People smirk when I tell them my address, but I do not know why. Not all, but the younger ones do it the most. I need to ask one of them why. I do not understand.
Apartment 69 is not necessarily the perfect place for a concert cellist to live, but it is only for one year. I practise for three hours in the morning, and then I go to a church hall where they kindly let me practise for free. I need to practise for 6, sometimes 7 hours per day. My apartment is on the corner of the building. There is a bleak beauty to it, I suppose. I always look on the bright side.
Two times a week, I go to learn English at a school in the city.
In a week’s time, I will be playing at the Royal Albert Hall with the Russian National Orchestra. I am at the top of my game. Tonight, I have invited one of the violinists here for dinner. Her name is Alina. She has not been to my apartment before, but we have been out for coffee and lunch, and she obviously trusts me enough by now to come back here.
I expect you are thinking I am hoping to ‘get lucky’ with her tonight. Isn’t that the expression you English and Americans use? You are very wrong because I am asexual. I have no interest in getting Alina into bed at all. But I do think I might be falling in love with her; she has special qualities. She listens to me when I talk, and she knows when to be silent. I rarely joke about anything, but if I make a little joke, she will smile sweetly and finger her hair. We share similar tastes in food, wine, and literature. We went to see a film last week, and we discussed every character, the plot line, the director, and the theme music in detail. We are both perfectionists. Maybe it is a little early to say, but I think she will make me the perfect wife.
The table is already set. I chose red napkins with a rose pattern and white candles. The cutlery is antique silver, and instead of wine glasses, I have pewter goblets. There is incense burning, as scent is crucial to setting the right atmosphere, I believe, along with music, of course. When Alina arrives, I will present her with a white rose. It will match her perfectly white skin. She reminds me of Snow White with her long, straight black hair and red rosebud lips.
I am listening to Jonny Hallyday sing. Pop music relaxes me, particularly French music. I spent some time with my aunt in Paris, who introduced me to Jonny’s music, as well as Edith Piaf, of course, and more unusually, Feu! I like a rock band by the name of Chatterton too. Aunt Feodora is a passionate, lively woman in her eighties; she inspires me. Right now, Jonny is singing Noir c’est Noir. I wonder if Alina will like him. I think she will. I am learning French as well as trying to improve my English. I draw deep into the night: figures, buildings, trees—all in charcoal. It is my relaxation.
The meal I am preparing is classically French too—coq au vin. Maybe a little stereotypical, but it is one of my favourites. The bin is full, so I must run down to empty it before Alina arrives. I don’t want there to be any smells other than the scented fragrance of incense and that of our delicious dinner.Slipping out of my velveteen slippers, I unlock the door and make my way to the lift. Usually, I use the stairs, as I like to keep in shape. There is a strikingly tall woman in the lift; she is saying expletives under her breath and staring at her phone. She looks up sharply when I enter and says, “Can you believe it, first a pig and now a donkey?”
I honestly don’t know what to say, so I shake my head. Fortunately, the lift is fast, so I am out of it quickly. There is another woman over by the bins trying to haul a large sack into one of them. It’s obviously too heavy for her, so I throw mine in and offer to help her. She smiles, pointedly looking me up and down. I know women find me attractive. Also, they seem to instinctively know they are safe with me. I must have friendly pheromones.
“I live at No. 22.” She says, batting her eyelashes, “I’m Gloria.”
I nod and tell her I’d love to chat, but I have a date. She tries not to look disappointed, but I can tell she is. “See you around.” It feels awkward, but I must get back to creating my dessert. It’s a raspberry and white chocolate mousse, and I need to check that it has set properly.
Once I have checked the mousse, I decide it is time to change my clothes. I bought a beautiful silk shirt; it is cornflower blue and perfectly complements my eyes. Jonny is singing Je Suis Seul. I smile to myself. I will not be alone tonight; my adorable Alina will be with me. I wonder what she will wear; she is a little bohemian at times. If she brings her violin, perhaps a little later, we will play together. I sip a small glass of the Chateauneuf du Pape I have opened to let it breathe. It is perfection.
Everything is ready, so I go to stand on the balcony for a little while to see the sun drop to its rest. The view from my balcony is good; I can see three churches and the city castle. It is a shame it is too chilly to eat outside. The silk shirt clings to my torso, and I like the way you can see my abs outlined beneath it. In between cello practice, language lessons, and sketching, I go to the gym and push myself hard. If I sleep for more than 4 hours, it is unusual. I go to the 24-hour gym, sometimes in the early hours.
Suddenly, someone screeches the most dreadful insults from another balcony somewhere nearby. I can’t see anyone, but I can hear such bad language! I hope it stops before Alina gets here; she will think I am living in a rough area. I want her to be happy, not alarmed. I go in, pulling the balcony doors firmly shut behind me. Whoever has moved in needs to be reported to the property management company if they continue like that. Shocking! It didn’t sound human, but what else could it be?
The Coq au Vin is bubbling nicely, and it will be served with the most delicious creamy mashed potato. I add some chocolate curls and raspberries to the top of the mousse; it is stunning. I snap a quick shot for Instagram.
Come on, Alina; it is time for you to arrive.
My phone bleeps a message. My heart sinks. Oh no, Alina cannot come; her friend Nina has been taken ill, and she has gone to the hospital with her. This is a travesty, a disaster! What will I do with all the food? All this work has gone to waste. The hospital is across the city, and they will be waiting for hours to be seen. Alina is apologetic; she says we must reschedule. Jonny is singing Je M’accroche a Mon Reve. I cling to my dream. This evening was supposed to be a dream; now it is nothing.
But wait, what about the woman by the bins? No. 22, she said? What was her name? Gloria.
Moments later, I am knocking on her front door. She opens it quickly and looks both surprised and delighted at the same time.
I give a little bow, as is my way. “Madam, are you hungry?”
As I utter the words, I hear something fall to the ground behind me. I excuse myself for a moment to see what it is. A toy donkey’s head lies separated from its tail on the slabs below.
I turn to stare at Gloria, and she shrugs. “Some people have short tempers around here.”
More stories from the Apartment Block Series
Other short stories by Petra Kidd
Petra Kidd Writes... 