Brian Fitch

In the Period of Mournful Looks

The writer crossed back from the sideboard to where Emily and Jorge were sitting on the polished wood of the floor, leaning back against overstuffed woven pillows, listening to his story. Late afternoon sun was slanting into the apartment, and all three were in a sleepy, relaxed mood.

He told them he'd been friends at the time with the night clerk at The Waples Hotel, Harry Sonck, who had called on the writer to help translate for a family of South American Indians. The writer had called the father of the family down to the lobby to attempt a translation. As best he could determine, the family was descended from the Quechuas, and the father was praising the tin gods of death for letting them arrive safely in New York.

"I know it sounds odd," he said, "but the first thing that came into my mind when I saw the father was the Clare and Garcia story."

"I know that story," Jorge said. "Do you know it, Emily?"

"Please continue with your version," she said.

"The father returned upstairs, but while I was talking to Harry, the daughter came out of the stairwell behind the counter. I asked her where she was from, but she just continued smiling and shivered a bit as she removed her blouse. I told her people might get the wrong idea if she took her clothes off in hotel foyers. Then I offered her my coat and to walk her back to her room. When we got to the room, I asked her father if he and his wife were Clare and Garcia.

"They'd looked surprised and said they had two cousins, Clare and Garcia, who had left Ecuador two years before to work in Los Angeles.

"At the time, I thought this was a promising lead and decided to invite the family to live with me on Little West Twelfth Street. I had the entire floor above a meat packing plant. Anyway, I'd sealed the windows. It was warmer than the hotel. But wait. There's another part. I'll be right back."

When the writer returned from the toilet, he began to tell them the story of Peter Morris and his trip to a carpet convention in Seattle. Morris had checked into his favorite hotel and immediately called his wife. He told her he might have to sell the East Los Angeles store and ask the Indians, who were working in the store as weavers, to leave.

"All that's just a dim memory now," the writer continued. "I'm telling it only because of the odd coincidence. Anyway...."

"Wait," Emily interrupted him. "Are you Peter Morris?"

"That's really the point, isn't it?" he asked. "I'm just not sure. Maybe you'll tell me."

Emily arched her eyebrow again.

"Really, Emily, let the man finish his story," Jorge said.

"Thank you Jorge. Anyway, one morning, early, after the Quechua family had been at my place for several weeks, the patriarch of the family waited outside my blanket. Did I leave out the part about the blankets?"

"Yes," Jorge said. "I think we need the blankets."

He told them he'd decided the best way to partition the two thousand square feet of his loft apartment into individual living spaces was to hang blankets from the ceiling. Within a week the Quechuas had woven enough coarse blankets to turn the apartment into a maze of rooms, corridors, and cubbyholes. The blankets were plain, a natural fiber color that gave the apartment a benevolent feeling like a monastery with plentiful gardens and successful wine cellars. The blankets also muted the sound from the slaughter house below. Rarely now did he hear the bellowing of animals, and the family passed through the maze like whispers on their rope soled shoes.

"Each day the alleyways changed, and I got lost just going from the kitchen to the bathroom and back to my quarters."

Emily came from the kitchen with a bowl of chips, and he took a handful.

"Were you scared?" Jorge asked. "I would be if those kinds of things were suddenly appearing before me. Weren't you worried?"

"Wait," the writer said. "There's more."

He told Jorge that occasionally the young woman would be standing at the end of a new corridor, naked, smiling and motionless. He told them that his writing was becoming peaceful. The hard, reportorial edges that were his trademark fell off. Each time he became entangled in difficult metaphors, he wandered back into the corridors.

One afternoon, he was wandering content to languish in the diffuse light. He'd turned towards what he hoped would be the kitchen and was nearly blinded by a blanket of intense color bars radiating from a grotesque bird's head.

He said it was so shocking that he'd rushed intuitively back to his quarters and lay in bed for the rest of the day, but that the next day his curiosity had pulled him again into the maze of corridors. Nearly at every turn new intense images decorated the blankets. The sound of the Quechua's feet had disappeared. He hadn't seen the young woman in two days.

This time Jorge mixed them new drinks and brought them back to the pillows. After taking a large swallow, the writer continued his story.

"A month or so before I'd invited the Quechuas to move to my loft, I'd been hired by an East Village newspaper to write a column on inequitable practices by powerful landlords in New York City. The newspaper liked my work until right after the Indians moved in. Then they said my writing was becoming too poetic and less hard hitting."

All of this was confusing to him, he told Jorge and Emily, and one morning he decided that he'd get up before dawn to walk through the corridors with his head down, looking only at the floor which was familiar to him even in the dark. He'd made his first trip through the maze in this fashion and was washing up when the old man appeared at his door. The old man was apologetic and said he couldn't always control his family, although they were good dutiful children and his wife always deferred to him. The old man was at his wits end, and wanted to ask the writer's help.

His daughter, the old man said, had always gone naked. It was an embarrassment to him in their village outside of Quito. Women naked even from the waist up were a throwback to old ways, and when his daughter began growing breasts the elders of the village accused him of being reactionary. He had tried everything. He sold his goats to buy soft silk shirts hoping the material would encourage his daughter to stay clothed. She enjoyed the shirts for awhile but then one day took her clothes off in the town square.

"I made a deal with the old man. If the birds and strange markings in the blankets would disappear, then I would approach the young woman about being clothed. He agreed and we parted with that understanding. That same morning was especially cold. I assumed this was the reason I didn't see the young woman, and I decided I'd have a talk with her that afternoon after work. I didn't think asking her immediately about her nakedness would be a good approach. Instead, I decided to offer her fruit first, an orange or perhaps some seedless grapes. After that, I thought some hot chocolate and warm buttered toast would make her feel kindly toward me. I might even buy her a simple necklace. If I got her to wear jewelry, simple at first, and maybe some make-up, she might decide to put on clothing with very slight urging. I took my obligation to her father seriously, and I was still thinking about the fruit and cocoa and beads when I arrived at the newspaper office."

The writer stretched out on the floor and speaking toward the ceiling began to relate the events at the newspaper office. He told them that one of the senior copyists told him the City Editor was getting frustrated by the unevenness of his columns. The writer said he knew this and was tired of misunderstandings so he decided to reveal the existence of the Quechua family. This set the office on fire, and they made plans to go to a neighborhood bar after work to grill him about the young woman.

He continued to describe the rest of the afternoon as unpleasant. His fellow workers were belching, scratching their crotches and making lewd suggestions of what they'd do among the blanketed corridors. He said he'd taken it as good naturedly as he could and bought drinks for everyone. Then he told Jorge and Emily he'd apologized for leaving early and walked out into the fading wintry light.

He told them that by mid-evening, he had the heat in the loft up to eighty-five. The blankets were back to normal, but none of the family appeared to him. He left a bowl of oranges at the end of a dead-end corridor and retreated back to his quarters. In the morning, the bowl was outside his door filled with peelings. This time he left a platter heaped with white seedless grapes in a blind alley closer to his quarters. That evening the platter was back in front of his blanket with half the grapes gone and half still on the platter. He lifted the platter from the floor and carried it quite some distance before sitting cross legged in the middle of one of the corridors. The young woman slipped out from behind a nearby blanket and sat next to him on the floor. He offered her a grape which she took then she leapt up and ran away. She was wearing light blue socks.

"It wasn't as easy as I thought it would be," he said. "Sometimes she ate all of the fruit, then other times she left it untouched. Occasionally she would share with me, but she still refused to speak and hadn't put on anything beyond socks. I decided to try the beads, and the next day instead of fruit I left a box with the beads near the last place I'd seen her. That night she came to my quarters and told me in halting English that she loved the jewelry. But she had taken off the socks."

His plan was a miserable failure, he told them, and he was feeling low. The next day, the young woman asked why he looked so unhappy, if it was because he always lost the fruit game. He couldn't think of a thing to say except to ask her if she would wear clothing while they were together. She told him if that would cure his unhappiness she would leave his room immediately and come back dressed.

"I was amazed," he said. "My plan had worked after all. She came back in a plain cotton dress and rope soled shoes with the beads fastened around her neck. I noticed she was very pretty and had large, brown eyes. In the morning, the old man appeared at my quarters. He offered me six intricately woven place mats in gratitude for his daughter's reconciliation with clothing. I asked him if he would object to his daughter being married to me. The old man offered to perform the ceremony. I had deep respect for his culture and accepted his offer. Excuse me, I have to pee again."

After returning from the toilet, the writer told Jorge and Emily that after a formal period of separation, he returned to his apartment for the ceremony. The blankets had been pushed back against the walls creating a large, formal room for the marriage. The Indian family were clothed in yards of blue woven cloth wrapped around them in layers. The young woman was dressed in the same clothes in which the writer had last seen her, except she had removed her shoes as a token of her breaking away from the ways of her family. The ceremony was brief and in a language he didn't understand. When the father had finished speaking, the rest of the family strewed a path of dried corn husks to the writer's quarters and began putting the blankets back in place. Everyone was smiling and touching each other.

"But I need to tell you more of Peter Morris," he said.

* * *

He'd placed ads in the local papers for a family versed in ancient weaving skills to take over his East LA store, hoping the Indians would see it and realize their good luck. But by the time he had returned from Seattle, all traces of the Indians as well as his wife were gone. It was as though they had never been there. His life alone became solemn and unbearable, and he was afraid his mourning was slipping into a level too deep to transfer. He knew if he didn't act quickly he would disappear into self-consciousness. At the same time, he was adamant about sticking to his plan. He had never leapt from one scheme to another and this was not the time to change. Still, no one had answered the advertisements, and he was beginning to question his ability to write his true needs.

He began calling each newspaper, asking to speak to the classifieds editor in person. They were understanding of his grief, but were also puzzled that no weavers had responded. One editor, however, recalled a conversation with a friend back east. His friend told him a funny story about a columnist and a family of Indians. The columnist, as he remembered, had a business on the side selling handwoven blankets. The editor said he could give Peter Morris the phone numbers if he liked.

"And this is where the coincidences begin bumping into one another," the writer told them. "The blanket business was going well for us. And I was becoming increasingly dissatisfied with the newspaper, especially my columns about New York landlords. This new source of income gave me a sense of freedom. My wife's family made few demands on me, just fiber to weave with and to see their youngest daughter clothed and smiling. She seemed content, although I was beginning to wish for a moment or two of melancholy from her. But let me catch you up."

Gradually, he said, they had all slipped into a routine including a celebration each week at the arrival of Life. Although the Quechua's English was rudimentary, they recognized friends from their old neighborhood back home in the February issue. His wife refused to read it. For a moment he thought she was becoming intractable. Her eyes flashed so quickly, though, he thought it might be the harsh winter light coming in through a nearby window.

Just as quickly she was smiling and asking if he approved of her new dress. But he couldn't reply and turned and walked away. He felt their familiarity was based on a code of behavior impenetrable by him and, anyway, he was becoming tired with his invention. Any tension between them would have to be created by him. This led him into a deeper sadness and made him feel isolated. He took a week of vacation from the newspaper and wandered the corridors of his apartment seeking a resolution to his unhappiness. His wife seemed to recognize his need for solitude and left him alone.

During this time, he said, he was unable to relax into the soft light between the blankets. He began to wish for the sudden, startling images again and carried a notebook during his walks through the corridors. From memory, he explored the odd blankets that had appeared before his marriage. One afternoon he saw himself sitting on a bench in Taxco waiting for the bus to take him to the lower part of town when two burly, unshaven men stopped to talk with him. They offered him a matched set of turquoise and silver wedding rings. When he declined, they pulled his shirt tightly around his neck and breathed hot rasping voices into his ear. He was feeling the prick of a knife blade on his neck when his wife slipped from behind a blanket. She said if he was that unhappy she would agree not to smile for as long as he wanted.

He told Emily and Jorge that in this period of mournful looks, the old man and his family avoided him. He could hear them shuffling behind the blankets, but they remained invisible. His wife prepared his meals and rarely looked up from the floor. He said he felt another imbalance coming.

"Blankets were piling up in the apartment, but I refused to answer the front door even when customers shouted they had heard about the Indians' weaving from friends. I decided there was no chance of balance. Every decision I made led to one totality or another, and the Indians refused to help. They agreed with all of my moods or disappeared until they found one they liked. I didn't pay my rent that month and the butcher from downstairs came to see me. He gave me a one month extension and wished me luck. I knew I wouldn't pay the rent the next month either. I'd lost interest in the Indians and their story, and my wife moved into the maze of blankets, back with her family."

He said, however, in a short time he grew tired of melancholy and went looking for his wife. He found her near the kitchen preparing a meal for her family. He said he told her that he'd begin sealing rugs again until they had money, and he would even pay the rent, but he wanted to go off on his own. His wife smiled, flashing her teeth, and agreed it was the best thing. The writer said he would figure out some way to take care of the family, but for now it was better if they were apart. His wife said he shouldn't worry so much about natural imbalances in human relationships. She asked if he wouldn't like to go drinking with his newspaper friends. He thanked her and said, yes, that might be just the thing, but he didn't tell her that was probably what had caused the imbalance in the first place. Some things he didn't expect her to understand.

Later that night, he said, the old man came to him and complimented him on his wisdom and insight. Right after that the telephone rang, and the writer let his answering machine record the message.

"Here's where the two strands of the story seem to get tangled up," he said and began to relate more of Peter Morris.

***

Peter Morris had been calling the number the classifieds editor had given him for two weeks. He tried early in the morning, afternoons and late at night and still no one was there. He had just about given up when the writer's answering machine clicked in and asked him to leave a message that would be returned as soon as possible. Morris explained who he was and how he had gotten the writer's phone number and said he hoped he wasn't disturbing the writer. He said he had plenty of money and was willing to fly the writer and his family from New York to Los Angeles and get them set up in a trailer behind his carpet store. They wouldn't even have to pay him back. He just wanted weavers back in his life.

The writer said that even before the message was over, he decided he'd pay his wife's family to fly to Los Angeles.

"The next morning I cooked a large breakfast of pancakes, sausage, bacon, fried eggs, fried potatoes, biscuits, ham, gravy, and cornbread, and I told my wife's father that I had found them a job. The old man's eyes narrowed, and he told me he had never met a man with more understanding of life than I had."

"Do you think he was telling the truth?" Emily asked.

"Let him finish," Jorge said.

"Thank you," the writer said. "Even now telling this I get easily lost. My wife told me she'd decided to stay dressed, that I'd shown her the wisdom of clothing and that it would be a very peculiar day when she disrobed again. And that's the last time I saw her."

"How do you want this to turn out?" Jorge asked, as though he thought the writer could influence events. "The Quechuas have been gone for a long time," he said. "You need to forgive yourself."

"Maybe you're right," the writer said. "Maybe I've just made all of this up."

"But maybe you haven't," Emily said. She'd walked to the kitchen and was washing dishes.

The writer was matching shots of tequila with Jorge when the front doorbell rang.

"Excuse me," Jorge said.

"Welcome, welcome," Jorge told his new arrivals. "I have someone I want you to meet." And he turned to the writer with outstretched arms. "This is Clare and Garcia," he said. "Our friend has been telling us the most amazing story about your namesakes."

"Hi," Clare said to him. "Your wife gave me a present to give you."

The writer looked at the brown leather pouch in Clare's hands and was afraid to take it.

"Don't be afraid," Garcia said. "It's just a few locks of hair to remember her by."

As he held his hand out to receive the keepsake, he felt a chill. Then he thought perhaps they were playing a grand joke on him, and they expected him to get it.

"You've scared him half to death," Emily said. She came from the kitchen and put her hand on the writer's forehead.

He knew he'd better laugh with them, or he'd be lost forever in places he never should have wandered. The first laugh came out like a small bubble bursting almost unnoticeably into the room. It was followed by another and another until the writer was rocking back and forth, feeling his laughter from head to toe. Soon the others followed suit until the apartment rang with guffaws and snorts.

The writer lost his breath before the others. His face became pained and his eyes were burning. Soon his head was in distress, and still the others laughed.

Night fell. The writer was hanging on desperately, but finally he collapsed onto the wooden floor. All around him laughter swooped and dived.

He shouted, "I made it all up! None of it is true!"

Four heads turned slowly toward him. Whatever was coming, he thought, at least he'd stopped their maniacal braying.

"No you didn't," Emily said. Then she turned back to the others who had begun talking as effortlessly as any group of old friends having drinks together.