CHAPTER 1 - MAURIN
Maurin
Caul stares out the window of his sixth
floor walk-up, picking at a familiar chip
of paint as raindrops bead on the glass.
It is his first New York apartment, a
dingy walk-up in which he has spent one
and a half decades, frozen in time. The
john is in the hallway, the bathtub in
the kitchen, the refrigerator is old as
Cresis, and the stove has to be lit with
a match.
A woman with a broken umbrella crosses
the playground below and hurries into
a bodega for shelter. Looks to be in her
late 30’s. Could she be the one?
Probably not, Maurin is very particular.
But he’s certain she exists. Somewhere
in the city filled with a million windows
she ages, weeps and dreams and gives her
monthly blood, and yearns for him. He
knows this especially after dark when
there’s no place to go and the loneliness
gnaws at him. But where? How does one
go about finding such a one? What street,
what building, what window does she occupy?
What stores does she frequent? Where does
she buy her coffee? Her newspaper? Her
underclothes? And how closely does she
resemble his dream? Does she own a silk
rope? Satin lingerie? Is she small and
childlike, tall and unlikely? Delicate?
Callipygous? White, brown, black? Experienced
in the dark paths, or a gift in soft nightclothes
waiting to be discovered?
Whatever she is she will not find him,
it is he must do the finding; and for
that to happen he must move. He needs
an apartment high above the city with
a view of many windows. He’s thought
about it for fifteen years and today on
the thirty sixth anniversary of his birth
he’s made the decision. After a
lifetime of inaction, Maurin Caul, loner,
prince of fantasy, will move to a new
apartment and seek his hearts desire.
Two phone calls, a new umbrella, and
a subway ride later he is on the 20th
floor of a midtown apartment complex looking
out across Manhattan. The evening is clear.
The sheer number of buildings fills him
with awe. While the realtor fidgets in
the background he closes his eyes, and
tunes his mind to silence. Are you
there? he calls, I
look for you. I believe in
you. I have come at last. Senses prickling,
he waits for an answer that doesn’t
come.
He turns to the realtor. "I'm sorry,
it's just not right."
She frowns,
but he doesn't care. He will try again.
A month of silent messages has passed.
He’s sick of realtors
and desperate to get out of his hovel. Once more he looks out over
a sea of windows and closes his eyes. It could be tiredness, wish
fulfillment, or the onset of insanity, but for the first time he senses
a response.
“I’ll take it.”
