Lady of Land

I stand here holding the key to my apartment. It’s jagged copper edge reminds me of a downward graph, like the Wall Street crisis. This is Brooklyn, though. I breath out slowly, push the key in the door, and enter.

Sally used to tell me to please take off my shoes, and do a little ‘tsssts!‘ to show it wasn’t serious, as long as I did it. Now she just gives a tight smile and says ‘shoes please!’ I once asked why she doesn’t like shoes in the house when there are no carpets. She said that high heels can damage the floor. I have no high heels, I said. She said it’s also a spiritual thing. What can I say, it’s a spiritual thing.

*

I am sitting in my room. From the lounge I can hear Sally talking to Uma, our matured artist lodger, about her life. I have my fan on, drowning out some of the noise. This is the first time in ten years her balance has been . . . that chapter is closed. All those years before the . . . and now things are looking ok. Because, they have to be. Hopefully that was the last . . . who can say. Uma is understanding. She knows how to listen; she has a grand-daughter.

*

I am in my room reading the list of rules Sally gave me; rules for maintaining the apartment. “Water is the enemy of this home.” I never knew there were so many ways to avoid flooding. I find a rule for smoothing out the chopping board with mineral oil, so it doesn’t dry out. I have never done this.

*

She has the impression that I am a well-mannered British professional. I work eight hours a day, I take my job seriously, I come home, and I do my own thing. I am polite, I answer all her questions, and I do not probe. I am the opposite of nosey.

*

Sally and Anita are on the couch watching a TV talk show. Anita is happy to sit there, accepting Sally’s commentary. She does not make an excuse to leave, or appear to be preoccupied. Anita is a trilingual artist who grew up in San Francisco. She is very laid back. Now the talkshow host is consoling a tearful mother. You’ve gone through a lot, says the host, but you must look to others. Don’t try to bear it alone. Sally is nodding wisely. ‘Mmm,’ she says, ‘it’s true.’

*

I come home from work, and Sally says, ‘Oh, quick question’. The question usually concerns some minutia of the flat, and by extension, everything else. I keep a hand gripped on my bedroom door, smiling with raised eyebrows. The best way to retreat is to appease.

*

When Sally takes some of my bread or milk or cereal, I say ‘Oh no, that’s ok.’ When she awkwardly buys some compensatory bread I say ‘Oh great, thanks.’ When I find the empty packet of bread she has bought, I say nothing.

*

I am enjoying an empty flat, watching Seinfield, when she returns. I do not look up. She quietly makes her meal and eats it at the table. Normally she would speak, but somehow I have summoned silence. Later she walks over and offers me the Sunday Times books section. I take it, barely looking up, and thank her.

*

She is asking me about my work. I tell her I read manuscripts. That’s funny, she has written a memoir. Two, actually - so bursting were her ideas. Her writing traces the spiritual connection that grew between herself and three musicians, who used to perform together. In the first instance, ‘perform’ refers to their music. In the second, it does not.

*

Anita is telling me about the last guy who stayed here. He was getting so many calls from Sally during work hours he started to shrug her off. She wanted to know his moving date, and when he failed to offer one, Sally kicked him out pronto, without returning his deposit. I hope I will get back mine.

*

I do not get to say goodbye to Uma when she leaves, because I am at work. When I return, Sally is staying in Uma’s old room, right next to mine.

*

Anita’s bedroom is a separate part of the flat; she shares our bathroom, kitchen and lounge, but her room is secluded. She likes it this way.

*

It is Saturday. My head throbs with hangover. Why I am awake this early? A low brassy sound pricks my ears. A musical scale, going up and down very slowly. Sally is practicing her trombone.

*

In the kitchen she is on the phone, sitting by the far wall, facing away. If this is engineered for secrecy, why is she talking so loudly? Something about an episode . . . something about three years; three, of all numbers. There is gravity in this.

*

Anita is ready to move out. In two days time it will be just me and Sally living here. There will be no replacement for Anita, since that room is going to be repainted. Then, the other rooms. Pretty soon everything will be covered in sheets. I am moving out in three weeks time. Maybe less. Maybe less.

*

I would like to live somewhere during the latter half of October. Anita says the flat she is moving into has a spare room. There is a chance they would let me stay there. There is still hope.

*

People say smoking pot can be relaxing. Things become less stressful. You are more aware of little details, but you are less affected by them.

*

This morning I go for a jog. When I come back Sally is showing the flat to a potential lodger, who would be filling my room. This girl seems very positive about the flat.

*

I am doing press ups in my room when Anita calls my name. This is not normal. I answer the door, a little sweaty, and say Hi. Anita says that Sally had a word with her. Sally thought she could smell “hash” from my room last night — or “pot”, she couldn’t tell. She plans to speak to me about it later. Anita says, I just thought I’d let you know. I say, Ok.

*

I’ve heard that one of the last lodgers told Sally he didn’t mind pot. She became increasingly paranoid that he’s spark up in the flat, and he ended up leaving early.

*

I have always distanced myself from her. I’m aware that this probably makes her nervous. Still, I’d rather have her respect than a strong rapport. I am a professional, after all. I need space, comfort, privacy. I need conditions in which I can stay focused. For my job. I do not need to smoke pot. Why would I? It’s not in my interest. This is what i will say.

I am preparing to be accused.