Chapter 6 - I’ll See You Tomorrow.

I didn’t make it back to my building for several days after that because I was absolutely consumed by my painting. I get like that, you know? When I’m in the groove, a half a day can go by without me even noticing, until I find I have to pee like a fire hose and can’t remember the last time I ate. If it weren’t for Daphne insisting that I stop and get at least a few hours of sleep each night, I probably would have died of overexhaustion. But in the end, I was so ecstatic over my work that it was totally worth it.

The original project that I’d planned out so meticulously on my computer was difficult to see anywhere on the canvas when I was done. That’s not unusual, though, because when the creative process takes over, you just have to go where it leads you, right? I was used to that outcome. But this picture felt different. It felt organic. Like the multiple layers of pictures and paper and found objects were held together by the paint that I’d lathered on, around, over and under them. It was as if the original project I’d planted on the canvas had grown, with the final work emerging from out of the background of my plan, rising up and filling in the spaces with their own agenda. But it worked. Hell, it was totally amazing.

The one thing that totally floored me though - the thing I wasn’t planning for at all - was that, when the painting was done, I found that it wasn’t done at all. I had to go back and add that one more thing. Now, I generally try to resist the ‘one more thing’ impulses. You can easily ‘one more thing’ a great creation into a total nightmare. Most of the time you just need to stop when it’s done and let the thing you created be what it is. But this time, I just couldn’t. It’s like it wasn’t done yet, no matter what my brain was telling me. So I gave in to the impulse, wetting my paintbrush one more time, and diving in with that last touch that . . . Fuck, when it was done, I realized that ‘one more thing’ was really what the entire picture/project/work was all about.

Then I stood back and looked at it and smiled.

The pictures and scraps of paper and other objects that I’d glued to the canvas were all there - sitting like little islands of clarity amid the swirls of my painting. They were all connected by the larger, more abstract, painting I’d made of the building, which seemed to sit behind the other objects, almost as if they were the windows to my painting of a building. Of course, the painted building was more of a representation of what the building FELT like to me than anything - the pictures and sketches were more direct depictions of the actual building - and it somehow felt more complete than a mere photo would have. But, the part that seemed to draw it all together into that organic whole was the ‘one more thing’ that I added last; the addition of the words to the secret love letter I’d found inside the frame of the old architectural drawing. Those words, painted in a translucent, shimmering, rosy-silver, over the top of everything, were barely visible in some places, yet they were the substance of the whole piece.

‘May this physical edifice I have created match in strength and beauty the spiritual edifice we are building together.’

That was how I experienced the building. That was the truth that my mysterious building was trying to tell me. And the triple mystery of the building, the enigmatic man who resided inside, and the implied mystery of that ancient love note, were all tied together into one enticing whole. It was like a Mystery Cubed.

“You can’t call the picture, ‘Mystery Cubed’,” Daphne insisted when I finally let her look at my creation. “It’s about a triangle-shaped building. It’s totally confusing to call it a cube. That makes no sense at all.”

“It’s not about the shape of the building, it’s about the shape of the mystery underneath. The three different mysteries that draw me to the building,” I tried to explain. “Three mysteries equals mystery cubed.”

“I think it’s more of a Mystery Triangulation,” she maintained stubbornly.

“You’re missing the whole point!” I actually stamped my foot in my frustration.

“No, you’re missing the point of the definition of what a cube is.” Daphne is such a damn realist sometimes - she sees the world in black and white and moral certitudes - as opposed to me, the artist, who’s perfectly comfortable with the fact that a triangle can be a cube in some cases.

So, after I let out a primal scream at the unfairness of a universe that didn’t understand my brilliant, creative soul, I agreed to change the title of the piece to Mystery Triangulated just to get Daphne to shut the hell up. It was still an amazing painting though, no matter what title you gave it. And she did agree that the words of the letter painted over the top of everything made it special, so I eventually forgave her for interfering with my title. Then we took lots of pictures of the picture before I fell into bed and slept thirteen hours straight.

When I finally woke up, it was the middle of the afternoon on Sunday - I felt totally revived and rejuvenated and jubilant as I stretched and lolled in the one beam of fall sunlight that had made its way in through my window. I finally felt like I could peek back into whatever was going on in the real world again, now that my creative frenzy had passed. So, when I’d finished stretching and scratching myself, I began to reaccustom my brain to the outside world again, wondering what I should do next with my brilliant self. To aid in this planning, I dug my phone out from where it was buried under my pillow and started scrolling through the emails and voicemails and other stuff I’d missed.

“Shit!” I exclaimed when I listened to the first of about ten voicemail messages left on my phone by Ethan Gold. “I forgot the recital. He’s going to be insufferable . . .”

I had meant to call him and offer up the excuse of my concussion in order to get out of going to the recital - because even though it was a ‘Mild’ concussion and hadn’t stopped me from doing anything else I wanted to do, for the purposes of getting out of a date I didn’t want to go on, it was completely debilitating. But, what with my ongoing thing with Harry Egbert and then getting lost in my painting all weekend, I’d totally forgotten all about Ethan. Oops. Ethan was never going to let me live this down. I was probably going to have to do something unconscionable to get him to stop harassing me about this, wasn’t I?

I quickly texted him back, giving the excuse of my concussion and fibbing that I hadn’t been able to call him because I had been in soooooo much pain. I hoped he’d buy it. Probably not, though, knowing Ethan. I would probably have to show him the fucking MRI scan before he’d let up. I supposed it was worth it, though, seeing as I hadn’t had to go to his fucking recital.

Once I’d deleted all the texts, voicemails and emails from Ethan, however, it looked like the rest of my afternoon was free. I got up, took a shower - which was really, really necessary, seeing as I kind of forgot to bathe when I was painting sometimes, so yeah, by that point I couldn’t stand the smell of myself - threw a load of laundry in the washer and did some tidying up around the area of the living room that served as my ‘studio’ and where Daphne was under strict orders never to venture. I also made a huge pot of pasta which I lazily doctored with my own special faux-sauce mix of olive oil, salt, pepper and Italian spices out of a bottle, and called it good. Then I was free for the rest of the evening.

So where was the first place I wanted to go the second I had a spare moment? If you guessed the Triangle Building, you’d have been spot on. Because, of course, I simply had to go see my Harry Egbert and take him the photos of my painting so he could see the end product of all my endeavors. It was his building, after all, that had inspired the work. It really had nothing whatsoever to do with me wanting to see HIM . . . Yeah, right. Who the fuck was I kidding? Whatever. The Mystery Man was definitely next on my agenda.

For that afternoon’s coffee selection, I went with a hazelnut syrup. I was determined to find the perfect coffee for my Harry Egbert that would finally tempt him to actually taste the coffee rather than just sniff at it. Didn’t Torani make about a thousand different syrups? One of them was bound to appeal to my Mystery Man, right? And, in the meantime, it was rather fun to try and think up new combinations of coffee for him. Maybe I’d move on to the mochas next if I couldn’t find a latte he liked.

So, laden with a mocha for myself, a Hazelnut Latte for my man, and the usual half & half creamer for Bill the Cat, I trotted across the street to my building. I knocked, of course, but didn’t expect an answer, so I didn’t wait more than thirty seconds or so before I broke in again. I was actually getting quite good at the kicking and wiggling the door thing. Who needed a key, anyway?

“Hey there, William. Did you miss me?” I asked as the resident guard cat hissed at me in welcome. “You do know that we are going to end up great friends, right? I tend to grow on people. And cats. Trust me, before long you’ll be so excited to see me when I arrive you’ll start wagging your tail and yipping in happiness like a dog.” Bill did not look at all amused by my prediction that he’d turn into a disgusting dog and hissed at me even louder than usual. But then he saw his creamer and forgot to be angry as he lapped up the yummy goodness.

“You’re going to make him fat.”

I was surprised by the voice coming from the stairwell behind me. My Harry Egbert hadn’t ever ventured that far downstairs to greet me before. Well, except for that first night when I didn’t even make it up the first flight of stairs before he startled me and I fell. Was my man excited to see me or something? Mystery Man looked very dapper that evening, actually. He appeared to have tried to do something with the mop on his head to make it look more like hair than a bush. It was combed out and slicked back out of his eyes, at least. He might have even attempted to trim the beard a little. I approved of the improvements and the look I gave him probably conveyed that sentiment since Egbert smiled back at me with more candor than was usual for him.

“Bill and I have an understanding,” I ventured to explain. “I bribe him with treats and he agrees not to claw or bite me. It works for us, so don’t knock it.”

“Is that why you keep bringing me coffee too? Bribing me so I don’t report your burglar ass to the police?” Egbert asked, and I could already see his nose twitching as he sniffed the air to see what was in his cup that day.

“Whatever works, right? Besides, I’m determined to find a coffee you’ll actually taste someday. I’ve always liked a challenge and you definitely qualify. So, what do you say? Wanna take a sip? It’s hazelnut . . .” I waved the drinks caddy from side to side just out of his reach and thought for about a half a heartbeat that he might actually accept the cup that night. But when he hesitated, shoving his hands back in his pockets, I relented. “Not a hazelnut fan, huh? No worries. I’ll keep trying.” I gave him one of my best smiles to make sure he knew I wasn’t upset or anything, and he seemed to relax a bit more. “So, I finished my painting of your building. Wanna see it?”

My man shrugged, but I could see that he was more interested than he seemed by the way he so eagerly tilted his head towards the stairs. I had soooo won him over. Piece of cake; coffee or no coffee, he was already putty in my capable, artistic hands. Or at least that was what I was thinking to myself as I boldly led the way upstairs. Except, when we reached the top floor, he cleared his throat before I could reach for the handle of the door into his rooms and instead led me down the hallway towards another, more elaborately decorated door, which he pulled open to reveal an office that looked like it was right out of a late Victorian novel.

“Now this is was I was talking about!” I raved, walking inside as I marveled over the cozy little office space, the original, built-in bookcases, the secretary’s desk against the far wall, not to mention the antique drafting table that took up much of the floor space in the center of the room. “This is so dope! It’s better than I could have hoped for. I can’t believe that this much of it has been kept in its original condition. Most of these older buildings have been renovated so much that they’ve lost all their flair. This is amazing though.”

“It was my Grandfather’s office. He didn’t like change much so he kept it exactly the same as it was the day he bought the building,” Egbert announced, standing off to the side and out of my way while I wandered around. “I thought you might like to see it. You said you wanted to sketch some of the interiors, right? Although, now that you’re done with your project . . .”

“Project, schmoject! I love this building. I love this room. I can still draw it and, best of all, I get to keep this sketch just for myself,” I declared, taking up a seat in an old, velvet-upholstered wingback chair next to the drafting table and sitting the coffees down so I could dig in my bag for the necessary drawing supplies. “I’ll need a model though, so, if you’ll be so kind, Mr. Egbert, as to take your coffee over to the desk there and pose for me . . .”

I pretended to busy myself getting my drawing pad ready and selecting a pencil from the case so as not to seem like I was staring at him as he hesitated to react to my request. I could see him out of my peripheral vision and it was almost comical the way he reached out towards the cup, then withdrew his hand, and then reached out again - not that I’d ever laugh at him for what was very obviously a struggle. Finally, though, on his third try I saw him pick up the cup, holding it with only the very tips of his fingers, and then carrying it over to the desk where he placed it on the leather-bound blotter and immediately took out a small bottle of hand sanitizer which he used to douse his hands with. It was a start though, right? And when Egbert was done cleansing his hands, he leaned over and took an extra-long whiff of the hazelnut coffee, getting a sorta dreamy look on his face in the process. Oh, yeah, I was definitely wearing him down.

“Okay. Try to look busy. And Victorian,” I ordered as I took up my drawing pad and started to put down a rough outline of the scene.

“Look Victorian? I’ll do my best.”

With a captivating little chuckle, I saw my man pick up a gorgeous, vintage fountain pen that seemed to be made of amber. He held it over the blotter, pretending like he was going to be writing something. He looked very official. And, with his hair slicked back that way and the voluminous facial hair, he actually looked a lot like one of the founding fathers of Pittsburgh who might have once occupied this room. He was the perfect model, actually.

It didn’t take me long at all to scratch out a nicely detailed drawing of the room with my man sitting at the desk. If I didn’t know better myself, I would swear it was a period piece. He looked so natural in that setting. I quickly took out my phone, snapped a picture of my drawing for posterity, and then tore the sketch out of the book.

“Here. You can keep this one. I’ll make a more detailed version for myself when I get home,” I offered, letting the picture rest on the drafting table so he could retrieve it later. “It turned out pretty fabulous if I do say so myself. Thanks for bringing me in here to see the room. I’m impressed.”

“No biggie. I figured you’d like it,” he replied, setting the old pen down.

Then he opened up one of the little doors on the antique desk, took out what appeared to be a little packet of wet wipes, and without looking up at me, he quickly used the wipe to swab at the coffee cup, the lid and his fingers one last time. I couldn’t help the swell of pride I felt on his behalf when he proceeded to pick up the coffee cup afterward. I was sure that something like that couldn’t be easy for someone with his level of OCD. Daphne had been doing some extra research on the issue since I explained what was up with my Mystery Man, and had relayed some tidbits to me about the condition, so I was feeling much more educated about what the guy had to be going through. And it might not seem like much to your average joe, but for someone with his issues, merely picking up an unknown coffee cup had to be a mind-blowing struggle. So, yeah, I was proud of my man. Sue me. When he held the cup up so he could breathe in more of the hazelnut-scented coffee, I almost cheered for him.

To distract us both from the momentousness of the moment, I fished around for a topic of conversation that wouldn’t be so stressful. “So, you said this was your Grandfather’s office?”

Apparently, that wasn’t the right topic though - not if I was going for non-stressful. Mystery Man put the coffee cup back down and started to fidget. He was rubbing his hands against his pants legs, his foot jiggling nervously, and then he started to fiddle with the objects on the desk, taking out another of his wet wipes as he pulled each item in the desk out, wiped it off, and then returned it to its correct spot, ensuring everything was in complete alignment with each other.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up an unpleasant topic,” I apologized quickly.

“It’s . . . It’s nothing. My grandfather was . . . a difficult man. Well, difficult for me, at least. Everybody else seemed to love him, I guess. Donnie was almost like a legend in Pittsburgh back in the day.”

“Donnie?” That name triggered a memory from my project. “Would that be Donal Byrne, by any chance? I came across his name when I was researching this building. He was the registered owner until about a decade ago. I wondered about him, but since he wasn’t the current owner I didn’t think to do any further research on him.”

Egbert cleared his throat a couple of times before answering. “That’s him,” he confirmed. “The old bastard. May he rot for all eternity in whatever hell might be out there.”

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled, completely embarrassed for having brought up such a difficult topic and not sure where to go from there.

“Don’t be. You didn’t even know him,” he replied before completely changing the subject, for which we were both grateful. “So, you said you finished your project? Did it turn out the way you wanted it to?”

“It turned out better!” I expounded, taking out my phone again to show him the pictures I’d taken of the finished canvas. “See for yourself.”

Egbert seemed quite taken by the end result and my ego swelled several sizes as he looked at the pictures, even asking me to make them bigger at times so he could see certain details better. I started to explain some of the various techniques I’d employed and why I’d added some of the different elements.

“I like this part,” he said, his finger shaking slightly as he pointed towards a particularly detailed part of my painting that incorporated some of the details from the cornice work of the building.

I beamed once again. Having him like my work meant a lot to me; which was odd, because usually, as long as I liked my work I didn’t care so much what others thought. But all of a sudden it mattered what THIS guy thought. That was different. It made me uncomfortable, but uncomfortable in a good way, maybe. I’d have to think on why, exactly, that was. Later, though, because I was too busy bragging to my man to worry about it right then.

“. . . Yeah. So, I’m pretty happy with how it turned out and all,” I summarized when it seemed like we’d talked the painting to death finally. “Now I just have to hope that my professor agrees when I turn it in tomorrow.”

“So, as of tomorrow, you’re done with the project?” Egbert asked, sounding a little disappointed by that prospect.

“Yeah. Which is good, too, because I have to get started on studying for finals for my other classes, all of which I put off while I was working on this monster.” When Mystery Man looked away, seeming to hesitate about whatever it was he’d been about to say, I felt like I’d said something wrong. So, to backtrack I asked, “why? Was there something else? Something you think I missed?”

“No. No, nothing like that,” he stumbled over whatever it was he meant to say for a moment or two until it seemed like he just decided to blurt it out. “It’s just that, when you seemed interested in that old letter and the drawing, I remembered that my grandfather had a file of old records he kept that he’d found when he bought the building, and I thought you might be interested in looking through them. But, if you’re done with the project, I guess you wouldn’t be interested . . .”

“No! . . . I mean, yeah, I’m finished with the project, but I would definitely love to take a look at whatever you’ve found. Really . . . if you’re okay with that?”

He looked relieved when I insisted I was still interested and I watched as he unlocked one of the drawers of his desk and pulled out a huge leather binder, filled to the brim with aging looking papers. I was surprised that the file was one of the least clean things in the entire building. There might have even been some dust on the jacket of the folder. But, since it was dust that had been in the building for a while, as opposed to dust that came from some stranger outside, maybe it was safe enough because my man just swiped at it perfunctorily with one of his wipes and then seemed good.

He placed the folder on the desk and pushed it towards me. “Here, knock yourself out.”

I paused briefly before making my way over, running my hand over the smooth leather, it was so soft. “Wow.”

“You can . . .” He cleared his throat once again. “You can take it home with you to have a look through if you’d like. I just . . . I need it back.”

I couldn’t seem to control my face around this man, I don’t think I’d smiled this much in years. He was basically inviting me back! Well, that’s what I was taking from it anyway. “You know, I might have questions while I’m looking through this stuff. If I can’t figure it out, maybe I could come back and you could go over it with me? You might know more about the history, after all,” I suggested.

He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly like it didn’t bother him either way, but I knew that he liked my suggestion. “Sure. I could make time,” he replied, trying to sound all cool and unconcerned even though I could detect a smile hiding in that beard of his. “I’m . . . I’m not busy tomorrow afternoon.”

I wondered when he was ever busy, seeing as he didn’t seem to ever leave the building, but I didn’t think our relationship was ready for that line of questioning yet. “Sounds great. I should be done with classes by around three tomorrow. How about I come back after that?”

“Okay,” he agreed readily enough. “Although, I suspect this is probably the first time in history someone invited their burglar to come back for more.”

“I’m not a burglar. Just . . .”

“Just a brat. I know,” he teased me with that glint of humor in his eyes that I was starting to get to like.

“Good thing you like brats, huh?” I replied, because, yeah, I WAS a brat and as a brat, I wasn’t about to let him get the last word like that. Then I picked up the binder full of documents and my bag and started for the door before he could say anything more. “See you tomorrow, Egbert.

“Later, Brat.”

In my head, I was already planning out what I’d say when I saw my Mystery Man the following day as I galloped down the stairs and out the lobby doors. I felt a little giddy - which was a word you really don’t understand until it happens to you, but which I now totally GOT, because I felt giddy as a fucking school girl and that was really pathetic, I know, but it was how I felt so deal with it, okay - and as a result I wasn’t really paying any attention to anything around me as I trotted across Liberty Avenue on the way to my usual bus stop. No wonder, then, that I was caught off guard when I felt a pair of arms wrapping themselves around my waist from behind and moist words whispering in my ear.

“Caught Ya!”

I spun around, fighting against the tight grip that held onto me as I turned, only to find that my captor was none other than The Feckless Fiddler himself - Ethan Gold.

“What are you doing here, Ethan?” I demanded, probably sounding angrier than I should have, but I hated to be snuck up on like that.

“I was on my way to Heinz Hall - I’ve got another performance this evening - and I saw you coming out of that building across the street,” he explained, finally letting go of me but not till I literally peeled his hands off my body. “At first I thought I must be mistaken because your text made it sound like you couldn’t get out of bed due to your concussion. But it really IS you, isn’t it? Are you feeling better?”

“Uh . . . Um, a little,” I hedged, totally kicking myself mentally because I knew I was caught. “I slept more than twelve hours last night and I think it helped because I finally felt good enough to get up this afternoon.” Well, it was mostly true, right?

“That’s great news. If you’re feeling better, I can still get you a ticket to tonight’s performance. I really missed having you there last night.”

“I don’t think I’m feeling THAT good, Ethan,” I quickly answered, thinking up the best lie I could on the spot. “I only came out to feed a friend’s cat, actually. And now that I’ve accomplished that, I’m heading straight home. I’m still not supposed to be doing too much - doctor’s orders, you know.”

“That’s too bad,” Ethan’s face fell so fast it was comical, but I just couldn’t be bothered to feel sorry for him.

“Yeah, sorry. Well, I have to go or I’ll miss my bus,” I declared, trying to edge away from him.

“At least let me walk you to your bus stop. In case you get dizzy or something,” Ethan insisted, insinuating his arm through mine with a proprietary air. “Come on. I’ll make sure you get to the bus safely. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you, you know.”

And that’s how I ended up getting ‘helped’ to my bus by my stalker, when what I really wanted to do was get rid of him already so I could go back to the happy place that I’d been in when I left my Harry Egbert just a few minutes earlier. Annoying, egotistical fiddlers are the WORST, aren’t they? At least I didn’t have to go to his concert that evening. It made me even more thankful to my Mystery Man for the concussion. I was so grateful, in fact, that I couldn’t help looking back at the building as I was being led away, thinking to send some ‘thank you’ vibes to my savior. So it wasn’t a surprise when I saw a familiar, bearded face watching out of the third-floor window on the western point of the triangle.