I know exactly when
it started, this chain of events that led to so much trouble. It was a Thursday
morning in the beginning of May. I sat by the breakfast table, chewing on a slice
of bread with Swiss cheese. As usual, I looked briefly through the morning
paper. After the sports pages, with the soccer results, and before the stock
market listings, I came to see this real-estate advertisement. It was exactly
what I had been looking for. The apartment was on the 4th floor in a
building in the old part of town. It was recently refurbished, with a new
bathroom and a large balcony facing west. The view was magnificent, towards the
university, where I work, and the fjord, where the coastal express sails every
morning at ten o’clock.
The apartment had
only one bedroom, but that’s good enough for me. I’m unmarried and without
kids. Hardly anyone comes to visit me, and certainly not to stay over. A
guestroom is redundant. It was just the kind of den I wanted, a place to relax
after work, with good music and a good book, and a view to the snow-covered
mountains on the other side of the fjord (in the winter time).
I called the realtor
immediately.
“Hello, this is Easttown
Real Estate, how can I help you”
The voice of the
woman on the phone was soft and sweet. I wondered what she looked like. In my
imagination she was chubby with red hair and green eyes.
“I’m interested in
that 4th-floor apartment that you advertised today,” I said.
“Yes, that’s a nice
one. There are a couple of other guys interested. We will have a showing this
evening at 5 pm.”
“Thank you, I’ll be
there,” I said and hung up.
I was very excited
when I stood on the walkway outside the apartment building at 5 pm. There was
no sign outside, but there was no doubt I was at the right address. The BMW Z5
that was parked outside the building smelled real-estate agent. I’ve seen them
before, these young guys in Armani suits and Italian shoes, and the sly
salesman smile on their face
There was no
elevator in the old building, so I walked up the stairs, and knocked the door with
the “for sale” sign on the 4th floor. The Armani suit opened the
door. He was in his in his socks only, The Italian shoes were placed on a
carped by the door. I interpreted this as a sign that I should take off my
shoes before walking on the new hardwood floor. He gave me his hand and said
“Robert. Welcome.”
I took his hand, but
didn’t bother to say my name. It wouldn’t be of interest to him anyway, at
least not before we would eventually sign a contract.
“I talked to a woman
in your office regarding the showing,” I said.”
“It was probably
Carol, our secretary.”
“Yes, probably.” I
didn’t tell him that I was disappointed to meet Robert, and not Carol, at the
showing.
A middle-aged couple
had come before me, and was already viewing the apartment. It wasn’t what they
were looking for, with only one bedroom. They hadn’t studied the
prospect very carefully.
“Too small,” she
saud.
“Too expensive,” he said..
It felt like a
relief to me. They were unlikely to make a bid.
Right after my
arrival, a red summer dress came soaring through the door. The woman wearing
the red dress immediately started to inspect the apartment. Barefoot, she danced
like a ballerina through the rooms, and out on the balcony. She was very
enthusiastic. Her large breasts moved up and down when she breathed. I couldn’t
help imagine what she would look like free from the red dress. She expressed
her excitement for the bathroom with the sauna, the living room with the
shining hardwood floor, and the balcony with the view to the fjord.
“It’s awesome,” she
said. “I love it.”
She had a fairly charming
smile, but she wasn’t very pretty. I must admit that I quickly forgot her.
The next morning I called
Robert to submit my bid. I even raised it right before lunch, to show that I
was serious, and to scare off competing bidders. What I had in mind, of course,
was the woman with the red dress and the fairly charming smile.
I must admit that I
had to stretch beyond my budget. Without my late Uncle Otto it would not been
possible. Uncle Otto had made a small fortune as an umbrella manufacturer. He
was unmarried and without children. It was a big surprise, when he for unknown
reasons provided me a large amount of money in his will.
I have a permanent
position as a mathematics teacher at the university, but my income is by no
means enough to pay for such an apartment. My modest position involves only lecturing
of undergrad courses. I’m not expected to do research. How could I? There is
nothing I could contribute to the work of the great masters, such as Gauss,
Cauchy and Hilbert.
Three weeks later I
moved in. Two of my friends, Frank and Joe, offered to help me move. I very
much appreciated this, of course. I wouldn’t be able to carry my furniture up
the stairs on my own. Swearing and breathing heavily, we pulled my sofa up to
the 4th floor. It was heavy and hard to get around the turns of the
stairway. On the 3rd floor, we paused for a while to recover.
“When this is over,
I’ll invite you to a party,” I said in a moment of imprudence.
I immediately regretted
what I had said. I‘m an introvert man, and I don’t have many friends. I don’t
want to have many friends. Most of the time, I prefer to be on my own. In fact,
the only persons with whom I have some social interaction are Frank and Joe,
who helped me move. Frank is a scholar in the Institute of Mathematics, where I
work, and Joe is an old friend from college days. Just the tree of us, and a
six-pack of beer, wouldn’t make much of a party. Therefore, a party in my
apartment was out of question. On the other hand, I couldn’t withdraw my
invitation. I had to think fast.
“Let’s go to the bar
by the old bridge next weekend,” I said. “The beers are on me, of course,” I
added.
“Great idea,” said
Frank.
“Sounds good,” said
Joe.
The next weekend we
met in the pub by the old bridge; Frank and Joe and I. I was dressed in my best
black shirt, and my only jacket, the upper half of my only suit. My credit card
was safe in the pocket. I was in a good mood, and so were the others. Around us
people around us swang foaming pints of beer and shouted
half-understandable sentences in each
other’s ears.
I ordered three
Brooklyn Brown Ales, and handed my credit card to the bartender. The stereo played
Guns ‘n’ Roses on full volume.
“Sweet Child of
Mine,” Frank shouted.
“Best guitar riff
ever,” said Joe.
“Give me some death
metal, such as Nile,” I said, to show my knowledge of metal.
This kind of
spiritual conversations took place all night. After all, we shouldn’t just talk
science stuff when we were partying.
After a while, the
pub was packed with people that I had never seen before and would probably
never see again. It didn’t matter for me. The pub was just a backdrop of hustle
and bustle. I got the feeling of being part of a big social community, at least
for a night.
We fought our way
through the crowd to get another beer at the bar, Leffe Brune this time. Abbey
beer from Belgium. After all they did something useful, these monks.
Eventually, I lost
the sight of Frank and Joe. They diffused into the crowd.
It was right before
midnight, when I was hanging at the bar alone, when a woman gently touched my
arm. I turned around and looked at her, but couldn’t remember having seen her
before. Her brown hair was gathered in a ponytail. She was dressed in a white singlet
that had a hard time covering her big breasts. The black skirt was tight around
her chunky butt. The pumps on her feet
made her appear taller than she was, about the same height as me. I recognized
her only when she smiled.
“I think you have a
lot more money than me. Maybe you buy me a beer?” she said.
It was the woman from
the showing, the woman with the red dress, which she certainly wasn’t wearing
tonight.
“Sure”, I said. ”What
do you want?”
“A Sam Adams Boston
lager would be great.”
We made a toast, and
talked about my apartment, that she liked so much.
That’s when I made
my biggest mistake.
To be continued ...
(I took the picture in Battery Park New York about a month ago. I have no idea who the woman in the red dress is)
