'Guess she's sick.' The curator shrugged and stepped on to the elevator. Leo rode all the way down to the basement and roamed the corridors for an hour, dropping by the Anthropology office. No Helen, no messages from her at the desk.
He wandered back down the hall, pausing in the corridor where he had last seen her. A row of boxes had collapsed and he kicked at the cartons, idly knelt and read the names on the packing crates as if they held a clue to Helen's sudden change. Labels in Sanskrit, Vietnamese, Chinese, English, crumbling beside baggage labels and exotic postage stamps and scrawled descriptions of contents, wajang goleh, he read. Beneath was scribbled puppets. He squatted on the floor, staring at the bank of crates, then half-heartedly started to read each label. Maybe she'd find him there. Perhaps she'd been sick, had a doctor's appointment. She might be late again.
A long box rattled when he shifted it. kris , read the label, and he peeked inside to find an ornate sword. A heavier box bore the legend sanghyang: spirit puppet . And another that seemed to be empty, embellished with a flowing script: sekar mas , and the clumsy translation prince of flowers .
He slammed the last box against the wall and heard the dull creak of splintering wood. She would not be in today. She hadn't been in for two weeks.
That night he called her.
'Hello?'
Helen's voice; at least a man hadn't answered.
'Helen. How you doing? It's Leo.'
'Leo.' She coughed and he heard someone in the background. 'It's you.'
'Right,' he said dryly, then waited for an apology, her embarrassed laugh, another cough that would be followed by an invented catalogue of hay fever, colds, flu. But she said nothing. He listened carefully and realized it wasn't a voice he had heard in the background but a constant stir of sound, like a fan, or running water. 'Helen? You okay?'
A long pause. 'Sure. Sure I'm okay.' Her voice faded and he heard a high, piping note.
'You got a bird, Helen?'
'What?'
He shifted the phone to his other ear, shoving it closer to his head so he could hear better. 'A bird. There's this funny voice, it sounds like you got a bird or something.'
'No,' replied Helen slowly. 'I don't have a bird. There's nothing wrong with my phone.' He could hear her moving around her apartment, the background noises rising and falling but never silent. 'Leo, I can't talk now. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?'
'Tomorrow?' he exploded. 'I haven't seen you in two weeks!'
She coughed and said, 'Well, I'm sorry. I've been busy. I'll see you tomorrow. Bye.'
He started to argue, but the phone was already dead.
She didn't come in the next day. At three o'clock he went to the Anthropology Department and asked the secretary if Helen had been in that morning.
'No,' she answered, shaking her head. 'And they've got her down as AWOL. She hasn't been in all week.' She hesitated before whispering. 'Leo, she hasn't looked very good lately. You think maybe' Her voice died and she shrugged, 'Who knows,' and turned to answer the phone.
He left work early, walking his bicycle up the garage ramp and wheeling it to the right, towards Helen's neighbourhood. He was fuming, but a silver of fear had worked its way-through his anger. He had almost gone to her supervisor; almost phoned Helen first. Instead, he pedalled quickly down Pennsylvania Avenue, skirting the first lanes of rush-hour traffic. Union Station loomed a few blocks ahead. He recalled an article in yesterday's Post : vandals had destroyed the rose garden in front of the station. He detoured through the bus lane that circled the building and skimmed around the desecrated garden, shaking his head and staring back in dismay. All the roses: gone. Someone had lopped each bloom from its stem. In spots the cobblestones were littered with mounds of blossoms, brown with decay. Here and there dead flowers still dangled from hacked stems. Swearing in disgust, Leo made a final loop, nearly skidding into a bus as he looked back at the plundered garden. Then he headed towards Helen's apartment building a few blocks north.
Her windows were dark. Even from the street the curtains looked filthy, as though dirt and exhaust had matted them to the glass. Leo stood on the kerb and stared at the blank eyes of each apartment window gaping in the stark concrete facade.
Who would want to live here? he thought, ashamed. He should have come sooner. Shame froze into apprehension and the faintest icy sheath of fear. Hurriedly he locked his bike to a parking meter and approached her window, standing on tiptoe to peer inside. Nothing. The discoloured curtains hid the rooms from him like clouds of ivory smoke. He tapped once, tentatively; then, emboldened by silence, rapped for several minutes, squinting to see any movement inside.
Still nothing. Leo swore out loud and shoved his hands into his pockets, wondering lamely what to do. Call the police? Next of kin? He winced at the thought: as if she couldn't do that herself. Helen had always made it clear that she enjoyed being on her own. But the broken glass beneath his sneakers, windblown newspapers tugging at the bottom steps; the whole unkempt neighbourhood denied that. Why here? he thought angrily; and then he was taking the steps two at a time, kicking bottles and burger wrappers out of his path.
He waited by the door for five minutes before a teenage boy ran out. Leo barely caught the door before it slammed behind him. Inside, a fluorescent light hung askew from the ceiling, buzzing like a wasp. Helen's was the first door to the right. Circulars from convenience stores drifted on the floor, and on the far wall was a bank of mailboxes. One was ajar, stuffed with unclaimed bills and magazines. More envelopes piled on the steps. Each bore Helen's name.
His knocking went unanswered; but he thought he heard someone moving inside.
'Helen,' he called softly. 'It's Leo. You okay?'
He knocked harder, called her name, finally pounded with both fists. Still nothing. He should leave; he should call the police. Better still, forget ever coming here. But he was here, now; the police would question him no matter what; the curator for Indo-Asian Studies would look at him askance. Leo bit his lip and tested the doorknob. Locked;
