by William-John Deerin

Some days I think it never really happened. That way I can get by without it troubling me too much. On other days (my dark ones) the events of that night haunt me to distraction. I hate those days with a vengeance. I never told anyone about what happened, not even my friends, as I figured they would think I was having a breakdown or something worse. Some things are best kept secret.

I managed to get back to work a few days after it happened. They were ok about my absence. I said I had had a virus. My supervisor, Mr Boa, told me these things can happen overnight and that the world is full of viruses. I assured him I would be fine - a little weak - but glad to be back at my desk. I work at Zengal & Gold publishers, in their Art and Architecture section. We produce industrial and educational journals and the occasional book, but most of the time we supply material for the larger publishing houses.

I had been working on a series of pamphlets about artists living in France between the wars. I specialise in painters living in the first half of the twentieth century; mostly names regarded as minor to the post-impressionists. This is quite an untapped source of good material and gives me considerable scope to develop themes and relationships not widely known to the general public. The big publishers only want the sellable, popular painters. This is definitely ok by me; I make a not-so-bad living writing about the likes of Mailou Jones, Hayden, Fournier, Ebiche and the sculptor Miestchaninoff. I even got myself a bit of a reputation as a champion of the minority by the self-proclaimed avant-garde art core in the city. One critic wrote that I “illuminate the lives of peintres-ordinaire out of the shadows cast by the bourgeoisie.” At long last things were beginning to work out for me.

That night I had been working at my writing-table in my apartment overlooking the river when my attention was drawn to the window. I went over to find it snowing outside. Large flakes were falling lazily down to the street below. I thought of a line from a poem I knew by Wallace Stevens “Snow sparkles like eyesight falling to earth.” For some reason I wanted to be outside feeling the snow against my face. I grabbed my coat and headed out. My flat was at the corner of Rosemond Street and Valentine Avenue: two of the main thoroughfares on the south side of the city. One way goes along the side of the river and down to the wharves, the other leads to the heart of the city. It was my wife who found the apartment. We both loved its situation. She said it gave us two different outlooks in life. She was like that. Then she became ill.

I walked down the easy slope of Rosemond Street letting the light snow swirl into my face. The street was still busy with late night shoppers and office workers hurrying about their business before heading home. The large department stores that inhabited both sides of the street stood out with their brightly-lit displays. I came up against McArdle & Brocus, a favourite store of mine. It was about now they put on their Christmas display in the large art deco windows that fronted the building. These were elaborate displays usually a little subtler and more interesting visually than what the neighbouring stores offered. I was a bit disappointed that the windows still had an array of fashion and furniture on show.

In the last window a group of mannequins were assembled wearing a variety of winter sportswear in garish colours. The scene was all snow, skis and anoraks. The sort of scene that puts you off winter sports. Standing apart from the group was a mannequin whose clothes were completely different from the others. She wore a deep red ankle-length coat with a large fur collar. What caught my eye, even more than her clothes, was her hair. She had the blackest of hair but with a streak of silver-white that ran from her brow above her left eye back towards her crown. Somehow this caught my imagination. I wondered if she was left over from an earlier display or if there was a deeper meaning to the current exhibit that I was missing. I found myself thinking her attractive. She had a quality in her appearance that I liked in a woman. She was out of place in this setting.
The snow had begun to fall heavier. I pulled my coat collar tighter round my neck. I should have worn a scarf. It was my intention to walk down to the Howlin’ Howff, a jazz and blues club I occasionally went to with friends since living on my own. But with the weather turning for the worse I changed my mind and crossed over to a saloon bar on the other side of the street.

It was dark inside and I had difficulty adjusting to the lack of light. I got to the bar and ordered a drink. Two men stood to my right, deep in their own conversation. A couple sat at a corner table not speaking. The barman was the non-communicative type too. I took my drink and sat at a table in front of the bar. Music began to play. I recognised it instantly, Art Blakey & The Jazz Messengers’ Justice. I couldn’t see where the music was coming from; somewhere near the silent couple in the corner I guessed, but the sound was good. As my eyes grew more accustomed to the conditions I began to pick out some detail around the room. A painting of a woman sitting by a window was on the wall behind the mute couple. A black bust of James Fenimore Cooper stood on a shelf above the main door. Over the bar there was a sign that read If you’re in Heaven, then this must be it. Apart from these few items the room was empty of decoration. Behind the bar the gantry was filled with bottles of rums and brandies. A single optic stood on the bar. It carried four different types of navy rum.

I had passed this bar often as I went downtown. It never occurred to me at any time to go in. I hadn’t enjoyed visiting bars too much anyhow, not since my wife died. Maybe it was just its name that put me off, The Black Ark. It sounded a bit sinister to me. I went to the bar to get another drink. The music changed. Stan Getz was playing Don’t worry about me from the invisible jukebox. The two men were still deep in conversation, talking in quiet, conspiratorial tones. The mood was suddenly broken by a woman’s voice, loud and accusing, coming from the doorway.

“Just as I thought, I knew I would find you in here.” I looked towards the men expecting one of them to answer but found them staring at me. I turned round from the barman to see who else the woman could be talking to. I found, to my surprise and embarrassment, she was walking purposely towards me.

“Well don’t just stand there. You were supposed to meet me an hour ago. We’re going to Rick and Joy’s for dinner. Remember?”

I choked on a piece of ice. I was incredulous. Before me stood a woman dressed in the same red ankle-length coat with the large fur collar that I had seen on the mannequin. She pulled off a woollen hat and scarf to reveal a silver strand running through her black hair. I was stunned. This couldn’t be happening. Someone was playing a trick on me. Before I could speak she had ordered a drink and had sat down at my table. I sat down quickly and stared at her. I didn’t know what to say or do. I eventually said.

“There’s been some mistake.” My throat was dry and getting drier. I took a gulp of my drink. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know you. You’re a doll in a shop.” The words came out too quickly and sounded silly. I was about to challenge her when she leaned over her drink, her face nearly touching mine.

“Listen to me Luke, I want you to stop acting like this, it’s not funny anymore. You can’t keep doing this. You’ve got responsibilities, we’ve got responsibilities.”

I could only sit and listen, she was on a flow. She even knew my name. Apparently this was to be my final warning. We either got our lives sorted out or she was leaving for good. We had good friends who wanted to see us, but especially me, pull through this bad patch. She stood up and walked towards the door.

“You go and freshen up and I’ll call a cab. You’ve got two minutes. I’ll get you outside.”

I didn’t know what to think. Was this real? I went to the men’s room and threw some water on my face. I couldn’t stop thinking it was all a joke, and in poor taste at that. Yet a part of me thought she was familiar: not from the department store but from somewhere else. Nothing came to mind. When I came back to the bar it was empty apart from the taciturn barman. I grabbed my coat and said goodnight. He ignored me.

Outside the snow was falling hard. I looked for the woman. I was composed now. I was going to get to the bottom of this. If this was some kind of prank I wanted to know who had set me up. Someone must have told her my name. If I did know her from somewhere, and this was a long shot, I wanted to find out when and where we met and what the hell she was talking about.
There was no one on the street. I couldn’t see her anywhere. The taxi rank was empty. I ran back in to the bar. There was no sign of her. Back on the street the snow was falling thick and fast. I could hardly see to the other side of the street. I was getting angry. It was no longer funny. From out of the snow I could hear a voice calling out a name. Joyce, Joyce, where are you? It was my own.

I woke very late the next morning. For a few moments my mind didn’t register the events of the previous night. Then a sense of dread began to grow inside me as the first recognisable thoughts started to materialise in my head. The tension in my stomach tightened. I fell into the sofa forcing myself to breathe loudly as the cavity in my chest contracted.

As I lay there I began to recall more of the events from the night before. I was running along Rosemond Street to its corner with Angel Street. There was no sign of her. The few people I passed hadn’t seen her. I ran back up to the Black Ark Bar, it was still empty. I crossed diagonally over to the corner where McArdle & Brocus’s department store stood. There was no one to be seen. The snow was now blowing a blizzard. I tried to think where she would go. How could I know? How in heaven’s name did I know her name, if it was her name? How did she know mine? What was this gnawing feeling I had about her? I was sure her name was Joyce, but for the love of me I couldn’t work out why I thought this. It was screwing me up. I was soaked through and becoming even more angry and frustrated by the second. In desperation I ran to the window where I had seen the mannequin in the red coat. The windows of the store were frosted over. I scrubbed frantically with my arm against the window to clear a space. The glass had a mist of condensation on its inside. I cursed. The damned glass was nearly opaque. I pressed my eye hard against it. There was movement inside. I rubbed the glass harder. The display was gone. No skis, no sleds, no anoraks, no woman in red!

Inside workmen were bringing out what appeared to be the Christmas display. I hammered on the window. Where is she? I shouted in desperation. The men waved back at me angrily. I moved away from the window: I knew it was a pointless gesture anyhow, what did I expect to find, was she going to be standing there waving back at me? What could I do now? I just stood there. I had run out of ideas.

Later that same day I decided to retrace my steps in case I had missed something, anything at all that could make some sense. The snow had frozen hard overnight which made walking difficult. I slid a few times and had to hold on to the railings to steady myself. I knew I would check the department store windows to see if miracles do happen. They don’t. My main hope was the barman in the Black Ark. Maybe he could tell me something about the night before that I had missed in my excitement to find her.

It was just as dark inside the Black Ark as it had been the previous night. I stood at the doorway for a few minutes to let myself adjust to the conditions. The smell of detergent and polish hung in the air. It was strong, almost an offence. Everything looked the same as before. It seemed I was going to be lucky, the same barman was standing idly behind the bar. It crossed my mind that he might remember me as it was only the night before and there were few customers. If he did he didn’t show it. I ordered a drink and waited till he had finished pouring.

“I was in here last night” I said, hoping he would acknowledge the fact.

“Must have missed you, When were you in?” He replied quite pleasantly. His geniality surprised me.

“Around seven maybe a bit before. I wasn’t wearing a watch”

“ I was on then, don’t know how I missed you. It couldn’t have been later, I have a break around eight”.

I said no and assured him it was about the time I said. He seemed genuinely interested. I continued.

“ A woman in a red coat came in, she made a bit of a scene then left quite quickly. I’m trying to find her”. I didn’t want to explain any further, it would only confuse matters.

“ Can’t say I remember that as well. The barman offered. “ I’m sure I would have remembered a fight.”

I was about to say it wasn’t a fight as such but thought better of it. My hopes of getting anywhere were beginning to fade.
“ You were playing Art Blakey and Stan Getz when I was in. And a bit later you had on Chet Baker’s I waited for you.” I was trying to think of anything that would trigger a memory, his or mine. This seemed to work as the barman looked at me and rubbed his chin.

“Art Blakey, you say, and Chet Baker too.”

I nodded positively hoping we were getting somewhere at last.

“ I don’t think so sir. “We haven’t had a jukebox in here for the last five years. Customers weren’t too keen on it and it took up too much space. It stood over there in the corner below the painting.”

There have been few times in my life when I couldn’t speak. I smiled faintly and nodded. I could feel the beginnings of despair draw over me darkly as I turned and walked to the door. The barman was saying something but I couldn’t hear; I just wanted to be out of that place.

It had dulled over. The sky had a laden look to it. I pulled my collar up and tightened my scarf. I began to walk down the slope of Rosemond Street, heading nowhere in particular. A light snow began to fall.

© William-John Deerin

William-John Deerin is a member of Biggar Writers' Group. As well as writing he also paints.