the office. She wore a short skirt and was more made up than usual. “White wine goes straight to my head,” she said after we had each had several glasses and after I realized that it would just be me. Eventually, she said, “I think I should go now, before I…” But she never finished her sentence.Walking down the stairs to street level her hand brushed against mine. I resisted what was clearly an open invitation. We hugged and parted ways. The next day she returned her focus to the project we were working on. We were about to embark on phase two, and a more intense level of commitment was required. “Tank you for being a gentleman,” was the only thing she ever said that might have alluded to that night. She never brought it up again and kept me at arm’s length from that day on.

I was relieved when one Saturday I saw her walking arm in arm with a colleague from Strategy. That’s when it dawned on me that her passions had moved on. A week later, when the phone rang during one of our daily stand-ups, she shot me a dirty look. I apologized but the look remained, and a shake of the head confirmed my newfound status.I had fallen from grace. The voice on the other end of the line told me that the box I had shipped from home had finally arrived, so I did not care.The courier office was only a few blocks away and that’s when I saw the girl again. She was standing at the window of the eye-glasses boutique with a clipboard in one hand, in the building that had for so long held my fascination. Now that I knew where she worked, I changed my route home.

With most of my usual distractions out of the way, a numbing routine set in. I would work by day and take pleasure in picking out a new take-out joint for dinner each evening. At night, with the oversized television playing in the background, and a different movie playing on the outside, I would kick back in a large leather armchair (not mine, of course) before the equally oversized window in the hope of catching a glimpse of the girl. At weekends, I would visit galleries (there were many in the neighbourhood) or have breakfast at one of two exceptional few markets that stretched for miles. My contract was finite, my needs few, and so this is how I counted the days down.

—∞—

A few weeks later, on a night marked by troubled skies and unpredictable gusts,I had just sat down to a bowl of soup when I noticed something white pass through my periphery. I managed to catch the trajectory just in time to see what looked like at frst a plastic bag, and then later a blouse, floating in the wind.I dismissed it as an errant piece of laundry that had been left on someone’s balcony. Only when a second object passed through my vision field did I sit up and notice. This time it was a small blue suitcase that did not float but instead fell with such force to the ground it split open like a watermelon, spilling its contents – socks, bras, panties – like seeds. I lowered my spoon. That’s when I saw her, the girl from before on the sidewalk, shoeless, robe less, ducking and diving from – it would soon become clear – her worldly possessions raining down on her. I looked up to locate the source of the dispersal. It was none other than the man from the convertible, now shirtless and tossing with willful intention her belongings to the ground, even an acoustic guitar that just missed the girl, who was now crouched over in tears. The tempestuous relationship that had been percolating, or so it seemed from the movie that had been playing from my window, had finally boiled over. Even from three floors up, I could see the trembling of her torso, the balling up of her fists. The tears of anguish.

For a moment I stood frozen at the window. I had no idea what to do. A homeless couple who I had seen before now breezed in to witness the commotion, and no doubt to avail themselves of the spoils. The man – boyfriend or husband, I had not yet figured that out – had in the meantime shut the windows and turned out the lights. The homeless couple started riding through the debris. This snapped me out of my inertia.I sprinted down the stairs three at a time and began to gather up what was left of her possessions. “Wait here,”I said, running up the stairs once more to retrieve the unused laundry basket that had been an encumbrance in my entrance hall since I had moved in. Zombie-like, she quietly and slowly helped me pack her goods into the basket before following me up the stairs in a wild-eyed stupor.

I unlocked the door and gestured for her to enter, but she just stood there, her head down. “Don’t worry,”I said, “you’ll be safe with me.”But fear was not the cause of her reticence. It was something else. She pointed to her bloodied feet. Unbeknownst to me, she had walked on glass and had left a blood trail on the door. I picked her up and without resistance carried her to the bathroom and gently placed her on the edge of the bath. She seemed unable to speak or cry.

“Would you like me to call an ambulance?”I asked. She shook her head.

“Is there anyone you would like me to call?” Again, she just shook her head. She seemed to be in a place of calm, a place beyond emotion.

“Te police?” Again, no. I tried to protest but her mind seemed to be made up. I ran some lukewarm water and in silence removed the glass splinters from her feet. When I was done, I dried her feet and took her up in my arms once more before carrying her through to the lounge area. She did not seem to mind.

“I am just going to put you here,” I said and placed her in the leather armchair with a view of her apartment. She searched my eyes for a moment before pulling up her legs and tilting her head. She had still not spoken. I retrieved a blanket from the hallway closet but when I returned, she was already asleep. I turned out the lights but could not quiet my brain. It would be 1:30 AM before I was finally able to sleep.

When I awoke the next morning, she was gone. The blanket was neatly folded and placed on the arm of the chair. For the rest of the week, the curtains of her apartment remained closed. A few days later I responded to a knock on the door. It was the muscled one, Johnny, he of the nunchucks. “I’m here for her stuff,” he said, without explanation or remorse. I was surprised at the tautness of his muscles, and even more so the smoothness of his skin. “How is she?” I asked. “Sarah’s fine,” he said, “just her stuff, and I’ll be off.”

—∞—

In the weeks that followed, the apartment windows were reopened, the curtains came back to life, and the world went on as before with one noticeable exception. The girl who had filled my proscenium arch – the girl who had filled my dreams – was nowhere to be seen. Has she moved on? The next day I brazenly stopped off at the oculist on my way home from work. I had never been in there before and it was as modern as I had pictured it to be. “Is Sarah here?” I asked. The woman behind the counter looked me up and down. “Are you an acquaintance?” she asked. “No, just a neighbour,” I said. Technically speaking,I was a neighbour. “Sarah no longer works here,” she said dismissively and turned her attention to the next person in line.

I was approaching the end of my contract, and I guess I never did mend the chasm that had come about as a result of my rejection of the line manager. With a hint of a smile, she informed me one morning that my contract would not be renewed. It was without prejudice, she added, but I wasn’t fooled. The project had been launched and was not performing as anticipated.

Consequently, the client had decided to trim the fat (her words). Last in, first out, she said with a shrug. The company would, however, honour the agreement and pay for my relocation and fight back home.

—∞—

A week before I was due to fly, I wandered through the neighborhood. It was a Saturday, and I decided to find breakfast and at the same time seek out last-minute gifts for the girl I had left behind before the start of my contract. I had no intention of starting things up again but thought I would get something just in case. The streets were busy. Couples walked arm in arm, and there was that month-end feeling. As I came around the corner, I noticed a commotion of sorts. At first, I thought there had been a fre. Two fire trucks were in the process of extending their ladders. It was only when I moved in closer that I saw what everyone else around me was seeing. A man had climbed out of the window of the eyeglass building and was standing dangerously close to the ledge. A minute later I realized with horror it was none other than Johnny, the leading actor in what I had begun to think of as my personal Rear Window. He seemed manic and was threatening to jump if anyone came closer. We made eye contact, and he held my gaze for a moment. There was a mixture of fear and desperation in his eyes. Finally, after much deliberation with a counselor who just happened to be in the vicinity, he was persuaded to climb back through the window from which he had emerged, tears streaming from his face. I never saw him again.

—∞—

Three years passed before I had the opportunity to return to the city. I was flying in and out on the same day and was delighted when my meeting ended early. With time to kill, I took an Uber to my old neighbourhood. The first thing I noticed was that the oculist was gone. Covid 19 had taken care of that. A new sign indicated that it was being replaced by a furniture store. I turned into my street, and I walked past my old building. Large suede curtains obscured any view that I might have had into my recent past.

I made my way to the local flea market and was happy to find it still in operation. I ordered a plate of bulgogi for old-time’s sake and was on my last mouthful when I saw her in the distance. She seemed deep in conversation with a girlfriend while abstractedly pushing a baby stroller back and forth. Te straw-coloured hair, the high ponytail, and the angled way she held her cigarette left no doubt in my mind about who it was. Either way, my heart had already confirmed it. I lowered my fork and pushed aside my plate. I knew that if I did not say something then I never would. I had long harboured regret at not having done more to track her down when I had had the chance, giving fate instead the upper hand. ‘Is it not the fate of the coconut husk to float?’ I had once heard someone say. Still, I rose from my chair with conviction and had just begun to wade through the crowd when a man in a navy business suit, wire-rimmed spectacles, and Errol Flynn moustache swooped into frame. The topography of his face screamed Italian. She looked up and smiled. He leaned in and said something that made her laugh.“My happiness bites the plum of your mouth,” I imagined him saying, quoting an appropriate poet.

By Craig Bartholomew Strydom