a lovely place, the Azeri. i knew the moment i stepped into my flat a story was about to unfold. i made myself a cup of tea and slowly began unloading my things. i knew i was going to be around for a while, because that’s usually how long it takes to start writing.
the flat was empty, bar the small writing table and chair by the window. that was all i could afford. i remember unloading my typewriter onto the table when a woman suddenly burst out of the door across the narrow alley from my flat. she looked curiously happy despite the soggy October morning. i was still, but my eyes followed her as she hurried by my window. i saw her slip a corduroy Tonic Lando onto her head and then disappeared from my view.
i smiled … she’s not from around here, i thought. it wasn’t very cold. she was just as much a stranger to this place as i was. but she looked really happy, so i quickly opened my window and listened closely just in case i could hear her thoughts. nothing.
instead, i heard jazz …
i lowered myself and strained to look up to where the music was coming from. right at the top floor of the building directly across from mine, 2 floors up from the door where the woman appeared earlier, large windows opened to a balcony. there it was … the slow, soft, supine brushing rhythm; the soothing, seductive, sad voice of a woman. i knew the song, it reminded me of someone. i smiled to myself and quietly sang along.
“… to see you through, till you’re everything you want to be … it can’t be true,
but this time the dream’s on me …”
nostalgia rushed through every inch of my body. i lowered myself again and looked up through the railing of the balcony, tilting my head further. what is that place ~ a flat? a studio? an office? i saw 2 walls. perhaps 2 rooms? a brick wall, saddle brown. the other one, painted tan and somewhat textured. the walls looked clean and kept, unlike the moldy exterior of the building. there was a painting on the brick wall: a Jegadeva!
i moved my body further to the right of my window to get a better view, but i couldn’t quite see the whole painting. i knew what it was though: the Fat Jentayu Lost in Geelong. i’ve seen it before. what was it doing here? how did it get to a place so far away from where it was created? i didn’t think i’d see it again, and certainly not in the Azeri.
i sat down on my chair and thought, how very extraordinary. unbelievable, in fact. the sun was just rising and the day was already so fascinating. a Jegadeva, here!
“Whippet, no!” i suddenly heard a voice call through the window. i looked up to the balcony across, but there was nothing. so i picked up my cigar box, lit one up and surveyed the dark wooden flooring in my flat. gorgeous, i thought. and then i heard Merchant. Jesus, i thought, who lives up there? i wondered if they had the same aged flooring …
“… i’ll keep waiting and someday, darling … you’ll come to me when you want to settle down …
one fine day we’ll meet once more and then you’ll want the love you threw away before …”
i sat down at the table again and went through my rent agreement. the music had stopped, but i didn’t realize it. the windows on the balcony across were shut. i was looking at the door right across the alley when it suddenly opened and a dog dashed out excitedly and bounced around outside my window. a Whippet! i laughed quietly to myself … the Whippet’s name is Whippet! a woman then appeared and looked somewhat confused with the mechanics of the door. a foreigner. American? then again, maybe not. the dog wasn’t hers, that was obvious. but it trusted her. and perhaps even liked her, never walking too far ahead from her.
i spent the afternoon having lunch at home. i had brought my electric flask. what a great invention, although there’s something inherently lonely about electric flasks. i decided to walk around the neighborhood a bit that afternoon to get to know my neighbors better. but they weren’t around. it was relatively quiet and the people i saw didn’t look like they lived in the area. so i decided to venture a little further out.
i walked down a street where they sold a lot of bread. it smelled of love and family. it was nice. there was an old woman across the street, sitting in front of a store. she looked at home on an elaborate high-back wooden chair with a shawl over her shoulders, smoking a long pipe. time froze and i took mental pictures of her; long shots, black-and-whites, mug shots … i must’ve stood there for eternity just absorbing her. she was powerful.
the next thing i knew, a rusty Moskvitch zoomed in front of me, almost running over my feet. i snapped and turned to look at the automobile. it was so perfect, the whole experience. i felt like an unappreciated subject of the Soviet Union and someone had tried to kill me. how romantic. the automobile looked packed from the back. a sage lamp shade occupied almost half of the back screen and there were fresh flowers … and the Whippet! ha! what a small world, i thought, we meet again …
i arrived back at my empty flat late that evening, not remembering where i had been all day. but i saw a lot and had mental pictures to prove it. how very awkward this time of day, neither light nor dark. i made myself some porridge and sat by the window, watching my neighbors return from their daily lives. they look decent. small families. a few children ran pass me, bouncing a ball to each other. it made me happy and my flat warm.
i chomped another spoon of porridge and looked up from my bowl. it was them again! the 2 foreigners, with the Whippet obediently beside the one with the hat. another family, i thought. my windows were shut and i had only the complete view of their backs. a story was being told, i could tell. it must have been an interesting day. the door opened quite easily this time, perhaps by a seasoned hand. one by one, they disappeared into their building. the dog … the one with flowers and a lamp shade … the one with the hat. home.
within moments lights came up right at the top floor of the building directly across from mine, 2 floors up from the door where the family disappeared. ah, the balcony belongs to them. and also the Jegadeva.
like magic i sudenly heard the sound of a trumpet. for God’s sakes, i’m in heaven, i thought. there was a musician in my building! i didn’t know the song, but it suited my day. an unbelievable day. i took time with my tea and later sat myself on the little steps just outside my front door. there’s nothing like a nice moment with a cigar in your hand.
i stayed on the steps well into the night and saw lights turned off, one flat after another. the trumpeter finally gave up on me, and almost as though on cue music suddenly came out from the flat across. i knew the song. it’s a sad one. i looked up and saw the Whippet on the balcony, staring into what i suspect was a night view of the sea. there’s something very Stoic about this dog when it’s alone. behind it i noticed a single glass door slightly ajar, and a view of the brick wall inside. music oozed out into the alley. i’ve given up trying to imagine the inside of that flat. it will forever be a mystery to me, and i loved it.
the alley was quiet, except for the calming music coming out of the flat. i whispered in my head, “Whippet!”. the dog looked down at me curiously for a moment, and then rested its head at the edge of the balcony. it continued to look at me, approvingly. we became friends that night. the telephone suddenly rang inside the flat, but the dog only bothered to move its ears … looking at me still, welcoming. the phone rang again and again … and again. no answer. when it finally stopped, Whippet closed its eyes and i closed mine. so peaceful. so much love. the day closed on me. an extraordinary, unbelievable, fascinating day.
i’ll write about them, the foreigners. and their dog, Whippet.
“… lovely, never ever change … keep that breathless charm, won’t you please arrange it?
… cause i love you … just the way you look tonight …”
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