s e v e n
Benna Lui looks different, so different, in the mornings.
Our apartment is one of a few in the duplex building – the entire ground floor is occupied by Jack’s Mausoleum. There are two other apartments – one is locked up and unused and the other belongs to a youngish hippie couple who are like people out of an indie Hollywood film – the American girl, Ruth, is forever either half-naked in vintage bandeau swimsuits or roaming around in maxi skirts and tie-dye bandanas, barefoot, for Christ’s sake. Her boyfriend Emile is French. They’ve apparently been together eight years and have no intentions of getting married. Emile seems to likes his chest enough to keep it on display almost permanently. I don’t blame him – I would if I could, given the weather here sometimes, but because I’m a girl I’d get sent to jail for indecent exposure. Emile’s a painter, I think. Their apartment smells very strongly of turpentine oil and incense, so strong that it sometimes comes through the walls. When Mikaela and I moved in Ruth showed up, bright, freckled, red-haired and perky, asking if we needed any help. She got on fantastically with Micky, whose first question to her was Oh my god, is that colour natural? Emile showed up a while later in rubber flip-flops, khaki shorts and an orange cotton shirt with Om printed all over it, the buttons open down his chest. He came with food – it was organic and vegetarian – or pescetarian, as Ruth corrected us. They’re both ridiculously generous with things like sugar and water and food in general, almost to the point of being quixotic. I forget what Ruth does for a living. It’s hard to remember, because living sometimes doesn’t really feel like living in Benna Lui.
I pass by their apartment door on my way down. The Sanskrit word for peace, shanti, is engraved onto their wooden front door neatly in Devanagari script. A garland of marigolds hangs from the lintel of the door and there’s a jute welcome mat outside along with a small cardboard sign that says please take off your shoes at the door, thank you, written in what I recognize as Ruth’s pretty handwriting. As I walk past I realize that they seem to be more Indian than most of the Indians I know.
I climb down the wrought iron spiral staircase down the side of the building. The side entrance to Jack’s Mausoleum is bolted firmly, as is the front entry with the goddamn skulls hanging around. There’s a smashed bottle right next to the door and someone’s ugly maroon shirt lying next to it on the concrete. I don’t even want to think about what the story behind that might be.
The walk to Fanny’s isn’t long. It’s in the opposite direction of the pubs and the nightlife, towards the part of town where people usually stay with their families. The only kinds of people on the streets at this time are the bums, who are there all the time anyway, and the overenthusiastic sweat-soaked joggers who are probably already fantasizing about the box of Ferrero-Rocher in the fridge. Today they’re even more sweat-soaked because it’s disgustingly humid and muggy, perfect July weather. The road I’m taking is narrow and lined with firmly closed, graphitized shutters. The buildings here don’t usually rise more than three stories – and every window I see is firmly shut, drapes closed, fighting off the creeping sunlight. Inside the buildings people nurse their hangovers, toss under their covers, have frisky Sunday morning sex with their boyfriend/girlfriends. Outside, I walk alone on the pavement.
Eight-ten am. I have a tote with me, a tote for Christ’s sake. It feels so out of place as I settle it over my shoulder. It’s ridiculously uncomfortable; I wonder how Mikaela manages to carry a different one to college every day. I borrowed the one I’m carrying from her closet – it’s empty and clean, thankfully, except for the drugstore bill I found stuffed in an inside pocket. I left it there. I’m only carrying the goddamn bag because the jeans I’m wearing don’t have pockets and I need somewhere to put my wallet and my pocket watch. The lack of pockets makes me uncomfortable but they’re the only clean pair I had. Neither Micky nor I put stuff like laundry on our first priority, but we’re reaching a point where we probably should. I don’t think we even have detergent at the apartment. Ruth will probably lend us some if she has any, that is, if she doesn’t use some organic hippie-alternative.
