The Apartment A Novel(8)

Saskia makes her first phone call. She holds her thumb, which is, here, the same as crossing one’s fingers. She waits, and waits, and waits, and frowns, then leaves a message. Then she draws a star by the ad. Our food comes. Saskia dials another number. She waits. And waits. She frowns again, and shakes her head at me when she gets to voicemail. She leaves a short message. She draws a star by the ad and says, It’s December, it’s the worst time to look. She dials the next number on the list and someone answers. Excitedly, she grabs my arm. She speaks. She is, perhaps, trying to explain the situation, who I am, that I am an American – I hear the word American. Her telephone voice is not like her regular voice. It is severe, professional, and lacks empathy, and I find it totally incongruous with the fact that her hand is on my arm, that she is excited. Then she’s cut off in the middle of a sentence, or what seems like the middle of a sentence. She frowns and says goodbye. It’s gone already, she says. She draws a line through the ad. Pity, she says. It had a balcony. Maybe you should not tell landlords I’m American, I say. Saskia dismisses this.

She pauses to eat and drink. This is exciting, she says. I’m excited, too, I say. And we all eat and drink for a bit. It is true that I’m excited, but I also feel relief that we may not find an apartment, that I can go on living in a hotel for a month or two, that I can continue to eat all my meals in restaurants and cafés, and sleep on a tiny bed in a small room with nothing at all by way of decoration, except the one painting. I’m ashamed of this feeling that I might be quite content in the shallow, purgatorial waters of hotel life. My cake is full of warm raspberries and warm blackberries and is covered in cream. Janos eyes it suspiciously, as do other diners around us. I’m wearing my boots, jeans, a black belt, a blue T-shirt, and a dark brown, button-down shirt with long sleeves. I bought the brown shirt here, and a few others just like it, because all my shirts made me feel conspicuously American. I’m also letting my hair grow. My US passport photo shows me with neat, clean and well-groomed hair, tapered above the ears and around the neck from the lower natural hairline upward at least three-fourths of an inch and outward not greater than three-fourths of an inch to blend with hairstyle, etcetera. The photo was taken just after I left the Navy. I look at it sometimes, while lying in bed, and it’s like I am staring at a picture of a dead brother. I didn’t really know him, but I know he had hopes. I know he was a well-behaved young boy once, and that he was smart, a straight-A student who never had to study, but studied constantly, and dreamed of being a leader. But he is dead now. He died unexpectedly.

When Saskia has finished half her bun, she wipes her hands, pours herself another cup of tea from the pot, and picks up the phone again. How many are left? I ask. There are plenty, but not too many in the centre. That doesn’t matter much to me, I say. It does, she says, you want to live in the centre. Janos says, Saskia wants a friend who lives in the centre. Saskia says, Everybody wants a friend who lives in the centre. Okay, I say, I don’t mind. She makes another call. There’s no answer. She leaves a message and draws a star by the ad. Well, I say, what now? She tells me she’s tried all the best places. Maybe they’ll call back, I say. I doubt it, says Janos, that’s the Thursday paper. Is there a paper from today we can check? I ask. There is, Saskia says, but the list of apartments will be very small – the Thursday paper is the one to buy. But only if you go looking on Thursday, says Janos. I got my flat on a Saturday, says Saskia. Janos nods, because she has proved his point: Your flat is small and full of mice, he says. It’s not full of mice! says Saskia. Well, the stairwell is full of mice, says Janos. Saskia gets up. Where are you going? I ask. To get today’s paper, she says. I’ll go with you, I say. She doesn’t want me to. She puts her hand out as though she is a policewoman and I am traffic, and she apologizes for having an old paper. She’s upset about it. I don’t mind, I say. What’s the difference between getting an apartment now and getting an apartment in January? It’s my fault for waiting so late in the first place. She sits down. It’s ridiculous that they print the ads on a Thursday, when everyone has to work, she says. We could telephone some of the places that are outside the centre? No, I say, let’s just wait. Maybe they’ll call back.

She goes to the bathroom and I am left on my own with Janos. He watches her weave between the tables, so I turn and watch her as well. In the image of this pretty, well-dressed girl, who is an economist, and whom I met just weeks ago, walking through a crowd of chairs and tables and artists in a loud, warm, and smoke-filled café in a cold city I never considered visiting until I moved here forever, having no concept of the meaning of forever anyway, I attain a state of weightlessness, as though I am in deep space. This happens many times a day here, and I try to clear my mind of the desire to wonder why it arrives, and what it means, or if it means anything at all. In the mornings, in my tiny bed, in my small, undecorated room, I lie very still, and I replace the naked scenery of that room with the memories of my new unfamiliarity. I lie there and ponder these memories for a long time, and even though it is cold and blowing outside, my room is warm. There is a hot radiator just below the window. When I come back from the shower, I open up the window to freshen the room, and I wait for it to get cold again, and then I close the window and dress.