Night Calls "Thank you for calling Koch & Snyder Advertising. Our office is open Monday to Friday, 9.00 a.m. to 6.00 p.m. Please leave a message after the beep." "Jeff, it’s Paul. What’s going on? It’s midnight, for crying out loud. Call back!" Paul Deverill pressed the end key of his cordless phone with more force than necessary. He leaned against the doorframe of his office and looked at the desolate scenery outside: unmanned desks, dark video monitors, abandoned PCs and filing cabinets, a jug of cold, black liquid that once had been coffee. It’s Halloween, for God’s sake! On All Hallows’ Eve a father ought to be with his family, Paul thought. Little Brent had been in a dither all week and couldn’t wait to put on his elaborate vampire costume: white makeup, false teeth and a black cloak with red lining. But, like so many times before, his father had failed to show up before bedtime. Hours ago, while all his colleagues were leaving, Paul had called home to tell Colleen that he would be late again. The art department at Koch & Snyder still needed someone to touch up a few images and print some color charts. That ought to be done by tonight, and Jeffrey Koch was not the man who took no for an answer. "Sorry, pal, for the inconvenience," Jeff had said after Paul had agreed to cooperate, "I can’t stress enough how important this is. But I promise it won’t take long. Two hours at the most. I’ll send someone over with a CD-ROM as soon as possible." That had been a few minutes past six. Since then, the screen-saver had been the only one working. Nobody had called, no-one showed up. A few minutes to midnight Paul had dialed Jeffrey’s number. Nobody picked up, just the damned answering machine. Calling K&S’ entrance desk was equally unsuccessful. The project had been called off for some reason, Paul concluded, and everybody had gone home. Of course, nobody had bothered to tell him. Paul shut down his computer. As hard drive and case fan stopped spinning, an eery stillness ensued. He leaned back in his armchair, put his feet on the desk and closed his eyes. Occasionally, one of the wooden wall panels gave a faint cracking sound, as if relieving itself of the stress it had accumulated during the day. Relax, Paul ordered himself. They had forgotten him. So what! These things happen. The silence was so intense, he found himself holding his breath. If the phone rang now, he realized, it would rupture the calm like a gunshot. Paul jumped up, suddenly spooked. He hurried to the entrance hall, grabbed his overcoat from an otherwise empty coat rack, switched off the lights and stepped out into the hallway. No ringing phone. Good, call it a day! He locked the door and activated the alarm-system. It was cold outside. Paul’s wife had the car today, the last bus had long gone and no cab was in sight. In fact, nobody was in sight, not even the bum who used to spend his nights on the bench by the bus stop. Like an abandoned movie set, the whole street seemed to be closed down and barred. Even the parked cars were few and far between. People worked here, but they lived elsewhere. A little bit of physical exercise won’t hurt, Paul thought and made a mental note to take along his digital audio player next time. He walked past dark shop windows, closed snack-bars and restaurants. The office buildings stood like dark monoliths. Only a few illuminated company logos and dimly lit lobbies betrayed their existence. How come there was no traffic at all? Nobody was taking out a dog for a walk, no drunk staggering home. Paul felt as if he was somehow out of phase with the real world. An old Pink Floyd tune popped up in his mind: Is there anybody out there? It gave him the creeps, but he couldn’t get rid of the song. Is there anybody out there? Why hadn’t Jeff informed him about the change of plans? Paul was determined to call him to account this time and decided to turn up an hour late in the morning, just to make a point. After a few minutes walk, Paul saw a movement. Several steps ahead, a figure was lurking in the shadow of a doorway. To judge by the silhouette, it was a woman. At daytime he wouldn’t have given it a second thought, but now, as they were about to pass each other like two travelers in the desert, he wondered wether he should greet her. Strangers in the night, exchanging glances. Pink Floyd faded and Sinatra took over. He decided to acknowledge her with a nod and walk on in silence. But then she spoke to him. "Paul." He stopped, hesitating for a moment, confused. "Yes?" "You don’t recognize me?" "Sorry. I can hardly see you." He knew that voice. "Well, it’s been a while," she whispered. The silence that followed strained his patience. "Look, I had a very long day, and I’d really like to go home." "I will not keep you long," she said as she stepped out of the gloom into the bluish neon light. "Laura," Paul said. Always eager to please, he hoped that she hadn’t sensed his irritation. Had she been waiting for him? Probably not, he concluded. Nobody could have known that he would be here at this hour, not even himself. "Long time no see," he managed. "I’m glad you still remember my name. May I walk along for a few blocks?" she asked and took a step towards him. "Sure." How long was it since he had last seen her? Six years, or seven? He remembered the drop-dead gorgeous girl she had been, though now she looked more like death warmed over. Her hair, which used to be perfectly fixed, looked stringy and ruffled. She wore running shoes which must have grown out of fashion years ago, and even her leather jacket seemed familiar to him, as if she still wore it after all this time. "I’m heading this way," Paul said, indicating the direction. They walked side by side. "What are you doing here in the middle of the night?" He asked the first question that came to mind. "I like strolling in the night. Made a habit of it lately." Yeah, sure, Paul thought. Wasn't this an unlikely time and place for a stroll? He suspected that she might be unemployed or lonely or both. Trying to steer clear of sensitive topics, he decided not to mention it. If she wanted to discuss these matters, she would do so soon enough. "And you?" she asked, "Still burning the midnight oil?" Her deep voice hadn’t changed a bit. "Some things never change," Paul said and wondered if they were going to spout platitudes at each other all night. They passed a flickering neon sign; its defective lamp buzzed and clicked and lit their faces with weird stroboscopic light effects. "Do you remember Jeff Koch?" Paul asked, "He’s still our most profitable and most loyal costumer. And he never ceases to annoy me. Like tonight, for example. The term 'office hours' means nothing to him." "I just remember him as the troublesome guy who always kept you away from home." "Yes. But don’t forget who payed the bills. Without his lucrative assignments we couldn’t have afforded the car, the apartment, the travels." Images of the past, buried in his subconscious, broke free and flooded his present: how they had first met--they both had been students at the time--how he had heard her deep, purring voice for the first time. He had instantly fallen for her voice. He saw images of past vacations. He saw her walking on a beach in Italy (or was it Spain?), without a stitch on, white sand clinging to her wet body. And he saw days of pain and misery. She had lost their child during the fifth month of pregnancy. He remembered fierce disputes and a good deal of banging doors and smashed china. All that seemed so long ago. One day, Jeffrey Koch had introduced him to K&S’s ad writer, Colleen Goodyear, and Paul’s time with Laura had been over. After a minute of silence, Paul looked at her and said, "I see you stopped smoking." "Yes. Haven’t lit a smoke for seven years now." Seven years--seven years ago there had been a pivotal point in both their lifes. They crossed an intersecting road without bothering to wait for the traffic lights to turn green. "Isn’t it strange: there wasn’t a soul to be seen since I left the office," he said, looking around to confirm his point. "Yes, it is an exceptionally quiet night. Say, are you still with Colleen?" That was so typical, to change the course of a conversation in a microsecond. "Er, yes. We are married now and have a kid, Brent. He is six years old. And he will get a little companion soon." "Oh really? Colleen is pregnant?" "Yes." "Congratulations, Paul." The melancholy in her voice was unmistakable. "I always expected you to become a family-man in the end. It’s just that I hoped to be part of it." Paul groaned inwardly. "Come on. Do not reopen old wounds." "Reopening, you say?" she said, raising her voice slightly above the usual purr, "How can I reopen what has actually never been closed?" He eyed her warily. "Oh please! It’s been seven years. Enough time to get over it, right? You can’t still be angry at me after seven years, can you?" "Calm down. Don’t be defensive," she said, soft-spoken again, "As a matter of fact, I always get the blues when I’m thinking back. It has nothing to do with anger. Never had." Again, they walked in silence for a while. Although they had left the business district behind and entered a residential area, they were still alone. Parallel to the footpath was a dead straight canal framed by poplars and weeping willows. The last time they had been here together, they probably had been holding hands. To Paul it was obvious: her life hadn’t turned out as well as his own. Was it his fault? He was reluctant to ask her, and was afraid about what he might learn. Unknowingly he quickened his pace. "You’re rushing." "Hmm? Oh, sorry." "I’m curious. Tell me about your family." "Well, I don’t know where to start. We are quiet ordinary, I’d say, nothing special. As I mentioned earlier, we have a boy. We have a dog named Sky and my son has a budgerigar called Budgie. Not the most original name, I might say. We have a house on Park Road with a little garden, which Colleen always accuses me of neglecting. And, as you can see right now, we are in desperate need of a second car." "I see," she said with a wry smile, "A spare car would save you the trouble of bumping into ex-lovers in the middle of the night." "Come on, you know what I mean." They walked over a wooden bridge crossing the canal. For a brief moment, Paul felt the urge to take her hand. The past caught up again, and it seemed like the most natural thing to do. Instead, he buried his hands in his pockets. "What about you?" He asked the obvious question; it was impolite to stall any longer. "What happened to you?" She just looked at him. "What is it?" he asked, mystified. "Do you really want to know?" "Of course I do. Else I wouldn’t have asked, would I? Tell me, where do you live now?" "I’d rather not say. Believe me, you wouldn’t like it." "Laura," Paul said and stopped walking, "this is not a competition. So you don’t have a house by the riverside? So what! No reason to be ashamed." "Look, you don’t want to know. Trust me on that," she said, stopping as well and folding her arms in front of her chest. "I have no family, no dog and no Budgie. And you probably wouldn’t like my garden. So, I’d rather talk about something a bit more substantial than that." "Like what?" "Feelings, for example." "Oh yes?" Paul said irritably. "Talk about feelings. I’m all ears." "Really? You used to be all eyes for my tits, all ears for my voice, but never for my words." "Stop it," Paul said, "I’m in no mood to argue with you!" "I’m pissing you off. You want me to go. Okay." "I didn't say that!" "No more small talk," she said, "I just have one question and I demand an answer! Please tell me the truth and I'll be gone." Paul felt unable to figure her out. What was she up to? "All right, then. What is it?" He could only see her dark silhouette against the glare of a street light. "I’m sure you still remember my last message. Why haven’t you returned my call? I waited and waited, but you never did." This nocturnal conversation took a turn for the worse. Now it was dragged out into the open: a dark stain on his conscience for years. A few weeks after their split-up, Paul had found a message on his answering machine. "Hi, Paul. It’s Laura." she had said, as if he wouldn’t recognize that voice for the rest of his life. "I hope you are alright. I need to see you. We must talk. Just to clear up the air, you know ..." Suddenly her voice had failed her, and she was unable to suppress a sob. "You can’t just walk out on me like that." There was a prolonged silence on the tape. "Sorry, ... please ring back, will you?" The tape rolled on for a while, faintly hissing, but Laura said nothing more. A cracking noise ended the recording. The tape was long since deleted, but in his head Paul Deverill had replayed the message every day of his life. Why hadn’t he returned her call? A guilty conscience? At the time he had left her, their relationship had already lain in debris for months, at least that was what he had told himself. Why had he not called her? He remembered the time clearly. He had been madly in love with Colleen and just hadn’t felt like calling Laura. He remembered postponing the call--tomorrow, next week, sometime soon. Inevitably, every passing day made it more difficult to pick up the phone and dial her number. What did she want anyway? Their affair was over. Why couldn’t she just accept it and move on? "Well?" his former girlfriend demanded. Paul shook his head. "Jeez, Laura! It’s been seven years!" "I am not just a passing acquaintance! We lived together!" "Yes, we did! That’s past tense! Get over it!" "Please!" she said, "How often do you get a call from a desperate person? Don’t you recognize a cry for help when you hear one?" "Laura, get a life!" he spat, more vicious than intended, "I haven’t returned your call, yes! I know. I made an ass of myself and I’m not proud of it. But, I mean, what difference does one damn phone call make?" Again, there was silence and this time it pressed down on him with a thousand tons. "If you really don’t know,..." she whispered at last, trembling with sorrow, "If you really don’t know, ask the lonely and the dying." Suddenly, the booming noise of tires on tarmac drowned out the silence. Paul turned his head. He was momentarily blinded by the glare of headlights. One car drove by and then another. As if a tourniquet had been removed, vehicles and pedestrians flooded the street, like blood rushing back into a dry vein. Emptiness filled with life again. When Paul turned back Laura was gone. Paul was so lost in thought that he couldn’t remember how he finally got home. When he arrived, the house was completely dark. Colleen and Brent had gone to bed and were probably fast asleep. Their car, a silver-gray four-door sedan, was parked on the driveway. As he approached the porch the motion detector saw him. A wall light lit up. He opened the front door, keys clattering, and entered the dark hall. It was past one o' clock in the morning. Paul stepped out of his shoes, shrugged off his coat and closed the door as quietly as possible. He realized that he wouldn’t be able to sleep without having a drink or two first. As his hand groped for the light switch, he noticed a strange red glow alternating with pitch-black in a steady rhythm. It took him a moment to identify the source of this unusual illumination: It was the indicator of their answering machine. Someone must have called after his wife had gone to bed. That was strange. No-one ever called that late. He felt his knees go weak and had to hold on to the banister of the stairs to keep from tumbling. His blood pounded in his ears, in sync with the indicator light. He had not the slightest doubt about what was on the tape, and he knew that it was pointless to ring back. Too late for that--more than six years too late. Paul grabbed the answering machine, pulled the plug and ran outside, shoeless and sweating despite the cold. He knelt behind the car and jammed the device between back tire and driveway. He struggled with the door lock, hands trembling. The motion detector lost track of him and switched off the porch light. It took Paul an eternity to climb behind the steering wheel. At last, he pulled the door shut and took a deep breath. Then he released the handbrake.