When Olivia met K
Chapter XVIII
Top of the Shop
written by: Michael McCarthy
I woke up today with the feeling that the sleeping section in my open plan apartment was in need of something. What, I wasn’t sure. But I knew if and when I saw it, I’d recognize it. So, in the early Spring sunshine, I found myself wandering through the winding side streets off the Market Square, home to various boutiques, bookshops, antique shops, and cafés catering to the sophisticated and more choosy demographic. Mine.
I was passing an old antiques shop that, although it had been there forever, strangely enough, I’d never entered. In the window surrounded by a collection of furniture, posters, tea pots, and all manner of objets d’art was a picture I was sure my mother had painted in one of her rare sober phases many years ago: an empty blue, dressing table with mirror in which an unmade bed and the rear view of a naked man were reflected.
But how could that be?
I stared transfixed and became convinced that this was indeed the image my mother had created.
I went into the shop, heard a very discreet bell tinkle, and then a tall, balding, grey haired, chubby man approached me. He had an open, friendly, ruddy face. I had no idea what he was wearing, only that it was obvious that clothes were of no importance to him.
‘How may I help you?’ He asked. His voice was quiet with a slight husky tone to it.
‘I’ve just seen a painting in your window display. Now, this may sound strange, but it looks identical to a painting my late mother, Else, created many years ago.’ I said.
He looked down for a moment and then, as though he’d been considering his next step, held out his soft skinned hand,
‘My name is, Otto. I have something of interest to tell you.’
He took my offered hand and brushed it with his lips.
‘My name is Olivia, and that is just the sort of opening line I love to hear.’
I could barely conceal the building excitement in my voice.
‘Would you like some tea or coffee, Olivia?’
‘In this case, coffee. Large and black, please.’
I looked around the shop, there were various pieces of furniture: cabinets, cupboards and desks of diverse types all surrounded by floor to ceiling shelves lining the walls and containing pieces of pottery and glass containers; several tables big and small were scattered around the centre area covered in piles of newspapers, magazines and sheet music; in the corner there was a winding staircase leading from the top floor, through the ground floor to the basement and with stacks of volumes piled precariously high on alternate steps as well as other objects.
Further revelations included a corner with posters of Bob Dylan, The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, and other names from rock’s imperial phase. On closer examination, I saw that two towers of shelves were packed with used music biographies, vinyl LPs, and CDs. ‘This would be something for K’, I thought.
‘If you’d like to join me.’ I turned around and saw an out of breath Otto holding a tray and nodding to a small, empty, glass topped table beside an open window.
‘Delighted.’
‘Do you mind if I lock the street door?’ He asked. ‘Just to ensure our privacy.’
I looked him up and down for a second, then thought, he’s too cuddly to be dangerous. ‘Feel free.’
‘I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right. My tastes are too catholic for a true antique dealer.’
I nodded.
‘Unlike my father.’ He added.
He placed the tray on the table and removed two steaming mugs and a plate containing squares of marble cake.
‘Made with my own fair hand.’ He said proudly, pulling back my chair.
‘Thank you. It looks delicious.’
‘I can give you the recipe.’
‘Please. I’ll pass it onto a little woman who cooks the odd thing for me.’
‘My pleasure.’
We sipped our coffee and ate the cake.
‘Not only does it look delicious, it is delicious. I’m so glad I popped in here.’
‘Likewise. Now, brace yourself, Olivia.’
‘Ready and waiting.’
Otto smiled. ‘My father, also no longer with us, had an affair with your dear mother. Please accept my heartfelt sympathies, by the way. She actually sold him the painting. Many years ago, I hasten to add.’
‘Did he buy it out of sympathy?’
‘I rather like it, actually.’ Otto answered.
‘No. I also like it. But she wasn’t as successful as, she may have implied.’
‘Anyway, some time later, my father asked her if he could use the picture to illustrate the cover of a book he was writing. His one and only, I should add. His infamy had clearly got the better of him. She agreed, and when the book was eventually privately published, she was one of the very few to buy a copy. It was the story of a man’s life long, sexual odyssey, you know, starting with his initiation into sex at the hands of an old retainer in his parents’ employ, followed by a brief, fumbling romance with a junior house maid, and then a whole series of torrid love affairs, all taking place in a room on the top floor of the family mansion. It’s now virtually impossible to come by.’
‘What’s the title?’
‘Top of the Shop.’
‘Do you have a copy?’
‘Actually, when it became obvious to my father that there was almost nil interest in his nascent writing career, he threw a strop and burnt all the copies he could find. For some reason, I managed to save a few, they’re in my desk drawer.’
‘Is it any good?’
‘There are moments reading it when I found it rather gauche. But again, there are moments I found rather moving.’
‘When did your father pass away?’
‘Not long after your mother. They had remained in contact after their affair ended, until parted by death. That’s when I came home, by the way. I’d been working in finance, you know, and I’d managed to squirrel away a little nest egg. I wanted to reconcile myself with the old man. But I was too late. We’d had our problems.’
Otto swallowed heavily.
I pulled a hanky from my blouse pocket and patted away a stray tear or two.
‘I’m so sorry. Otto.’
‘Thank you. By the way, they carried on their tryst here.’
‘Oh. Now that is interesting.’
‘If I may say so, Olivia, I’ve often seen you around town.’
‘Really? You mean, you knew who I was?’
‘Doesn’t everybody? I always thought what a beautiful woman. Once seen never forgotten.’
‘Why, thank you.’
‘Olivia, would you like to see the room where our parents carried out their assignation? If that’s not too strange a suggestion. It’s at the top of the shop. ’
‘Ah. How appropriate. I’d love to.’
‘I find it has its own unique atmosphere.’
Otto led the way up the stairs, past more knick knacks on the steps, and into a short, dark hallway. He stopped at a white door, pausing to catch his breath.
‘Olivia, may I suggest you enter on your own just to feel and absorb the aura? Although now that this room is part of my quarters, that and time may have dimmed any remaining traces somewhat.’
He wheezed.
This reminded me of the time when I was seriously considering consulting a medium for the purpose of seeing if making contact with my mother on the other side was possible, but a wiser head prevailed against my idea.
‘How thoughtful. You’re not going to lock me in, are you?’
‘My goodness, no.’
‘Just joking.’
I punched him playfully on the arm and entered the room. There was undoubtedly something indefinable in the air, a feeling that grew in intensity and was clearly enhanced by the blue dressing table upon which stood a bottle of after shave and a deodorant stick.
The room was of medium size with yellow walls, and there was a small open window that looked out over the roofs of neighboring buildings; the bed was a large and sturdy double with bedside cabinets on either side; a wardrobe and chest of drawers completed the furnishings all in pine; directly above the bed a naked light bulb was swinging slowly to its own rhythm.
‘This is where my father conducted his liaison with your mother, and several other flings. Not to connect your mother with his flibbertigibbets.’ Otto said, entering.
‘Understood. Thank you.’
‘My father was a handsome charmer, but, with the honorable exception of your mother, as far as I know, most of his encounters were short lived dalliances with air heads.’
‘What about your mother, Otto?’
‘My mother always followed the maxim, out of sight, out of mind. A number of her friends were in the same boat, so to speak; their other halves being as equally wayward as my father. She’s still alive, but she’s gone a bit doolally. What about your family, Olivia?’
‘The wounds still feel raw, dear man.’ They didn’t, to be honest, but there would have been no point in resurrecting all that. We were getting on so well, I’d have felt like a spoilsport.
Just before I left, Otto went to his desk and, after rummaging around, triumphantly produced a copy of his father’s book.
‘Here you are, my dear, I don’t know why you would want to, but you may of course keep it if you wish.’
‘That’s so kind of you, Otto.’
Over time, Otto and I became close friends, and I became a regular visitor to the shop and the flat. Otto proved himself a master of his art, after all, introducing me to a range of small pieces which I would come to treasure, clocks, jewel boxes, etc. That’s what I told him anyway.
Otto was a shy, decent, old fashioned, painfully polite man and one who, although he was immensely attracted to me, clearly felt that making a pass would be considered, in some way, disrespectful. Not as far as I was concerned.
Otto was light years away from the usual type of man I was attracted to. I think it was his need to be looked after, coupled with an unfulfilled desire to be with the woman of his dreams, a woman on whom he’d been convinced he would only be able to gaze on from afar.
I took the initiative, I often do. I can be a daunting presence. During my next visit, I stroked his arm, embraced him, and kissed him tenderly, encouraging him to respond.
‘Olivia, forgive my prying, but may I ask if you’re spoken for?’
‘Well, I’m not married or engaged, but I am in a long term, polyamorous relationship.’
‘I wouldn’t like to think, I was queering somebody’s pitch.’
‘Not at all, dear man.’
A week or so later, in bed together, a clearly still inhibited Otto said,
‘I bet you’re used to more worked out bodies than my sorry carcass.’
‘Nonsense. I’m not attracted to superficiality.’
‘Usually, I’m not concerned with my looks, but in bed with such an alluring woman, I can’t help but feel embarrassed.’
‘Otto. Stop that. I love your cuddly body. You’re my teddy bear.’
‘You know, I didn’t know my father very well. What I remember is that he was the complete opposite of me, a larger than life character. I read his book to see if somehow I could get to know more about him.’
‘And did you?’
‘It made him even more distant. But his novel led me to exploit a genre in publishing for which I’d never had any time or interest before.’
‘I’m all ears, Otto.’
‘I’m sorry, do you mind if I call you, Ollie?
‘Not at all, feel free, Otto.’
‘Well, Ollie, I now enjoy reading such books, they’re usually slim tomes, often about strong women. ’
‘I think I should read a few, just to see how these strong women compare to me.’
‘Nobody compares to you, Ollie.’
‘You said, your father was a charmer, Otto. So are you, dear man.’
‘You’re balm for my battered ego, Ollie. Anyway, all of the books of this type I’ve read are written by European authors. If I may say so, Ollie, you have the air of a polyglot about you.’
‘Yes, I am fluent in several tongues, Otto. I’ve always thought there is something special about our continent. All of it.’
‘I’ll compile a list of volumes where the core of the story is what’s important and not the extraneous. Some, not all, are about affairs, ménages a trois, for example, and with what I would describe as highly sophisticated and detailed sex scenes.’
‘I can’t wait. Seriously.’
Otto rolled out of bed.
‘Would you like a glass of champers, Ollie?’
‘I’d love one, Otto.’
‘Coming up.’
‘Otto, please be more careful on those stairs down to the kitchen, especially with all those piles of books and things. In fact, any stairs, you go much too fast.’
‘I’m up and down the stairs all day, old girl. It keeps me fit, although I’m still overweight.’
‘You’re a very attractive man. A genuine, caring, and attentive man. Do stop criticizing yourself.’
‘Sorry, Ollie.’
Otto was a man who never took anything for granted and always, to my mild annoyance, waited for me to make the first move. I sighed, but looking at his vulnerable face as he came back into the bedroom, I smiled and held up the bed covers, allowing him to slide in. He seemed the type who’d been bullied at school, and his somewhat contrived bonhomie, clearly hid a lot.
One afternoon, lying in the semi dozing aftermath of love making, Otto said,
‘You know, Ollie, when I was a young chap, I longed to be like my father in his dealings with the fairer sex.’
‘That’s not to be wondered at, Otto.’
‘Yes. I did actually manage to seduce a couple of young ladies here, forgive my lack of delicacy, but I didn’t feel proud of it, in fact, the opposite. It just wasn’t me. I’m not a Lothario type, Ollie.’
‘I know what you mean, Otto. Some of life’s lessons have to be learnt the hard way.’
‘Too true, my dear. There’s something else I’d like to tell you, if I may?’
‘Of course, dear man.’
‘My clearest memory of my father is hearing him escorting a young lady up the stairs and braying, ‘‘Top of the shop, my dear, top of the shop.’’ I hated it.’
‘I think you and I may have exorcised that memory, Otto.’
‘I believe so, to. I’ve been thinking, Ollie, I’d be honored if you’d accept the painting as a personal present.’
‘That’s so sweet, Otto. Thank you. But, if you don’t mind, I’d like to keep it here. It brought us together, so it belongs with us both.’
‘How very true.’ He kissed me gently on the forehead.
‘You know, Ollie. I’m a shy man, and there’s something else I have to say.’
‘Yes, Otto, feel free.’ I answered, cautiously.
‘Getting to know you and spending time with you has been a great joy. I can’t find the words to tell you what you mean to me. I find, I express my feelings better with the written word.’ He swallowed.
I used the sheet to wipe away the tears from my eyes.
‘You’re a truly lovely and special man, Otto. I can’t wait to read your billet doux.’
‘Champers, my dear?’
‘I’d love one, Otto. But take the stairs slowly. Please!’
‘Certainly, old thing.’
Just before I left, Otto told me he was going to an antiques fair and would be back in a few days.
Feeling a bit guilty that I hadn’t spent much time with K, I rang him.
‘Are you free tonight?’ I asked him.
‘I’m always free, if you’re doing the asking.’
That’s typical of him and made the pangs of guilt just that bit sharper.
As we lay in bed after making up for lost opportunities, I said,
‘By the way, I’ve got something for you to read. I’m sure you’ll be interested.’
I placed my copy of Top of the Shop on his chest.
‘What’s this?’
‘Well, I’ve mentioned that I’m seeing a chap, Otto. I haven’t told you everything about him.’
‘Spill the beans.’
‘Otto’s father was an inveterate womanizer, and he wrote a novel, called Top of the Shop. It’s the story of a man’s sex life, from callow youth onwards, with lashings of sex, all of which took place in a bedroom at the top of the family home. Rather, it’s just lashings of sex under the guise of a series of relationships; while reading it, I realized some of it was, almost certainly, based on or influenced by his escapades at the Top of the Shop, with my mother.’
‘You do mix with interesting people.’
‘Present company included. Think about it, you slept with my mother, she slept with Otto’s father at the Top of the Shop, I slept with Otto at the Top of the Shop.’
‘Your life is just waiting to be filmed, with me as the love interest.’
‘Perfect type casting.’
‘I’ve never heard of this book.’
‘It was privately published and sold literally next to nothing.’
‘I like the cover. That looks like a male backside. Who does or did it belong to?’
‘It’s actually a painting by my mother. I can only assume the posterior belongs to Otto’s father or somebody else my mother played around with, i.e., you!’
‘Me! Do you think so?’
‘Well, it never occurred to me before, but that person looks quite young, look at the smooth skin on his back.’
‘I remember your mother took a photo of me once, back view, as I was walking into the bathroom. She said something about it being a lovely sight. I’ve no idea what, if anything, became of it.’
‘No reason, why it couldn’t be you!’
‘Unbelievable! My bum on a book cover!’
‘For that alone, it deserved to be a best seller!`
On the morning Otto was due back, I was idling in the bath when my mobile phone rang, disturbing my reverie.
‘Hello, Olivia, Bastian here, Otto’s next door neighbor.’
‘Bastian, what a surprise. How are you?’
‘Olivia, I’m fine. Are you sitting down?’
‘Bastian?’
‘Please sit down, Olivia.’
‘I am. Please, Bastian.’ I sat up, displacing waves of soapy water.
‘Olivia, Otto left a spare set of keys with me while he was away, and I had to open up to accept a delivery. Anyway, I’m sorry to have to tell you…..’
‘As long as you don’t tell me, Bastian, it hasn’t happened.’
I felt sour panic rising in my stomach.
‘Olivia, Otto had an accident a couple of days ago. They’re sure he died instantly.’
‘Bastian, did it have anything to do with stairs?’
‘Yes. Apparently, he was going up or down the stairs to or from the basement when he slipped, I’m so truly sorry. I found him a quiet but warm and very likable man.’
‘Thank you, Bastian. He was.’
‘There’s something else, Olivia.’
‘Go on.’
‘There was a parcel addressed to you lying on the table.’
‘Oh. Thank you Bastian.’
‘It’s on the way to you.’
‘Thank you, Bastian.’
‘And on the desk in the basement, Otto seemed to have started a letter to you. He didn’t get any further than, Ma cherie…..’
‘Oh. Bastian….’
It was only when I noticed I was sitting in very cold water that I got out of the bath, wrapped myself in my dressing gown, and rang K.
He was with me in record time. The one constant in my life, whom I always took for granted.
The parcel arrived the following day, containing the painting, as well as a list of book recommendations that Otto had promised me, then I remembered that Otto and I had agreed that the painting should remain in his care. I had the horrible feeling that maybe Otto had had a premonition and decided to send the painting after all.
I burst into tears and let them fall onto my mother’s ‘lost’ work.
It turned out that Otto had left plans for the eventuality of his death. I attended his funeral, which was a very modest affair. In the chapel beforehand, there were only a few people, including Bastian, with whom I sat, all sitting in different rows. Afterwards, at the grave site, under a light drizzle, there was only me and Bastian, and a middle aged woman present.
I was disappointed and felt even sadder.
Sometimes one doesn’t know a person, the way one thinks. I never thought that would apply to me, of all people, and my relationship with Otto.
K had been spending most of his time with me since Otto’s death, and I began to feel I was more or less over it. I’d been enormously fond of Otto, but time waits for no woman.
So there I was lying in the embrace of clean, fresh silk sheets, watching a naked K opening a bottle of rosé,
‘You know, your body hasn’t really changed that much over the years. On closer look, I’d swear that is your bottom on the cover of the book.’
‘Wow!’
He slid in beside me and poured out the glasses.
‘We never did get around to talking about the book.’ I said.
‘Understandably. Anyway, I enjoyed it, it’s got a sixties and seventies feel to it.’
‘I saw us when I read some of the sex scenes.’ I added.
‘Me too! They were a turn on!’
We read a chapter together, adopting the roles of the characters and acting out their moves faithfully until we dissolved into laughter. Then we embraced, fondling each other while occasionally bursting into bouts of giggling.
That was Monday, on Wednesday I’d been ringing K on his mobile phone for a few hours without answer. We hadn’t spoken since Monday, when we’d laughed over Top of the Shop, we usually spoke or got together at least every second day.
When he still hadn’t answered by the afternoon, I jumped in my car and drove to the solitary house next to the graveyard. I looked up at his flat, of course, it was at the top of the shop.
I let myself into the house and, in the late summer sun, I could see into the back garden and hear the noises of adults and children enjoying a party, which K had mentioned. I poked my head out of the door and quickly saw that K was not one of the revelers.
On the top floor, I stood outside K’s flat. I put my ear to the door, not a sound, not even of music. I peeped through the keyhole, but I saw only black.
A feeling began to grow on me, it was a warm, unpleasant sensation on the exterior of my body. I unlocked the door. Inside, it was dark and smelt musty. I looked around, deliberately avoiding the bedroom, in the hope of seeing something that might explain his unavailability.
I was hoping he was in the embrace of a busty wench, desperately hoping, actually.
I swallowed heavily and broke out in a cold sweat as I finally opened the bedroom door. I didn’t want to go inside, but I did. It was very stuffy so I opened the windows. I still hadn’t looked at the bed. When I did, I could see a body shaped mound, but there was no movement or noise.
I was shaking and trying to hold back the tears. It couldn’t be. He was too young, too fit.
I sat on the bed, on the side I usually occupied, and leant over him. I pulled back the blanket and felt his forehead with my palm. It was ice cold.
I threw my coat on the floor and lay down beside him, putting my arms around his chest and squeezing as tightly as possible while I buried my face in his hair and sobbed till I fell asleep.
When I awoke, it was night, but I phoned Ernst, he arranged everything, and then took me back to his house and consoled me.
There was an autopsy, it turned out K’s heart had just stopped, no warning.
Ernst asked me about the funeral arrangements. I said,
‘K was never one for ostentation or frills. He’d said on occasion, when I pushed him, ‘‘Just give me a simple cremation and a good send off, that’s all.’’
So we did, at Clint’s. Where else?
The place was packed and like a sauna, forcing groups of mourners to gather outside where the atmosphere soon became like a celebration.
Talking of Clint, he was a diminished figure, one of the few in black, and sitting behind the bar nursing a half empty bottle of something.
Among the female guests were several women, including Tamara.
There were many a tear filled eye and lots of tales were told, most I would think apocryphal, and many drinks swallowed. Music was playing on the jukebox, but it was inevitably drowned out by the din.
I felt lost and alone on the perimeter of a loud, boozy but lovely crowd, until they drew me in to the centre and there I remained laughing and crying for hours.
The following evening, I wanted to say my own goodbye to the love of my life. I sat on my balcony, in the fading warmth, with a bottle of rosé and a glass, and a beer for K, and a bottle of ice cold vodka with two glasses. I rolled a cigarette, filled both shot glasses, clinked my glass against K’s, and just sat there drinking and thinking.
I recalled a conversation from not too long ago,
‘‘Do you remember, you said once, that we’ll live forever?’’ I’d asked.
‘‘We will.’’
‘‘Does that mean as ghosts?’’
‘‘If it comes to it.’’
He’ll live on in me.
I left our glasses on the balcony, I thought I might come out again and have a sip and a roll up. I felt so drained and went to bed.
I didn’t think I’d been asleep for long when I became aware of a faint, barely perceptible, noise. I was so befuddled I couldn’t make out what it was. As the sound became louder, I realized it was music, and as my head cleared, I recognized the melody to a song that K regarded as one of his all time favorites, ‘Reach Out and I’ll be There by The Four Tops.’ But where was it coming from?
I never found out.
Finally, fully awake, I sensed a presence beside me. I turned my head slightly, and I could just make out K, he was naked and kneeling, and looking down at me.
He gently pulled my nightdress over my head, and there followed an incredibly slow process in which he massaged and stimulated every part of my body.
I’d never experienced anything like it, and I knew I never would again. He took me to the absolute brink and held me there.
K wasn’t the best lover I’d ever had, but he was the most considerate, by a long way. But on that night, he excelled himself.
Just when I thought I couldn’t take any more, he relaxed for a moment and then teased me over and over again. Finally, I came, it was totally overwhelming, my body was rocked by tremors, tears running down my cheeks as I slowly came down from an unprecedented high and slipped into sleep, during which, I was somehow aware, that K was stroking me and breathing gently into my ears, and when I came to, he was gone.
Had it all been a dream?
Impossible. No dream could be so life like, at least, not in my experience.
I put my palm on the bed where he’d been and felt the fading warmth.
I went to the balcony and, with shaking hands, rolled a cigarette and somehow managed to refill my wine glass. It was then that I saw that K’s shot glass and beer bottle were both empty.
I thought back to the last hours I’d spent with him, it sounded disrespectful, even flippant, but it was true to say that he died doing what he enjoyed most, being with me, having sex, drinking alcohol, and laughing, probably in that order.
Two months had flown by since K passed away, but I still left glasses, a bottle of beer, and a bottle of vodka in wine coolers on the balcony table, but he never came back.
I talked to him every day, I still do. I even interrupted myself once and said,
‘That’s the first sign of madness, talking to myself.’
‘You’re not talking to yourself. You’re talking to me. Don’t ever stop.’ He said.
It doesn’t mean I believe in ghosts, I don’t. I believe in K.
I broke down in tears from time to time, and then I felt his hand on my shoulder, and that helped. He was never the most tactile person in the world, so it meant a lot.
It took me a while to get back in the saddle, but a person entered my life a couple of weeks ago, a famous opera singer and teetotaler to boot. It didn’t last long. Inevitably, I compared him to K. I knew I needed to accept, there was only one K and that would never change.
Incidentally, I hung my mother’s painting of K, from the back perspective, on the wall above my bed.
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