[Completed] A U.S. expatriate is cast into a rainy, foggy corner of Europe. He went there on the pretense to work on his research, but he actually wanted to put as many miles as possible between himself and his ex.
The university he works for has fo...
He hadn't been able to fall asleep the night before. His thoughts had kept flitting between shattered eggs, his neighbor's turtlish stare, and memories of Jane, his ex-wife. He finally had given in and taken one of the cutting-edge sleeping pills his doctor had prescribed to him to fight the jet lag before he had left California. Sleep finally had embraced him with its blissful oblivion and had carried him dreamlessly through the night and into the morning.
He got up late, built a stout breakfast—going for the scrambled eggs this time.
His ex-wife Jane, the vegan, would have frowned at the eggs and complained about their smell.
Savoring the scent, he sat down and scratched his budding beard. Jane had always hated a stubbly face.
On the day of their divorce, he had stopped shaving.
He pulled the tablet on his table closer and flicked up the news reader. But his eyes kept wandering to the window. Outside, a rent of blue had torn the monotonous, depressing gray of the sky, and the remote mountains formed a brilliant ribbon of white, gold, and titanium along the horizon. They looked much closer than usual.
Art felt at peace. He even considered going for a jog later in the day. He wasn't a sports addict, but Jane had taught him the virtues of regular exercise. She'd have dragged him outside on a day like this.
Now, he had to do all the dragging himself.
Later, maybe, he thought and turned his attention back to his tablet.
He had made it his habit to read a local news outlet, hoping that this would provide him with a better understanding of the natives' quirks, customs, and interests. After all, his postdoc position was guaranteed for two years, and who knew what the future would hold. He might spend some more years in this place. Grow roots.
Spend years here? Grow roots?
He shook his head. The thought still seemed unreal. But then, almost everything had felt like that since the divorce.
The Tavetian News top-of-the-page article discussed the latest popular vote that was bound to take place over the weekend. A group of right-wing, populist politicians had introduced a bill to make handshakes at public schools mandatory. If the bill were accepted, it would render shaking hands with your teacher a constitutional duty.
The article explained that the suggested amendment was intended to improve the integration of foreign minorities into Tavetian culture. Polls predicted an outcome close to 50:50.
He shook his head again, feeling like a member of these foreign minorities and starting to wonder if said integration was a desirable goal.
He scrolled to the next article as he heard voices from the staircase outside his apartment. Maybe some of the natives on their way to the ballot boxes, he mused, discussing the pros and cons of constitutionally mandated handshakes.
The next article was about a surge in crime in the city's red-light district. He scanned it for an indication of where that district might be—he hadn't known that the city sported one at all. The text mentioned Longstreet. He vaguely remembered a tram stop with that name. It wasn't that far from Dumstreet.
But he had never been a redlight district customer. So why start now?
The voices from the staircase grew louder—and agitated. The compass needle of his interest started to waver between the crimes and vices at Longstreet and the potentially more entertaining events outside.
Then, a woman's shriek made that needle make a determined turn.
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When he stepped from his apartment, he found the landing before it occupied by a panting blonde—Adriana from the first floor. Art had met her only once. She worked at a radio station and was usually out when he was in. While he remembered her as a basically cheerful and positive person, she definitely wasn't so now. Her pretty face was pale, and she looked at him with wide eyes and an open mouth, her arms wrapped around her body.
"What's the matter?" Her troubled expression made Art skip the 'good morning'.
"She..." Adriana's chin was quivering. She glanced at the second door on the landing, the one leading into Mrs. Knooch's apartment. It stood ajar, and Art heard voices from within.
Adriana opened and closed her mouth as if unable to continue her tale. A tear was glistening on her cheek.
"Are you okay?" He placed a hand on her shoulder and felt her trembling.
She nodded. "Yeah. Just... I heard a commotion up here and came to have a look." Her gaze went back to Knooch's apartment. "Mrs. Knooch..." She shook her head. "Go look..." She nodded towards the open door.
Art was tempted to give her a squeeze. But he didn't know if that would be compatible with local practice, so he just touched her arm, briefly. Then, driven by curiosity, he entered Mrs. Knooch's apartment.
The heavily carpeted corridor was deserted, but someone was talking in one of the rooms. A chest of drawers and a coat rack, both of dark wood, stood against one wall, and a huge dark-framed mirror adorned the other. A toppled lampstand was lying on the floor, its shade askew.
"Yes, Dumstreet 9, second floor..." Ralph, the janitor's son, was talking, his voice loud and tense. "Of course... When can you be here?"
Art had to step over the felled lamp on his way to the room the voice came from. It was clearly the bedroom. Ralph had placed himself before a large, antique-looking wardrobe, holding onto a mobile phone, his head bobbing in a series of nods. Janitor Meier and the thin waitress were standing next to the bed with their backs toward Art. The two blocked his view. His nostrils registered the scent of mothballs.
Then he noticed the pair of pale-skinned, gnarly feet on the dazzling white duvet. Bunions made the big toes stand at odd angles.
A fat lump formed in his throat. He felt an urge to join Adriana outside on the landing. But as if by their own volition, his legs took him into the room.
He peered over the waitress's and janitor's shoulders.
