The entrance, which resembles the leg of the letter 'L', is a hallway masquerading quite cleverly as a kitchen. It has a dirty white refrigerator, a gas stove, and a counter and one-basin sink all wedged in. A row of cabinets runs across the wall above the counter and stove, but they are too short to keep most jars or glasses in. Fortunately, he doesn't have any jars or glasses to keep in them.
There is a pot, empty and scrubbed clean, on top of the stove. A sponge, dishwashing liquid, and a razor all rest on the counter, next to the sink. Above the sink is a square mirror in a blue frame, with a photograph wedged into the lower right corner of the frame. The photograph is of a family: a black man with shaved head who scowls out at everyone while holding onto a squirming little boy with long black hair, a woman with black hair bundled behind her head, smiling shyly and squinting against the flash, and also holding a little boy who was the mirror image of the other.
Inside the cabinet are a few tin plates, a cup, a chipped mug, and a bowl. Food wise, he has some dry spaghetti, rice, a can of pork and beans, and the end of a loaf of bread. Inside the fridge, he has a third of a gallon of whole milk, an opened jar of spaghetti sauce, butter, some meat wrapped in butcher's paper, some peppers, and a large onion. On top of the fridge is a desk lamp with a bendy arm. It is the only source of illumination in the 'kitchen.' The floor is swept clean, with a blue and white rag rug thrown on it, and the stove, counter, and basin are all white enameled, clean except for the black chips.
The hallway leads directly to the square bedroom. The wall to the immediate right, which is a continuation of the kitchen wall, is white with blue trim that wraps around the entire room near the ceiling. It has the lone window of the apartment: a round, porthole affair. The bed is against the wall, white-sheeted and blue-comforted, neatly made, with one pillow. Next to the bed, against the far wall, is a bookcase. It is empty of books, containing a folded-up duffel bag and spare blanket, very thin and much worn. On top of the bookcase is a framed photograph of the woman from the other picture. A candle, lit and burning down, stands in front of it. Next to the bookcase is another lamp, again with a bendy arm, the light pointed at the ceiling which slopes toward this wall, so that the five-inch picture frame has only half an inch of room before the ceiling meets the wall. The wall to the left has a television cart backed against it, topped by a black and white zenith television. The fourth wall is a closet. Inside the closet are a broom, a dustpan, and a vacuum. A black jacket hangs from the rod, and a shelf over the rod supports a pair of underpants and two pairs of socks. The middle of the room is covered in a blue and white carpet. A white table and chair are centered on that carpet, and an extremely worn copy of Atlas Shrugged rests atop the table. It was a discarded library book.
The walls are rough pine, painted with several coats of thick white paint, a somewhat wobbly blue border stretching around the top of the walls near the ceiling. the entire apartment, in fact, is done in blue and white; from the white-painted pine floor to the well-worn blue and white rugs, to the white sheets and blue spread on the bed. The only personal touches in the room are the two photographs and old library book. It is a cold and impersonal room, the type of which can be found in any hotel around the country, filled with someone else's furniture and none of the inhabitant's possessions. What little is here can easily be packed in the folded duffel and taken away. This is a cold and empty room.
Or is it?
Look closer, under the surface. Under the bed is a battered shoebox. It's full of photos. Riffling through them, the first photo is of a vague looking blonde woman. Behind that is a black haired, dark skinned woman hugging twin boys. The same woman, holding one boy on her lap. One of the boys being dragged away by a hand, the body cropped out. The dark haired woman in a blue sundress and sandals. The black man reading a book to the two boys. The blonde woman swinging one of the boys through the air. A faded photograph of a redheaded woman with cold blue eyes. These are memories, all of them. Beneath the pictures are a few folded sheets of paper, yellowed with time. They have the alphabet scrawled repeatedly over them in a wobbly, uncertain hand, a few simples words scratched carefully in pencil. Beneath that, some folded letters written in copper plate handwriting.
Under the duffel bag is a pouch with a drawstring. Inside it is a coiled loop of black hair, a braid two feet long if uncoiled and as thick around as a pencil. It's tied up in a dark blue ribbon. Inside is a slim gold ring, a woman's ring, etched around with a scroll pattern. Inside is a small gold scarab, two inches long and heavy. Inside is a small square of white satin, still glossy and smooth. Inside is a single pearl. Inside is a bullet from a Desert Eagle. Inside is a pair of gold hoop earrings. These treasures, these memories, are all kept hidden away. They are kept safe when other things like clothes, furniture, books are not kept at all. There is a story behind this pouch, this shoebox; but then, there is always a story.
Evzen's brother Damek, by Dan Mathis.