Quincy – Project Love

I was at my favorite spot in the woods that I had been going to regularly—to sit on the tree stump that was my seat and listen to the stillness, the wind in the treetops, and the droning of insects. As I slowly breathed in the pleasant smell of moist earth and the fragrance of the larches and scrub pines—rare at this altitude—I felt the lightness that comes when I am completely at one with nature. I could feel the center of my being, as if there were no more borders between time, space, and me. A lot had happened recently, and a lot of changes were in the wings. Life is like a stream—or like the little creek near my favorite spot that babbles on in the background like music.

Lisa died a few months ago. She knew exactly when she was going to die, and so did I. After our last conversation, I went to my room and waited for morning. I was very calm, because she had prepared herself well and went peacefully and happily into the next world. When I saw her lying in her bed, she had a small smile on her pretty face, as if she had just drifted off to sleep while listening to a bedtime story. I sat on her bed and looked at her for a long time. A deep peace was in the room.

I said a few words to those present at the memorial celebration, as Lisa had requested. We weren't mourners at all. We were happy and even laughing, because she would have liked it that way.

"Death isn't the end; it's just the beginning of something new," Lisa had said to me. "I don't want people to cry at the memorial. Make them laugh. Show them that life is beautiful and that death is part of life." And she had also said, "If you have really lived, then death is a beautiful closing, a time to rest and relax and then grow some more." She winked at me; in that moment she seemed more like a sly teenager than an eighty-four-year-old woman.

When the celebration was over, we all went to sit together on the roof terrace. Mia had prepared a place for Lisa. She smiled and said to me, "She liked being here so much. She should be our guest today as well."

* * *

Peter moved into Lisa's apartment a few weeks later. We didn't even notice that someone new had moved in at first, because Peter was very reserved and shy. I also noticed—when I happened to meet him for the first time in the elevator—that he barely looked up from the floor, as if he were afraid to look me in the eyes. Even though I tried to make polite conversation by asking him this or that (the way you do when you don't know someone), he only answered in monosyllables and never returned a question. The second the doors opened to our floor, he hurried out of the elevator as if he were fleeing something. When he got to his door, he quickly unlocked it and disappeared inside without even saying good-bye. What was he afraid of?

The next day, I went and rang his doorbell. Even though it was a Saturday and I thought he might be home because he doesn't work on the weekend, he didn't answer. Why wouldn't he open the door? Maybe he had headphones on and couldn't hear the doorbell.

But then I ran into him downstairs Sunday afternoon, just as he was about to enter the elevator. He had a bag of groceries in one arm and a six-pack of beer that he'd bought at the gas station in the other. "Hi, Peter," I said. "How's it going?"

"Everything's fine," he mumbled, barely glancing at me. He'd already shut down. But then fate came to my aid. His bag tore, and all of his groceries came crashing down, scattering everywhere. Just as he was trying to gather them together, the six-pack of beer slid out of his hand and fell as well. We heard the glass break and then saw foaming yellow-gold liquid spread across the floor. Red as a beet, he tried to rescue what could no longer be salvaged. He looked at me helplessly.

"That can happen," I said. "I'll help you."

Together we collected the groceries. I moved all the broken glass aside and cleaned the floor while he stood by, watching wordlessly. But he stayed there, not daring to leave until I had finished.

"You want to go back to the gas station?" I suggested lightly, "before you die of thirst?" He hesitated, but I had already started walking in that direction, and he followed me. As he trotted along beside me, he seemed like a clumsy bear. By the time we arrived at the gas station, he was out of breath, even though he had barely answered my questions with one word or responded to my comments.

Peter was tall and big. He wore black, horn-rimmed glasses, and his hair grew wildly in all directions. He had pimples on his forehead, even though he'd already turned twenty-four; that much I did get out of him from my questions.

When we arrived back at his apartment door, I decided to ask him if I could talk to him about a project. I could use his professional opinion regarding technical issues. (That's something else I was able to drag out of him: he was a computer specialist.)

"Uh, I don't know," he answered.

"It would really be a big help to me," I said.

"Well, okay," he said, actually looking at me for a brief moment. I suggested a date, and he accepted.

"Do you mind if I also bring Joe along?" I asked.

"Who's Joe?"

"He lives below you. The consultant."

Peter nodded and then disappeared into his apartment as he mumbled, "Later."

* * *

Joe had been living in this apartment building longer than my father and me, but we'd barely seen him. He worked for a consulting company and was constantly on the road, visiting clients worldwide and advising them on corporate mergers or consolidations—at least until recently. For the past three weeks—longer than he had ever been around the year before—he had been living here again. I met him on the street and said, "Hello" just as he was getting out of a taxi. He looked preoccupied and frazzled. As we rode up in the elevator, I asked him whether he was going to be staying longer this time.

"Just a few more days; then I'm leaving," he answered. It sounded pretty depressing.

"Where are you headed, Joe?" I asked.

"Far away," he murmured.

Something didn't seem right; I was sure of it. Why was he speaking so monosyllabically? Did he not want to talk about his next job? Or was he not supposed to?

At around noon, I went to Joe's door and rang the bell. He looked like he must have been sleeping off a hangover, so I suggested we meet in the afternoon.

"You're an experienced company consultant," I said, beginning the conversation. "Could you help me with a project that is very important to me? I just need your advice."

"I don't know if I'm the right person," he answered.

"May I briefly describe it to you?" I asked. I didn't want to be brushed off so easily, because I felt that there was something that needed to be said or that he would like to say in the right situation. I just didn't know what it was.

"Okay," he finally said.

His apartment was almost empty. It only had the most basic furniture, and there was nothing personal...