Every Other Day

Leave the bicycle by the wall. Ring her from the 'phone box by the Post Office. As you do

every other day. Squeeze in through the brown wooden doors. Doubly hinged and difficult to shut.

Wipe the paint from my hands with the stained tissue. Lift the receiver. Dial the number, 2214093

never to be forgotten. She answers quickly. As usual. The urgency of expectant hope. Slot, slip your

money in. Wait for the mechanical silence to pass.

'Hello?' she answers.

'Hello,' you reply. 'I thought I'd ring to check about tonight.'

A hesitation.

'Oh gosh. There's been a change of plan. I've arranged to go with ... I mean, it would be

important for him to go. To broaden his experience.'

Almost she slips up. I never know his name, just that pause, a few seconds of hesitation,

as she realises.

'I'm sorry about that. Do you mind?'

Silence.

'Say you don't mind. It's just that he does need it more. You don't.'

'Thank you.'
 'Oh no ... don't take it like that! You're involved with, in a different world. You know.'

I know.

'But please ... come to dinner. Tomorrow? Will you? We can talk as we always do.'

'Tomorrow?'

'You're angry, aren't you? You seem quieter than usual. More distant. Look. I'm so sorry.

Listen ... I do so want to talk to you. I have a problem. I know you'll help me.'

I murmur neutrally. As always.

She offers, 'Say one o'clock then? I look forward to seeing you.'

'O.K, 'Til tomorrow then.' I reluctantly concur. A click. I put the receiver down and turn to look

at the man waiting outside.

He props his bicycle against mine. A businessman, elderly but seemingly efficient. He holds

his black briefcase tightly. Probably containing the music of his latest recording.

Push the door open.

Almost we nod politely, the pretence of recognition, acknowledgement, but always we then

avert our eyes, the shyness of strangers. He changes his mind, he doesn't want to make his call after

all. Another day then. Every other day. Always tomorrow. He cycles away.

I make my way home.

Slowly.

Til tomorrow then? had she asked?

'Til tomorrow then.' had I replied?

I ring the bell. No answer. I press the button again. Longer, louder. Many more seconds.

Eventually, she opens the door. Mozart's Requiem on the record player. Loud. His version.

No wonder she hadn't heard the first time. She throws back her mass of black hair and tentatively

welcomes me in. I shut the door.

She slowly dances down the hall; a gentle undulation, almost in a trance. I follow her into the

main room. I stand still and look around. This place always excites and amazes me: every other time

I visit I'm fascinated by the beautiful objects that lie enhancing the surroundings; that gold leafed

wooden harlequin, arms outstretched and leg poised in the air as if always perpetually about to

commence in some crazy dance, or that small bronze of a cellist, encrusted now, with age and time,

with its green patina - it would be so fitting outside the Festival Hall, if enlarged to life size. Sometimes

I study the numerous framed pictures - there's even two early, original photographs of Sarah Bernhardt

adorning a corner. They lie propped against the radiators.That we possess such generosity.

'Would you like some tea?' she asks. I nod and smile, in agreement. She disappears from
view. I walk across the room, through the open partition, past her ornate brass bed, and stand before

the window. Her bicycle lies between two trees. Brought back from Amsterdam. Not cycled but carried

on, into the aisle of the plane. Occasionally a wind catches the branches, twisting and whipping them;

the trees seem to stab at each other, stalking gladiators warily probing for the other's weaknesses.

She calls from downstairs. I walk along the corridor, skip down the steps.

'Eggs and asparagus?' she asks. I nod and smile, again in agreement. I lean, arms folded,

against the door. I watch her prepare. She moves too quickly. She's tense. Uneasy.

'What's wrong?' I ask. She shrugs. I help her with the cutlery, piling cups and saucers upon

the wicker tray. 'Shall we go into the garden?' I suggest.

'Yes. Good idea.' She looks out, 'It's quite sunny, isn't it. Wouldnt it be nice to go for a bike

ride later?'

'I havent brought my bike.' I answer. 'Im sorry. Ive left it locked ...' I wander around the kitchen

while she prepares, murmuring hello's to the three luridly coloured hardboard cut-outs of men that

adorn the table. They are still not quite dry. My skilfully executed painted facades sit propped up

against the chair backs, effectively creating the illusion of company. 'You are keeping well, I trust?'

I ask them, but no cassette-recorded murmured reply greets my query today. Perhaps the batteries

I installed are now flat. Finally she is ready. I take the tray and follow her upstairs. She unlocks the

door to the garden. We walk to the table by the trees, lay the tray carefully, then sit down. Make

ourselves comfortable. I dab the asparagus into the melted butter and quickly bring the tip up to my

mouth. I don' t catch it all and a trickle begins to run down my cheek.

She smiles, 'It's an acquired habit.' I watch her carefully. She cuts her egg and the yoke falls

neatly away from the albumen. The reason for my presence?

I ask, 'What's your problem?'

'Ha, you remember!'

Of course; my curse is Memory.

'Well. I'm not sure where to begin. It's a personal problem. It doesn't seem to have any

resolution.' She stops, wary of continuing. She needs prompting.

'Go on ...'

'Well ...' Still a hesitation. Finally, 'Well tell me, do you love me?' A blunt enough question.

I reply, 'I love you sometimes.'

'Yes.' She looks down, the averting eyes, but not of shyness. 'Listen, do you think I treat you

badly?'

'In what way?'

 'Am I responsible to you?'

'No.'

She begins to pour out the tea. 'I have this friend. I've known him for some time. And some-

times I treat him badly, or so I think - but he never says anything - he simply does not make any

judgement. But then, I don't want to feel responsible in any way. Not to him or anybody. He says he

loves me. This man. Sometimes. Only occasionally does he make a comment about my behaviour to

him, he sometimes thinks I'm flippant.'

'Are you?'

She laughs. 'Oh not me, flippant! And you thought you knew me!' Then, seriously, 'I need to

protect myself. It's just that, sometimes .. I don't like his own music.' She gestures towards the house,

'It's not ... this.' I hear only silence; I thought the Requiem had died. She bows her head.

Her eyes water, she begins to cry. Take the plate from her lap and rest it on the table amongst

the debris of our meal. Stand next to her, cup her head in your arms. She yields a little. Not much.

Stroke her hair. Look at the pair of trees, struggling. Slowly, month after month, they tilt further towards

the ground, wearied now with battle. Eventually they'll collapse, the exhaustion of defeat. One year.

She pushes me gently away. 'I'll be all right. Soon. It's lovely for you to be here when I'm like this.'

Wipe the tears from her eyes with your tissue. 'Thank you.' she smiles. She leans across to take her

cup. 'There's something else I hadn't told this man - I didn't know if it would come between us, what

precious little friendship we had,' She sips her tea, then replaces the cup in the saucer. Have. she

corrects. Another hesitation. 'I'm having an affair with a man, it's casual - I don' t love him - he's just

someone to share my bed, do you understand?' Nod in agreement, acceptance, knowing always of

the fucking desperation of the abandoned. 'He's much older than I. Married. He's wise, he's not

expecting too much. In the long term. For the first time she looks directly at me. 'Do you think I'm

cheap?'

'No'

'What's your opinion?'

I shrug. 'I don't have one. You asked me whether I loved you. Well isn't this what love is all

about? I can't condemn you for your actions, you're free to do whatever you want. That's how you

know I love you.'

'Yes?'

'You sound doubtful?'

'Oh no, Just thinking about what you'd said. Tell me, do you have a lover? - and you don't

have to answer if you don't want to.'

I answer, 'I have ... someone. I see her every other day.'
 'Yes? I'm glad to hear that. So ... you don't think I treat you badly?'

I make to reply, then stop, the dead silence now broken by the carol of intermittent bells, 'The

telephone is ringing?'

'Yes!' she rises and skips towards the garden door, the jubilation of hopeful expectancy. She

throws her hair back. I watch her disappear indoors. I get up, pile the plates and cups on to the tray

and make my way indoors and downstairs to the kitchen. I place them neatly in the sink. It's the least

I can do. I hear her talking on the telephone as I walk down the hall. Whispered voices, almost an

intimate conversation. Slip out without a sound. The click of the latch. It's a long journey home on my

bicycle.

Perhaps in my life I am to make much longer journeys, but for this time a few miles will suffice.

Perhaps I lied, to her, about leaving or locking my bike somewhere. And always during the rush hour

it seems. It'll be dark when I emerge, finish off this journey. Late.

Every other afternoon. Finish painting; more bodies, faces. Look at the clock. Can you make

it before he does? Quickly wash your hands. Keep an eye out the window - sometimes, rarely - he

passes along this street, cycling furiously. Always humming some melody motive hes working on.

Too chromatic. Even for me. Out the front door. Brisk, cool air. At the bottom of the street turn left.

Under the subway. Alongside the dual - carriageway. He's not in sight. Yet. Yes, the booth is empty.

Squeeze in through the brown wooden door. Doubly hinged and difficult to shut. Wipe the paint off my

hands with the stained tissue. Lift the receiver. Dial. 2214093 never to be forgotten. She answers

quickly. As usual. Turn your head, a businessman cycles towards you. He wants to make a call, but,

seeing the booth occupied, changes his mind. He begins to ride away. Slip, slot your money in. Wait

for the mechanical silence to pass.

'Hello?' she answers.

'Hello.' you reply.