Diary of a Discontent (2 page)

Early in the evening I took a taxi from the
hotel to my apartment. As I passed the lower windows I snuck a
quick glance: white shoes with lavender laces, the wire-ringed
spine of a notebook.

I went unseen through the back door, up to my
rooms. Moths have gathered above the window in the stairwell.
Someone left a cat in the hallway, and it started to move towards
me in its lazy feline way. I fled, allergic.

~

The nights are often unbearable. It will
suddenly occur to me while I’m sitting at my desk that I no longer
want to remain awake. This feeling, however, doesn’t always
coincide with sleepiness. What then am I to do? My eyes are weary
and my mind wanders, so reading is out of the question. I can stand
at the window and peer into other people’s apartments, other
people’s lives, but this quickly loses its excitement. So I will
get into bed and just lie there, as bored as a dog.

~

Sometimes the sunlight shines on her windows
with a blinding glare, making it impossible to see through the
glass. It is easier at night, when it is dark outside and light in
her room, for then I can see into her apartment without being seen
myself. Perhaps I’ll crouch down and stare shamelessly for a few
minutes, until the sound of a shutting gate or the shuffling of
feet on the sidewalk scares me away. I can see a little more this
way, not just the same squares of her floor, but the legs of a
chair, the bottom mattress of her bed, the lowest drawer of her
dresser. I’m still looking for
her
, though.
Even when the lights are on she seems to be absent. If only I could
catch her in the act of…of
something
.

~

I went to the dentist this morning. It was
perfectly humiliating. Turquoise chair, blinding light, dizziness,
and a stranger’s fingers in my throat. No one should be put in a
situation like this. It’s uncivilized. And their routine of asking
questions is ridiculous. Of course you cannot answer, and they know
it.

Afterwards, perhaps in an attempt to hide
away in shame, I went to the movie theater. I watched a sad story
unfold in bright colors; I tried to feel sympathy for the gorgeous
and grieving. After an hour or so I got bored and left. I ate an
enormous lunch and felt rather embarrassed by my appetite. When the
waitress came to carry my plates away she eyed me as one would a
greedy child who has gobbled up too much birthday cake. “Well…” I
said, making a feeble effort to excuse myself, but before I could
say anything more she turned away.

Later, at the library, I had a brief
discussion with a homeless man about Hermann Hesse. “A seeker,” the
man said. “Just like me.”

~

In the evenings the sun’s reflection slides
down the façade of the building across the street. The mirrored
light and heat seem stronger than their source. My apartment
becomes an oven. I cannot bear it, so I go out for a walk. The city
in the evening is a pleasant place. I usually punctuate my stroll
with several brief stops at bookstores and cafés, of which there
happen to be quite a lot. A few evenings ago I drank three
espressos and then sat in an overstuffed leather chair at Morrow’s
Bookstore. All the caffeine made me shake and sweat, which was too
bad, because I had just settled down with a rare edition of
Jacobsen’s first novel.

~

Today, as I was sitting outside of the café,
I saw a familiar face crossing the street. When I realized who it
was I tucked my chin to my chest and became especially interested
in the newspaper I was holding. It was too late, though. Roberts—an
old acquaintance of mine—had already seen me.

“Well, well, well…” he said with a smug grin
on his face.

“Roberts,” I said. It wasn’t so much a
greeting as it was an observation.

“Still whiling your days away at cafés, I
see.”

“Still…” I didn’t finish the insult I had
planned. Instead, I said, “How are you, Roberts? It’s probably been
five years since we last saw each other.”

“I’m working at Friedmann’s, you know. Yes,
it’s good work. Very good work.”

“Ah…”

“I have an office on the seventeenth
floor.”

“Is that right?”

“Windows. A view of the mountain.”

“Really?”

“I took over from George. Do you remember
George?”

I shook my head. His casual, familiar tone
upset me. He made it seem as though we actually
knew
each other.

“Well, anyway, I’ve got to go. Business
lunch. You know how it is.” He spread his face into another
bumptious grin. I said goodbye and went back to reading the
newspaper.

I really wish he wouldn’t have shown up like
that. We shouldn’t be reminded of failed and fatuous friendships,
especially not while we are daydreaming in front of cafés.

~

A bottle of wine; a rainy day; a window
looking out at the world. I won’t ask for anything more.

~

I’ve realized that I jumped to an erroneous
conclusion regarding the girl in the basement. I can’t remember now
why I assumed that it was the robust woman I met on the stairs. She
nearly bumped into me on the stairs again today. I was able to get
a good look at her feet: they were rather plump, far too big for
the petite pink sandals. So the underworld must be inhabited by
someone else, a dark and dangerous nymph, perhaps. I must meet this
little girl, this mysterious creature whose life I’ve been
observing, like an insect’s or a doll’s, through panes of
glass.

~

This morning I cleaned out the drawers of my
desk and found an old letter from Marie. It was sent from Montreal.
She had just arrived and could hardly bear the cold. The letter
ended with an ambiguous fragment: “If you visit me…”

I never visited her, and she never wrote to
me again. I heard through a friend that she didn’t stay in Montreal
for long, that she moved south, to find some sunshine.

I tucked the letter between the pages of a
book on my highest shelf, a book I’ll never read.

~

Opportunities for happiness decrease with
age. I am resigned to this somber fact of life, and so it was with
great surprise that I greeted the events of yesterday
afternoon.

I was strolling through the park, smoking a
sweet cigar in an affected manner, thinking about Europe and Henry
James, when I saw a delightful little girl playing in the grass. At
first she took no notice of me, but after a few minutes of my
unabashed loitering she tilted her head in my direction and smiled.
I smiled back and looked around for her parents. It seemed that no
one was with her, so I approached her and said, “Are you alone?”
She nodded. “But where are your parents?” She shrugged, and asked
me in return, “Where are yours?”

Upon hearing this I began to laugh. She
reached up from her seat in the grass and grabbed onto one of my
fingers. “What is it?” I asked. “There’s a worm,” she said, and she
scrunched her angelic face into an expression of exaggerated
disgust. I laughed again and assured her that it was nothing to be
frightened of, that a worm could not harm her. Her face became
serious, and she said to me, “Have you seen Tommy?” I told her that
I didn’t know who Tommy was. “Oh.” She looked very disappointed for
a moment, then she twitched and shrugged in a whimsical way and
smiled at me one more time. It was rapturous, sublime, and because
of it the rest of the day passed by like a lovely summer
breeze.

~

I had a nightmare last night, and I’ve been
horribly anxious ever since.

There was a boy who loved to read. His entire
childhood was a blissful journey through the world of books.
“Someday,” he said to his mother, “I’m going to write a book of my
own.”

He continued to read throughout his school
years, and though he didn’t make many friends he was happy with his
books. Then one day he wasn’t a child anymore, and he realized that
reading could not satisfy him—he had to write as well.

So he read all day and wrote all night. The
other people his age got jobs and had families, but he remained
unemployed and alone. He couldn’t sell any of his work yet, for he
wasn’t satisfied with what he wrote; after so many years of reading
good books, he held himself to a lofty standard. But he persisted,
even though he was mocked and pitied by those who knew him.

Years passed, and he improved his craft a
little more each day. Finally the day came when he was ready to
publish what he had written. He sent out his manuscripts, but
nobody showed any interest. He searched everywhere for a publisher,
but he failed to find anyone who wanted his stories. It wasn’t that
his work was of poor quality; no, it was far worse: nobody read
books anymore.

“Books?” a businessman said. “We don’t print
books anymore. Even if we had the paper to do so, there would be no
interest!”

He couldn’t believe what he heard. He asked
around, and it proved true: the days of books were long past.

“There’s new technology,” he was told. “What
are you writing for, anyway?”

He didn’t know what to do. He had dedicated
his whole life to writing, and when the time finally came for him
to show the world his creations, the world was not interested.
Everyone else had been practical; they had become accountants and
doctors and stockbrokers and lawyers and real estate agents.
Writer
was no longer a profession; books no
longer existed. His life had been a waste.

~

The change in weather has affected my soul. I
greet the heavy sky with a light heart. I’ve been waiting for these
storm clouds forever.

Yes, I have a soggy soul. I prefer the rain
to the sun, an endless gray blur to an array of brilliant colors.
Sadness holds greater meaning than joy.

It’s when the rest of the world remains
indoors that I prefer to go out. The emptiness of the streets
beneath a leaden sky is something profound to behold: I feel as
though I exist alone, a solitary wanderer upon the indifferent
earth.

~

I should have been a Frenchman. I feel as
though I could have thrived in a Parisian apartment, or at a
country chateau, sipping wine and uselessly discussing the most
recent intellectual trends. Yes, had I been French I would not have
been so isolated, so desperate to flee my fellow citizens and hoard
the hours of solitude like coins of gold.

~

I drank too much wine last night, and in the
early morning I awoke to a minor apocalypse. Just after sunrise I
found myself wandering through the university, staring into the
sky, talking to myself. Steam rushed out of a sewer grate in the
middle of the damp, dark street, and was dragged away by a silent
wind. I stopped at a café for a cup of coffee and proceeded to make
the cheery female barista uncomfortable. After finishing my coffee
I got lost while looking for the restroom.

When I returned to my apartment I succumbed
to the guilt and shame that typically accompany my hangovers. These
are the days when my angst becomes so debilitating that I fear it
might actually cause my demise. My stomach roils; there is a
particularly bad taste in my mouth. My life is distilled into one
spectacular phobia.

So what do I do? I have to wait, to
endure
. Time is the only cure. I close my
eyes and breathe slowly, steadily, though I am palsied and
heavy-chested. I think of the distant past and try to sip
nostalgia’s nectar without ingesting its poison. Childhood seems
especially attractive at these times. What a good little boy I was,
and how blissful were those days spent frolicking in fields of
clover! Yes, the most pleasant memories are the ones that don’t
really exist.

~

Does the rain make me want to weep, or is the
world merely reflecting the sadness of my soul?

~

I awoke to the sound of the blinds slapping
against the windowsill. It was not yet seven o’clock. I went to the
window and gazed outside. The world was a dreary patchwork of
grays; the sky was a dull silver expanse, as though the clouds had
leaked into one immense puddle. A noisy wind upset the trees;
somewhere in the distance a siren wailed in sadness.

What a depressing scene to wake up to! But
no, in fact it was not: it was the kind of world I desire. Autumn,
it seems, has arrived early this year. Usually I have to wait until
October for the earth’s season to match my own. It is barely
September and despair is already in the air.

I decided to take a walk. I strolled through
the park on Broadway, then to the city’s central library. It hadn’t
opened yet, so I walked to a nearby café and ordered an espresso. I
took a seat outside, in a peaceful little courtyard, beneath the
branches of a katsura tree. There was a man seated nearby, hidden
behind a newspaper. I sat quietly for a while, gazing at the
surrounding buildings that rose into the sky and shielded me from
the rest of the city. I felt comfortably claustrophobic.

After a few more minutes passed, the man
lowered his newspaper. We stared at each other for a moment, and
then he said my name.

I hesitated before acknowledging him, for he
still seemed to be a stranger.

“It’s me,” he said, “Matthew.”

“Oh, yes. Yes,
Matthew
.”

“You didn’t recognize me.”

“No, I’m sorry, I did not.”

“Well, it has been many years.”

“Yes, it has.”

We stared at each other for a while longer.
Then he suddenly became animated, stood up from his chair, walked
over to my table and took a seat beside me.

“Do you remember…?” He looked around
mischievously, and when he continued speaking his voice was barely
louder than a whisper. “Do you remember our
journey
?”

I stared at him and felt completely
foolish.

“Our journey...” I said.

“Yes, yes, our journey. Ah, it was so…” His
words could not keep up with his excitement. “I’ve never
experienced anything like it. Not before, and not since.”