—F. Scott Fitzgerald
When people think of misspent youth, they conjure up images of beach bums, drifters and pool cues—but certainly don’t imagine interminable nights and days spent in the stacks at the university library.
But, this was my youth—spent in quest of the holy grail of academia—the attainment of a tenured position as a professor of Victorian Literature.
Well now at Thirty-Two I had it, and it meant damn all. I was incredibly lonely and bored, and being successful didn’t offset my despair.
I was sitting in the faculty lounge with Daniel Flowers, our writer in residence, and he was patiently listening to the latest instalment of my serialized angst
“You’re going through a rough patch now, Scott, with the house, the storm and all the mess,” he commiserated, “but it’ll pass and things will get better.”
“Ah yes,” said I cynically, “the ice storm of the century and my Rosedale manse destroyed—it’ll take a month to restore the power, patch the roof and rebuild the conservatory. Two huge oaks came down on that poor house.”
“The wind began to switch and the house began to pitch,” he smiled.
“Go ahead—make all the jokes you want, Daniel, but you’re not the one who’s homeless for a month.”
His expression turned serious, “Listen Scott—I’m going to be in San Francisco for that writers conference—why not stay at my flat? It’s not as elegant as your Rosedale manor, but it’s quaint and livable.”
I was tempted to take him up on his offer, but our unlikely friendship had already produced several misadventures—so, I wasn’t sure if occupying his flat was a good idea, but frankly, I had few options.
Thus, on the Saturday, when Daniel left, I moved into his flat on the second floor of The Old Consulate—at least, that’s what the brass plaque at the front door said.
Daniel’s landlord introduced himself as Antoine Bastard, the chargé d'affaires and official ambassador of Kraza, a small state located somewhere in the vicinity of Hungary.
Antoine had unruly black hair and a wild look in his eyes, but struck me as harmless, albeit delusional. I resolved the best plan was to dodge him the next month and stay clear of his prolonged diatribes on the state of Bohemia.
One madman to avoid—it should be easy.
That first night in the flat was pleasant. The house faced High Park and had a balcony with a small table and two chairs.
The temperature had crept up into the fifties, so I sat out that night watching the moon and sipping Shiraz.
I went to bed just after midnight and almost instantly fell into a deep sleep.
I had a very realistic dream.
In my dream, a Siamese cat got into my flat through the balcony window. The cat’s owner was a beautiful girl who came down the fire escape looking for her pet.
She spotted the cat in my apartment. That’s when things got interesting.
She entered the apartment, we met, and as is often the way in dreams, one thing led to another and before long we were kissing on my couch.
The whole situation was trite, but also surreal—mostly because of the beautiful girl and the magical way we met.
When I awoke from the dream, the aura lingered—it felt so real, I could swear it actually happened, and with unreasonable logic, I found myself hoping it did.
However, the day unfolded with the same boring predictability of every other day in my furtive life—I was caught in morning traffic and arrived fifteen minutes late for my lecture.
Fortunately, most of the students waited instead of heading for the caf.
But the bad start cascaded and by four o’clock that afternoon, I was heading home, tired, defeated and definitely vexed.
As I exited my Porsche I had the misfortune to run into Antoine Bastard carrying a baseball bat. He had an intense fire in his eyes.
“Were you disturbed at all last night, M. Henderson?” he asked.
“No, not at all,” I replied, not wanting to share any details with the man.
“There was an intruder on the premises,” he said bluntly, pointedly tapping the bat against the brick wall to signify his readiness to avenge the crime.
“Really—is that why you’re carrying that bat?”
“This is not a bat,” he fumed, eyes wide with indignation, “this is a baton used by the Parisian gendarmes during the Second War—this particular one delivered 25 blows to the head of a collaborator.”
My heart raced. I hoped he did not see me in that light. Obviously, the man was deranged.
The landlord fixed me with a penetrating gaze, and for a moment, I thought he suspected me of collaborating in the break-in.
But then, just as suddenly, his wits turned. “Well, take care my friend—I will be patrolling tonight.”
I assured him I was glad of his protection, but inwardly wondered if staying in a hotel might not be a better option.
I hurried up to the safety of my flat.
Why did I listen to Scott? I mused, thinking if it might be better for my sanity and safety to simply lease hotel room for a month.
I could deal with dreams of a wraith searching for her cat—but a madman with a bat?
I began to worry about what might happen next if I stayed.