Not Dark Yet (5 page)

Outside it was humid and foggy, on the verge of drizzle.

“My car’s right over there,” Kaye said and nodded at a modest vehicle further down the street. Except for the campus structures at the end, the thoroughfare was dominated by old yet well-kept tenement buildings which boasted elaborate casement windows, verandas with carved banisters, and tall finials at the gables. Kaye’s car was cramped and old and smelled of gasoline and rain gear. The dashboard held a compact disc player and several unlabeled discs cluttered the small compartment beneath it. In the back seat unidentifiable clothing and a plastic bag lay rumpled.

“Please excuse the mess,” Kaye said, got in on the driver’s side, and pulled the seatbelt on.

“Where do you live?” Kaye asked.

“In the towers by the marsh.”

“No wonder there’s a pool in the building. All right, should be a quick drive.”

“Where do you live?” he ventured.

“In the old part of the city, just south of the campus,” Kaye said.

“Are you certain you don’t mind driving so far out of your way?”

“It’s not that far,” Kaye said, smiling. “And at this time of night there’s no traffic.”

They drove in silence. The assistant professor seemed to have other things on his mind, and he felt no need to break the quiet. The sodium glow from the street lamps washed over the windshield in a regular, uninterrupted rhythm. Leaning into the headrest, he almost fell asleep, and only returned to attentiveness when the dry sound of the blinkers signaled that they were about to leave the motorway and enter the street toward the towers.

“These are some buildings,” Kaye said, glancing up at the five nineteen-story structures that rose above them. “I remember when all this was wetland. My father used to hunt in the area. He once shot an owl and had it stuffed. I grew up with the poor thing on the mantel.”

He smiled. “Is that a good memory or a bad one?”

Kaye laughed. “Bad, mostly, since the bird was dead. Which tower do you live in?”

“The second one.”

Kaye stopped by the glass entrance to the second of the six-sided towers. “Do you want me to pick you up tomorrow?” the assistant professor said.

He shook his head. “Thanks, but no need. The trains from here go to the university.”

“All right,” Kaye said. “Have a good night and see you tomorrow.”

“See you,” he said, ignoring the sudden impulse to pull Kaye very close to inhale his breath and fragrance and ask him upstairs. Instead, he closed the car door quietly and continued to the gleaming entrance. He didn’t look back, but followed Kaye’s car as it came into sight and vanished down the slope to the motorway.

He didn’t go swimming as he thought he would. Feeling unexpectedly tired, he took a quick shower to wash the scent
of the owl room off, and went to bed. As soon as he lay still beneath the soft duvet, his two eastern-bred cats snuggled close, while their warmth and purring accompanied him to sleep. His dreams were filled with owls, but they were unable to fly, and ran across a dark forest floor on bare human feet.

7

HE CARRIED THE TRIPOD AND CAMERA BAG TO the fifth floor, and from there followed a windowed hallway to the staircase that led to the top level. That high up the night and the mist, which had been constant the whole spring and summer, cloaked the view of the park below. The formlessness that filled the glass was how he imagined being blind must feel. Not a complete darkness, but the absence of visual cues, a non-seeing. It made him want to turn toward the wall behind him instead, whose textures looked like clouds ought to, full of whorls and shapes and imaginary patterns.

Kaye arrived, smiling, carrying two paper cups with cardboard lids.

“Sorry I’m late,” the assistant professor said. “Thought we could both be in need of the true fuel of our civilization.” Kaye held one of the cups out to him, the scent of coffee rising with the steam. “I have packets of sweetener and non-dairy cream if you need it.”

“Thank you, no, this is perfect,” he said, took the cup, and shouldered the bag and tripod.

They continued upstairs to the sixth floor, through the hissing low pressure of the owl room’s outer doors, to the blue
light of the cloakroom, where they placed the coffee cups on the shoe racks while they changed into protective coveralls. He also wrapped shoe covers around the legs of the tripod. Kaye unlocked the door to the mouse room, the owl room, and the experiment room.

He put the tripod down and adjusted its legs. In the bag he had brought two short-distance and one low-light lens, along with the camera body and a remote timer.

“Looking good,” Kaye said. “These images are the last things we need for a couple of new publications. As you probably know, in academia it’s ‘publish or perish.’”

“So I’ve heard,” he said, scuffing away some wood wool with the tip of his shoe to make certain the legs were standing directly on the floor.

“Please take your time,” the assistant professor said. “There’s no rush. I’ll let the owl in when you’re done and we’ll run the experiment right away.”

“Anything in particular I should keep in mind?” he said, picking up his cup of coffee and looking at Kaye.

“Stand still as long as the owl is here,” Kaye said. “The sounds I play will distract it so it shouldn’t notice you. But if it does, don’t panic. I’ll keep an eye through the window. Oh, and put the camera on silent mode. It does have one?”

He nodded. “No problem.”

“Good,” Kaye said. “I’ll wake up the computers.” The assistant professor vanished through the slim door to the recording room.

The small soundproofed space with its paper mountains and cut-out trees was filled with the scent of wood wool and bird droppings. The silence in it was dense, compressed, he could even hear his own pulse. He chose one of the short-distance lenses from the bag and screwed it onto the housing, switched the camera on, removed the lens cap, and toggled the camera’s

shutter sound to mute. Then he pointed the camera at the tree and set the range so the whole room would be in focus since he didn’t know where the owl would land. He switched the camera remote on and took a few test shots of the tree to adjust for the range and the light conditions. Finally, he set the camera to high speed photography and to capture several consecutive images with each click on the remote. When everything was done, he stepped into the corner behind the tripod, timer in hand, and squatted in the wood wool.

Kaye nodded at him through the window and exited. The assistant professor returned with a mouse box, which he carried into the monitor room, then left again. When Kaye next opened the door, a medium-sized brown and black owl was perched on his gloved right hand. Kaye moved quickly to the tree and held the owl close to one of the upper branches. After a moment’s hesitation, the bird stepped over to the tree and settled. Kaye walked calmly but swiftly back to the monitor room and closed the door.

He waited and breathed. The owl was sitting with its back to him, but he nevertheless took a few shots of it. Then a deep, almost inaudible tone played somewhere close to the blue-padded ceiling. The owl reared up and spread its wings, which seemed to reach from one side of the small room to the other, flew to where the sound had emitted, before it banked and returned to the tree. Next, a higher pitched note appeared. The owl located the source of the new sound almost immediately. The tone after that had a similar pitch, but was played at an almost inaudible volume, yet clearly recognizable to the owl. Then the sound turned very sharp and high, almost painfully so. The next ones that followed must have been outside of his auditory range, because the bird lifted in a different direction twice without him hearing anything. Then came a few more tones, one medium pitched and loud, another low and quiet, almost like a rumble, which the owl located immediately and
accurately. Finally, the door to the monitor room opened slightly and something rustled in the thick wood wool on the floor. The owl immediately took to its wings, as before in complete silence. He pressed the remote several times. Something bounced a few times in the shavings, then the owl returned to the barren tree with the catch secured in its talons and started to consume the mouse. Afterward, the bird moved its head from side to side a few times and adjusted its wings.

Kaye returned from the monitor room, glove on hand, and held it close to the owl’s feet. There were no traces of the mouse left, not even tufts of fur in the wood wool. The owl turned its head a bit before it stepped onto Kaye’s hand, talons sinking into the leather. The assistant professor stroked the soft, wide chest with one finger while keeping his gaze on the bird. The owl rolled its eyes and hooted. Then Kaye carried it back to the owl cages.

“How did it go?” Kaye said upon returning.

“I think it went very well,” he said. “I took several pictures but will only know how they turned out when I’ve looked at them on a screen.”

Kaye nodded. “Good,” he said. “I have more owl species to photograph, but there’s no point in doing that before we know how these are. Give me a call or text when you know.”

“I will,” he said.

“Are you in a hurry?”

“Not particularly. Just have to pack everything up.”

“Give me a few minutes and I’ll follow you outside. With the pictures coming along I need to finish the articles, so no more experiments tonight.”

“Certainly,” he said.

Kaye returned to the recording room and the lights went on inside.

He switched off the remote and the camera, returned the lens and the body to the bag, pulled the tripod’s legs up, and
folded them together. Through the glass he saw Kaye sip coffee while typing on one of the keyboards. After a few minutes the assistant professor returned, switched off the lamp in the monitor room, and locked the door.

“Ready to leave?”

He nodded.

They drove in silence as they had done the night before. The streets were empty and a chilly, lingering drizzle gave the street lights halos. All sounds were thick and distant, as if they were still in the soundproofed bird room. He could see the honeycomb towers shining in the distance, but they didn’t seem to come any closer. Kaye continued along streets flanked by gabled houses with old-fashioned bay windows and carved door frames. Thick but neat hedgerows delineated the gardens from each other and the pavement outside. At a wooden house painted a bright orange-brown color, with black window frames and slim finials spearing the air from the roof, Kaye stopped the car. A low wrought-iron gate barred the short pathway from the pavement to the orange door, where a massive monkey puzzle tree loomed.

“Want to come in for a coffee?” Kaye asked.

He did.

8

INSIDE WAS A CLOAKROOM WHERE A DOOR WITH A frosted window barred the way to the rest of the house. The small space was held in a warm orange color, similar to the exterior of the house, but a shade less intense. One side of the cloakroom was draped with jackets and coats. He spotted at least two down parkas, a navy-blue blazer, a black leather jacket, and a pair of hardshell ski pants with suspenders. When he tried to hang his own coat on top of one of the parkas, both fell off the hook. He quickly lifted the clothes back in place, hoping Kaye hadn’t noticed. Below the outer garments stood a row of footwear: several mountain boots, a pair of tall rubber wellingtons, a couple of sneakers, loafers, the rest hidden behind a leather bag with shoulder strap, a canvas sports bag, and a red eighty-liter backpack. He removed his shoes and placed them with the other footwear.

The hall beyond the second door looked more like an old woman’s house than that of a young academic. The hardwood floor had darkened with age and multiple applications of varnish, its many eyes large and black. Four open doors with thickly painted paneling and carved frames led out of the square central space. A narrow set of stairs ascended to the second
floor, its wall covered with black and white images hung in dark frames, old photographs of relatives, he assumed. Among the pictures were also framed certificates and awards, like a display of achievements for the ancestors. At the bottom of the stairs stood a circular mahogany table covered with a round lace doily and an antique porcelain lamp painted with flax flowers.

“This used to be my grandparents’ house,” Kaye said. “I’ve been meaning to redecorate, but there never seems to be enough time. The living room and kitchen are a bit more this century, I promise.”

He smiled. “Wait a few more years and this’ll be trendy again.”

Kaye laughed. “Want a drink?”

“Just some water, thanks,” he said, hoping it wouldn’t unnerve Kaye since his original invitation had included coffee.

“All right,” Kaye said, hesitated for a moment, then turned and vanished through the door at the opposite end of the hall. “The living room’s to the right, please make yourself at home!”

“Thank you,” he said. He relished exploring new spaces, whether private or public, inhabited or abandoned. In the past, when he glimpsed from outside apartments or houses that were either too bare and lonely-looking, or crowded with old-fashioned, outdated furniture like here, he yearned to stand inside those rooms, to see and experience what whoever lived there did. He had even considered breaking into certain buildings for a closer look at what he could tantalizingly glimpse from outside. But in the end the obvious risks were too high for the possible reward, and he steered his tastes over to abandoned industrial places instead. Those were like open secrets, accessible if one only looked hard enough, and were often more interesting and beautiful than buildings that were still inhabited and maintained.