The Indelible Mr. Reliante(Jeremy McCool) The indelible, unstainable, incredible Mr. Reliante always walked on the highest part of the sidewalk on the highest side of the street to ensure the dignity of the soles of his shoes. He did so today, about three o’clock, traversing Emerson Street from Cultured Barbery, where he had just gotten a trim, to his exquisite, but not genuinely large, apartment towards the end of the prestigious East Northampton Lane. He lived at the head of an expensive block, and on his street especially, he always carried a black cane umbrella, no matter the season. As he made the seventy-eight degree turn onto East Northampton Lane, he stopped at the corner Accessories Shoppe and purchased a black cane umbrella, having, in his haste to make his two o’clock appointment at the Cultured Barbery (the only barber he would entrust with his genteel, sophisticated hair) neglected to carry one with him. The shopkeeper knew him by name, indeed he stocked black cane umbrellas for Mr. Reliante alone, as this was a common occurrence. Mr. Reliante had a closet just inside his lavishly lavender front door utterly filled with black cane umbrellas.

The breeze ruffled his frilled collar as he exited the store and he was inclined to secure his top hat with his free hand. A half smile formed itself out of his face and his head tilted slightly upwards as he looked about him promptly and then slowed his pace to a leisurely stroll for the remainder of his expedition. Mr. Edwards, the part-Jew silversmith across the lane, gave him a jolly wave and an “Ah!” as he turned fully to the side and presumptuously meant to cross the street to enjoy Mr. Reliante’s society.

“Jeaques! How do you do, sir! Pitiable weather, isn’t it? Almost not suitable for an umbrella.”

“Ah, Mr. Edwards. Yes, it is a shame about the dreadful sun. The most noteworthy sections of my wardrobe are reserved for winter attire.”

“Oh, as are mine, Mr. Reliante. Everyone on this good street, I am sure, shares the same accord.”

“Yes. I am sure that they do. By the way, Mr. Edwards, how has your wife so far fared in her—new situation?”

“Oh, she is certainly holding up much better than I am myself.” He leaned in and spoke softly, as if he were in confession. “Her parents are all but destitute and her father is more than a little mad from degeneracy. It was not out of fondness for them, but duty on her part, that we took them in.”

There was a fanciful din behind Mr. Edwards and both men’s eyes shifted swiftly to capture its cause. An old man rummaged in the metal waste bin sitting by the side of Mr. Edwards’ apartment. He was dressed in quite the dilapidated manner; a long, torn white thermal shirt sheltered his frail torso and continued down to his knees. His pallid, but furry legs ornamentally displayed the plain fact that he was not wearing anything below the waist. He was mostly bald with tufts of white hair sprouting like weeds from points on his head, and his beard made up a mockery of that of the noble Sigmund Freud, only poorly taken care of. Mr. Edwards’ face flushed bright red, and he quickly turned to Mr. Reliante and said, rather meekly, “Excuse me, sir. I really must be going. Please don’t forget to call on us for bridge night.”

With that, he unsteadily made himself away and, half across the lane when he could contain himself no longer, ran the distance between himself and the undesirable, slightly frayed coattails of last years fashion flapping in the light, forgiving breeze. Mr. Reliante stared profusely. Mr. Edwards reached the man, spoke softly but boldly, keeping others from hearing but giving the impression that he was raising his voice. He laid a heavy hand on the old man’s back and, as he pushed him toward the door of the apartment, darting his eyes around him fearfully, he noticed Mr. Reliante still watching and gave him a sheepish smile and wave. “Don’t forget us! For bridge night, I mean!” He called with a wavering voice across the uncontaminated cobblestone street.

Mr. Reliante’s half-smile had long since reduced to a violent sneer. He walked the remainder of his street undetained and disgusted, disinterested in any further conversation. When he reached his apartment, he gazed up at it and the smile returned to his clay face as he squinted at the sun, which was half-obscured by the roof of the boxy, but three-story dwelling: its windows and chimney stacks gave the impression of a stylish, well-powdered face, the door as the mouth. He gave a fashionable laugh, at the sun, and, with his umbrella tucked beneath his arm, he turned his key in the outsized silver lock and pushed open the lavishly lavender door (the colour of the paint, indeed, was entitled ‘lavishly lavender’).

Once inside, he set his keys on the fine sandalwood chest that he had had especially made for his entry hall (to his personal architect’s specifications, nonetheless, so that it resembled the Parthenon, complete with Doric colonnade), and he reached back outside to the salutation mat that was never used (as he insisted that everyone step over it so as not to soil it) to pick up the morning news, which had indeed been there since morning. He digested the news entirely, every day, and only agreed with those editorialists who happened to agree with him. The front page, today, showed nothing out of the ordinary. The war was still going on, the Bolsheviks had been removed from Poland. The Americans continued their refusal to involve themselves in foreign affairs, though they sold weapons and aeroplanes and warships to any nation that would bid the highest. Wimbledon had ended. Mr. Reliante had always longed to like tennis, as fitting for his class, so he read the news of it daily, but it never ceased to bore him. A homeless man who had slain a policeman was in the midst of his third trial, granted him by the House of Commons, and it was beginning to look as if he would get off on a technicality. Here, Mr. Reliante paused. He read the article again and anger spread over him. He immediately wrote a letter to Winston Churchill, voicing his opinions on the matter boldly, using phrasings such as “execute” and “filth” and “state of the nation” liberally. He wrote several drafts of this letter, each becoming successively more severe, and by the time he had penned the final copy the sun was down and he had to turn on the electric lights so that he could see sufficiently to draw his signature as elegantly as he wished to; addressing the Prime Minister was no triviality.

After the letter was, at long last, complete, he sealed it with his personal wax seal, enclosed it in an envelope, and set it on the Parthenon, to be sent the next day. He would walk it to the post office immediately upon waking, and bathing, and dressing, and breakfasting, and making sure his hair looked as well as possible, having been clipped the day before (wearing a top hat was no excuse for imperfect hair underneath). In the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator and, upon finding only two hard-boiled eggs and a quart of milk, he ate one of the eggs cold and had a spot of tea, one sugar, two cream. He then retired to his bedroom, relieved himself of his daily costume, donned his elegant silk nightgown, and fell asleep whilst reading Ulysses, which he, in public, professed to have read already, but was in reality stuck on page sixteen.

The morning was pleasant. It passed without complication, and Mr. Reliante awoke after it was past. He went about his ‘morning’ duties, making only slight adjustments since it was the afternoon. He, once dressed, breakfasted, and combed, walked down the stairs, picked the letter up off the Parthenon, and proceeded to open the door. What a shock he had to see the old man, in the same filthy attire as the previous day, standing on his salutation mat, staring at him. Mr. Reliante swept up the broom he kept next to his door to shoo off peddlers and poked at the old man’s ribs. The old man did nothing. He stared, as if comatose, and then he raised one hand and began picking at his unkempt beard. “I know many hypocrites,” the old man said. “The stars in my eyes are Betelgeuse and Polaris.”

“You’re mad!” Mr. Reliante could think of nothing better to say, stunned at the old man’s prophetic nonsense.

“This is for you,” said the old man, and he pulled a small, but bright red ruby from the midst of his beard and dropped it at Mr. Reliante’s feet. “Piked it from the wife,” he said, leaning in, confidentially. He then proceeded to make an unwarranted slurping noise with his mouth, clicked his heels together, saluted, turned about face and slouched wolfishly away from the door. Mr. Reliante stood, his mouth slightly agape, silent for a good while as he watched the old man walk across the street and resume his antics of the previous day with the waste bin outside of Mr. Edwards’ apartment.

He leaned the broom against the wall and knelt to look at the ruby. It was old and in need of a polish, but it appeared genuine. He twisted his mouth into the confused half- smile, half-sneer of perplexity. He pulled the handkerchief from his breast pocket and, exploiting it, picked up the ruby, wrapped it, and stuffed it into the pocket of his Italian smoky charcoal trousers. He then hastily picked up the letter from off the Parthenon and strolled at his usual pace up East Northampton Lane, quickening as he passed in front of Mr Edwards’ apartment (which was across the lane), and because of the distraction he once again forgot to bring with him a black cane umbrella.

As he rode the trolley to the center of town, where the post office was, he tired of page sixteen and let his eyes wander to the windows. The Industrial Revolution had left the city a hazy grey. Oily sludge filled the gutters of the streets, which had been bright cobblestone once upon a time, but were now marked, black like death. This side of England, being far from London, had up to now escaped the bombs of the Germans, but the factories billowed dark smoke from their chimneystacks and the people who worked in them were stained the same general colour. When he lowered his eyes from the windows, he was surprised to notice that their colour matched the shade of his Italian trousers. It shamed him, in a way, being that they were his favourites, and the most expensive pair he owned. When the trolley reached his stop he was reluctant to get off. The post office was in the town square. There was no high side of the street to walk on. The sidewalks were level with each other, and the people were the same on either side. Some held tin mugs and knocked on them with their uncut fingernails. Some slept under newspapers. Entire families begged for whatever a passing stranger could spare. Many, according to the papers, were refugees from London. He stepped off the bottom trolley rung and into a recent pile of horse manure, steaming in the abnormally cold, for the season, afternoon air. He lurched his fine Italian-made leather shoe out of it quickly, his face flushing, and a child laughed at him from the sidewalk. He cast it a murderous glare and it quieted immediately. He looked up the street as he scraped the sole on the edge of the curb and saw an ornate buggy, with two fine white horses leading it, meandering up the street, away from him. The buggy he knew to be owned by Mr. Anderson, a local representative of the House of Lords. He was generally invited to Mr. Reliante’s bridge nights for reason of status alone. But tonight, as circumstances had determined, he would not be invited.

The post office was a block down the dirty street from the trolley stop. He walked as close to the edge of the sidewalk as he could, staying the greatest possible distance from the undesirables who lined the walls of the buildings and stores. He kept his head slightly higher than usual, but his eyes darted furtively, examining the scenes around him. A small boy tamed a wagon wheel with a stick, rolling it everywhere he chose to walk. A woman walked into its path and it bumped her so that she fell. The boy laughed, righted his wheel, and hastily awayed, spinning it with his stick. The woman, dressed in fashionable clothes from London, now very dirty, slowly picked herself up cursing at the boy and holding her elbow, as if in pain. Another woman nursed her baby on the sidewalk, her eyes staring straight ahead, cold and dead. The man next to her slept, his suit frayed and damaged. His pants were soiled with mud and oil, but they had been very nice at one time, Italian in fact. Smoky charcoal grey. The boy next to him was reading a dog-eared copy of Ulysses, and was, by the look of it, much past page sixteen. When Mr. Reliante reached the post office he opened the door quickly and fled inside.

The lighting was dreary and, like all government-kept buildings, the walls were cracked and painted a sterile white. There was a short cue, three people. The small office smelled of sweat and dirty laundry. The door opened and a man in factory attire entered, took his post in cue behind Mr. Reliante.

“Bloody cold today, ay, gov’neh?”

Mr. Reliante carefully peered over his shoulder to see the man’s face, to ascertain that the man was not indeed speaking to him, as his dreadful suspicions surmised. The man’s face was stained like smoke. His breath wheezed from his throat, rather than silently passing between his lips or nostrils. He had dark brown eyes and wore a small grey cap, cheaply made.

“Oy say, bloody cold today, ay, gov’neh?”

Mr. Reliante still made no reply.

“Come off it King ‘enry, oy didn’t come fr’m the zoo.”

Mr. Reliante turned partway around and looked the man square in the face. “It is colder than usual, yes,” he said curtly, and then turned to the front once again.

“Oy’m jes’ troying to be friendly. No ‘om, no fow, roight? Et’s warm in th’ fact’ry; moybe you ought’ hole ye’self up in the’ fo’ a whoile, ay? Three dozen an hour, ‘at’s how many we tun out. Oy think even ye moight bust a swet.”

Mr. Reliante’s head lowered slightly. He moved forward as the person in the front of the cue turned and exited the small building. He considered whether to reply to such rude comments or ignore them.

“Me woife just ‘ad a buyby,” the man said, courteously now, sensing Mr. Reliante’s uneasiness. “Oy means to send her a noyce sum, noyce as Oy’s can spea. Oy tolds u we should noyme the buyby Juyne. Oy says ‘at’s th’ best.”

Mr. Reliante noted the change in the man’s jeering tone and decided to grace him with a response. “Jane is a nice name,” he said. “Jane is a very nice name.”

“She’s go’ me woife’s oyes.” He reached in his shabby pockets as if searching for something, and then pulled out a small, worn photograph. “’At’s Juyne, ‘ea,” he said, holding it out so that Mr. Reliante could see it, if he happened to turn around again, tapping the baby in the photograph emphatically with a thick, stained finger…

Amazingly, Mr. Reliante did turn. He took the picture in his hand and looked at it, glancing only occasionally at the girl’s father as he continued to talk. The man looked proud. It was a nice picture. The baby had bold blue eyes, and seemed to smile, although attempting not to smile, almost like it had something to say to him.

“’At’s me woife, ‘eh.” the man said, pointing at the woman holding the baby. “Shuy’s a real beaut, ay?” He nudged Mr. Reliante slightly with his elbow.

“She’s very pretty,” he said, as sincerely as he knew how. She was fairly pretty. She looked as if she could have been quite elegant, if dressed properly, and properly combed. But she was not.

While he studied the photograph he heard a distinct female voice say “Sir.” He stared at the baby. “Sir, I can help you.” He studied the picture copiously, watching for even the slightest movement. The man nudged him and pointed to the desk at the front of the room.

“’At’s you, gov’neh.”

Mr. Reliante half smiled at the factory worker and shook his head slightly. He gave the picture back with a small, courteous nod and turned to the desk. The woman behind it peered at him through her glasses, an almost disapproving, yet slightly confused look. He handed her his letter, paid for the postage, and left the office, not affording the factory man another look.

He did not attempt to read Ulysses on the trolley. Instead he stared down at his feet. The hem of his pants still had some residue on them of the horse manure. He did not look out the window. When he turned onto East Northampton Lane, he bypassed the Accessories Shoppe and walked at a brisk pace towards his apartment at the end of the row. When he was adjacent to Mr. Edwards’ apartment, he stopped. He turned and looked at its plain white face, the central chimneystack making for a large, Jewish, nose, and the door afforded a tastelessly pale mouth marred by two silver blisters. He crossed the lane slowly and employed the knocker on the white door, wishing suddenly that he had a black cane umbrella with which to rap. He wiped his hand on his jacket. After a few moments the door opened and an old woman stood inside, staring at him. She smiled an elegant smile, the wrinkles forming lips around her probably dentured teeth. He noticed she had a ring on the hand that she held the door open with. It looked like it was missing its stone. She turned and called “Jonathan, there is a handsome gentleman to see you.” Mr. Edwards came down the stairs hurriedly, and, just as hurriedly, if not more forcefully, pushed the old woman aside, into the kitchen. “Mr. Reliante!” He said, smiling radiantly. “I’m so glad to see you.”

“Please, call me Jeacques,” said Mr. Reliante, half amazed at his own words. “I have come to return this to you. The old man left it at my door this morning. I do believe it is of some value.” He produced the handkerchief containing the red ruby from his pocket and offered it to Mr. Edwards.

Mr. Edwards took it, apologizing over and over for such a disturbance.

“That’s quite alright, Jonathan. And please do not forget about our bridge game this evening. It promises to be quite elegant.”

Mr. Edwards looked on in awe. “No! No, of course not! Delouise and I will be there straightaway.”

“Seven o’clock. On the dot, if you please. I do not appreciate stragglers.” He lifted his head slightly and looked over Mr. Edwards’ head at the interior of the house, raising his eyebrow disapprovingly. With that, he removed his top hat with his white-gloved hand, gave a slight bow, and bade Mr. Edwards good day.

Once home, he set about the daunting task of preparing for the evening game, and called the rest of the invitees on the single hanging telephone in his first story parlor. He changed out of his Italian smoky charcoal trousers and threw them away. Once again dressed, now in a dark brown, corduroy leisure suit, he picked up yesterday’s newspaper, re-read the article about the police assassin, and his head sunk slightly as he thought of the harsh tones in the letter that he had written. Nevertheless, he determined to put his best face on for the guests who would arrive within the hour, and to that call, he shaved all remnants of his day’s experience away with warm water and cream, and then sat down in the front room to think about the baby girl with her bright blue eyes and momentarily regretted inviting Mr. Edwards to bridge.

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