Helen Hall (3)
Forgot the Phone
“Come on, Helen, have some. Baked ham-and-cheese toasties. And then hot chocolate.” Michele often advised her this way on how to silence the sadness or deceive the empty moments. “Everyone does it. It works.” She would push a fragrant panini under her nose.
Helen was glad she did not stuff herself with food every time she felt frustrated. She would probably look different today if she had. She was just having her breakfast. A chocolate croissant and cappuccino when Michele came to mind. She rummaged through the silky pastry with her fingers, scooping the nougat out of the middle with her index finger and delivering it into her mouth. She wondered what Michele would say about that. She did not even know why she liked her. She missed her girlfriends here, but she knew she would not enjoy it nearly as much if they were here together. It would be that same old toxic friendship, just in a different place.
Michele. A ridiculous, burned-out former culinary star who, after her first — and also last — book, was thankfully still offered airtime for her show on national television for a while. She could not understand how her audience could have grown tired of her so quickly. The recipes were still inventive and vibrant, and she had been so ready for the second book and the following shows she had carefully planned out. In the end, they wrote about her as an irritating woman in a dreadful apron who thought she was still sexy. Everyone had had enough of her creamy theatrics, and the second book was never published. American audiences could be both wonderful and supportive, or cruel and lethal.
Michele was a funny little creature who lined the toilet seat with paper whenever she had to use a bathroom outside her apartment, which she owned in Manhattan and where she had also had a heated toilet seat installed. The end of her career hit her pretty hard, though.
“It doesn’t matter what state things are in right now,” Fred, her husband, comforted her back then. Fred was nothing special. He came from Canada. He hated New Yorkers. He called them a damned super-race. He designed gardens for people. Naturally, he made the most money from clients in the Hamptons. He was a capable guy who was not afraid to get his hands dirty. Still, he was often criticized for the diversity in his workforce, which did not sit well with all his white racist clients. He was the only one who employed two Americans, one African, Brazilian, Mexican, and two Asians. Not everyone quite understood this cultural mix — especially since the two Filipinos did not speak English at all. Fred was super happy with his team.
“The only thing that matters is your next step,” he told her. “Good or bad. Right or wrong, on the way to your next thing. That’s what makes life so beautifully fluid. It holds nothing against you. Life never reproaches you. It just waits there, looking forward to seeing what you will go after next, do you understand me, sweetheart? If you don’t go after anything, that’s fine too — but stop tormenting yourself. Do you remember my bankruptcy? Look where I am today. As long as you’re in this world, you can keep trying. It always simply comes down to what matters to you at that particular moment. And the very best next step for you is…?” He looked at her expectantly.
“Not being bored!” he answered for her. “So stop crying for god sake.” He stroked her back. “The past doesn’t matter. Only your health matters. As long as you’re healthy, you can do anything! As long as we’re here, we’re kings, understand? We’re not dead yet, sweetheart. So stop whining and put down that damned Martini. That’s already your fourth!” He took the glass from her hand.
“We’ll set up a website for you. You’ll cook online. What do you say? You can work in those recipes that were never published, and we’ll turn that big study into a beautiful kitchen studio. You can film there from morning till night! People still love you. You have plenty of fans out there. We’ll find a new publisher. Start working on the second book. Surely you don’t think you’re some one-trick circus pony. You’re amazing, and people know it. There’ll be another book — and then more TV shows too!” he encouraged her.
“The study was supposed to become a children’s room,” she snapped, and began sobbing again.
“Michele, I’d rather get another dog or cat. We agreed we would never have children. We want to enjoy ourselves, right? Have you forgotten? Children are a terrible responsibility — we’ve talked about it a million times. You know what?” he began, knowing exactly what would cheer her up. “I could really go for your beef bourguignon,” he said, and Michele immediately stopped whining. She even smiled.
“The boys and I went out for dinner, you know, for Liu’s birthday. Guess what. Friedman’s beef was inedible. We sent it back. I don’t understand who gave him a Michelin star.” He rolled his eyes and threw up his hands theatrically.
After breakfast, Helen headed out into the streets. She loved the morning humidity, the fragrant breath of a port city. The seagulls and the bustle of the streets. The little bakeries and cafés. The calmness of the Croatians, and the length of time they could discuss all sorts of things — passionately and energetically. A little less than Italians, but still much more than those dead inside New Yorkers. If only she could understand Croatian. Oh, boy!
She had slept fantastically. She felt good today. She had woken up with a plan and was looking forward to writing. She walked through the centre and all the way to the end of the promenade, where she believed she had seen Studio L’Oréal the other day.
It seemed to her that someone was whistling at her. A short distance from a newsstand, a young stranger stood leaning against the corner, drinking coffee from a plastic cup and smiling at her. She was not taken aback. She had already sorted things out in her head the night before. Someone here had started talking about her. Spreading things around. She enjoyed it. After all, this was not happening back home in New York. So who gives a rat’s ass. No wonder this happened though. I asked for it. I just have to find out how it all happened. You fucking lustful slut! Is this what you wanted? Yes, all for the new book, isn’t it? — she asked herself and laughed.
“Hi! How are you?” she asked him in English, smiling. She tried to appear perfectly natural.
“Good, good. Very fine, thank you,” he replied with a typical Croatian accent and smiled.
“So, is it common in Croatia for men to whistle at women passing by?”
“Quite common, my lady. Completely okay.” He smiled like sunshine on manure, taking drags from his cigarette between sips of coffee. He smelled of freshly washed clothes. He had a nice face and a good build. He wore a baseball cap. He might have been around thirty. His mother probably still does his laundry, Helen thought with amusement, preparing to leave.
“Well, that amused me. Have a nice day, then. It’s supposed to be really hot today!” she said and walked away.
“And you too, beautiful, you too,” he grinned, looking her up and down.
As she went farther down the promenade, she noticed that bar again, with its strange owner. This time his eyes were sharp, no longer crossed, and he wore a hat. He followed her with his eyes, and she felt as though he were assessing her. In her first few days there, she had heard from the competition one block away that he did not make much of an effort. He sat in front of the bar and scared away potential customers with his appearance. Yet people still came. He had one employee. A young, very nice girl worked for him. Tourists from outside perhaps did not even know he was owner. Thought it was some weirdo customer. He enjoyed it all.
Helen did not think he was a fright. As a writer, she knew — she felt — that he completed the local atmosphere. He was needed. If he were not there, he would be missed. Perhaps then no one would come anymore. It was like a statue that reminds you the local institution. During winters he sat inside.
“Be careful what you do, where you go, and whom you meet. They see you,” he called out in almost perfect American English.
Helen stopped, looked at him for a moment, and then walked over to him. She realized what a good eye she had for people. From the very first day, when he had looked at her cross-eyed, she had known he was pretending. He was neither a poor wretch nor a washed-up wreck. It did not surprise her at all that this man spoke English so well and was very much observant.
Nothing is ever quite what it seems at first glance — she had known that since childhood. An intelligent person notices different things. Or perhaps a person does not even have to be intelligent; if they are curious and perceptive, perhaps even empathetic and insideful then you see things correctly. Nothing escapes their eye. They see things that ordinary people miss in their true light. That was Helen. That is why she could write so well.
“What do you mean?” she asked, but instead of answering, he began to sing. One of Adele’s most beautiful songs, which Helen knew very well. She had attended Adele’s first concerts in New York. The song was called Daydreamer.
Daydreamer
Sitting on the sea
Soaking up the sun
He is a real lover
Of making up the past
And feeling up his girl
Like he’s never felt a figure before
A jaw-dropper
Looks good when he walks
Is the subject of their talk
He would be hard to chase
But good to catch
And he could change the world
With his hands behind his back, oh
You can find him sitting on your doorstep
Waiting for a surprise
And he will feel like he’s been there for hours
And you can tell that he’ll be there for life
Helen almost cried. When he finished singing, she told him he had a beautiful and distinctive voice, and that his bar had wonderful service and atmosphere too — that she would gladly come over sometimes. She described her experiences with certain young women, waitresses serving customers next door as though someone had asked them for a kidney. She mentioned a local waitress at an unnamed bar who literally hated tourists.
They’ve been off swimming all day, having fun, while I was working and now they expect me smiling? It must have been that gen Z syndrome he said.
Helen could not help laughing. The Hat Man laughed too. About ten people were sitting on the terrace, and children were stuffing themselves with chocolate rolls and cocoa, so she changed her mind somewhat about the crossed eyes and the gloomy atmosphere of bankruptcy. Maybe no one came there in the evening, but she decided she would go. She would bring along some new friend too, so that they could all talk again how this whore from US had several glasses of gin and tonic, and then took the man home and rode him to orgasm.
Surprisingly, the hair salon was run by a Ukrainian woman. Her English was decent — naturally, with an accent — but she dyed and cut hair like the devil. It was amazing to watch how she squeezed Helen in between booked appointments, did not require a reservation, and finally conjured up raven-black hair with beautifully cut fringe. She joked the entire time, occasionally mentioning how much she missed her family and what family meant to Ukrainians. Helen listened thoughtfully. Picturing war in her head. When she was done, Helen looked about five years younger. She could not believe this Eastern European skill of these Slavs. Every now and then, the woman muttered something through her teeth that Helen did not understand, but she took it as a normal way of venting stress in her native language. She heard something like *blyat*, and sometimes *suka blyat* or *pizdets*. Helen did not understand a word, but it amused her. Americans had a habit of suppressing everything, sweeping it somewhere under the rug. In the end, they blow up an entire supermarket. She liked this Eastern European release of anger. She imagined suggesting it to her shrink. She imagined the psychiatrist’s superior expression telling Helene no, it is ever so barbaric and aggressive of doing so. Where we would all be if we just swear and vent everywhere and anytime we want. One must learn control.
“Slava Ukraine,” Helen shouted as she was leaving the salon. She had supported Ukraine since the beginning of their suffering. Knew what this one means. Glory to Ukraine indeed, Oksana looked at the €50 tip and stared at her in confusion. Could not believe. Helen indeed was generous.
Later, Helen still managed to get a manicure, a pedicure, and a full-body and facial massage. She avoided the room. She sat in the harbour or in the square beneath a tree. Who would sit at the apartment in such a lively little town? A town of a thousand benches, hidden corners, alleyways, and trees. And so she worked on her puzzle in the middle of the busiest pedestrian zone, beneath a large tree beside a fountain. She felt so good outside among people. She was not alone. A little boy chased pigeons. A homeless man dozed against a tree trunk. A group of workers smoked in the shade and gulped beer from cans. Somewhere, someone argued about money. It was the mosaic of a pedestrian square, and Helen diligently wrote everything down for her new novel. Then she walked five kilometres to the beach, where she read a book, lay in the sun, and swam in the sea. She went out for lunch and took a nap afterward. It was all so refreshing. Unlike smelly New York. Then she went for an iced coffee at the harbour, where she read a book. In the evening, she watched the news, had another coffee, and finished the roast chicken with asparagus. The change of environment was beginning to have a positive effect on her. It showed in her face. The tension was gone, as was her usual neurotic look. That choleric need to always be there. The late evening came so she texted him. What a night ahead! — she thought feeling all excited.
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> Hi, it’s Helen. You know, the one from Fiorello Pub.
Hmm, he has an iPhone. The text message bubble is blue. That may or may not say something about his social standing, she thought naïvely. Everyone had an iPhone nowadays. The days when it signified luxury — and when having the latest model in New York gave her a feeling of superiority — were long gone.
> Well, finally, sweetheart. I’ve been waiting all day.
> Hahaha. Am I not a little too old for you?
> Not at all! I prefer mature women.
> Did I catch your attention? Or does that waiter just casually match people up?
> I’ll tell you everything. You should be careful. I’ll be at your place soon.
> At my place?
> Yes, there. Adamićeva 5b, of course. Give me five minutes.
Helen nearly had a heart attack. How does he know where I live?
But as a writer whose soul had died long ago, in the end she did not really care. She would do anything for a book — especially for the last one. She stepped into mischievous, irresponsible danger. Onto ice that might be thin. Toward a fire that might burn.
> I’ll wait for you downstairs, then.
She went down to the main entrance of the building.
A figure approached — head and shoulders that she remembered from the bar. When he saw her, he was initially very surprised. She was a different woman from the one they had “set him up” with. She smelled of Dior, and her little feet in flip-flops looked so slender. Her beautiful black hair was tied in a bun, and both her fingernails and toenails were painted burgundy. She wore a light yellow summer dress and simply looked like a Greek goddess.
The young man was almost intimidated, but despite everything, he pursued what he had come for. He was a tall Croatian. His gaze was energetic, charged with Adriatic mischief. He hit her with that natural, unforced energy; he was so sexy and lean. He smelled of cheap cologne, but his teeth were white and his toenails beautifully trimmed. Helen had always found flip-flops on men exciting. She liked toes. She liked beautiful feet. She liked the smell of groins and buttocks.
“Come on in, then,” she smiled.
“What’s your name?”
“Luka.”
“Oh, fuck. Everyone here is called Luka! Don’t you have any other names?” she replied rather amusingly.
As they climbed the stairs to the apartment, with him silently following behind her, all kinds of thoughts began forming in Helen’s mind. She could kill with a knife. She knew how to defend herself. That calmed her and excited her at the same time. She was a crazy writer, and her mind was always filled with everything from sex, love, murder, romance, porn, crime, and sadism to poetry. Helen was an unrecognized genius.
The apartment door closed behind them. She poured him some Chablis and poured herself some too. They sat on the couch, quite close to each other, smiling quietly like mad at one another. After a while, he became extraordinarily honest. He surprised her.
“You know there are cameras in front of the entrance, on the stairs, and in the hallways, right?”
“Well, obviously, you silly. Security. Why are you asking?”
“Do you know you’re being watched?”
Helen suddenly understood everything. The street talks, the people grinning at her on the street. Men whistling. She was a smart woman. Every day of her life here, every wild escapade — everything had been recorded. But not in the quiet of an archive; rather, in the roar of a violation of privacy and dignity. But why. Do they actually know who she was? Will it be all followed by some blackmail? She wasn’t that famous in the end of the day. Who in US would be possibly interested in seeing her every night entering the apartment with another man? This is not New York. Helen’s Hall Wild Vacation — she was already picturing the headlines. She ain’t a pop star, no one in US will pay for some security camera blurry records and in the end she can sue the hotel. No, this must be something else. But why?
“Who owns this building, and who shared the recordings? I’ll report this to the authorities. It’s illegal! I’ll bring an army of American lawyers down here. I’ll sue the guts out of you!” she said, completely seriously. She had almost sobered up. She looked like the judge indeed. Black hair and burgundy lipstick. A face like ice. A gaze like an executioner’s. The boy nearly shit himself. He did not know what to say or do so he just stripped naked.
“I can’t tell you that. But I only came here to tell you and warn you,” he replied, standing before her with a penis that, for the moment, showed no signs of anything.
“So nothing’s happening tonight?” she asked, surprised.
“Oh, yes. But I want to be your only one. You understand. I don’t want people around town saying things. How long are you here for?”
“Another week.”
“That sounds good,” he smiled and began kissing her.
“You know, I’m expensive. Is that okay? Can we make an arrangement for the whole week? I’ll tell you straight. I want 500 euros.”
“You’ve got it. But you have to tell me who shared the recordings. Who the building belongs to.”
“I’ll never tell you that,” he whispered, finally offering her something to play with.
In the middle of the night, Helen woke up again. She was thirsty. She peed and filled herself a glass of water. Luka had long since gone home. For a moment, she imagined bringing him back to New York as a souvenir. She had never experienced sex like that. And besides, he was a nice guy. Was she falling in love? Silly cow!!! It’s just one of those young unemployed slackers. He wants your money. Easy life. He even confessed to her that he had already been fired three times. Supposedly due to excessive staffing levels. Yeah right, he is just a lazy fuck with no job skills. But soooo sexy — she was thinkin it over as she was sat on the kitchen chair with one leg crossed over the other. Something vibrated silently beneath the blanket. Helen set down her glass of water and looked underneath. Wait, wait, what? It’s his iphone! Let’s see who is texting you. She tapped the screen, but it simply would not unlock. Then, suddenly, the phone rang and she — the fool — answered it.
“You have her ready. She’s a little wild, but we gave her a pill. Make sure you have the 500 euros, otherwise don’t even come,” came a voice through the speaker in bad English with some kind of Balkan accent.
Then the call ended.
Helen did not sleep for the rest of the night.
**End of Part Three.**
