Klempner - Twenty-Six Years Ago
I call the number of the new apartment…
The apartment I bought her…
No reply.
Did she stay?
I try her old apartment instead.
Still no answer, but the ansa-machine clicks in. “Hi, Mitch. It’s Larry. Just to let you know that I’ll be
back tomorrow. I’m hoping we can meet up. I thought you might be able to meet me at the airport. I’m
coming in on the three forty-five from Amsterdam. But if you can’t make it, I’ll drop round to the new
place around six. I’m… I’m looking forward to seeing you.”
Disappointment pinches at my stomach.
Will she meet me?
*****
In Arrivals, I scan. The crowd mills and jostles. Kids, shrieking with excitement, run up to adults
crouched down with outstretched arms and big smiles. Businessmen with briefcases march up to
cabbies holding up cardboard signs scrawled in felt-tip capitals. A girl pushes past me to pelt across
the floor and fling herself into the arms of a waiting boyfriend. The pair laugh and babble as he lifts her
from her feet, spinning her.
But there’s no Mitch.
She’ll be waiting in the apartment…
Bound to be…
I hail a cab, staring out at billboards and neon, gaudy in the already failing February light. They
advertise rings and chocolates, flowers and eternal promises, flashing up ‘Forever’ and I *heart* you’.
Wonder if she’ll like the painting?
At the harbour, I exit the taxi. Over the waters, lights bob as yachts and pleasure cruisers ride rippling
waters. Multi-coloured lights drape from trees and buildings and masts, giving the area a jolly, gala-like
feel and brightening the streets. But Mitch’s apartment windows are dark.
I pay the cabbie, but, “Wait for me would you,”
“Of course, sir.”
I reach for the keys in my pocket but on the threshold…
Her apartment…
No strings…
… I press the bell.
There’s no movement. The darkness remains, the silence oppressive.
Letting myself in, I dump my case at the door. The lounge is immaculate save for a teacup ringed inside
with brown and a tea-pot. stone-cold. When I lift the lid, green mould wobbles at me inside. The
painting she gave me…
Her own work…
… of Helsinki Harbour, sits on the carpet, leaning against the wall.
My breath steams in the chill and the air has that slightly stale closed-up taste.
I check the master bedroom.
The wardrobe; empty. The drawers; empty. The bed looks unslept-in. And save for a few shadings
between door and bed, the carpet has that ‘just-vacuumed’ look to the pile.
She didn’t even stay one night?
In the guest room, the single I slept in is as I left it, the blankets rumpled, the sheet thrown back from
when she invited me to sleep with her.
Let-down gnaws at me.
Did I offend her that much?
With a gift?
Glumly, I head back out where the taxi driver stands leaning against his vehicle blowing smoke rings
into the evening air.
He humps my case into the back again. “Where to, Boss?”
I give him Mitch’s old address; that dingy apartment which, apparently, she prefers to all that I offered
her…
Gave her…
The taxi pulls away, the garish harbour lights irritating me with their dazzle.
What do I say to her?
Hi… you just flushed my gift down the drain…
As we pull up again, I look up, reflexively seeking her window. Again, it’s in darkness. I check my
watch.
Headed out…?
Working again?
The cabbie twists in his seat. “Want me to wait again?”
“Please, yes.”
I don’t bother with my case. Instead, climbing the stone steps to the door, I fumble a little in the dark on
the panel of buzzers before I press hers. There’s a buzz but no response. I try the handle, but of
course, it’s locked.
Now what?
A young woman trundles close pushing a small screaming child in a stroller. At the bottom step, she
spins, reverses and tries to back up, struggling with the weight.
I sprint down the steps. “Here let me help you with that.”
She beams gratitude. “Thanks ever so. It’s so hard juggling everything with the keys.” Tugging the brat
up the steps, I hover while she opens the door then back-up inside with her, complete with the child.
“That's great. I’m fine now.”
I don’t bother with the niceties. Instead, taking the stairs two at a time, I head up to the third floor and
Mitch’s apartment.
What the fuck?
The door is cracked and broken. A padlock dangles where the lock has been forced. A boot print stares
squarely from the scratched paintwork half-way up.
My breath grows tight. My gut wrenches.
What’s happened?
She’s hurt?
I yell. “Mitch.” Then bang on the door, yelling again. “Mitch are you alright?”
Then I feel stupid.
Padlock on the outside…
“She’s not there’” creaks a voice from behind me. I spin to face a nose and half an eye peering around
the edge of the door opposite.
“I can see that. What happened?”
“Police came. Kicked the door in. She’s been pushing drugs on the local kids. Don’t want her sort
here.”
“Drugs? Mitch? What a load of…” But the door is closing. Moving fast, I shove my foot in the way.
“That’s rubbish. She doesn’t do drugs. Where is she?”
“How would I know? Cops took her. Not seen her since. Some guy in a suit came. Then another one.
He put on the padlock.” The voice drops to a grumble. “It’s not good enough. A nice area like this…”
I’ve no interest in listening to him drivel on. There’s a public phone at the bottom of the stairs. Pelting
along the hall and down, I snatch up the receiver and dial. “Officer Corby, please.”
“I’m sorry, sir. He’s not on shift until ten. Can I take a message?”
“No, I’ll call back.”
Back to the cab. “Imperial Hotel. Step on it.” The driver gives me a sharp look, but I push a bundle of
notes in his hand and we arrive in record time on screeching wheels.
*****
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