The Saver (11 page)

He asked, “What kind of repairs?” in that lawyer's voice that's sort of scary. I told him the list and he said what I thought he'd say – “I guess she thinks this is a luxury condo.” Then he sighed and said, “Well, do what you can. Next time I'm there I'll take a look.”

Yours forever,

Fern

Monday

January 28

Hi Xanoth,

I haven't written in a while because I get home late and then when I get up I have to clean the building and shovel and pick up the flyers and deal with Mrs. Coleville. I found some glue in the tool box and I glued the loose strips in her apartment. I also scraped the paint off the windows with a knife. I can't fix anything else. I can't put in new windows or new linoleum or replace the bathroom mirror. I promised her the owner would look in, but David hasn't been here since I told him.

She's still going on about the banging door. I promised to talk to the tenant. She's this mousy woman who reminds me of the war refugees in
Murder Without Borders
, with her big winter coat and rubber boots. A Value Village shopper like me, but with weird taste.

Mrs. Coleville also expects me to shovel every five minutes when it starts snowing. It snowed the entire day last Tuesday, and I went out to shovel three or four times before I went to work, but she complained that I wasn't
there to shovel in the evening. What makes it so annoying is that she doesn't even go out.

I should feel sorry for Mrs. Coleville, but I don't. Adorée found out from Markus that her husband sold the house in Beaconsfield while she was out shopping. He did the whole thing secretly. Then he took all the money and vanished. He took all her jewels too. The only thing he left was the furniture, and that's what she's living on – money she made from selling most of the stuff in the house.

Well, all this could explain why Mrs. Coleville is so mad, but it doesn't explain why she acts like everyone around her is a cockroach she can squash with her shoe. Or why she keeps pounding on my door like a mental case every morning and leaving me a million messages when I'm not home, as if my whole purpose in life is to stay in my apartment and wait for her next rant.

Another thing I'm worried about is Beauty. I feel bad leaving her alone so much. She really misses her old life, with all the rooms and the balcony and a view of trees.

Maybe I can leave her with Victor. He mentioned he likes cats, and he's home during the day, and his place is a lot bigger than mine.

One thing about working, it keeps your mind off things. You fall into bed and the next thing you know it's time to get up and clean.

I've been reading the ads in the retired man's
Gazette
, but so far the restaurants are all too far or the wrong
hours, and I only saw two hotel ads, one for valet parking and one for bartending.

I'm wearing my second-to-biggest jeans now, which I haven't worn in a long time. It's from all the running around, and having less time to eat, or even to buy food.

Yours forever,

Fern

Tuesday

January 29

Hi Xanoth,

Mrs. Coleville and I are having a contest. It's called “Who's going to go over the edge first?” She's been writing down every single time the door of the mousy woman opens and closes.

Meanwhile I've been trying to talk to the mousy woman, because I really would like to sleep in now and then instead of being yelled at by Mrs. Coleville while I'm half-conscious.

But the mousy woman has a peephole, and when she sees it's me she doesn't answer. And I don't start pounding away because I'm not Mrs. Coleville. Yet.

Yours forever,

Fern

Wednesday

January 30

Hi Xanoth,

I finally talked to the mousy woman. She came in with groceries while I was doing the floors. She was soaking wet. It's been half-raining, half-snowing most of the day.

I said, “I'm sorry to bother you, but the tenant next door to you is very sensitive to noise. She hears every time your door opens and closes, especially at night.”

The mousy woman looked scared. She has a wide pale face with big pale blue eyes. “I more quiet,” she said with an accent. Her accent might explain her refugee coat and rubber boots. Maybe she really is a refugee.

I hope I'll be able to sleep in the mornings now, without that Coleville maniac trying to kick my door in.

Yours forever,

Fern

Sunday

February 10

Hi Xanoth,

This morning I found an ad for a hotel job that looked good. It said
CLEANING AND GENERAL HELP
and it also said
IMMEDIATE
, which brought me luck last time. I think it means they're desperate.

So I called and a guy answered. He said, “Just to tell you right off, we're in the gay village.” Kind of random, but I said OK. He wanted me to come over right away and he gave me directions. So I left a note on my door –
BACK SOON
– mostly so Mrs. Coleville won't have a fit.

On the phone the man told me the hotel was very easy to find, but I almost missed it. I imagined a big hotel, but it was a plain low-rise and kind of old, so I went right past it without seeing the sign. It's called Le Baudelaire.

I went in and told the receptionist who I was. He had a purple punk hairdo, but the rest of him wasn't punk at all. He was dressed like he was in an ad for sailing. So that was weird and the building was weird, and for a second I thought maybe it's a trap, like in one of those urban legends where they pretend there's a job and then
they kidnap you and take out your kidney or sell you into slavery.

But I relaxed when he said, “Wonderful, wonderful.” He sounded normal. A second guy heard us and came out from his office and shook my hand.

The second guy seemed kind of lost, around 40, with thin messy hair. His office was a mess too. He kept looking for something on his desk, only he couldn't remember what he was looking for.

He told me the hotel catered mostly to gays and he was telling me right out front that some of the customers are probably or for sure HIV and the pay is minimum wage, which is $8.00. It's 3 hours during the week and 5 hours on Saturday and Sunday.

He told me that even though he's the owner he does some of the housekeeping himself, but he can't manage alone. He needs someone to fix rooms, keep the place clean, and help a person called Sally with laundry.

He said he wants someone stable who'll stay and not vanish, because he had three people in a row who vanished without notice. He said the hours were flexible. Check-out time is 12:00 and check-in time is 4:00, so I can show up any time between 12:00 and 2:00. I said I'd need Mondays off. That's the day I get off at the restaurant, and I need a free day to catch up on shopping and sleep and bake cakes for the week. He said that was fine, especially since Mondays are slow anyhow.

I asked if they had a kitchen. He said yes, but it's only
to store beverages and sandwiches and so on. They don't cook or anything like that.

So I asked if lunch was included, and right away he got this nervous look on his face and said people bring their own lunch.

I was afraid I'd blown it, so I said quickly, “I'm definitely interested.” The hours are perfect, and even if lunch isn't included, I can probably get shampoo and soap and maybe toilet paper. Also, I've been getting more food from the restaurant lately. They let me fill a styrofoam take-home container every night, and I can take as much pita as I want. They have huge bags of pita in their freezer.

He relaxed and said, “Are you sure you want it?” He didn't mean am I sure I'm going to show up and stick to it. He meant am I sure I want such a bad job.

I don't know why he thinks it's bad. Anywhere you work, people might have HIV or a million other diseases, including weird ones from distant countries, like bird flu or SARS or whatever. Or if you go on a bus, who knows what the other passengers have, and sometimes they're coughing all over the place.

I said I was sure and asked him if he paid cash. He got all offended. He said he was running a real hotel, not a brothel, and I'd get a payslip with all the benefits, and he needs my social insurance number. I told him I don't have one, and he checked on his computer and told me I have to go to an office on de Maisonneuve with my birth certificate, and they'll give me one.

I start the day after tomorrow. Tomorrow I need to get the social insurance number.

He told me his name, but I forget it.

The city is one big skating rink. I poured two bags of salt on the walkway this morning. All I need is for Mrs. Coleville to slip and say it's my fault.

Yours forever,

Fern

Monday

February 11

Hi Xanoth,

I went down to the building on de Maisonneuve, but right at the desk they told me my guardian has to apply for me if I'm under 18.

Now I don't know what to do. What if the guy won't give me the job without a number?

I'm also really stressed about the garbage situation. People are still not following the rules. I'm running out of the black tape, so I called David and asked him for regular tape. An hour later his secretary came over and brought me a whole box filled with pencils, pens, tape, a stapler, a big pad of sticky notes, markers, a stack of paper and a box of white envelopes.

The secretary looked like a model. I wonder if David's going out with her. He never mentions a wife or kids. And there was the way she said, “David told me you needed this.” I mean the way she said
David
, I had a feeling she's more than his secretary.

That box of office stuff should have cheered me up, but it didn't. I was too worried about the social insurance
number. I made more signs, this time with exclamation marks, and I taped them all over the building again. Louise did the French ones.

I also taped a large sheet of paper and a dangling pencil on my door, and I wrote
IF I AM NOT HOME LEAVE YOUR MESSAGE HERE AND I WILL ATTEND TO IT AS SOON AS I CAN
.

If I get this job I'm going to be away most of the day and every evening except on Mondays. I really have to find a solution for Beauty.

Yours forever,

Fern

Tuesday

February 12

Hi Xanoth,

I can still work at the hotel. The owner, Karl, said he'll apply for the number for me and he'll say he's my guardian. All I have to do is bring him my birth certificate.

I start tomorrow. With this job, every minute of my day will be filled. Morning: clean building, deal with Mrs. C. Afternoon: hotel. Evening: restaurant. Mondays: put sign on door that says
GONE TO OTTAWA FOR THE DAY
and pass out.

The good thing is that I think I'll be able to save around $450 a week. That's $1800 a month!

I asked Victor about catsitting. He said, “Sure, babe.” I could tell he liked that I asked him.

I said, “It's really important not to let her out,” and he said, “I dig it.”

So I went out and got a basin at the one-dollar store and filled it with newspaper and cat litter and took it up to Victor with a bag of scraps.

I told Victor I'd clean the litter. All he has to do is
keep Beauty at his place and not let her out. Even when he's away, it's better for her there. It's bigger, and there's a windowsill in the kitchen with a view of trees and grass and people going by.

Beauty was happy right away. Cats can tell if they'll get along with someone. She began inspecting and sniffing and purring, as if she was saying, “Wow, finally I get to go somewhere.” Then she jumped on the cozy red blanket and began cleaning herself. Victor stroked her and made faces at her.

I really like Victor. If only I was a normal size and my hair wasn't all stupid and stringy and I had Mom's good features instead of her flat eyebrows and tiny eyelashes, which were fine on her but make me look like Chucky.

I don't mind that Victor forgot about the meal he promised me. Looking after Beauty and being so cool about it is worth a thousand meals. If he's sleeping or at the club when I get home from work, I'll use my janitor's key to get in. Victor doesn't mind. He said, “I got no secrets from you, babe.”

Yours forever,

Fern

Wednesday

February 13

Hi Xanoth,

I started at the hotel today. I brought eggplant dip and pitas and fruit in my knapsack. Karl took me to the kitchen so I could put the dip in the fridge. I looked at all the goodies and wondered what Karl does with the leftovers. He can't always sell exactly every muffin or piece of cake. I guess he takes the extra stuff home.

It was mostly a training day. Karl showed me how to do a room. Strip the bed, put on new sheets, collect garbage and towels, spray, wipe, clean toilet, put in new shampoo and soap and a glass, vacuum. If the shampoo or soap is half-used, I can take it home.

I did a trial room while Karl watched. He was impressed by how fast I was. He talks a lot, but not in an annoying way. Mostly he talked about his boyfriend François, who's a lot younger than Karl and likes to stay out late on weekends. Karl gets jealous but he doesn't like going out late. But then he wakes up at two in the morning and François isn't there, and he goes to the club to look for him. And then he sees him dancing and he goes
home and can't fall asleep, so he ends up just as tired as if he'd gone out in the first place.

I was only half listening because I had to concentrate on not making mistakes. Karl doesn't mind. He's like a TV or radio show. It's there if you want to watch or listen to it, but if your mind wanders it's also OK.

There are two receptionists – one for the day and one at night. I won't be meeting the night person, because he comes at eight. The day one is the guy with the purple punk hairdo. His name is Étienne. I like him.

The only other worker at Le Baudelaire is Sally, who does accounts and laundry. She's the sort of person who could be 28 or 38, it's hard to tell. She's medium height, medium weight, medium looks, medium everything except for her personality, which is totally scary. Étienne pretended to tremble when she came into the lobby, and when she left he said, “All clear.” He's really funny. He could be an actor. Maybe he really is an actor when he's not being a receptionist. Maybe that's why his hair doesn't fit the rest of him. Maybe he's in a play about punks.