Waiting for Mr. Smith

She had tried counting sheep. She had tried the deep-breathing exercises she had once read about in one of her monthly women’s magazines. She had even tried singing nursery rhymes and lullabies to herself. But nothing helped and she could not sleep.
     She had been lying on the carpet for an hour, maybe more — her eyes closed but not asleep and worrying about the suitcase — when a sharp knock at the door broke her thoughts and her eyes shot open. She hadn’t heard anyone coming up the stairs, so the sound caused her to flinch as it broke the cold silence. She couldn’t tell how long she had been in this small room, lit by a single bulb hanging from the roof, and containing nothing but the faded red rug upon which she lay, and a black leather couch that was so old and worn that it was coughing up its insides.
     She immediately righted herself and scrambled to the entrance. The latch was stiff, but she forced it loose and flung the door open to reveal a pale man in a cream suit. A black bowler hat was perched over his striking red hair and a yellow handkerchief poked its nose out of his breast pocket.
     “Mr. Smith?”
     “No, I’m Mr. Williams. Mr. Smith couldn’t make it.” The man took off his hat, brushed stiffly past her into the room and turned back to face her in the doorway. He had a slight limp, favouring his left leg. “He asked me to come here and give you a message.” His two front teeth were too big for his mouth, and his upper lip hovered above them like a nervous shade-cloth.
     “Is it about the suitcase?” Her mouth was dry and she clung tightly to the door.
     The man with the limp made a movement with his head which may have been a nod. “He asked me to tell you that the suitcase is safe. He will bring it when he can.” He straightened his tie and glanced over the room. He showed no obvious feelings at seeing the arrangement of its furniture. “He hopes you are comfortable.”
     “Yes.” She smiled weakly. “Thank you.”
     “Good. He will be pleased.” Without any expression, the man acknowledged her with another peculiar head movement, replaced the hat on his head and made to walk out of the door.
     “Can you please tell me when he will come?” Her eyes caught his and stopped him before he reached the doorway. They were pleading with him, hoping for even the smallest amount of solace.
     “I’m afraid not. He keeps a very busy and very erratic schedule.” He turned away from her and stared out of the door. “I cannot tell when he will come.” With that, his back straightened, he tipped his hat and he strode back onto the landing, his head dipping slightly with each step as he moved silently down the stairs.
     Slowly she closed the door and secured the latch. For a second she rested her tired head against the wood, before turning and making her way to the couch. She sat down and eased back against the patchy cushioning, drawing her knees up under her chin. She closed her eyes and gently rocked herself forwards and backwards, her denim jeans scratching against the torn leather.
     She knew she mustn’t leave the room. When they had brought her here they told her that Mr. Smith could only bring her the suitcase if she didn’t go anywhere. He only comes once, and if she wasn’t in the room when he came she would never see the suitcase. So she stayed in the room and waited for him to knock.
     She wondered whether his would be a sharp, cracking knock like that of Mr. Williams, or the repetitive thudding that had heralded the arrival of Mr. Thomas. Mr. Thomas had come many hours ago, wearing red shoes with his dark suit and smoking a cigar. He had only one ear and carried a half-eaten banana.
     Or perhaps Mr. Smith would knock softly, and tentatively like little Mr. Rogers who had come in his orange suit with thick, black glasses and no hair. The strange man had walked sideways, taking tiny little steps like a crab with hot feet. His voice was squeaky and she struggled to understand him.
     Then there was Mr. Andrews who had rapped casually on the door with the head of his cane when he had come. Mr. Smith wouldn’t be like that. The fat old man had twirled the walking stick around in his hands whenever he spoke and had never looked at her. He had worn a brown suit that was far too small for him, and his massive belly had poked through the shirt that was popping from the strain.
     All these men had come to tell her the same thing: that Mr. Smith had the suitcase and it was safe, but he couldn’t bring it just yet. Four men, all with the same message. But Mr. Smith wouldn’t be like any of them. He would come carrying the case in one hand and with the other he would knock. Not too loudly and not too softly, just perfectly, and she would know immediately that it was him. She hoped that he would knock soon.
     Hours passed. She did not know how many. She tried to sleep on the couch, pointing her head one way and then turning around and facing in the other direction. She rolled onto the carpet and tried to sleep there, first on her stomach, then on her side and then on her back. She tried to sleep with her back against the couch and she tried to sleep on her stomach with her pelvis in the air like a toddler. Whatever she tried she couldn’t sleep, and she couldn’t escape her thoughts of the suitcase and the burning hope that Mr. Smith would knock at her door.
     After many hours of this tossing and turning, she gave up and sat herself on the couch with her feet underneath her. She had once watched a Buddhist monk doing this on TV and thought it might help. She was just settling well when there was a knock at the door. Again, she hadn’t heard anyone coming up the stairs, so she started at the sound. It was a medium knock, not too soft and not too loud. A simple rap, just enough to get her attention. She immediately unfolded herself and rushed to the door. She loosened the latch and opened the door to reveal an incredibly tall man in a beige suit with a short pink tie and blonde hair that didn’t look like it had been brushed in weeks.
     “Mr. Smith?”
     “No, I’m Mr. Harris. Mr. Smith was unable to come.” The man dipped into his pocket, drew out a white handkerchief and brushed it across his forehead. “However,” he paused briefly, “he did ask me to come here to give you a message.” He returned the handkerchief to his pocket and stepped through the open door, ducking as he came through.
     “Did he say anything about the suitcase?” Her hands wrapped tightly around the door handle as her eyes followed him into the room.
     “Yes.” The man turned back to look at her. “He wanted me to assure you that the suitcase is safe. He will bring it as soon as he can.” He pulled out the handkerchief again, brushed it over his forehead and looked around the room. “He also wants to know whether you are comfortable here.”
     “Yes.” The corners of her mouth moved just enough to suggest that she was smiling. “Everything is perfect, thank you.”
     “I’m glad to hear that, and he will be too.” Offering only a second, brief glance at the room, the man cocked his head at her and strode back towards the doorway.
     She watched him take two long steps in his steady gait, his feet making no sound at all on the wooden floor and suddenly she wondered where he was going. Were there more people like her, also waiting for Mr. Smith? Did this tall man spend his whole day telling people that Mr. Smith was busy and couldn’t make it?
     “Just a second.” She moved from the doorway and blocked the man’s path, peering up at him. She must have been at least two feet shorter than he was, and all she could see were the wrinkles underneath his chin. “Tell me. Have you ever met Mr. Smith?”
     His hands met in front of his chest and he cracked his knuckles. “No, I haven’t. But I have talked to him on the telephone.”
     “I see.” She stretched out her arms and rubbed her fingers up and down the doorframe to each side of her. She saw him growing nervous and drew out the pause to add to her advantage. “Mr. Smith isn’t going to come, is he?”
     The man didn’t move, and continued to stare ahead of him. “Mr. Smith is a busy man, and he will bring the suitcase when he has the chance.”
     “But I’ve been waiting here for so long. If he really is going to come you must tell me when?”
     “He will come when he is ready.” The man cleared his throat. “He just isn’t ready yet.” The hand shot into the pocket, found the handkerchief and brushed it across his forehead. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must be going.” He pushed her gently aside and took a noiseless stride through the door.
     “If you’re going then I’m going too.” Her words stopped him and he slowly turned his neck to look at her.
     “You know you can’t do that. If you leave, Mr. Smith will not be able to bring you the suitcase.”
     “I’m tired of waiting.” She spoke calmly and deliberately, letting each word form perfectly before letting it escape. “And I don’t believe that Mr. Smith ever intended to bring me the suitcase at all.”
     The tall man’s eyes were beginning to blink rapidly, as if he had some kind of nervous condition. “Mr. Smith is a man of his word. He will come, and he will have the suitcase when he does.” His fingers were shaking too now and the hand that he sunk into his pocket came out carrying no handkerchief. He fired the empty hand across his forehead and once again turned to go. His feet scraped against the wooden floor and creaked on the first step.
     “I’m leaving. And you can tell Mr. Smith to keep the suitcase.” She stepped onto the landing and closed the door behind her. The tall man collapsed at the sound and tumbled down to the bottom of the stairs. She rushed to help him up, not noticing that her feet made no sound as she ran down the staircase.
     “Are you all right?”
     “Fine. Thank you.” He fought in his pocket for the handkerchief, but produced only an old oil rag which he streaked across his forehead leaving an ugly black mark above his eyes. “I just don’t know if it’s a good idea for you to leave.”
     “I appreciate your concern, but I’m afraid it’s too late.” Satisfied that he hadn’t hurt himself, she let go of his arm and moved past him towards the sunshine streaming through the open front door.
     “Mr. Smith will be very upset to hear about this. He would really like you to have that suitcase.”
     Without turning back she smiled to herself and threw her reply over her shoulder. “You can tell Mr. Smith over the telephone that I will find my own suitcase.” With her hands in her pockets she walked casually into the street, careful not to step in the puddle of water that was lingering just outside the door. Then, checking each way, she crossed the road and walked off towards the corner. The sun felt good on the back of her neck and she could hear the pigeons cooing on the nearby rooftops. She reached the corner, and, only glancing back briefly to see the tall man stumbling through the puddle, she rounded the bend and was gone.

to the top