Chapter 5 -
In late afternoon, Lina Inverse, having walked form Ayer station, shuffled through a pile of advertisement and newspapers which were dropped through the mail slot during the preceding week; she did not pick any of them up. But climbed up the stairs to the apartment she and Dynast had occupied during the years of their marriage. On the top floor, she fumbled for her key, unlocked the door, stumbled in and , without taking off her coat, lurched forward to lie face down on the couch that served as the occasional bed in the living room. As she fell her hat slid off and she lay inert, dead tired.
In the apartments below, people came in from work, turned on their televisions, cooked their dinners, talked loudly, slammed doors, ran baths and went to bed as the night closed in, not to silence, but muffled the roar of a vast city interrupted by the occasional police siren. Some time in the night, an ambulance raced fast through the street, bell ringing. Half-conscious, Lina eased her shoes off, pressing one foot against the other in a state between sleeping and waking.
In the early hours the sound of rain lashing against the window roused her. She got up stiffly, pulled off her coat and went to the window. A wild wind was blowing the rain in slanting lines into the river which was the street, as through a million fishermen cast for trout in the pools forming among the parked cars, whose humped roofs resembled rocks. So she had once described them to her child, holding him in her arms warmly wrapped in a towel after his bath, nuzzling his neck where his hair was damp from soapy water.
"Look," she said to him, "a rushing river. If we look hard we may see a fish."
"A trout?" he said in her arms. "A salmon? A shark?"
"No, no, my love, a dolphin! You shall ride on it's back."
She had held him tight, kissed the nape of his neck, rolled him into his pajamas, put him into his cot, promised to show him a real river, a real dolphin, yes, soon.
Cramp sized her tired feet, knotting her toes into twisted shapes, moving up to her calves until she gasped with pain. Stamping and trying to tread away the agony, she drew the curtains, switched on the light. There was no river, no fish, no child. In bleak desolation she padded to the kitchen, poured water from the tap and drank the chlorinated stuff in thirsty gulps until, surfeited, she gagged.
In the bathroom she filled the sink and splashed icy water over her face and ran wet hands through her hair. Doing so, she was aware of a tang of sheep dung and lanolin and briefly remembered her train journey. Moving back to the kitchen she found stale bread, made toast and tried to eat. She was famished, but could not swallow. She put the toast into the garbage can.
In the cupboard under the sink, searching for the plastic bags she used for the trash, she remembered that she had run out.
Taking her purse she let herself out of the apartment and ran down to the street, hurrying through the rain to the 'Corner Shop.'
Who was just opening, ready for it's first customer.
"I need garbage bags, Mr. Gabriev."
"A packet of three, Ms. Inverse? You've been out?"
"A lot of packets, please Mr. Gabriev."
"Three packets, Ms. Inverse?"
"At least six."
"Cleaning your house?"
"Yes."
"They come cheaper in fives."
"Two fives then, please."
"And how is little Christy, Ms. Inverse?"
"Dead."
"Dead, Ms. Inverse?"
"Dead."
There was an uncomfortable silence before either one spoke again.
"In a crash. Mr. Gabriev, please don't cry." She avoided his eyes.
"But he was with this daddy! You told me that!" Mr. Gabriev protested.
"Dead too. Please, Gourry, how much are the bags?: She was afraid he would not let her pay.
"One fifty a packet. They are old stock, a discount for quantity would not help, I think." Gourry Gabriev wept as he took the money. He put the bags in a carried bad and surreptitiously added a ball of string. She had often forgotten to tie up the bags and the neighborhood cats scattered the garbage on the doorsteps.
Back in the apartment building, aware of he stale air, Lina flung open the windows. Then with bag in hand, she worked her way through the rooms. Into the bags went remnants of Dynast; clothes he had forgotten to take, confident that she would send them later on. Socks hardened by wear and tear, several old shirts, a sweater, a pair of jeans, a parka, jacket, a drawer full of gritty underwear, snapshots of happier times and a few books. She tied the necks of the bags and heaved them on to the landing.
In the kitchen, she drank more water and again tried to eat, but could not.
Christy's possessions were harder. Bundling his clothes into the bags she averted her eyes, held her breath to avoid his scent.
When the bags were full she tied the tops as though some vicious animal might escape from them. His toys were scattered about the apartment. A plastic duck, comics, sponge and flannel in the bathroom, soft toy in his cot. 'What had he taken with him? What favorite toy?' Why couldn't she remember? She sat back on her heels, her mind blank.
At last, every toy, every garment safely bagged, she dismantled the cot. It was large and heavy. She had put off buying him a bed; she manhandled it out and down the stairs. When all the bags were grouped on the doorstep, she found a taxi and, helped by the driver, loaded it and drove to a thrift store. Walking back through the rain, she felt strangely light-headed and had difficulty climbing the stairs.
Some time in the late afternoon, she woke up, shivering from an exhausted sleep, got up, made strong tea and drank it scalding hot, so that it left a metallic taste on her palate. Then, using soap and ammonia, she set to work scrubbing shelves and drawers, the insides of cupboards, pulling the furniture out and washing the spaces behind. When all was clean she got out the vacuum cleaned the debris from behind the places could not clean from before. She had nearly finished when the vacuum stalled with a metallic clang and regurgitated a whistle. A whistle, a police whistle, a loud and dreadful whistle.
Mr. and Mrs. Gabriev stood on the doorstep. Mrs. Gabriev held a bundle against her chest. Zangulus, the tenant of the ground floor apartment, who answered the bell, listened to Mr. Gabriev's story.
"Yes, she's up there, she must be." He looked up. "All her windows are opened... What? Oh no, we haven't actually spoken, we don't know her that well. We've passed on the stairs, that sort of thing. We are new here as you- you'd think she'd be cold," he said looking up for the second time. "Wouldn't you?"
Mrs. Gabriev murmured indistinguishably in her native tongue, Spanish. Her husband translated, "Has some friend perhaps noticed?"
"Not to my knowledge," said Zangulus, "I've been working late. I've only just gotten back as a matter of fact." He looked doubtfully at the pair. Then he noticed that the woman caught him looking and hastily looked away. "Tell you what, I'll ask my girlfriend, she may know. Wait here." He went back into the ground-floor apartment, not quite closing the door. The Gabriev's took note of his scrubbed appearance, tanned face, long curly black hair, and wearing a suit that portrayed his janitorial status.
Through the half opened door the heard a conversation, punctuated by a laugh, then a burst of giggles. They waited patiently.
Zangulus came back, a grin was decorated on his face. He had caught his girlfriend, Martina, half undressed; she was ticklish.
"She says she supposes she's up there because earlier on she put out her garbage in a lot of bags, but she hasn't spoken to anybody. As I said, we are new, but Martina, who's not just a pretty face, suggests your Inverse lady, wouldn't go out leaving all her windows open, would she? And apparently she's on her own since - oh, here she is," he said as Martina, trying the belt of her robe around her waist, joined him in the doorway.
Pink from a bath and smelling of shampoo, she smiled and said, "Hi, as i told Zangulus, she put the trash out but she's up there now."
Mrs. Gabriev murmured again. Her husband translated, "And the other people from the other apartments?"
"The Eddison's? Oh, they're away on vacation."
Still the Gabriev's stood in the hall.
"Well," Zangulus said, "I need my sleep, have to be at the office by eight. Why don't you try again tomorrow? Oh, by the way, we are away this weekend. Could you cancel our papers?"
Yet again, Mrs. Gabriev murmured. Her husband said, "May we go up, please?"
"Oh? Go up? I suppose you may. I suppose it's alright. But shut the street door when you leave, thanks." he turned to his girlfriend as the Gabriev's vanished up the stairs. "What a peculiar hour to visit, what an odd sort of couple. I suppose it's alright. D'you suppose I shouldn't have said about the Eddison's being gone?"
"They must know the Eddison's are away," Martina said. "Naga shops there. They also get their papers there. Are you imagining those tow will tip off a burgular?" She said laughing.
"Of course not," Zangulus retorted, who that thought had occurred to him. "It's just that one can't be too careful with those sorts of..."
"Oh, come on, you old racist." The girl spoke as she drew him into their apartment.
When eventually Lina answered the Gabriev's gentle, but insistent knocking it was nearly midnight and the food, well wrapped through it was in it's covered dish had grown cold in Sylphiel's arms. Entering as Lina stood back, Mrs. Gabriev handed her burden to her husband and gestured towards the kitchen. Taking in Lina's appearance with a slanting glance, Gourry took the food, went into the kitchen and closed the door.
What followed blurred in Lina's memory. Extra ordinary thought it was to seen in retrospect, Sylphiel had bathed her and washed and dried her hair. What she did remember clearly was that not once did she try to remove the whistle from her clenched fist, but with soapy sleight of hand, transferred it from one hand to the other as she worked. Then she was back in the living room, wrapped in her bathrobe, sitting by the fire which Gourry had lighted. Cozily, in the half-dark of one lam with the night shut out behind drawn curtains.
Now the Gabriev's brought the dish of hot vegetable curry and rice from the kitchen and steaming tea. Unwilling to hurt the Gabrievs feeling's, Lina ate, hesitant at first, then ravenously, as she ate, tears coursed down her cheeks.
"It's delicious, thank you, and so hot, the chili's making me cry..."
And the Gabrievs nodded and wiped tears from their sympathetic eyes. The she was in bed, still clutching the whistle, knees drawn up to her chin with the duvet pulled up to her ears.
Waking once in the night and crying out, she had the impressing that Sylphiel, crouched at the foot of the bed, rose and laid a cool hand on her forehead and spoke in her own language, but when, later the next day, she woke up, the Gabrievs were gone.
***
Disclaimer - Slayers characters nor 'An Imaginative Experience' does not belong to me.
In late afternoon, Lina Inverse, having walked form Ayer station, shuffled through a pile of advertisement and newspapers which were dropped through the mail slot during the preceding week; she did not pick any of them up. But climbed up the stairs to the apartment she and Dynast had occupied during the years of their marriage. On the top floor, she fumbled for her key, unlocked the door, stumbled in and , without taking off her coat, lurched forward to lie face down on the couch that served as the occasional bed in the living room. As she fell her hat slid off and she lay inert, dead tired.
In the apartments below, people came in from work, turned on their televisions, cooked their dinners, talked loudly, slammed doors, ran baths and went to bed as the night closed in, not to silence, but muffled the roar of a vast city interrupted by the occasional police siren. Some time in the night, an ambulance raced fast through the street, bell ringing. Half-conscious, Lina eased her shoes off, pressing one foot against the other in a state between sleeping and waking.
In the early hours the sound of rain lashing against the window roused her. She got up stiffly, pulled off her coat and went to the window. A wild wind was blowing the rain in slanting lines into the river which was the street, as through a million fishermen cast for trout in the pools forming among the parked cars, whose humped roofs resembled rocks. So she had once described them to her child, holding him in her arms warmly wrapped in a towel after his bath, nuzzling his neck where his hair was damp from soapy water.
"Look," she said to him, "a rushing river. If we look hard we may see a fish."
"A trout?" he said in her arms. "A salmon? A shark?"
"No, no, my love, a dolphin! You shall ride on it's back."
She had held him tight, kissed the nape of his neck, rolled him into his pajamas, put him into his cot, promised to show him a real river, a real dolphin, yes, soon.
Cramp sized her tired feet, knotting her toes into twisted shapes, moving up to her calves until she gasped with pain. Stamping and trying to tread away the agony, she drew the curtains, switched on the light. There was no river, no fish, no child. In bleak desolation she padded to the kitchen, poured water from the tap and drank the chlorinated stuff in thirsty gulps until, surfeited, she gagged.
In the bathroom she filled the sink and splashed icy water over her face and ran wet hands through her hair. Doing so, she was aware of a tang of sheep dung and lanolin and briefly remembered her train journey. Moving back to the kitchen she found stale bread, made toast and tried to eat. She was famished, but could not swallow. She put the toast into the garbage can.
In the cupboard under the sink, searching for the plastic bags she used for the trash, she remembered that she had run out.
Taking her purse she let herself out of the apartment and ran down to the street, hurrying through the rain to the 'Corner Shop.'
Who was just opening, ready for it's first customer.
"I need garbage bags, Mr. Gabriev."
"A packet of three, Ms. Inverse? You've been out?"
"A lot of packets, please Mr. Gabriev."
"Three packets, Ms. Inverse?"
"At least six."
"Cleaning your house?"
"Yes."
"They come cheaper in fives."
"Two fives then, please."
"And how is little Christy, Ms. Inverse?"
"Dead."
"Dead, Ms. Inverse?"
"Dead."
There was an uncomfortable silence before either one spoke again.
"In a crash. Mr. Gabriev, please don't cry." She avoided his eyes.
"But he was with this daddy! You told me that!" Mr. Gabriev protested.
"Dead too. Please, Gourry, how much are the bags?: She was afraid he would not let her pay.
"One fifty a packet. They are old stock, a discount for quantity would not help, I think." Gourry Gabriev wept as he took the money. He put the bags in a carried bad and surreptitiously added a ball of string. She had often forgotten to tie up the bags and the neighborhood cats scattered the garbage on the doorsteps.
Back in the apartment building, aware of he stale air, Lina flung open the windows. Then with bag in hand, she worked her way through the rooms. Into the bags went remnants of Dynast; clothes he had forgotten to take, confident that she would send them later on. Socks hardened by wear and tear, several old shirts, a sweater, a pair of jeans, a parka, jacket, a drawer full of gritty underwear, snapshots of happier times and a few books. She tied the necks of the bags and heaved them on to the landing.
In the kitchen, she drank more water and again tried to eat, but could not.
Christy's possessions were harder. Bundling his clothes into the bags she averted her eyes, held her breath to avoid his scent.
When the bags were full she tied the tops as though some vicious animal might escape from them. His toys were scattered about the apartment. A plastic duck, comics, sponge and flannel in the bathroom, soft toy in his cot. 'What had he taken with him? What favorite toy?' Why couldn't she remember? She sat back on her heels, her mind blank.
At last, every toy, every garment safely bagged, she dismantled the cot. It was large and heavy. She had put off buying him a bed; she manhandled it out and down the stairs. When all the bags were grouped on the doorstep, she found a taxi and, helped by the driver, loaded it and drove to a thrift store. Walking back through the rain, she felt strangely light-headed and had difficulty climbing the stairs.
Some time in the late afternoon, she woke up, shivering from an exhausted sleep, got up, made strong tea and drank it scalding hot, so that it left a metallic taste on her palate. Then, using soap and ammonia, she set to work scrubbing shelves and drawers, the insides of cupboards, pulling the furniture out and washing the spaces behind. When all was clean she got out the vacuum cleaned the debris from behind the places could not clean from before. She had nearly finished when the vacuum stalled with a metallic clang and regurgitated a whistle. A whistle, a police whistle, a loud and dreadful whistle.
Mr. and Mrs. Gabriev stood on the doorstep. Mrs. Gabriev held a bundle against her chest. Zangulus, the tenant of the ground floor apartment, who answered the bell, listened to Mr. Gabriev's story.
"Yes, she's up there, she must be." He looked up. "All her windows are opened... What? Oh no, we haven't actually spoken, we don't know her that well. We've passed on the stairs, that sort of thing. We are new here as you- you'd think she'd be cold," he said looking up for the second time. "Wouldn't you?"
Mrs. Gabriev murmured indistinguishably in her native tongue, Spanish. Her husband translated, "Has some friend perhaps noticed?"
"Not to my knowledge," said Zangulus, "I've been working late. I've only just gotten back as a matter of fact." He looked doubtfully at the pair. Then he noticed that the woman caught him looking and hastily looked away. "Tell you what, I'll ask my girlfriend, she may know. Wait here." He went back into the ground-floor apartment, not quite closing the door. The Gabriev's took note of his scrubbed appearance, tanned face, long curly black hair, and wearing a suit that portrayed his janitorial status.
Through the half opened door the heard a conversation, punctuated by a laugh, then a burst of giggles. They waited patiently.
Zangulus came back, a grin was decorated on his face. He had caught his girlfriend, Martina, half undressed; she was ticklish.
"She says she supposes she's up there because earlier on she put out her garbage in a lot of bags, but she hasn't spoken to anybody. As I said, we are new, but Martina, who's not just a pretty face, suggests your Inverse lady, wouldn't go out leaving all her windows open, would she? And apparently she's on her own since - oh, here she is," he said as Martina, trying the belt of her robe around her waist, joined him in the doorway.
Pink from a bath and smelling of shampoo, she smiled and said, "Hi, as i told Zangulus, she put the trash out but she's up there now."
Mrs. Gabriev murmured again. Her husband translated, "And the other people from the other apartments?"
"The Eddison's? Oh, they're away on vacation."
Still the Gabriev's stood in the hall.
"Well," Zangulus said, "I need my sleep, have to be at the office by eight. Why don't you try again tomorrow? Oh, by the way, we are away this weekend. Could you cancel our papers?"
Yet again, Mrs. Gabriev murmured. Her husband said, "May we go up, please?"
"Oh? Go up? I suppose you may. I suppose it's alright. But shut the street door when you leave, thanks." he turned to his girlfriend as the Gabriev's vanished up the stairs. "What a peculiar hour to visit, what an odd sort of couple. I suppose it's alright. D'you suppose I shouldn't have said about the Eddison's being gone?"
"They must know the Eddison's are away," Martina said. "Naga shops there. They also get their papers there. Are you imagining those tow will tip off a burgular?" She said laughing.
"Of course not," Zangulus retorted, who that thought had occurred to him. "It's just that one can't be too careful with those sorts of..."
"Oh, come on, you old racist." The girl spoke as she drew him into their apartment.
When eventually Lina answered the Gabriev's gentle, but insistent knocking it was nearly midnight and the food, well wrapped through it was in it's covered dish had grown cold in Sylphiel's arms. Entering as Lina stood back, Mrs. Gabriev handed her burden to her husband and gestured towards the kitchen. Taking in Lina's appearance with a slanting glance, Gourry took the food, went into the kitchen and closed the door.
What followed blurred in Lina's memory. Extra ordinary thought it was to seen in retrospect, Sylphiel had bathed her and washed and dried her hair. What she did remember clearly was that not once did she try to remove the whistle from her clenched fist, but with soapy sleight of hand, transferred it from one hand to the other as she worked. Then she was back in the living room, wrapped in her bathrobe, sitting by the fire which Gourry had lighted. Cozily, in the half-dark of one lam with the night shut out behind drawn curtains.
Now the Gabriev's brought the dish of hot vegetable curry and rice from the kitchen and steaming tea. Unwilling to hurt the Gabrievs feeling's, Lina ate, hesitant at first, then ravenously, as she ate, tears coursed down her cheeks.
"It's delicious, thank you, and so hot, the chili's making me cry..."
And the Gabrievs nodded and wiped tears from their sympathetic eyes. The she was in bed, still clutching the whistle, knees drawn up to her chin with the duvet pulled up to her ears.
Waking once in the night and crying out, she had the impressing that Sylphiel, crouched at the foot of the bed, rose and laid a cool hand on her forehead and spoke in her own language, but when, later the next day, she woke up, the Gabrievs were gone.
***
Disclaimer - Slayers characters nor 'An Imaginative Experience' does not belong to me.