led to the entrance hall, I heard a voice. The voice that belonged to the bespectacled blur I have already mentioned. The blur was now in focus. The voice said:
What’s down there?
It said:
What’s down there?
II
MEETINGS
Our first conversation .
What’s down there?
I was looking into the pale face of the new resident. It was a round face with a tight chin, delicate, well-formed ears and a small nose which pointed slightly upwards. She had two freckles, neither big – both about the size of a pin head – one on the left cheek, the other on the tip of the nose. She had clean black hair, which had permission to grow to just above the nape of the neck, and thick black eyebrows. There was nothing else of immediate significance, save the two objects worn by her face. The first was a cigarette; the second, a pair of round, steel-rimmed spectacles, their powerful lenses magnifying the eyes behind them. The eyes, and this was difficult not to notice, were green and seemed extremely sore, somehow infected. Combining all the features together (though they may perhaps have been separately attractive) resulted in a slightly sickly, unenviable portrait. The new resident was not pretty.
What’s down there?
The new resident stood a little over five feet tall, she wore a plain, dark blue dress and flat-soled, black, lace-up shoes. Her hands were thin and bony. The right hand had a mole between the knuckles of its forefinger and thumb. Both hands were ugly, both were callused.
What’s down there?
Nothing.
Is it the cellar?
What are you doing here?
Sorry. My name is—
Don’t tell me your name. I’ve no need of it.
Then what’s your name?
You’ve no need of it. I shan’t tell you.
Do you live here?
I do. Get out.
Good. Let me explain, I’m new. I live in flat eighteen.
Why?
It’s my home, I’ve bought it.
Why?
I liked it.
What about it?
I wanted to live in this part of the city.
Why?
That’s my business.
When are you leaving?
I’m not leaving.
I want you out by the end of the week .
But the new resident, rather than beginning an argument or bursting into tears, simply smiled, as if she had suddenly seen or understood something, and said:
Of course, you’re the one who wears gloves.
Don’t touch me.
You’re Francis, aren’t you?
The Porter told you my name!
You’ll get used to me, Francis. See you later.
And I stood, mouth wide open like an imbecile, and watched her walk out of Observatory Mansions. I don’t think she had listened to me at all, I don’t think she had any intention of leaving. I closed my mouth and stepped out after her.
The new resident was the other side of the roundabout being weighed by the man with the bathroom scales. She was talking to him, he talked back. I did not hear the words, I was too far away, held back by the constant traffic. I felt slightly betrayed, the man with the scales and I had known each other for several years. What upset me most was that he seemed to enjoy his communication with the new resident and was smiling after she had left him. As I hurried across I smiled at the scalesman, an enormous smile, a smile larger than any smile I have produced before or since. A smile performed entirely to impress the bathroom scalesman with my friendliness. He did not look up, he was smiling to himself, looking at his notebook.
Strange events in the park .
I could not immediately find the new resident in the park, though I did see a mother consoling her wailing son as the pair looked unsuccessfully, desperately, for a lost toy Concorde. When I did see the new resident, I noted to my dissatisfaction that she was near the broken fountain, looking at a chalk drawing created by the girl that I had known for two years. I was further betrayed that day. The new resident spoke to the girl. The girl spoke back .
What followed can only be described by that hideous word, chatting. They chatted as if they were long-lost friends. Words tumbled out of them both.
What’s down there?
It said:
What’s down there?
II
MEETINGS
Our first conversation .
What’s down there?
I was looking into the pale face of the new resident. It was a round face with a tight chin, delicate, well-formed ears and a small nose which pointed slightly upwards. She had two freckles, neither big – both about the size of a pin head – one on the left cheek, the other on the tip of the nose. She had clean black hair, which had permission to grow to just above the nape of the neck, and thick black eyebrows. There was nothing else of immediate significance, save the two objects worn by her face. The first was a cigarette; the second, a pair of round, steel-rimmed spectacles, their powerful lenses magnifying the eyes behind them. The eyes, and this was difficult not to notice, were green and seemed extremely sore, somehow infected. Combining all the features together (though they may perhaps have been separately attractive) resulted in a slightly sickly, unenviable portrait. The new resident was not pretty.
What’s down there?
The new resident stood a little over five feet tall, she wore a plain, dark blue dress and flat-soled, black, lace-up shoes. Her hands were thin and bony. The right hand had a mole between the knuckles of its forefinger and thumb. Both hands were ugly, both were callused.
What’s down there?
Nothing.
Is it the cellar?
What are you doing here?
Sorry. My name is—
Don’t tell me your name. I’ve no need of it.
Then what’s your name?
You’ve no need of it. I shan’t tell you.
Do you live here?
I do. Get out.
Good. Let me explain, I’m new. I live in flat eighteen.
Why?
It’s my home, I’ve bought it.
Why?
I liked it.
What about it?
I wanted to live in this part of the city.
Why?
That’s my business.
When are you leaving?
I’m not leaving.
I want you out by the end of the week .
But the new resident, rather than beginning an argument or bursting into tears, simply smiled, as if she had suddenly seen or understood something, and said:
Of course, you’re the one who wears gloves.
Don’t touch me.
You’re Francis, aren’t you?
The Porter told you my name!
You’ll get used to me, Francis. See you later.
And I stood, mouth wide open like an imbecile, and watched her walk out of Observatory Mansions. I don’t think she had listened to me at all, I don’t think she had any intention of leaving. I closed my mouth and stepped out after her.
The new resident was the other side of the roundabout being weighed by the man with the bathroom scales. She was talking to him, he talked back. I did not hear the words, I was too far away, held back by the constant traffic. I felt slightly betrayed, the man with the scales and I had known each other for several years. What upset me most was that he seemed to enjoy his communication with the new resident and was smiling after she had left him. As I hurried across I smiled at the scalesman, an enormous smile, a smile larger than any smile I have produced before or since. A smile performed entirely to impress the bathroom scalesman with my friendliness. He did not look up, he was smiling to himself, looking at his notebook.
Strange events in the park .
I could not immediately find the new resident in the park, though I did see a mother consoling her wailing son as the pair looked unsuccessfully, desperately, for a lost toy Concorde. When I did see the new resident, I noted to my dissatisfaction that she was near the broken fountain, looking at a chalk drawing created by the girl that I had known for two years. I was further betrayed that day. The new resident spoke to the girl. The girl spoke back .
What followed can only be described by that hideous word, chatting. They chatted as if they were long-lost friends. Words tumbled out of them both.
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