A short story inspired my student days in Chicago.
I'd like to think that old man did it for a good reason. That he moved on of his own free will, leaving behind no regrets and no explanations. Owing nothing to nobody. Wouldn't it be nice if we could all say that about our own lives? The setting was a ground floor apartment in a converted duplex on Chicago's near north side, itself a tired and faded building that had disappeared from prominence years ago. For all I knew the landlord and I were the only ones who knew he lived there. He was my next-door neighbor.
As a grad student new to the city, finding a decent room for rent had become a top priority. With only a few days until the beginning of the fall semester I found the ad for a furnished two-room apartment in the local paper, and as far as I was concerned it couldn't have been a better stroke of luck. Centrally located within the city, close to an El station for easy transportation downtown to school, the place was simple and affordable – two of the best words a student can hear. And as if that wasn't enough, when I first met the landlord I was told I had a very quiet neighbor, an older gentleman who had lived there a long time and always kept to himself.
Perfect.
The first thing I noticed was the name on the man's mailbox, directly below mine at the front of the building. 'P. Stavrakis.' it said in heavy black magic marker on a piece of masking tape. So right away I knew his name. That was easy enough. And doubtless more than I needed to know about the man.
The way I figure it, if you live out in the suburbs you gauge people more on what you see. Here in closer quarters you base things more on what you hear. For instance, the old man must have had some working years left in him because five days a week I would hear him leaving right at 12:30 every afternoon, then coming home again at ten o'clock at night. Not likely an office job of any sort. Tenant parking was available but every time he left I never heard an engine starting up. So I could assume he didn't drive a car. And he had to be a loner. Never once did I hear a guest's voice or a phone ring in that apartment across the hall. The only sounds I ever heard were the occasional muffled sounds of a television game show or the sizzling of meat on the stove.
To be fair, in those days I kept to myself too. I didn't know anyone in the city and I kept my concentration on my schoolwork, allowing myself few distractions. It just so happened that one of those distractions became that old man next door.
I caught my first glimpse of him late one morning when I was home studying. Out of the corner of my eye I saw someone coming down the alley carrying a bag of groceries. I stepped closer to the window and peaked around the ugly blue curtains. With his stooped shoulders, traces of white hair and his soft, careful gait he gave all the appearance of a man who didn't want to be noticed. I say traces of white hair because he wore a brown baseball cap low across his forehead, resting atop thick black-framed glasses that further hid his features. Call it urban camouflage.
I watched him until he slipped out of view. Seconds later I heard the creaking of floorboards coming down the hall, followed by the jingling of keys, and the gentle opening and closing of his door. Finally the sliding of the lock. That was him, all right. That was P. Stavrakis.
The next clue came a few nights later when I first heard the music. It was late on a Saturday night. I was lying on my couch reading when the faint streams of a melody slipped out from behind his door. It was a wistful, melancholy mix of strings and mandolins scratching out from what must have been an old phonograph player. Strange music. Music from the old country. No lyrics. Just the melody. I strained to hear more. And as I did an image came to mind: the man sitting there in a straight-backed chair, in his pants and white undershirt, maybe a drink in his hand, listening and remembering happier times, times long gone. And the only reason I could think of that a man would play music like that – a woman. Definitely a woman. Who was she and what happened to her? To know her story would be to know a big part of his.
I tried to resume my reading but after hearing that sad music it was hopeless. I put my book down, grabbed a beer from the refrigerator, and turned out the lamp. There in the soft glow of the city lights I leaned back and we listened to the music together.
A few days later I was coming home from class; it was raining so I was moving fast between the El station and my apartment. I quickly grabbed my mail and brought it inside, throwing down what there was of it without looking at it right away. When I did get around to going through it I noticed a cream-colored letter addressed in a woman's fine hand to Mr. Pietr Stavrakis. The letter was postmarked five days ago from Albania of all places, with some funky-looking stamps commemorating that country and the sovereign reign of King Konstantin. No return name or address given. Seeing the obvious mistake my first thought was to run back outside and put it in his mailbox. What the hell business was it of mine?
But holding that parchment-like envelope in my hand did get my imagination going. What if it was a love letter? Long ago lost but recently found? Was this from the woman behind the sad music? Or maybe it was from a distant relative with impending news. Bad news. A daughter maybe? Whatever it was it had to be something important. After all, it came all the way from Albania.
Instead of putting it back in his mailbox I could just as easily go out into the hall and slip the letter under his door. He might appreciate that. A neighborly gesture. Then again, he might wonder who was handling his personal mail. Either way I had to do something. It was late afternoon and he usually wasn't home yet. I decided to slip it under the door.
Of course the floorboards in front of his door creaked louder than ever before when I stepped on them. What if he was home? What if he heard me and suddenly opened the door? What would I say? Should I knock? I leaned my ear up to the door. Not a sound. I could smell something, a sour cabbage smell that seemed to saturate the wood. Last night's dinner? More like every dinner from every night of the last how many years.
I tucked the letter halfway under his door and hurried back to my room.
That night, ten o'clock as always, I heard him coming down the hall, then the keys and the opening and closing of his door. When I cracked open my door and peered out I could see that the letter was gone. All was quiet over there until five minutes later when I heard glass shattering on the floor. It was enough to make me jump. My initial thought was to run over to see if he was all right. But something held me back. Then I heard the music again. Maybe it was just me but somehow it sounded sadder than before. And that night he played it over and over again.
The next morning, a Friday, was bright, cool and clear – a first taste of autumn in the air. I was on my way to catch the El when I looked up and saw coming toward me on the sidewalk none other than Pietr Stavrakis. He was wearing the baseball cap again and his hands were buried in the pockets of his well-worn overcoat. Did he recognize me? Should I say something? Did he even know I was his next door neighbor?
Right as we passed one another our eyes briefly met. Neither of us said a word. As I reached the end of the street, about to turn the corner, I stole a quick glance back at him but he was already gone.
I went back home that weekend and when I returned Monday morning I grabbed my mail, looking it over carefully this time to see that it was indeed my mail, and entered the building. I was coming down the hall when I saw his door wide open. That was strange. I slowed down, a little afraid of what I might see. Inside was nothing but bare cupboards and blank walls. A curtain fluttered at the open window. I cautiously stepped over the linoleum threshold to get a closer look. The old appliances and furniture were still in place, but in essence the place was as empty and lifeless as a midnight bus stop. Despite the open window and the fresh scent of air freshener I could still catch that peculiar smell – probably the only thing he did leave behind.
The landlord startled me when he came in with a mop and pail. I asked him what happened and he shrugged, saying matter-of-factly that the old man left him a note last week that he was leaving, along with enough cash to cover the last two weeks of the month. He said he never had a lease and always paid in cash. Every month for the past eleven years. And now, just like that, old Mister Stavrakis was gone. I asked the landlord if he knew why and he simply shook his head and walked into the bedroom with his mop.
I wanted to scour the place for any clue he may have left behind – anything that would somehow wrap things up or at least tell me something about who this man was. But that wasn't going to happen. Like I said, he didn't owe anyone any explanations, least of all me.
Now it's just a strange memory of an old man who, by fate or happenstance, once lived under the same roof as me. A man who moved in, stayed for a while, then slipped out with no one giving it a second thought.
Well, almost no one.
-end-
