Mira Corpora (12 page)

Now the plan gets underway. There I am, frantically searching the contents of the remaining cardboard boxes and rustling through the leftover packing materials. My hands seem to be scavenging for something in particular. All the while, I listen for the clanging sound of feet on the circular metal steps. I have no idea what I'm preparing to do until I climb onto a chair and fling a strand of twine over the top of the chandelier.

I thread the rope through the chain that attaches the chandelier to the ceiling. I'm not sure how my fingers know how to braid the contortions of that particular knot. Then I loop the
twine into a noose and squeeze it over my head. It feels uncomfortably sturdy. There must be some way to stop this, but then my feet knock over the chair.

My body plummets. My stomach rebounds into my throat with a sharp kick. There's a searing burn from the unfraying rope. My pulverized Adam's apple. My bulging eyeballs. My gurgling last unformed syllables. My body pitching and kicking over open space.

The chandelier chain starts to tremble. The tart jingle of glass overhead is followed by a loud ripping sound, as if the ceiling is a sheet of paper being torn in half. I feel myself falling again. My knees and elbows clatter against the wooden floor. The chandelier crashes on top of me and spikes my forehead into the ground. My skull is a dull throb. My entire body feels like it's ringing.

There I am, trying to fight free of the wreckage. I wrestle through the tangled strands of wire and nuggets of broken glass. I lurch a few steps forward and begin to gag. The noose is still fastened around my neck and I'm dragging the shattered chandelier behind me. I stagger another few steps. I'm heading straight for the window, probably planning to finish the job with a headfirst dive.

I'm pretty sure I hear footsteps trampling up the staircase behind me. I focus my sights on the window, stiffen my neck, and propel myself a few feet ahead. Every successive step hurts more. My forehead pounds. There's blood in my mouth. The scraping sound of the trailing chandelier fills the entire room. The frame of the window is almost within reach, but the light keeps growing fainter. A sudden eclipse, maybe. I muster the energy for one last lunge. The light is almost totally extinguished now. The eclipse is at full… or whatever…

When I regain consciousness, I find myself laid out on the couch. My body aches. My forehead is bandaged with white gauze. My cheeks and arms are pocked with rivets of gashed
flesh. Everything in the apartment is quiet. There's no sign of the workmen. The mess from the chandelier has been cleared away except for a few stray shards on the floor which sparkle in the periphery of my vision, like the lingering afterimage of a fireworks display.

Gert-Jan makes his entrance. I shut my eyes in anticipation of the screaming fit. He remains silent and methodically disinfects my cuts with peroxide. He hands me a glass of water. I try to swallow but my throat feels like it's been sawed in half. I start to cough. My chest strains, splutters, spumes. He urges me to take another sip and this one goes down. Gert-Jan stares at my impassive expression with almost scientific fascination, as if he's discovered a strain of cells that split in unexpected ways. “I see you in there,” he says in a gentle voice. “This must be taking a toll. You are starting to look so old.”

He leaves the room and returns with a glass jar of ointment and a coiled strand of rope. “This is not a worry,” he says. “I've got to make us some dinner. We need to keep you from getting in trouble again.” He wraps the rope snugly around the slender trunk of my body and knots it in several places. He unscrews the lid of the jar and smears my cuts with the sticky and runny salve. He lathers on a thorough coating of the stuff. It smells pretty strong, like fresh paint and spoiled yeast.

I watch him disappear into the kitchen. For the first time in ages, my mind is quiet. No furtive plans seem to be formulating. I'm able to look at the iron railings of the spiral staircase without a sense of dread. I can even ignore the chipped bits of plaster that silt like snowflakes from the fresh hole in the ceiling. I allow myself to sink into the reassuring bonds of the rope. I inhale the pleasantly stinging odor of the salve. To tell the truth, I'm almost happy.

As we get ready for bed, I notice Gert-Jan's new ritual. Before he puts on his pajamas, he holds each item to the light and runs his fingers along the seams. It's almost as if he's grown
distrustful of them, combing the threads for contaminants and foreign bodies. He's not asleep long before his eyes begin to strobe beneath their lids. He winds himself in the sheets and moans agitated German phrases. He wakes himself with a guttural and terror-stricken bark. His face is turned to the wall, but he seems to be sobbing, softly.

This time, I find myself reaching over to comfort him. I place my hand against the small of his back. He doesn't shake it off. Cautiously, I wrap my arms around him. His skin is clammy and coated in chilled droplets of sweat. His face is ghostly pale. In this half-awake state, he barely seems to recognize me. I tell him everything is okay. I reassure him it was only a dream.

I climb out of bed to get him a cup of tea. I slip on my jeans and walk purposefully into the kitchen to put on the kettle. I spoon tea grounds into the mug, then add the hot water. While it steeps, my hand dives into my pocket and produces the unswallowed yellow pills. There I am, grinding them up on the counter and using the flat of my palm to scrape the powder into the mug.

I present Gert-Jan with the steaming mug of tea. I'm not sure of the exact effects of the chemicals, but they ought to knock him out for several hours. He claps the mug between his hands as if it's an alien object. There I am, waiting for him to take a sip. A moment that seems to stretch the entire length of our relationship. Finally he takes a tentative swallow. Apparently there's no aftertaste to set off alarms because he wipes his mouth and finishes the rest of it.

He yawns several times and it seems he could simply be sleepy. Then he drops the mug to the floor. Everything shatters except for the thick handle. Gert-Jan doesn't flinch from the resounding rattle. His lips spasm into a lopsided half-smile. The whites of his eyes loll lazily in their sockets. In one elegant motion, his body slides off the bed and crumples onto the floor. I'm barely aware of what comes next.

There I am, testing his unconscious body with the tip of my sneaker. I hurriedly tug on my green sweater and stuff a few remaining outfits into a bag. I stride through the living area and squeeze my eyes shut to avoid any sight of the gaping cavity in the ceiling. But even as I leave the apartment, I know I'm being pursued by that flaking rim of loose plaster, the exposed black wires, the sleeping current.

The posters spring up throughout the city. This afternoon I spot another one. A light blue sheet of paper stapled to a telephone pole. It features the photo of a beseeching boy and the handwritten headline “Have you seen me?” I rip down the notice without breaking stride. The two fliers up the block get the same treatment. By now it's a reflex. I nonchalantly ball the photocopies in my fist and dump them in the nearest trash can. Please ignore the fact that my hands are trembling.

These are the first posters I've seen in this part of town. They started surfacing a week ago along the dead-end avenues of the waterfront. They invaded every vacant space near the docks: Utility poles, phone kiosks, construction fences. They flushed me out of hiding. Some posters say I'm a runaway. Others claim I've been kidnapped. A few warn that I've committed a violent crime. At the bottom of each one sits details about a reward and Gert-Jan's name.

More blue posters up ahead. They hang on a succession of mailboxes and flap noisily in the breeze. I pause to examine the photo on the latest flier: I look fetching and ideally uncomplicated. A lock of black hair flops over one eye. My lips curl into an easy smile. But if you squint closer, you can excavate the crippled expression smuggled within my gaze. It's kind of devastating. A fresh sea of blue pages flutter on the horizon, so I flee in the opposite direction.

I head back toward the abandoned fast food restaurant. A bankrupt burger franchise, probably. I've been staking out the place for days. A faded eviction notice is taped to the door and a padlock wrapped around the handle, but something's happening inside. Sections of the butcher paper obscuring the windows have peeled away. Through the dusty peepholes, you can spy the ripped-out kitchen fixtures, the plastic counter, the menu board dangling from the ceiling. Look closely and you'll notice the interior landscape is in constant flux. Like a time-lapse film, items materialize then vanish. Greasy food wrappers, tubes of toothpaste, sticks of deodorant. Signs of a secret life.

I squat next to the entrance. Dozens of feet walk past every few seconds. Spillover activity from the nearby bus station. This is a neighborhood of strip clubs, nail salons, all-night bars, and massage parlors. I notice a deliveryman in brown overalls ferrying a box of creams and lubricants into the peep show next door. Curiously, he walks out with the same package. I trail him down a deserted side street lined with dumpsters. He stops in front of a row of doors, presses a buzzer, then slips inside. These must be the service entrances for the businesses on the main avenue. One broken plaque stammers out the letters B-U-R-G.

I curl myself into the alcove of the service entrance and wait to see if anyone will arrive. It's nighttime before a woman with a grocery bag totters purposefully in my direction. She hobbles as if she's sprained an ankle. It takes a few seconds to realize that she's hugely pregnant. The woman distractedly digs through her purse for the keys. She doesn't notice me sitting at her feet. Instead of attempting to explain myself, I have a simpler plan: I scream.

The woman clobbers me over the head with the groceries. She frantically unlocks the door, then claps a hand over my mouth and tugs me into a concrete hallway. After securing the door, she stares at me wide-eyed. Her lips contort as if forming words, but the only sound that escapes is a violent wheeze.
The grocery bag tumbles to her feet. Her features clench in a contorted grimace. She slides onto the floor and clutches her stomach. This must be a contraction.

The woman huffs and pants. Her face gleams with sweat. When the pain subsides, I help lift her to her feet. She waddles down the service corridor without a word. I scoop up her bag and follow a few paces behind. She turns into a cave-like space that must have once been the freezer. It's been transformed into a bedroom, complete with a ratty mattress, flannel quilt, and stepstool that doubles as a bedside table. The woman lights some candles to chase away the shadows.

She collapses onto the mattress. Her hands rest flat atop her enormous belly, monitoring the frequency of the amniotic vibrations. I perch on the only other item of furniture in the room, an oversized red trunk. The woman introduces herself as Ruth. A black bandana highlights her tufts of tangled blond curls. The flowing gypsy dress accentuates her stomach and the tattoo of an insecticide can on her shoulder. I can feel her eyes examining me.

Ruth unpacks the groceries: A vial of prenatal pills, a package of beef jerky, a sleeve of crackers, and a jar of peanut butter. She scoops a fingerfull of peanut butter into her mouth. “I'd kill someone for a steak dinner,” she says. She unlaces her black combat boots, peels off a pair of sooty socks, and stares at her bloated red ankles. “Have you been on the streets long?” she asks. “I can't believe I'm still doing this.”

I find myself staring at Ruth's pregnant stomach. I can't help myself. “You want to touch my belly?” she says. “It's okay. It's not like a big deal.” The thought makes my heart sweat, but I shake my head. There's a long silence. One of the candles sputters out. “You can stay the night,” Ruth says finally. “Just keep out of sight.”

After she falls asleep, I blow out the cratered candles and explore the restaurant. The place reeks of mildew and burnt
plastic. The bathrooms have been stripped of ceramic tiles, but the sinks and toilets remain. The dining area is marked with the ghostly footprints of ripped-out appliances and the exposed steel of load-bearing walls. I crawl beneath the service counter and arrange my body on the chalky floor. Noises emanate from the surrounding structure, softly rattling the loose ceiling tiles. I think of Ruth and imagine the sounds are her child's heartbeat resounding within the cinderblock walls. The reverberations lull me to sleep.

Shortly after sunrise, a series of fliers slide under the front door, all of them emblazoned with my face.

 

 

I spend the day trying to distract myself. It's pointless to fixate on images of Gert-Jan prowling outside the service entrance, trading cigarette cartons for stray ends of information. Instead I help Ruth clean. She seems to enjoy the company as she kneels on the floor next to a plastic bucket and pile of wet rags, scouring every inch of her bedroom. “Too bad you didn't know me before,” she says. “When I was thin. I was really something.” She's a peculiar sight with the tattoo and violet sweatpants, hugely pregnant and scrubbing the cement. But there's also something unmistakably sexy about her oval belly and plump ass.