notebooks of gabriel s.

three: portmanteau

Mary left him at the landing, the passageway ahead devoid of paintings, furnishings, doorways, windows, just the same drab, peeling wallpaper he’d seen earlier in the parlor, faintly lit by a dull, pulsing light. Did it emanate from the wallpaper or elsewhere? Nathan couldn’t tell, however closely he examined it.

He was dawdling, reluctant to continue, fearful of ascending the next stairs, second guessing himself regarding agreeing to the sisters’ offer of the rooms sight unseen and with no agreement regarding their final rate. Wary of the sisters’ generosity and also of Robert Halzer’s.

On the top landing at the first and only door, he inserted his key, and turned the knob. Behind it, a small, cramped room but filled with light, the windows half open, shades flapping in the breeze, a smell of disinfectant, not entirely unpleasant, dissipating in the air. The bathroom door ajar, Nathan glimpsed a claw-footed tub ringed with curtains.

Single bed with carved wooden frame, night stand, rolltop desk, wrought-iron floor lamp. As promised, a rotary telephone, encased in black bakelite, peered from the floor next to the bed.

Like most rooming houses, the water-closet down the hall.

In the wardrobe Nathan found fresh linens and the previous lodger’s clothes pressed and clean, shirts and trousers jutting from wooden hangers and underwear and socks folded inside drawers.

At the small sink, water percolating through rusty pipes, Nathan, too tired to draw either a bath or shower, washed face, neck, hands, armpits.

Then, seeing another door, he went over and turned the knob. Locked. The attic door? But Mary had neglected to provide him the key.

A thumping noise echoed along the distant stairwell, and, ascending, grew slower, louder, attended by heaving sighing: the housemaid Catherine dragging Nathan’s luggage—suitcase, portmanteau—up to his rooms.

He wanted to help her, but wearing only boxer briefs and undershirt, he rummaged through the wardrobe for clothes, wondered if they were his size, relieved to discover that they were. Robes and slippers should have sufficed, she was only the maid, modesty was unnecessary. Still, she was pretty and young, leastwise he’d assumed so, having glimpsed her hurryingly and only from the back.

In the cracked mirror above the sink, Nathan examined his face. He was still young himself, however burdensome his duties to employer, wife, and children. How long it had been since he’d seen his family, how many miles he’d traveled in the interim.

“Feeling sorry for yourself?” he mused, arms folded, staring at his reflection, so engrossed in his thoughts he didn’t hear the maid’s knock at the door.

“One moment, please.”

Nathan finished dressing and opened the door. Then, feigning casual disinterest—in the luggage, the girl herself—he told her to leave them anywhere.

Flushed, disheveled, the maid nodded, setting them by the door and then standing quietly, not for further instructions, he thought, but as if wanting to say something.

“Your name is Catherine, yes?” Nathan said. “Please speak up, you needn’t be afraid.”

“It’s just that the attic is where I stay unless the house is full.”

“And where do you sleep otherwise?”

Immediately he feared he’d overstepped his bounds, but she responded unhesitatingly.

“The kitchen pantry, sir, which has more space and privacy than you’d think.”

“I’m happy to stay in the garret. I don’t want to deprive you of your room.” He paused. “I see. You must enter the garret to get to the attic. Well, I don’t mind.”

The girl again reddened. Perhaps there’d been an earlier incident, a guest trying to take advantage of Catherine or the sisters finding it unseemly or too tempting to place guest and maid in such close quarters.

“I don’t mind the pantry, sir.  But I’ll need to return occasionally for clothes and other personal items. I’ll try not to disturb you.”

“By all means, feel free.”

The girl left. 

Nathan set the suitcase on the bed. Unfastened the straps. He’d packed little, hoping the trip would be short, a mere reconnaissance, despite knowing that was unrealistic. He stared at the telephone on the floor. Was it too early to call his employer, his wife? He’d been on the train several days and nights and not in a private compartment but an upright seat. Of course, he’d slept little. He also hadn’t reset his watch and didn’t know the correct time.

Sighing, he lay down in bed atop the covers. Stared at the portmanteau. His briefcase! He nearly forgot he’d lost it! Or it had been stolen, swapped, traded, taken by mistake, however you’d call it the results disastrous. Neither had he the key to the portmanteau nor a clue regarding what it contained.

Nathan rose and stepped toward it, examined the straps, the magnetic clasp and lock. Any attempt to break into it might cause considerable damage. And what if Halzer returned? Who might be his benefactor? Perhaps Nathan had lost his briefcase. Or absconded with the portmanteau.