Alexander & the Women

1. & 2.

She was a teacher who brought American students to Europe, where she acted as their instructor and tour guide. She spoke English nearly flawlessly with a slight but noticeable accent. We met each other one morning in a Northern European city I was visiting during a school holiday, and we ended up spending that entire day together. She offered to let me stay in the flat she was renting, and I accepted. We were both free and unengaged, and we spent our days walking down the cold streets with our coats buttoned up, stopping off in the cafes for a smoke or visiting little shops and boutiques. The city was a famous one—historic and drab, with a language something like English.

She was rich—her father was a shrewd businessman, wealthy even by her country’s standards—and she had all the impetuous, flighty selfishness her security afforded her. And yet I never tired of her, and even now I grow lonesome when I remember her clipped, uneven gait, as if she were lugging some invisible burden. We discussed books and films and played slow games of chess, and the days slid into nights.

One of the last nights before I was due to leave the city we went walking together along a narrow canal. She was wearing a coarsely textured greenish coat that went down to her knees. We moved swiftly through the cold air, past the glitter of lights reflecting off slow-moving water. I knew we probably wouldn’t see each other again for a long time (if ever), though we had agreed to keep in touch. She had vague plans to visit the some of the major cities in the United States sometime in next couple years. She stopped off in front of a building, walked up a set of stairs, and disappeared.

I knew I should have followed her, but I didn’t, and she didn’t come back out to look for me. I stood facing away from the building, watching the patches of light as they broke against the canal’s greasy surface. Across the way, framed by a window, I saw the shape of a woman. Her room was dimly lit, but I could make out her silhouette, and I saw that she wasn’t wearing a blouse, just a brassiere. She sat in a chair, gazing out her window. She didn’t see me, and I watched her with my hands balled in my coat pocket, not wanting her to see me. I didn’t go over to her—better her than my erstwhile companion—I just watched, feeling colder and colder, chilled to the core by the wind blowing through the streets of that sad, ugly city.

3.

She gave me a parting gift—an undershirt that belonged to her husband, with whom I was acquainted. I understood perfectly well that she and I would probably never see each other again, though neither of us said so explicitly.

Soon I would be gone, and all I would have of her would be the undershirt, a single photograph I had taken, and a couple items I had stolen from her while she slept. I keep those items on a bookshelf now and rarely look at them. Sometimes I’m tempted to just throw them out. I can’t bring myself to look at the photograph, either—I’m too ashamed. I was wrong to have taken it.

4.

The building had scaffolding veiling its entire facade. The framework was made of green metal pipes bolted to each other at right and 45 degree angles, with a wooden platform on the second floor. I was dressed from head to toe in black—a black button-down, cheap black slacks, black leather shoes with the heels worn down at an angle. Though it was past midnight, people were still walking on the sidewalks, and I loitered until I was sure that my climbing the scaffolding would attract the minimum possible attention.

I pulled myself up and up and weaseled through a small gap between the platform and the building. I hauled myself onto a dirty ledge. It was suddenly dark—the street was lit under the scaffolding, but not above it. I clapped my hands and picked my way across the platform to one of the glossy black fire escapes. I walked up the steps and crouched by a third floor window. Through the window, a woman was sitting on a gray sofa. She had just taken a shower—her hair was wet and she was wearing a towel wrapped up, in the feminine way, under her armpits. She didn’t notice me—I didn’t want her to just yet. I watched her, planning my next move. I knew she was alone in the apartment: she lived with a man, but he wasn’t home now. I waited a moment longer, reached out, and touched the glass.