The Visitor
Someone knocked softly on her door. The clock showed two hours to midnight. Despite the relatively late hour, the lights in her shabby bungalow were still on. From the outside it seemed that someone was indeed living in that house. The name of the street was barely visible. The lights inside were growing gradually dimmer. One could make a “U” perhaps from the doorsteps. There were no street lights and the street sign was not illuminated. Maybe an “N” came after. There was no way one could be sure. I suppose it was just an “Unknown Street”. No number.
Knock-knock. Again. Crickets.
Even after the second or third and even fourth knock, no one responded. The door remained shut. The lights in her house, which she inherited from her mother, went down as did the sound outside. It seemed from the inside that whoever was knocking on the door had already left. It was Monday. The dullest day of the week for M.L. Why would she open the door on a day like Monday remained unclear to her. She preferred to stay in the dark, do her crossword puzzle under her granny square blanket with a small headlamp on, and hold the Monday crossword puzzle in her left hand. This one was her favourite. It included all answers from the one from the previous week, which she considered to be the hardest one yet. There was still one row that was unsolved. What was 5 across? First letter “D”.
BANG-BANG-BANG!
The knocking intensified as was customary on Tuesdays. This time the clock showed an hour and a half to midnight.
Not this again, she thought. She was just about to cook her favourite meal for dinner. They left, and now her favourite night lamp was gone too. It was the one her late grandmother had gifted her when she finally finished the armchair for her. The long nights she spent in her woodshop until it was finished... Yes, it was also a Tuesday. That is when she finished the armchair. Her grandmother loved Tuesdays. That is when she would make the most delicious lentil soup. They would always meet on a Tuesday like clockwork. Usually M.L. would come to the house, bring fresh produce from the market, and, if she was lucky, her neighbour in the adjacent bungalow would also bring fresh herbs when she visited. Occasionally she would slip in a bunch from her balcony garden but M.L. would know every time. They did not taste the same. And if she could tell the difference, her grandmother would too. She was already not using her garden and grandma disapproved. M.L. was sure that her neighbour's grandmother would disapprove too. That is what they had in common. A fine taste for parsley and a disdain for commercially produced parsley or one produced on a balcony.
BANG-BANG-BANG
It was Monday. Again? The calendar behind the armchair next to all the pictures on the blue wall in this dusty living room showed Wednesday. One hour to midnight. I am not sure if it has ever been changed. I think the last time anyone cared to adjust the calendar was me, the last time I visited.
WHO IS IT? She shouted. Silence.
She noticed that some of the pictures on the wall in the living room were gone. Especially the one from the village where she grew up before moving to the city. Her grandmother lived there before passing away unexpectedly. She was her favourite person. Together they would watch the night sky on the porch and make up stories about the constellations. She used to be a physics teacher and would spend most of her time explaining the solar system to students. M.L. didn't know anything about it but would make up the names of constellations and their meanings. She still swears that the constellation Gemini looked like her and her girlfriend drunkenly dancing sirtaki. M.L. named that one the dancing ouzo. That was incidentally the drink of choice when they would visit Greece. Wasn't it everyone's? Her grandmother loved that story. She also loved the ouzo but would add mint liqueur for additional flavour. That was her quiet rebellion. She was much more rigid in her expression but loved the fact that her niece was if not the complete opposite of her then something completely different. She had spent so much of her life around facts that it was quite refreshing to hear someone be reminded of their love for their partner just by looking at the enormous, glowing spheres of hot gas we kindly call stars. I think they both widened their hearts when they were with each other. M.L. would learn so much about the universe and her grandmother would be comforted knowing M.L. was loved as she herself was by her own partner that had passed away of old age a year before her unexpected death.
Death! That was the answer to 5 across. Strange that despite now living in the aftermath of it, she didn't think of it. Yet again the clue was a riddle. Death on the other hand wasn't. It was the lived reality for her and many others. She could understand it. What was a riddle to her was the grief in which she now also lived.
BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG!
Someone was pounding at the door. It was Thursday, half an hour to midnight. The objects that were still left in the house after today's visit were having the time of their lives. The pans were banging, the pouf was shaking its derrière and candles overcome by the nightly mayhem were melting away. The curtains, however, moved by the night breeze, were gently touching the shy sofa. A seduction perhaps? I don't think so. I think they were trying to soothe the sofa. It was sitting there thinking also of grandma. How her old body would sit and find comfort on its soft cushions while M.L. was in the kitchen looking for kompot. That was also the perfect opportunity for her to slip a silent fart. No one ever noticed, except the sofa. The blanket was gone. The now freezing sofa that was looking at the cracks in the walls which were getting bigger and bigger with every moment sighed. A last goodbye.
BANG!!! -
Friday. Ten minutes to midnight. The sink was leaking. M.L. urgently needed a plumber. Her girlfriend needed to call the plumber. But this time I was stuck at the airport trying to come home. Calling the plumber was always my job. Currently very few airlines are flying. The price of fuel was through the roof. The consequences of heartbreak I guess. I was determined to make it back. What was my love doing? Was she cooking her own soup, her grandmother's recipe? Was she drinking? Was the place a total mess? Or was she quietly still trying to solve last week's crossword under the granny square blanket. What was 5 across? I didn't know either. I never liked riddles, especially this one - “All in flux, yet nothing lasts forever but “D” and of that we’re still unsure.” How pretentious...
I know once she was in my arms again she would tell me everything.
- BANG!!! -
Saturday. One minute to midnight. The sink was overflowing. There was water all over the wooden floor. M.L. was still sleeping. The newspaper was still in her left hand; now soaking wet. The ink was slowly dissolving in the water that had risen up to the bed now. The carpet was swimming like a colourful stingray. The old porcelain dishes floated on the surface. The streaming water from the pipes hit her face directly as if the house had planned it. Now M.L. was standing on her bed knee deep in water. The water was relentless. Will she make it to the door? She couldn’t swim. She didn’t know where she had put the keys and the door was definitely locked. She always locked from the inside; for safety. Why didn’t she call the plumber herself? It was too late to ask herself useless questions. She needed to dive and retrieve the keys. They must be somewhere around here. But keys love hide-and-seek. M.L. couldn’t see anything under the water. She was more or less just flapping around; still underwater. Unlike the furniture she needed air. Her body hit the wooden floor. In all the disarray, a quiet melody appeared in her mind, Dionne Warwick’s voice “... a room is still a room even if there’s nothing there but gloom…” Around her all that was left from grandma’s orphaned belongings, floating next to her. She felt safe in the water. Her mother’s womb. The bungalow.
- BANG!!! -
Sunday. One second to midnight. I finally stood in front of her mother’s house. Soon to be our new home. All my luggage hastily thrown on the street on top of each other. I took out my own key. Clack. The door was wide open. And as water sometimes does, my love burst out. She fell into my arms like a magnet that made a click.
- BOOM!!! …
Monday again, the doomsday clock next to the picture of grandma now showed around 15:23 that afternoon; the house was still intact. I had finally moved in and all my stuff had found their place in their new home. I carved “M.L.” on the front porch. My love. After it was all settled and the new indigo paint had dried off, I took her hand. We opened the door together and went outside for a walk.
FIN