Page 13 of My Boss

“I don’t understand.”

“The sum of the numbers formed by multiplying any number by nine always gives nine,” I hasten to explain. “For example, nine times two is eighteen, and one plus eight, you know, gives nine. Or nine times thirteen is one hundred and seventeen, and one plus one plus seven is also nine. What size shoe do you wear?”

“Excuse me?”

“Shoe number. Forty-five, six?” I’m trying to guess.

“Forty-six,” he replies, clearly perplexed.

“So forty-six times nine is four hundred and fourteen. Four plus one plus four is nine. You were born in nineteen eighty-one, correct?”

I know he was because this is the date on the company’s website.

He just nods.

“So one thousand nine hundred and eighty-one multiplied by nine is… ” I give myself a second. I close my eyelids, feel the familiar pulsing above my eyebrows, a string of digits appears in front of my eyes, they fly by, circle around, merge into pairs. I try to instinctively put them in order, until finally, each one jumps into its place. “Seventeen thousand eight hundred and twenty-nine. That is, one plus seven plus eight plus two plus nine makes twenty-seven, and two plus seven is nine,” I finish with an exhale, smile with satisfaction and wink at my boss. “Have a good afternoon.” I unbuckle my seatbelt, open the door and get out proud as a peacock with the hope that I have left my boss with a face that says, “Holy shit, she’s a walking calculator.”

Well, I am. So what if I have to be at work tomorrow at damn eight in the morning?

*

As soon as I walk up to the apartment door, I hear a neighbor greeting me from across the street. I have two neighbors on the floor. One is Makowski—a divorcee, a quiet alcoholic who has a crazy cat. The other is Ala—a charming woman in her seventies, although she looks as if she were in her fifties. She practices yoga every morning, does Nordic walking twice a week, and plays bridge on Saturdays with three friends. They are loud like teenagers let loose after being grounded at home.

“Maria, something has arrived for you!” she calls out as I turn the key in the lock. “It’s beautiful, but it’s in my way. Come and help.” She disappears into the corridor of her small apartment.

I walk up to the door, which is wide open. Intrigued, I look inside and almost fall on the floor.

I shit you not! The WING ARMCHAIR!

My heart jumps for joy and starts thumping. God, I can’t believe it!!!

“Are you feeling well?” Ala glances at me, suddenly alert.

“Well? I’m about to go crazy with joy!” I throw the documents and my purse on the floor and reach for the armchair. I embrace it as if I’ve found a dog someone stole from in front of a store. It may not smell very good but screw it. It’s beautiful, it’s delightful, it’s mine. But by what miracle?

“Where did you get it from? I thought it was lost.” I don’t take my eyes off the chair. I stroke the curve of its backrest, the worn upholstery… I must look like I’ve lost my mind because Ala answers, a little uncertainly, “A man brought it in an hour ago. He knocked and asked if he could leave it with me until your return so no one would take it.”

“A man?” I look at her. “What kind of man?”

“A courier. He did not introduce himself. A stocky, bald young man. He asked me to sign for the receipt… I thought I was doing the right thing,” she adds, obviously nervous.

“Yes, yes. You did very well,” I assure her. “And was there a name, a company name, anything on the receipt?”

“Actually, I don’t know, child. I didn’t even have time to put on my glasses. I just signed, and he carried the chair into the hallway.”

“I see.” I look at her, and I’m bothered by the fact that she let a strange man into the apartment so easily. “Thank you very much, but in the future, please ask first who is the person you are allowing to enter your place, okay? You hear so much about elderly people being robbed… ”

Ala dismisses it with a wave of the hand.

“And what could he supposedly steal from me, Maria? Soviet-era crystals, an amber necklace, or maybe a rusty wedding ring?” She snorts. “I’m not stupid. I keep my cash in the bank,”—she leans toward me and lowers her voice—“and in my dresser, I have pepper spray and an alarm siren in case someone wants to rip off a poor retiree.” She winks at me.

I smile because the old lady, for her age, is really resourceful. I have been her neighbor for five years, and I can barely count on the fingers of one hand the situations when she needed my help: to carry her rug up to the beater, to hang the curtains (when she threw her back out), or to do the shopping when she had a cold and it was freezing outside. She is the most undemanding person I have ever met in my life. She has been a widow for twenty years. Her son and grandchildren live in Norway, and although it’s not far, they only see one another once a year at Christmas. It’s clear that Ala enjoys their happiness, but she has let me know more than once that she breathes a sigh of relief when they return home after Christmas because she can finally get on withher life. God grant me in my old age to be as self-reliant and resourceful as she is.

*

I’m so excited I’m about to start flying. The room and balcony have turned into a carpenter’s workshop. I’m using a sander, sandpaper, and paint… From the basement, I brought up a roll of colorful upholstery fabric with stripes, which I once bought at a sale. It fits perfectly—as if it was waiting for just this day. Or night, rather, because before I know it, it is midnight. The only thing that makes me pull away from the work is the gnawing in my stomach. I make myself a quick sandwich, looking at the results of my efforts. There are still so many details to be worked out.

I almost swallow the ham sandwich whole just to satisfy my hunger, then return to upholstering. I should call Karol or preferably go to him and repay him for such a gift. He surprised me. It’s a fantastic surprise. And he betrayed nothing, the crazy BF. He’s such a darling…

---