Story K

[LaurieAK]

STORY K


Living next door to Leonard Cohen

The Midland Hotel, Birmingham. Not the best hotel in town, but one I had stayed in before, many years ago. I was curious to see if it had changed. Of course, it had. As a teenager I had been deeply impressed – now I realized it hadn’t really been much, after all.
I followed the young man carrying my bags into the lift, along a short corridor, to the door of my room. He unlocked it, handed me my key, and took my bags inside. As he did so, the door of the next apartment opened and an elderly man emerged – about my own age, I judged. He was a little stooped, thin, with an eagle’s beak of a nose. His eyes flicked to me and away again.
I nodded at him, smiled, said “Evening.”
He raised eyes half-hooded by the lids and looked at me again, unsmiling, dismissive.
After a moment he said, “Evening.” And walked towards the lift.
I entered my room, a wild, surprised speculation in my mind.
The young man was standing by my bags, clearly waiting for a tip. I obliged; said, “Who is the elderly gentleman staying in the next room?” indicating the direction.
“Dunno,” he said, “Some singer or other, I think.”
He left, closing the door quietly.
Some singer or other, I thought. I called the face back to mind and compared it with the flickering memories of a face young, rather beautiful; older, harsh; much older, tired, almost resigned.
I wonder if it is? I thought.
A thin thrill curled and quivered in my midriff.
No… it can’t be! Don’t be silly! I chided myself. He wouldn’t stay here! Would he? And anyway, he isn’t doing a concert – I’d have known! No adverts, either… can’t be him! No way. Silly old fool! Go and have a shower, woman, and cool down! I showered, changed, made sure I had my room key, went down to the bar for a pre-dinner gin & tonic.

He was there. Leaning back in a leather-upholstered easy-chair, one hand loosely clasped around the stem of a wine-glass, the other negligently draped over the arm of the chair, almost touching the young woman he was talking to, sitting in a chair beside him. I stood rooted to the spot for seconds that felt like hours; moved to the bar and ordered my drink; took it to a seat as close to them as I could get without my curiosity being rudely obvious. I sat sidelong to them, covertly watching. He smiled at her. A familiar lop-sided smile. My stomach flipped. I wished he would smile at me like that. No, you damn well don’t! I shouted at myself. He’s had more women than you’ve had hot dinners. Behave! Besides, he only likes beautiful women and you only like normal, missionary-position sex! But a little under-voice said you never know what you might like…
SHUT UP! Anyway, I’m too damned old… past it.
They left together before I had finished my drink. They were not in the dining room when I went in soon afterwards.
Much later, when I was in bed, just dropping off to sleep, I heard the soft snick of the next apartment door closing. I wondered drowsily if he was still with the young woman, or alone. I hoped he was not alone.
Liar.

I got up early the following morning, rushed though a shower, dressed, opened the door to the corridor, glanced towards his door. Closed.
I left my door ajar, and… well, frankly… hung around listening for the sound of his door opening…
I waited a long time.
And I wasn’t even really sure it was him.
And I was hungry. I wanted my breakfast.
In the end, I thought, Oh, bugger it! It isn’t him anyway. Can’t be.With a brief, regretful, dismissive sigh, I exited my room and snapped the door shut.
And his door opened. The elderly gentleman emerged. He looked at me. I looked at him.
“Morning,” he said.
“Morning,” I said.
We started to walk towards the lift.
“Excuse me…” I started in a rush…
“Did you…” he started politely… “Sorry… you were saying?”
“Oh! Oh! A-after you,” I stammered, then, unable to halt the flow… “Ehrm… ehrm… are you, by any chance… I… you… you look like… you sound like… ARE you Leonard Cohen?” I blurted.
My face was burning hot and I knew, I knew, I had turned a deep and undelightful shade of beetroot. I didn’t dare look at him; I felt sick with embarrassment. I had humiliated myself – and maybe this poor old gentleman, too.
We were at the lift. He must have pressed the button because I could hear it coming.
“I was last time I checked,” he said.
The lift arrived.
We got in.
I swallowed hard. Took a firm grip on myself.
“Wow!” I breathed.
I was alone in a lift with Leonard Cohen.
I dared to look at him, despite my beetroot face. He was smiling at me. But the smile looked a bit weary, a bit patient – like a resigned sigh.
For some reason, that look calmed me. I wanted to reassure him. Make him comfortable. Make him realize I wasn’t about to gush all over him.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Cohen,” I said, formally. “I love your music, your voice, your lyrics. You can always make me laugh.”
“Laugh?”
He sounded surprised.
“People usually find my songs sad… nostalgic. Some say depressing.”
I grinned shyly. “Maybe that too. But you make me laugh. Not all the time, but often.”
The lift stopped. Someone else got in. Mentally I cursed the intruder to perdition. Silently, we went down another floor. Ground level. The three of us got out.
Leonard Cohen held out his hand. I took it.
Ritually, we shook hands.
“Nice to meet you,” he said.
“Nice to meet you,” I said.
He left the building.
I no longer wanted breakfast.

[mickey_one]

flojts?

[Fljotsdale]

Got it in one.

But - did you like it?

[Byron]

'Dripping with anticipation' doesn't come close to the mood you evoked. I read it like I was having to go quicker and quicker down a flight of stairs. Great piece of writing Flo.

[mickey_one]

Got it in one.

But - did you like it?

actually I did.

I was a little surprised to have enjoyed it as my taste is for "cleverer", less straightforward writing. But its merit was its pace and I wanted to know what was going to happen, which seems like a pretty good point of a story really!

[Fljotsdale]

Thank you, guys.

Yes, I like clever writing, too, very much indeed. Sadly, I'm not clever enough to do it myself! So I stick with simple.

[Diane]

Fljots, I really like this. I like the way you haven't needed to be clever in order to transport the reader into the story. You describe the details so well, and it seems so believable. Great.

I can't read any more tonight, have to save the rest. I'm really enjoying them. Wish I'd entered now. Damn.

See you,

Diane

[Fljotsdale]

Believable is what I was trying for. Thanks, Diane.