Jan lives on the top floor…
Jan lives on the top floor of a secured apartment building—one of those with automatic gates, surveillance, underground parking, a guard booth, a courtyard and fancy balconies overlooking the city. God, how much does he earn that he can afford such digs?
As soon as we take the elevator upstairs, I realize that apart from my mathematical genius, I also have clairvoyant abilities because this is exactly how I imagined Jan’s apartment.
Big bright tiles on the floor shine like the top of the Chrysler Building. Gray, white and black everywhere. I have a suspicion that Jan, in addition to being antisocial, also suffers from total color blindness.
The kitchen is so clean that you can eat from the countertop and drink from the sink. It’s scary to touch anything in case you get it dirty.
As soon as I take off my jacket, under which I’m only wearing a bra (because the damp blouse was left at the office), Jan brings me his shirt—on a hanger, perfectly ironed and so white it shines.
I put it on, roll up the sleeves and sit down on the bar stool.
God, what does he wash his clothes in, men’s perfume?
The shirt smells so amazing that I feel like hugging myself.
“Your cleaning lady is doing a good job,” I venture when Jan enters the kitchen after going to change (surprise, surprise—into a snow-white shirt).
“The cleaning lady?” He opens the cabinet to reveal tumblers arranged in three equal rows with pedantic precision, and takes out two.
“The person who does your laundry and cleans your place. Everything is so clean and fragrant.”
“I take care of my laundry and apartment myself.” He puts ice in a glass, pours vodka, tops it up with orange juice, then pours a measure of Scotch.
Oh boy, Jan is self-reliant. I take another look around the open space.
How does he manage to clean such a large apartment by himself (total Mr. Clean) when he sits in the office from morning to evening?
Not to mention washing and ironing shirts, of which he probably uses thirty a month because I doubt he wears the same one for more than a day.
“How big is your apartment?”
“Twelve hundred and ninety-two square feet.” He walks over and puts a drink in front of me.
“Wow. That’s a lot.” I lean back to see what’s outside the living room. “How many rooms?” I shift my gaze to him and catch his eyes gliding from my bare feet to my thighs…
“Living room, kitchen, two bedrooms, and a bathroom.” He takes a sip of the golden liquid and his gaze lingers at the hem of my skirt, which has ridden up far too high.
I get hot from the way he’s looking at me.
A familiar and exciting tingling sensation spreads through my intimate area, and I feel a slight push on my bladder.
I hope I’m not in for a UTI from walking around in the cold without my undies.
Maybe it would be better not to hold it in. I should go to the bathroom.
“About the bathroom. Can I use it?”
He raises his eyes to meet mine. His pupils are dark, dilated. I am reminded of the moments we spent today in the office and the elevator.
“The second door to the left.” He points with his hand holding a drink to the hallway at the end of the living room.
“Thanks. I’ll be right back.” I take a big sip of my drink, jump off the stool, take my phone from the countertop and slip it behind my skirt belt, and head off in the indicated direction.
You would expect walking barefoot on tiles in winter not to be pleasant, but to my surprise, the ones in Jan’s living room are so warm that a pleasant shiver runs from my feet to my shoulders. Clearly, he has underfloor heating here. Well, after all, that’s how the other half lives.
I turn into the hallway and my attention is immediately drawn to the thick frames on the walls.
Behind the glass of each of them hang rows of watches: one next to the other, evenly spaced like medals.
There are dozens of them—pocket watches with engraved gold and silver cases; wristwatches in various shapes; with leather straps, on bracelets, with ornaments, stones or completely plain.
Some old, some more contemporary, all looking original and expensive.
Gosh, Jan really has an obsession with watches. And with cleanliness too because I’ve walked a good thirty steps and not once has my foot sensed a single speck of anything.
I probably won’t find a single white spot on the mirror above the sink, and the brightness of the faucet metal will burn my eyes.
We are about to find out. I open the bathroom door, and search blindly for the light switch—one would think that in such an exclusive apartment, there would be automatic lighting and an automatic fan in the toilet.
Moving my hand on the wall, I finally manage to come across the switch, turn on the light and…
Eeeeh, I don’t think this is a bathroom. Rather, it is Jan’s office. Tall black bookshelves, a large table with tattered watches, some tools and an office lamp on it, right next to a beautiful, colorfully striped chair.
I’m about to retreat when I glance at the chair again.
I don’t have to say that it does not fit here at all.
Wait a minute! That looks all too familiar!
I stare at the piece of furniture, my circuits overheating.
I don’t get it. What the hell is my wing armchair doing here?
I walk closer because maybe it’s not the armchair I sold to the customer, but a similar…
Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse a brown dresser with yellow decorations. I turn to look at it—and I’m stunned. My dresser from the early communist era. I would recognize it anywhere.
I’m getting hot. I look around the room and immediately spot my Louis-style dressing table on the opposite wall!
What the hell!!!
Oh God, my baroque footstool! And the art deco lamp! I massage my face, pinching my cheeks because I no longer know if it’s a dream or…
My head is spinning. Because this is all the furniture that I managed to sell over the past six months!
“The bathroom is next door.” I jump at the sound of the low voice coming from right behind me. I turn abruptly.
Jan stands in the threshold, leaning against the door frame and looking straight at me.
“What is all this?” I ask.
“The bathroom is further down. I told you, the second door to the left. Not the first.”
“You know very well what I mean. What is my furniture doing here?”
“Your furniture?” His eyebrows raise.
“Mine, of course. The armchair, the dresser, the footstool, the lamp, even the damn vanity table! I sought them out myself, acquired, repaired, sanded and painted them. With my bare hands.” I spread my hands. I see them trembling.
“I agree about finding, acquiring, repairing, sanding and painting. But that does not change the fact that the furniture does not belong to you. These pieces stopped being yours the moment I bought them. From you.” He looks straight in my eyes. He is composed and balanced.
God, I don’t believe it. It’s beyond absurd.
Bravo, Maria, it seems that your boss, whom you were screwing in the office a few hours ago, is not only your immediate superior who can fire you from your job, but also the only client with whom you linked your business future. Was it really so hard to figure out that TS is your boss?
My knees buckle; I feel weak. I have to sit down.
I cross to the wing armchair, slump into it and put my hands in my hair.
“Why did you do that?” I ask because I really don’t have the faintest idea what to think about it.
“Did I do what?” he shoots at me with that emotionless voice of his, as if he really doesn’t know what I mean.
“Shit! Why the hell did you buy all my furniture if you don’t need it?” I look directly at him.
“What makes you think I don’t need it?”
“Because your apartment looks like it’s been taken out of a catalog printed in shades of gray! They do not fit here. Not your style, not your color scheme. Why did you do it?”
“Two reasons.”
“Which are?”
“Firstly, I wanted to invest some cash in something, and your furniture seemed appropriate for that. Secondly, having seen your business plan, I thought it was quite good, and you could use some motivation to implement it.”
I open my eyes wide.
“You saw my business plan? When?”
“At your apartment while you were putting on your Kashubian folk costume.”
What is he talking about?
I search through the drawer of memories and come across the day Jan came to my building with his brilliant idea of a business trip on Saturday.
“You were snooping around on my computer?”
“You left an Excel file open and your website. I reviewed the file with calculations as you ran out of the apartment. I think you have a good chance of staying afloat, provided that with the assumed costs, the revenue is at least four thousand gross.”
I look at him and feel a pleasant warmth spread around my stomach.
“Do you really think my business plan is good?”
“Yes. Your products are of good quality and are original. Compared to your competitors, you stand out with attractive prices. I would suggest a more extensive promotion of your services. An ad on a free portal and a website are not enough.”
“You need cash for promotion. Besides, I need something to promote, and right now, I can refinish no more than one piece of furniture a month. That’s not enough to generate the revenue you are referring to.”
“So increase production.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t have a carpentry workshop, and my boss makes me stay overtime every day, which leaves me no time for production,” I say firmly.
“The second aspect solves the first.”
“I don’t understand.”
“When was the last time you checked your bank balance?”
“December fifteenth,” I answer without needing to think about it. That’s when I make transfers for the previous month, set aside a fixed percentage for savings, and then go through a one-day nervous breakdown because my balance is a few measly pennies, which must be enough for grub until payday.
“Check it out now.”