Remembering an Old Man and the Memory
of a Lifetime
I’d like to
think that old man did it for a reason, a good reason. That he moved on of his
own free will, leaving behind no regrets and no explanations. Owing nothing to
nobody. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could all say that when it’s our time to go?
The
setting was a pair of ground floor apartments in a converted duplex in Chicago,
a tired old building in need of a paint job and more. It sat next to a
cobblestone alley that back in the day could have been a good route for north
side bootleggers, but had long since disappeared from civic prominence.
As a grad
student new to the city, finding a decent room for rent quickly became a top
priority. With only a few days until the beginning of the fall semester, I
found the ad for a furnished two-room apartment in the local paper, and as far
as I was concerned it couldn’t have been a better stroke of
luck. Centrally located in the city, close to an El station for easy
transportation downtown to school, the place was simple and affordable — two of
the finest words a student can hear. And as if that wasn’t enough, when I first
met the landlord he told me I had a quiet neighbor, an older gentleman who had
lived there a long time and always kept to himself.
Good enough
for me.
The first
thing I noticed was the name on the man’s mailbox, directly below mine at the
front of the building. ‘P. Stavrakis.’ it said in heavy black magic marker on a
piece of old masking tape. So right away I knew his name. That was easy enough.
And doubtless more than I needed to know about the man.
The way I
figured it, if you lived out in the suburbs you gauged people more on what you
see. Here in closer quarters one bases things more on what one hears. For instance,
the old man must have had some working years left in him because five days a
week I would hear him leaving right at 12:30 every afternoon, then coming home
again at ten o’clock at night. Not likely an office job of any sort.
We had
tenant parking but every time he left the building I never heard an engine
starting up. So I could assume he didn’t drive a car. And he had to be a loner.
Never once did I hear a guest’s voice or a phone ring in that apartment across
the hall. The only sounds I ever heard were the occasional muffled sounds of a
television game show or the sizzling of meat on the stove.
To be fair,
in those first days and weeks in the city I pretty much kept to myself, too. I
didn’t know anyone and I tried my best to concentrate on school, allowing
myself as few distractions as possible. It just so happened that one of those
distractions came to be that old man next door.
I caught my
first glimpse of him late one morning when I was getting ready to go to class.
Through my window I saw someone coming down the alley carrying a bag of
groceries. I stepped closer to the glass and peaked around the ugly blue
curtains. With his stooped shoulders, traces of white hair and soft, careful
gait he gave all the appearance of a man who didn’t want to be noticed.
I say traces
of white hair because he always wore a brown baseball cap low across his
forehead, resting atop thick black-framed glasses that further hid his
features. Call it urban camouflage.
I followed
him till he slipped out of view. Seconds later I heard the creaking of
floorboards coming down the hall, followed by the jingling of keys, the gentle
opening and closing of the door, and then finally the sliding of the lock. That
was his first greeting to me That was P. Stavrakis.
The next
clue came a few nights later when I first heard the music. It was late on a
Saturday night. I was lying on my couch reading when the faint streams of a
melody slipped out from behind his door. It was a wistful, melancholy mix of
strings and mandolins scratching out from what must have been an old phonograph
player. Strange music. Music from the old country. No lyrics. Just the
melody.
And as I did
an image came to mind: the man sitting there in a straight-backed chair, in his
pants and white undershirt, maybe a drink in his hand, listening and
remembering happier times, times long gone. And the only reason I could think
of that a man would play music like that — a woman. Definitely a woman. Who was
she, and what happened to her? To know her story would be to know a big part of
his.
I tried to
keep reading, but after a few minutes it was hopeless. I put my book down,
grabbed a beer from the refrigerator, and turned out the light. There in the
soft glow of a streetlamp I leaned back and together we listened to the music. A
few days later I was coming home from class; it was raining lightly so I was
walking a little quicker between the El station and my apartment. I slowed down
long enough to grab my mail and bring it inside, throwing down what there was
of it without looking at it right away. When I did get around to going through
it I noticed a cream-colored letter addressed in a woman’s fine hand to Mr.
Pietr Stavrakis.
The letter
was postmarked five days earlier, from Albania of all places, with some
funky-looking stamps commemorating that country and the sovereign reign of King
Konstantin. No return name or address given. Seeing the obvious mistake, my
first thought was to go back and put the letter in his mailbox. What the hell
business was it of mine?
But holding that
parchment-like envelope in my hand got my imagination going. What if it was a
love letter? Long ago lost but recently found? Maybe from the woman behind that
sad music? Or maybe a relative with impending news. Bad news from a son or
daughter. Whoever it was from, it had to be something important, coming all the
way from Albania.
I could put
it back in his mailbox, or I could go out into the hall and slip it under his
door. He might appreciate that. A neighborly gesture. Then again, he might
wonder who was handling his personal mail. Either way, I had to do something.
It was late afternoon and he might be coming home any minute. I decided to slip
it under the door.
I swear, the
floorboards creaked louder than ever when I stepped into the hallway. What if
he was home? What if he heard me and suddenly opened his door? What
would I say? Damn, should I knock or just leave the letter on the floor? I
leaned my ear up to the door. Not a sound, though I could definitely smell
something, a sour cabbage-like smell that seemed to saturate the wood. Last
night’s dinner? More like every dinner from every night of the last how many
years.
I left it
there under his door and quickly went back to my room.
It wasn’t until later that
night that I heard him coming down the hall, followed by the jingling of his
keys and the opening and closing of his door. After waiting a few seconds I
peeked out and saw that he had picked up the letter.
All was
quiet over there for a minute or two until I heard glass shattering on the
floor. It was enough to make me jump. My first thought was to run over and see
if he was all right. But something held me back. It wasn’t long before he
started playing the music again. It sounded even sadder than before. And he
kept playing it all night long.
The next
morning, a Friday as I recall, was bright, cool and clear — a first taste of
autumn in the air. I was on my way to catch the El when I looked up and saw
coming toward me on the sidewalk none other than Pietr Stavrakis. He was
wearing the baseball cap again and his hands were buried in the pockets of his
well-worn overcoat. Did he recognize me? Should I say something? Did he even
know I was his next neighbor?
Right as we
passed one another our eyes briefly met. Neither of us said a word. As I
reached the end of the street, about to turn the corner, I stole a quick glance
back at him but he was already gone.
A few weeks
later I went home to Wisconsin for the weekend, and when I returned Monday
morning I grabbed my mail, looking it over carefully this time to see that it
was indeed my mail, and entered the building. I was coming down the hall when I
saw my neighbor’s door wide open. That was strange.
I slowed
down, a little afraid of what I might see. Inside was nothing but bare
cupboards and blank walls. A curtain fluttered at the open window. I cautiously
stepped over the linoleum threshold to get a closer look. The old appliances
and furniture were still in place, but it felt as cold and empty as a midnight
bus stop.
Despite the
open window and the fresh scent of air freshener, I could still catch that
peculiar smell — probably the only thing he did leave behind.
The landlord
startled me when he came up behind me carrying a mop and pail. Stepping out of
his way I asked what had happened. The landlord shrugged, saying
matter-of-factly that the old man left him a note last week saying he was
leaving. Along with the note was enough cash to cover the last two weeks of the
month.
Apparently,
Mr. Stavrakis never had a lease and always paid cash for his room and board.
And now just like that, he was gone. I asked the landlord if anything bad had
happened. Did he know why the old man left? He shook his head, stepped into the
empty apartment and closed the door behind him. End of discussion.
For days
afterward, I wanted to sneak in and scour the place for any clue Pietr
Stavrakis might have left behind — anything that would tell me something about
who this man was. But like I said, he didn’t owe anyone any explanations, least
of all me.
Years later
it’s one of those memories I can’t let go of for some reason. The memory of an
old man who by happenstance once lived under the same roof as me; a man who
stayed a while and then slipped out quietly with no one giving it a second
thought.
Well, almost
no one.
-end-
