Ch. 9

According to the garden’s timekeeper, a flower clock made of white peonies and the much bigger black peonies arranged among manicured hedges, it was noon. According to the clock tower on the horizon, it was only nine. The foot traffic had picked up since my time at the post and people weaved through each other, zipping past bagpipers, strolling for the guitarists, ignoring the juggler, nearly stepping on the spray painter’s cardboard canvas that was spread on a towel atop the brick street. The street musicians had spaced themselves perfectly so that their songs never overlapped—except the bagpipers’ whose screeches tailed identically dressed children all the way to prep school.

The sights amazed me upon my first visit. You never got this in Illinois, not in Springfield, definitely not in dinky little Chatham, not even up in Chicago. Years later the wonders continued but my interest stayed inside. I kept my head down. So it was a miracle I noticed Nele in a crowd outside my apartment. It was mostly women ogling a shirtless man in an unbuttoned satin vest. He had mutton chops and spiked hair, both dyed fire truck red. I couldn't tell you his talent, but he could draw a crowd. Maybe I noticed because she shouted, “Cory!” and rushed around the circled crowd. I didn't notice that. But the fiery performer shouted it too and he had a mic like a customer service rep and an amp and so an exaggerated feminine “Cory!” blasted the street of Edinburgh. I waved to everyone gawking our way, playing the fool to hide embarrassment.

Nele ignored it.  

He heckled us as we left. “Keep the date here! I’ll give you a show if you give me the coin you’d spend on boozing her up. I've even got a spare rubber so you can give me those funds too. I promise a full refund if in nine months you need it.” The crowd laughed but were soon to disperse.

“I thought you might be stuck limping the streets,” she said. “How many extra miles did you go to the post? And on a busted ankle!” She hooked her elbow to mine and dragged me. “Runners should know better. Who would I embarrass tomorrow if not you? You could've been fallen in the streets. Lost, alone, in pain.”

“I was. I had to work the streets to pay for medical bills. Then I remembered medical treatment’s free here.”

Her arm snaked around my waist and pulled us hip-to-hip. Hers knocked mine as she sashayed. “Worked the streets? Like turning tricks?” She had the crooked smile of a devil.

“Lots of tricks! Card tricks.” I pulled away. My hips were hurting! Hers had a real force behind them, the way they shook. My ankle was already bruised, no sense damaging my hips too. But Nickel had said to flirt. Get her feeling romantic, get her to pillow talk, get her vulnerable. We were a flight of stairs from my pillow, but this was the chance. Flip on the charm! Even if it’s awkward, she’ll laugh if she likes you. Right? You were told you were a charming guy! What would you say to her? “There’s this one trick where I make them pick a card, then tell them to lick it so it’ll stick to me. I snap my fingers and presto! My clothes are off. All that’s covering me is the three of diamonds. Which a bit of saliva isn't going to make stick for long so when it falls, I wink and say, ‘Try licking again.’” The wind swept the street and chilled my sweat. I shivered. “Maybe I’ll show you sometime.”

She laughed and shook her head as we climbed our way to my pillow. I offered her a drink, one of my Cokes, chilling in the recliner’s fridge. Nickel must've stuck them in for me. He was a considerate guy. She refused one and opted for water that she helped herself to. I got a Coke but after I popped the tab, it tasted off. Could soda expire? Surely not since grocery day.  Water wasn't enough for Nele and she grabbed my Coke from my hand. “Is this spiked?” She took another taste, a big swig of my Coke. “But you just opened it. That’s magic. Definitely have to show me that trick sometime.”

“My roommate did this. I couldn't show this.”

“I meant the card trick,” she said and handed me the soda. Not one for alcohol, I left it in the cup holder.  She walked the place. I called it chaotic organization. Nickel was more honest. It was small and trashed. On the counter, there were soda cans missing a single sip; the syrup congealed from sitting in the sunlight for a week. The plastic wrap of digestives got blown about the place, just like Nickel’s sheddings. She explored our cupboard which was mostly empty except my crisps, a good post-workout snack. Salty, starchy, what else was food supposed to be? There were two bags and she chose the regular (my favorites) over salt & vinegar. She ate one and made an odd face and ate another of my crisps. “Why would you change the flavor but not the bag?”

“My roommate uses them to wrap Christmas presents,” I blurted out, desperate for an excuse. “I think it’s weird too. It’s hardly even Fall.”

I came to steal her away before she ate from any of my other mismatched containers, still sealed, but she forced me to rest in the recliner. “Keep trying to get up and I’ll sit on your lap,” she warned. “Or maybe your face. Go ahead. I mean it.”

I stayed in the chair.

She opened and slammed drawers searching for plastic bags. She cracked the ice tray over her knee like Bane breaking the Bat. “For your ankle,” she said. “So you never told me about a roommate. Did you? You don’t tell much.”

“I prefer jokes, bad ones, to information.”

“I’d rather information.”

I reminded her, “You hardly tell me about you.” She had yet to admit to alchemy and an emergency where she was destined for a demon pregnancy.

“Maybe I will. You first. What do you do? What do you like?”

“I like Europe. It’s full of bakeries and cafes. You don’t see those in the US. Just the smell was enough when I couldn't afford a treat. And the owners are so kind. They let me sit inside to get warm.”

She went into the bathroom with her purse. The door was thin plastic. She kept talking and I could hear clearly. “What about money?”

What else would I hear while she was in there? “I like money too.” While she was in there, I rearranged the mess. It was Nickel’s, mostly, but I scattered a few of my clothes about. My boxing cut-off, my hand wraps, a razor, anything manly enough to suggest I was more than just a baby-face.

“How do you get it?”

“I’m breaking the first rule by admitting this, but fight club.” I also spritzed air freshener and because my deodorant was in the bathroom, even my pits smelled like strawberry aerosol.

“Breaking a rule? Never, you’re too sweet.” She emerged from the toilet without flushing. Her hair was in a ponytail with her fringe straightened. A scent wafted out with her exit and it smelled like sugar cookies, made with love and lard. She put her perfume in her bag.

“I’m serious!”

“Then why aren’t you ever injured?” She put the ice pack to my leg and sat on the arm rest. Her butt was on the fridge, getting chilled.

“I’m injured now.”

“No black-eyes. Never a broken nose.” She touched my face.

“I’m too good.”

She got up. “Too cocky and too gentle to sell that story.”

No one ever believed me. I’m a man! I could grow a beard. It took six months and looked awful, but dammit! I could do it. “I also sell things. Turn junk to treasure. Lead to gold. Sometimes gold to lead, when there’s a pencil shortage.”

She was still drinking from the Coke, chugging it to the last. Then she sucked the rims of the bubbles. She said it wasn't that early, right? School bells rang for the first class. “It sounds like a common problem here. The Scotch are very studious.”

“They’re also passive-aggressively angry. They scribble furiously, tearing through tests, snapping pencil tips, accidentally etching answers into the desk. They’re still upset about the whole England thing.”

My couch hid under laundry. She discovered my system that clean clothes go on the couch and dirty ones went on the floor with the dust balls. She scooted the lavender-scented mess into a pile and laid on the couch with her feet up. Her yoga pants were tight to her lithe legs. Hiding with the couch was my laptop too. It was password-protected. “Afraid I’ll see your history?” she teased. I lied and said it was Nickel’s and that I didn't know the password.  

She still hadn't noticed my workout gear so I apologized that it was out and immediately whisked it away. She told me we both already reeked (though her cookie perfume was a wonderful mask) and that we could drench our bodies in sweat and her nose wouldn't mind. Not one bit.

“What’ll you do if the English teaching doesn't work out?” I asked. “You’re not really going to prostitute yourself, right?”

“Wouldn't I make ends meet?”

“You’d be rich after a month. But come on—it’s prostitution.”

“It’s a plan. Potentially. It’s not respectable work. I wouldn't tell my mum about it, of course, but it’d be my choice. I wouldn't hide it from—say—a boyfriend.”

“Ever think of turning lead to gold like me?”

“Sounds a bit like magic.”

“My roommate insists it’s science. He’s an alchemist. Those are pretty neat people. Right?”

“Yeah. Neat,” Nele said. She pulled me from my chair. Apparently my ankle had rested enough. “Give me a tour of the place. It’s not spacious, but maybe give some history. Like here’s a bed. Brought prostitutes to it yet?”

“It’s my roommate’s. But yes. A hundred of them. I do the laundry too and I never change his sheets.”

She sat on an orange blob sewn into the comforter.

“So, do you know any alchemists?” I asked.

“No alchemists. A few prostitutes. Want to make it one hundred and one?”

“Like Dalmatians!” I shouted. “We should watch that. Have you seen it? It’s a classic. Pongo and Perdita and Dipstick and—I shouldn't admit that I can name them all, should I?”

“You should stop talking.”

“I can’t,” I said.

“It’s wrecking the mood.”

“I want it wrecked.”

The look on her face—you would think I had just smacked her. “Oh. Sure. Of course.” She gathered her purse and picked up her soda can and spun about to find the trash but it was everywhere. It was disgusting really. She left it on the counter and left.  

~

“Hello. I love you,” I said into the mic, loud enough that the baker in back heard me as she drizzled chocolate across fresh brownies. Her store was loaded with slobbering fools. All the tables were taken and even the extra chair at mine was nicked so three could sit at a table for two as they devoured their diet. I had been nursing a brownie bite for the past two hours, picking at the crumbs that fell off as I rolled it across my plate.

“I think our connection is stable for a change. Hello? Can you hear me?” she asked. It had been two and a half months since I’d seen her save for weekly updates to her profile picture and it was nearly a month since I heard her voice. We rarely got these chances. Her chaperon was always just a room over, but today everyone was out securing their fortune by marrying off some other daughters and her cousin was tasked with watching her. He locked the windows and parked himself on the sofa, but left her to her room. The window was too high (also too low) to jump from. He had ordered her Pizza Hut. My message must've gotten through just then because she said, “Thanks.” Her voice was a whisper. It didn't sound like her. “Still in Austria?”

 “The weather’s nice.” It was pouring and cold. I was out of money nearly. I hadn't shared that with her, but I was skimping on nutrition so I had enough for a train, plane, or automobile when it came time to free her. The winter frosts had turned to downpours so I could no longer sit outside cafes with a butt wet with snow when all the seats were taken. I had to save my computer so I could save her.

“I should be enjoying this travel. So many places, so many new languages. Even the ones I know, I don’t know the dialects. They’re easy to pick up. But I’m not allowed out. I’m not allowed anywhere. I haven’t picked up any words because I haven’t heard any but at the window. I hate it. I really hate it. I’ll never go to any of these places again. I couldn't. They’re wonderful places but I’m limited to a room and I hate them all. Especially here. Never come here. It’s one of the few alchemist run countries so we’re the majority here and everyone’s rich and wealthy and they all do karate or whatever luxuries are on their streets because they can afford it and no one has to work. They’re spoiled. They’re walking around—they’re spoiled and I hate them. Every one of those people I’ll never meet—I hate them. Never come here.” Her scorn sounded so polite with her accent.

“Where is it?” I had my earbuds in so I could hear over the spoons clinking coffee mugs as sugar got stirred in. So when I spoke, I yelled. Those waiting in lines stared, but those with tables had secured them an hour ago so they were used to my volume. The employees had given up after the owner had told them I seemed sweet.

“It doesn't matter. You can’t get in. It’d take six months to get a visa to here and they only give them out to English teachers and corporate dicks. Even if you had family here, you wouldn't be guaranteed one.” She was on her phone, leaning out the window. She had dropped it once but caught it by the chord stuck in for charging. A bird chirped into her receiver. “And I’m starving here. I can’t pop out for a snack without a chaperon and like I’m hell I’m walking with any of those creeps.”

“I’d share my brownie with you.”

“You hate sharing food.” I really did. It was the only crime that should cost a thief his hand.

We had long silences that got interrupted by “You there?” and I (at least) knew she was but I wanted to say something but had nothing to say.

 “Are you okay? You’re being quieter than usual. Where are the jokes?” she asked.

I was hungry. The brownie-bite wasn't enough for dinner but where could I get ten-cent ramen in Austria? Where could I get a pot or a stove?

“Not that you always have to joke.” She didn't believe me when I assured her I was fine, just tired, maybe a bit sick. “I’m sorry this is hard on you. What can I do to help?”

“The baker just came out with this big batch of delights. She even let me have one. It’s delicious. Already gone too. She has to know I've been here longer than anyone and spent a buck or two. What’s the conversion rate? I forget. She’s so nice. And smells so good. Like a baker! Obviously. It’s so intoxicating that even in that dopey outfit she seems cute.” The baker looked my way and smiled and I clapped my hands to my mouth and made eye contact with the profile picture of the girl I was talking to, the girl I loved.

“You should ask her out,” she said, her voice never dipping in cheer.

“Maybe if you hadn’t seduced me first,” I said. “She could be a serial killer or dog hater, but the smell alone is enough for immediate infatuation.”

“I never smelled like a bakery.”

“You’re special. You've got the soul of a baker.”

“What’s that mean?” she asked. The wind blew into her mic and came out as ear torture.

The conversations at the tables rose as the order volume surged to be heard over the table until people ran out of things to say and a customer was undecided between a chocolate turtle and a meringue cookie. They went with the meringue. We had another silence.

I had never seen her naked. Not even close to it. “The hardest part is sex. It’s already been a year—you’re not allowed to divulge that secret to anyone, not even a corpse. And living at hostels, there’s always a bunk bed or shared showers or girls. I can’t even really take care of myself.” Maybe she’d sneak a sexy selfie. Something in the mirror. Something that showed her face and her curves.

The call ended.

Me: I guess our connection finally died.

: yeah

i’ll talk to you later

Me: I love you. I’ll try to be on later but the hostel’s internet is awful but it was nice chatting with you again. Your voice is wonderful, even as a whisper. I miss the real thing though. And watching your lips move while you speak and having to pull my eyes up so you won’t think I’m thinking anything bad but really I am because that’s just who I am. Sorry…

But when I sent it, she had signed off. As the message was pending sending, I watched that circle for about an hour wondering if she was okay and if maybe she got the hint and would be up for sending something like that.