Conversation · Cleaning Lady

"The less said about those people, the better."

She's scared of room #12.

"Why is there a hole in the wall in the abandoned apartment?"

"Some lunatic lost his mind... All kinds of morons pass through these halls."

With how small these rooms are -- wouldn't you want to break the wall down?

"Who lives in apartment #10?"

"No one lives there, it's been empty for months."

"But I talked to someone through the door."

"Impossible," the cleaning lady says, shaking her head, "I would know if someone had moved in there." She pauses, eyeing the hallway.

"Maybe it's those counterculture people again? Breaking into our house like it's a public space... You're a policeman, be good and take a look, will you?"

"Sure, I'll go see what I can find." (Take it on.)

"Great. Young people, they're worse than rats, you know -- always littering the hallways with trinkets and empty beer cans..."

"The police has better things to do." (Nope.)

"Suit yourself, Mr. Important. No one cares about this building any way..."

"But I heard someone walking inside."

"Do you know who lived in the foreclosed apartment?"

"The hell am I supposed to know?" The cleaning lady shrugs, her mouth puckered like a dried fig. "Another nut job, I assume."

She really doesn't like those nut jobs. Bad blood there.

"That's all, thanks."

She mumbles some kind of a response, then hacks something into her handkerchief.

"Is one of the residents on a vacation? Their mailbox is overflowing."

"People come and go, I don't keep an eye on everyone."

They probably just moved -- or died, hopefully somewhere else.

"I didn't find any counterculture people in apartment #10 -- it was just a real estate agent setting up the room for new tenants."

"I see..." She takes out her handkerchief and wipes her nose. "I hope some good people are finally going to move in. This place needs them."

"No one is coming. There will be nothing but squalor unless we start killing real estate agents."

"We won't be killing anyone. And you shouldn't say things like that. You're a police officer... there's been enough killing. I've seen it..." She coughs.

She's seen it -- and known those who have been killed.

"Lax women and sexual deviants. That's who'll come." (Spit.)

"I know those types, yes. There have been some here, but they never make their rent. So they have to move out. I know their type..." She coughs.

She appreciates your effort to curb the deviantry and laxness.

"Yes. Some highly technological wizards are going to save this place. It'll be an visionary innovation utopia."

"Oh, I do like wizards," she agrees wholeheartedly. "And people like that in general. They have a lot to tell us about our fates..."

She means clairvoyants.

"Yes. Radiocomputer wizards are coming. They're gonna save the place -- and the economy."

"I'm sure everything will be fine. This apartment building needs slow change. Imperceptibly slow."

"Yes, well..." She doesn't know what to say so she just coughs and repeats: "I hope they're good people."

Your statements are too vague to comment on.

"Who are you?"

"I'm no one, just an old woman who cleans these hallways."

"Do you live here?"

"If you can call it living..." She spits on the floor, before wiping it off with a broom. "I have a little room upstairs, right next to the coal room."

"It's barely bigger than a closet, but I don't complain, no..." She juts out her chin, eyes shining. "I have my bed and my aching bones to keep me company and that's all I need from this world."

And all she gets, too. The coastal wind beats down hard on the coal room door, outside. Splashes of waves make the balcony slippery...

She hasn't spoken to anyone for a while. Even her sentences feel rusty.

"I'm looking for Billie Méjean's apartment. Could you direct me?"

"It's about Victor, isn't it?" She narrows her pale grey eyes. "It's always about Victor with her... You'll find the Méjeans in apartment #20 upstairs. It's one of the doors on the balcony."

"I'm looking for a young male in his mid-twenties, dark hair, skinny build. A smoker on the balcony."

"Yes-yes. I know who you mean. The scrawny boy who's always smoking like the devil, right?" She looks at the other end of the hallway.

Somewhere in the building a child starts crying. You hear a radio tuned to a talk show and someone taking a shower.

"What's he in trouble for?"

"No trouble, I just want to talk to him. Do you know where he lives?"

"Talk!" The cleaning lady starts laughing, but it turns into a violent coughing spasm. She squeezes her broom, trying to catch her breath.

What was so funny about that?

"He lives upstairs in room #28. Go to the balcony. It's one of those doors there," she points east. "He's usually home in the evening."

"Thank you." He turns to you. "We should go check out his apartment on the balcony, see if he's home."

"He's wanted for murder. He's goin' away for life."

"He's actually not wanted for murder. We just want to talk with him."

"Murder!" The cleaning lady starts laughing, but it turns into a violent coughing spasm. She squeezes her broom, trying to catch her breath.

"I'd wager you've got the wrong man. But even so, you're out of luck, policeman -- I saw him leave the building just before you came in."