A soft, spring shower was pouring over the city of London. He was enjoying his favorite time of the day; holding onto the bars in the underground train hurling toward his home, after the long hours spent at work. He considered himself a successful worker - slowly, but eventually he progressed and worked his way up from being a vatman to having a job in a small library. He had always been obsessed with books, writing, paper and pens. In the underground, he practiced his other passion – observing people.
He loved to smell the ladies’ perfume; it always revealed their dreams. Other times, he endeavored to guess what kind of pastry they were carrying in their bags by their smell; that spoke about their husbands and children. He loved the trains the most when they were crowded. These times he was able to stand close to the gentlemen, so every time the train ran in a station with a creaking noise, making the passengers tilt a little, the bare skin on his hands would touch their sleeves, letting him feel the finest fabrics their coats were made of.

At the library, he was still invisible, but he could find out more about the customers` minds by examining the books they borrowed, their handwriting they signed them with, or whether they paid with coins or bills for the late fees. When time allowed, he would also have a look at the page the book opened at the most easily; he assumed those were the pages that had been read the most, therefore described their latest readers. These little things never failed to put a smile on his face.

When he arrived home, he would always light a candle, sit on the torn, red blanket covering the edge of his wooden bed, and as long as the candle was flaming, he would write in his diary about everything he had seen or experienced that day; especially the people he had observed.

This evening, when he held his tiny, black leather diary in his coarse hands, ready to begin his dusk ritual, he glanced out of the window to see his neighbor in the opposite apartment. He had been observing her ever since she had moved there, filling the dwelling with several shades of red and her own beauty.

She had blue cheese for breakfast, opium for dinner. Bones like an angel’s wing, and her spine stood out when she bent down. There was a birthmark in the shape of a pear above her right hip, and a scar below her clavicle.

In the mornings, as he was leaving for work, he saw her reading the daily paper. She would run her big, black eyes through the headlines, and when she spotted something that didn’t include politics or the economy, she would tuck her long, dark, silky hair behind her ear, uncovering a tattoo of a scorpion, to scan that article.

The way she spent the rest of the day was a mystery to him. He didn’t know what she did for a living. All he saw was that various, wealthy gentlemen entered her apartment a few times a day, usually carrying artworks or piles of paper. They stayed for a while, and when they finally left, they would stand in front of her door for a minute, adjust their hats, and smile; then drove away in their expensive, dark cars.

He was eager to learn know more about her, and even opened another diary just for the thoughts about his enigmatic neighbor. He had always been interested in people generally, but she made him feel something he had never experienced before. He had no idea what that was; all he knew was that he had to know more about her.

After the night had fallen, he heard something loud from her house, and peeked through the window to find out what was happening. A broad-shouldered, angry man was towering over her. As he tried to catch their words, he decided he had to go over and see for himself if everything was alright. He was terrified, but he forced his feet to step out of the door and go to see her.

"Interesting... now, for the first time, when I don’t have any money with me, you suddenly don’t say that I’m such a wonderful artist, huhh?” A violent voice could be heard outside of her door. The furious man started shouting, but it turned into desperate screaming. "I painted this for you!"

“Frank, you're drunk.” She tried to remain calm and carefully freed herself of his squeezing arms, but he firmly grabbed her wrist, pulled her so close to him that she could see the sweat drops of anger on his forehead, and shouted again, “I painted this bloody picture for you!” And threw the canvas to the wall with such a force that its frame broke. “You don’t love me, I knew it!”

“Shhh! All the neighbors will–”

“You don’t love me! You never did!”

“I told you this a thousand times, I–”

“Ohh, you filthy who–”

“Don’t you ever call me like that!” Her eyes sparkled.

“I’m not a–”

“Ohh yes, yes you are!” He forced out the words through his teeth with utter rage, and tossed her to the ground by her arm. With a satisfied yet dishonest grin on his face, he walked toward the door, but turned back once again.

“You’re just like your mother.” He spit into her direction, slammed the door and left her, lying on the ground with a bleeding elbow, trembling lips, and eyes welling over with tears. She managed to get up, and painfully dragged herself to the door to lock it, when she recognized her neighbor standing in the door, like a lifeless stick.

“What do you want?!” She yelled at the speechless man. “Are you mute? Answer me! My time is too precious, I don’t even talk for free!”

He emptied his pockets, and spilled all the crumpled bills and rusty coins he had earned that week on the small, black coffee table near the door. She immediately caught her head up to the sweet sound of argent.

“Ohh, you’re my seven o’clock appointment?” She glanced at the timbered clock on the wall, showing 6:50. “You’re early. Anyway, hang up your coat and take a seat, I’ll be ready in a minute. But first, pour yourself some bourbon, you look like you could use some.”

She heard him swallow as he stood there, motionless.

“What? Don’t tell me you don’t drink, it’s 1889, for God’s sake… Ah, him? Don’t be afraid, he doesn’t bite,” she said, scratching the head of her pet raccoon, as she realized it was the reason for the frightened expression on his face.

Behaving as the dutiful man he was, he let his knees crook and flopped down on the velvet sofa. Water splashed, perfume spritzed, skirts glided, a hairbrush hit the table in the little boudoir. He didn’t have half a minute to observe the huge piles of books lying in every corner of the dimly lit apartment or to finish his staring contest with the raccoon, she burst out of the little room. Her elegant garment was gone, all she wore was a silk, scarlet robe; similar to the ones he had read descriptions about in books about Japan. The sound of soft piano and violin arose from the distance as she turned on the phonograph.

“You like this music?” She whipped her air as she was approaching him, with her bangles jingling on her ankle.

“It-it is qui-quite lovely,” he opened his mouth for the first time, stuttering.

“Indeed. It’s called Salut d’Amor; I promised dear Edward some day he would make it.”

“Miss, I n-need t-to talk t-to you.” He tried to move farther from her.

“Oh Lord, I knew you were a copper… Look, couldn’t we just find a way to get over this smoothly? I can offer you anything you want, just promise me you won’t tell any–”

“I’m not a policeman, m-miss.

“Oh. Then… I don’t understand, why are you so stiff? Wait, I see it now… it’s your first time, isn’t it? Trust me, sweetheart, it’s not gonna hurt…” She said, giggling, as she moved closer, and began to play with his collar. He quickly shook her hands off his shoulders and sprang up.

“ I-I… just want to ask you que-questions. I w-would like to talk to you. I am writing a b-book. About people.”

“Talk? Is this a bizarre fetish or something? I mean, men usually pretend they lust for intellectual conversations and artistic suggestions when they come here, but it’s obviously not their main reason to do so. You know what? Go ahead. You paid me already, and I’ve settled for worse things.” She firmly covered her bosom with the flossy silk, crossed her legs and lit a cigarette. “So, where do we start?”

“What is your favorite kind of pastry?”

“I don’t have any.”

“Everyone does.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“You sh-should try cr-croissants. They are m-my favorite.” She rolled her eyes. “F-favorite poet?”

“Now that’s a better question. I am in love with Baudelaire’s passionate verses.”

“What is your biggest f-fear?”

“I fear of growing old. I will be worth nothing without my beauty and fresh mind.”

“How d-did you happen upon living in Lond-don?”

“Sweetie, are you sure you are ready to hear something like this? This is more of an adult story… But you asked for it. My mother was a Tahitian servant. She came to England at the age of sixteen, hoping for a better life. Unluckily, she was too pretty for a maid – and the mister was too libertine for a sincere husband. The result was the birth of mine, and more plebeian occupations for her. I just continued what my mother had started.”

“Are you happy?”

She took her eyes off him, deeply inhaled the smoke, slightly angled her neck back, and slowly released the fume through her plump lips, forming flat circles. As she watched them melt into the damp air, she asked him, “Define the term ‘happy’.”

“That’s n-not something you-you define, that’s something you f-feel.”


“Then tell me, what was the happiest moment of your life?”

“When I woke up this morning.”

All of a sudden, she stubbed her cigarette on that day’s newspaper and got up from the sofa.

“You need to leave. Now.”

“B-but…” He was confused.

“Just leave. Take your money, and leave. Walk out of the door. Close it. And leave.”

For the first time in a long while, he didn’t write anything. He just sat on the edge of his bed and stared out of the window. She was sitting on the rooftop, as usual, gazing the stars through the big circles of smoke she was exhaling and blown away by the night breeze. Something had changed. He had heard her bell ring two or three times, but she didn’t let anyone in her apartment.

The next morning, when he exited the house through the decayed door, and was almost about to turn left and walk away on the cobble path, she suddenly called after him.

“Will you come again?” She stood in her door, crossed her arms and fastened her eyes on the ground, then back on him.

“You-ou…W-want me to?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Then m-maybe I shou-shouldn’t…”

“Yes. Yes you do. Yes, I want you to do so.” She slammed the door and disappeared.

So he did so. He visited her every day since that bright morning, and each time they met, their conversations got longer and deeper. She learnt about him having been an orphan; he discovered she had once been engaged. He had become unable to deal with social interactions; she had been rejected by her fiancé’s family because of her origin. They told each other secrets they had never spoken of before. They sat on the rooftop and watched people pass by on the street. One time, she spilled a little water on a vulgar man who had been handling his wife aggressively. They talked about their dreams. He wanted to keep working with books; she wanted to be free. They pet the raccoon. They laughed. She neglected more and more bell rings and knocks on the door, and he began to leave his stammer behind.

One day, she visited him.
“I went to the bakery, and… brought some croissants for you,” she said, “Well… For us. I thought it was time for me to taste them,” and smiled. “What is this?” She asked, opening his black diary.

“N-nothing…”

“Let me see.. It says,” and she read it out loud,
“…October 21.
Black as a raven, requisite as the air, I can’t take my eyes off her hair!
October 22.
Today, when she was sitting on the rooftop, as always, she dropped her last cigarette. She cursed.
October 24.
This evening she stayed inside, and silently stared out of the window. She looked sad…”

She gasped, and shouted, “You’re insane! You have been after me since I moved here!” and dropped the little book along with the bag of croissants. She rushed out of his apartment, and ran through the rainstorm raving in the street, straight into her apartment.

He followed her immediately and arrived a couple seconds later. She was crying. She was confused. He was crying. He was frightened. He walked up to her, and reached for her wet hands. She wiped her tears away and looked into his eyes.

“I am sorry. I… I never felt something like this before. There has never been anybody who didn’t care about my body but my soul, and saw me as a human instead of a toy,” she whispered, “Close your eyes.”
He could feel the raindrops dripping from her long eyelashes and slowly streaming down his face, as she gently pressed her mellow lips against his. Stroking the back of his neck, her tender fingers slowly slid down his shoulders and began to unbutton his soaked shirt.

The rain beat so loudly on the windowpanes that they didn’t hear Frank’s car pull up. He kicked the door in, drew a pistol and shouted at her.

“I knew it! That’s why you never answered that bloody door! I was here every day! I loved you! I still do! Now look at him! This is just a crooked, miserable man! Why is he better than me?!”

“He cares about me! And… I love him!” She cried.

“Enough!” Frank pointed his gun at her and pulled the trigger. But the man having been described as miserable, was still holding her – saving her life with his last embrace. He collapsed on the floor, with his blood painting the carpet the same color as the crimson furnishings.

“What have you done?!” She shrilled in pain, and threw herself on the dead body.

“I just wanted you to love me,” Frank said, and turning the gun on his temple, released the last bullet of the pistol.

At that moment, she made up her mind. The night after she had her love buried, she raced home, threw a few necessary belongings in a bag, gave a good-bye kiss to her raccoon, grabbed his diary and left. By the time the sun rose, she saw its golden rays sluggishly stretching on the emerald fields of Southern England; dashing on a train she had snuck on without a ticket. She didn’t have a penny in her pocket, or any more tears left to shed. But she had the grace of knowing someone who would always think she was innocent and beautiful.

Finally, she was free.