CHAPTER FOUR
THE ONLY word that could be used to describe Martin's apartment building was nondescript. Maybe utilitarian, if Arthur was being generous. The architectural brief had to have been 'make us a large box that we can put smaller boxes inside of.'
The key slid easily into the door of a small box on the third floor. He was expecting minimalism when he stepped in, but what he found was empty. He stepped back out to check the number and double check that yes, in fact, the key unlocked the door and it wasn't just that the door was unlocked already. There was a small table with a single chair next to the small kitchen area. The living room had no furniture. The cable for the television hookup was neatly coiled against the wall. There was a print of one of Toulouse Lautrec's Moulin Rouge cancan dancers, but other than that, not a shred of decoration.
It was eerie and Arthur was still wondering if he was in the right apartment. He could just find the bedroom and the library books, but instead he went to the kitchen. He knew that a kitchen could reveal more about a person than they knew. He opened the fridge and found it empty except for a bottle of milk. In the freezer, there was a box of single serve microwave frozen vegetables and single serve microwave chicken breasts. The cupboards had packets of single serve oatmeal.
'No wonder he's underweight.'
There was one glass. One tea cup of fine china, white with delicate blue flowers. One plate and one bowl with the same floral pattern. One fork, one knife, and one spoon, all of heavy silver.
He closed the last drawer, absolutely knowing that what he'd done was a violation of privacy and trust. He justified it as concern for Martin's health. Rightfully, so it would seem. It also creeped him out. Who has exactly one place setting and no more?
'Someone who never plans on company.'
The bedroom was easy to find. It was as barren as the rest of the place, the bed tightly made. With the amount Martin read, he had been expecting bookshelves. But the only books were the stack on the bedside table. All nonfiction, they ranged in topics and none of it light reading. He quickly gathered up the books and hurried out, the emptiness of the apartment beginning to feel like a physical presence, and an unfriendly one.
THE ERIKSON library had once been a grand building, gifted to the city by an early industrialist family so their name would live on. Now it was a large building that backed onto one of the most drug and crime ridden areas of the city, with bordering enclaves of recent immigrants trying to scrape together an American dream. The stained glass that survived had bars across it and the gilt paint had long since worn away. It was still the largest library in the city.
At 11:55 Arthur approached the Special Circulation desk. An older woman with short cropped hair looked up at him.
"Yes?"
"Um, hi. Martin Grove sent me. He's sick and-"
"Oh, the poor dear." The librarian took the books from his arms and set them aside. "I was beginning to worry. He's never late. Will he be all right?"
"Yes, just got that flu that's going around."
The woman shook her head. "Probably got it from one of the kids. He loves them anyway." She stepped from behind the desk. "Well, come on, I'll show you to them. He's got them trained to all show up ten minutes early and get everything set up."
Arthur was confused, but had no doubt he'd just been volunteered for something against his will. He followed the librarian through the stacks until they opened up into an airy modern side building with lower shelves and bright colors. In a side corner where he was being led was what looked like a mini school area with some tables, chairs, white boards, and educational posters on the wall. A group of kids was sitting on the rug talking with each other.
"Hello children." The kids all looked up at the librarian. There were nearly twenty of them. Most of them looked to be maybe eight or nine. A few were older, maybe twelvish, a few might have been six or seven, but he wasn't practiced at guessing these things. They were bundled up against the cold outside and the cool inside and he was willing to guess that they were from the surrounding area. "Unfortunately, Merlin is sick today."
'Merlin?'
There was a small whine from the kids. "However, he sent someone else along today and I'm sure he'll be well and back next week."
The librarian gave Arthur a small nod, then left. He looked at the faces looking up at him. "Hi, um... I'm Arthur." There were quick excited whispers from the children.
"So..." he dragged out the word, not sure what he was supposed to do in the face of twenty children and the fact that The Alien was apparently the Saturday childrens' library storyteller. "Where are we?"
"We're at line 189, the start of section three," a little girl at the front volunteered.
"Okay." Arthur looked around. The girl got up, took a book from the shelf and handed it to him. "Beowulf. Okay." He could handle a little epic poetry and the children were all looking up at him with eager expressions. He opened the book. It wasn't in English. At least not any form of English he understood. He flipped through hoping to find a translation in the back or something, but there was nothing.
He closed the book again. "How does Mart- Merlin usually do this, because he didn't leave me any instructions?"
"He reads five lines, then presents us with a translation, and at the end we go over new words."
"Okay." Arthur opened the book then closed it again. "You know what, I wouldn't want to interrupt his flow so why don't we-" He looked around and spotted some crayons and construction paper. "Why don't we make some get well cards for Merlin."
The children each gave him cold stares. It was like being looked at by twenty tiny Martins. It was scary.
"Okay, I can't read this."
"Merlin hasn't taught you old English yet?"
"No, he hasn't. It's on the list. I can read you something else? We can make cards?"
"You didn't collect homework."
"He gives you homework?" Arthur had some memories of the local childrens' library growing up and he was pretty sure there was no homework or old English epic poetry involved. The children each pulled lined paper out of bags and passed them forward. He flicked through them. They seemed to be about the history of Beowulf, but what Arthur noticed the most was that all the papers, even from the youngest kids, were all in the most perfect of cursive letters. It reminded him of Hanh's elegant writing which had been beaten into her by nuns.
"I will pass these on to him. I am sure it will cheer him up. Now how about those get-well cards and you all can start teaching me old English so maybe next time I'll be able to catch up.
IT WAS only an hour but Arthur felt absolutely drained when he leaned on the special collections desk, his arms full of essays and cards depicting the slaughter of mythical beasts.
"He didn't tell you that you would be doing story time, did he?"
"No. No, he didn't."
The librarian laughed. "No one ever said our Merlin didn't have a prankster streak in him."
"That is true," Arthur was forced to agree. "I don't recall story time as a kid involving Beowulf. At worst, I think we got Bunnicula."
"When our last reader didn't show up, we asked him to fill in. He thought the children were advanced students here for extra weekend study, not kids dumped here by their parents for an hour of free babysitting. Research has shown that if you treat children like they are advanced and gifted, they start acting like they are advanced and gifted, so why tell him otherwise. He pushes them, praises them, tells them they can do more than they think they can and, for him, they do."
"Okay. Merlin?"
The librarian put her hands up with a smile. "No idea where that came from but he doesn't seem to mind. He's going to be okay, right?"
"Just the flu. Didn't take care of himself when he should have."
"Silly boy," The librarian said with a fond smile and a shake of her head. Then she picked up a tall stack of books and placed them on the desk. "Here is this week's order."
Arthur sighed and pulled out Martin's library card. He wondered if he could get a bag.
ARTHUR HAD called the hospital to check when Martin was being released. He was still listed somewhere as boyfriend and it was a liberal enough hospital not to care. It was seven when he walked into Martin's room and found him tying his tie.
"Wes hāl," he greeted him with one of the dozen phrases the children had managed to teach him. "Seriously, you are going to walk out of here, on a Saturday, while still getting over the flu, wearing a suit."
"Yes." He adjusted his tie and picked up his coat.
Arthur held out a stack of paper. "Homework. Also, get well cards and a few drawings of Beowulf fighting off giant viruses which the kids drew because I can't read Old English!"
There was a tiny twitch to his lips. Arthur was pretty sure from anyone else he would be hearing hysterical laughter.
"Your books are all back at your place."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome, Merlin." Martin did not falter in the slightest at the name. "You know you could have just said 'by the way, would you mind reading to a bunch of kids for an hour'. You didn't have to completely troll me."
There was another tiny flick to Martin's lips. "True."
Arthur sighed. "Come on, let's get you home."
AT THE door to Martin's apartment he said thank you again and made to go in alone. Arthur ignored the signals and followed Martin in. He'd used the apartment key and the afternoon to make sure at least some of the doctor's advice was followed.
"I made you some dinner."
"You didn't have to do that," was Martin's instant reply.
"Doctor's orders. As your boyfriend, I am supposed to make sure you eat, drink some fluids, and get plenty of rest. So, go change, take a shower, whatever, and I'll heat up dinner."
Martin stared at him. It was a hard stare. It probably sent other agents and most people scurrying for their lives. Arthur had spent his childhood facing worse. Instead, he turned and strolled to the kitchen where he had set up before going to fetch Martin.
He'd heated the soup stock before going to the hospital so it was still warm and the meat and vegetables were precooked and in the fridge. All that was left was to warm up the stock a bit more and boil the noodles. It was at least a minute before he heard Martin's bedroom door open and close. A few minutes later he heard the shower run. He placed the shredded chicken and vegetables on the table. When the shower turned off, he ladled the stock and noodles into large bowls he'd brought from home along with a folding chair.
When Martin came out, he was in a white shirt and dress pants but had removed his tie and jacket. He looked at the table.
"Do you know how to use chopsticks?" Arthur asked.
"No," he replied not taking his eyes off the food.
"No problem." Arthur put down the heavy silver forks next to the large white bowl. "This is Pho. National dish of Vietnam. Rice noodles in a special broth. Guaranteed to cure just about anything. Highly customizable. I like mine with raw beef, bean sprouts, and jalapenos but I don't think your system can handle that. So for you, shredded chicken, your choice of vegetables and I recommend a squeeze of lemon.
"You didn't have to do this," Martin repeated, having not moved towards the table.
"Yes, I did." Arthur kept his voice firm. "You might do the scary man in almost black thing at work but you obviously don't cook or pay proper attention to your own health so I am going to stay right here until I witness you consuming some vegetables, carbs, and protein. You don't have to eat it all. You'd probably get sick if you tried, but you sweated yourself half to death then coughed blood on me, so you need to eat."
Martin continued to stare at the food.
"It's not Kæstur hákarl. Sit down and eat."
With slow steps Martin crossed the room and sat at his own table.
"That's better." When Martin made no other moves, Arthur placed a few slices of chicken on top of the noodles, a sprinkling of vegetables, then topped the whole thing with a squeeze of lemon. Then he held up a fork and a large spoon.
Apparently accepting a graceful defeat, Martin took the spoon and sipped at the warm broth. His face remained neutral but Arthur noted a slight flutter of his eyes. "There, that wasn't so bad, now was it?"