Arnon Grunberg

Manhattan

The locks had all been changed.
While I was away, someone put new locks on the door to my apartment. For a moment there I thought it was me, that I was trying to use the wrong set of keys to force my way into my own home. Or that I’d accidentally wound up on the wrong floor, like that one time in the middle of the night. But after about five minutes it was clear: this was no mistake.
The only thing I could do was to call up.
I left my bags in front of the door and went downstairs. On the way down, it suddenly occurred to me that maybe I’d wandered into the wrong building, but fortunately I wasn’t that far gone yet.
“It’s me,” I shouted through the intercom. “The locks have been changed. I can’t get in.” That last bit was pointless, but what are you supposed to say at moments like that?
I went back upstairs. The door was already open.
“Well, here I am again,” I said.
“Hello,” she said.
My books had been neatly packed in boxes. The mantelpiece was bereft of a few knickknacks I’d collected over the years. A canister of goldfish food, a shoe, a framed cookie.
“Did you have a nice trip?” she asked.
She was leaning against the kitchen counter, toying with a teabag.
My computer, the printer and the fax were all still there, and the papers on my desk seemed untouched as well. On top of the pile of back correspondence was a letter from the newspaper for the homeless. They were asking for a contribution.
“Oh, all right,” I answered. “A lot of turbulence.” She’d already put a roll of tape on top of one of the boxes.
“We’ve got new locks,” I said, pouring myself a little mineral water.
I’d always known that someday I’d come back from one of my trips and find new locks on the door. Maybe I’d been unconsciously steering things in that direction, but just then I didn’t feel much like pondering the subconscious mind.
“That’s right,” she said. “I had the locks changed.” She was still playing with the teabag.
I went over to the window. The curtains had been laundered. Everything was so fresh and clean.
My chess game was on the table. Beside it was a pile of mail. All the junk had been sorted out. She’d thought of everything.
“Well,” I said, and sat down.
I noticed that a few photos were missing too, and the old newspapers and magazines I was planning to read had been stuffed into bags.
“You’re not surprised, are you?” she said. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” Surprised. Was I surprised? I didn’t know. I wasn’t much of anything.
“No,” I said. “I’m not really surprised, although I’m accustomed to threats never going beyond threats.” “Stop it,” she said. “stop acting so superior. And wipe that ironic smirk off your face. I can’t stand it any more.” I went to the bathroom to see if there was an ironic smirk on my face. I couldn’t see any ironic smirk. There was a smirk, but it was only a sad, slightly tired little smirk. A wee bit superior, perhaps, but not ironic.
I went back to the living room and started flipping through some faxes that had come in while I was away.
“Why didn’t you stay with your poodle? What are you doing here, anyway?” “Well,” I said, “I live here, don’t I?” And I picked up the pile of faxes and weighed them briefly in my hand, as though they were the ultimate proof that I lived here.
Then I remembered that people had called me “poodle” too, back in eighth grade. Poodle was a strange name for a person, for a dog too, come to think of it.
“I have to work,” I said. “I have to pay the rent, don’t I?” “So stop working already, and wipe that ironic smirk off your face.” Once again I walked to the mirror, but I still couldn’t find any ironic smirk.
“There isn’t any ironic smirk on my face, I think you’re mistaken.” Books began flying through the room. A collection of De Maupassant’s stories, and four or five complimentary copies of The Fourteenth Chicken. I don’t mind books getting rumpled as long as you can still read them.
“Stop being so condescending, just stop patronizing everyone, stop patronizing yourself, and wipe that ironic smirk off your face. You’re disgusting.” I ducked, because something heavier was flying through the air. A stylish little vase, brought home from a trip to Portugal. The vase shattered on the bathroom floor.
The phrase “the pubic region is a dust trap, that’s why I visit it so rarely” popped into my mind. I jotted it down. I never used to do that, but who knows when forgetfulness will set in.
“Don’t be such a baby,” I said.
A book was torn in two, then ripped into dozens of little pieces. Fortunately it wasn’t one of mine. It was a book about Prozac. I don’t read books about Prozac.
“So what’s this poodle like, anyway? Another of your destructive creatures, the kind you love to collect? The crazier they are, the better, right! It’s like some kind of zoo you run, and you get to play the zookeeper.” I opened the refrigerator, but it was such a pointless gesture that I closed it again right away.
“Say something,” she screamed, “stop making people feel like they’re dull and stupid and worthless and boring. Stop being so cold. Stop destroying people!”
My chessboard flew through the air. Now I was starting to feel at home. My father used to compare me to the Gestapo, so it wouldn’t have been completely illogical for me to start destroying people.
“How many people have I destroyed?” I asked, because I’m interested in things like that. “Can you give me the names and addresses of people I’ve destroyed?” The phone rang.
By way of exception, I answered it. I knew who it was.
She wanted to know if I’d had a good trip.
“Good,” I said. “Very good.” “Is that your poodle?” I heard her screaming. “Tell her to come and pick you up.” “I’ll call you later,” I said. “There are a few things here I have to straighten out, it’s always such a mess when you’ve been away for a long time. You know what I mean?” “Coward,” she said.
A light bulb shattered right next to the fireplace.
The cleaning lady would have plenty to do. Nice for the cleaning lady.
“I can’t compete with you, you’re too strong for me,” she said. Then she started scratching her face. Dozens of little drops of blood appeared on her cheeks, like lots of little pimples being scratched open.
I grabbed her hands.
“Don’t scratch,” I begged.
“I’m going crazy,” she said.
“Don’t go crazy,” I begged. “It’s only a game. It’s peanuts. We’re only playing, believe me, we’re only playing. All we’re doing is practicing for my new book. All we’re doing is practicing for my new book.” I kept repeating that last sentence until I started believing it myself.
In the bathroom, I wiped the blood from my hands. And from her cheeks.