The Astral by V. J. Banis Page B

He was olive-skinned and had a large nose—a classical nose, Fermin would call it. Arabic, she thought, or perhaps Greek. Jan. Janos?
    â€œIt’s the top floor, and no elevator,” Jan said in a whisky baritone, leading the way up steep, narrow stairs that creaked in faint concert with the swish of his caftan. “My legs resent it, but my butt is grateful.”
    He opened the door for her and stepped aside to let her enter first. She came directly into a small living room whose high, beamed ceiling made it seem larger than it was. Huge windows welcomed in every ray of the pale winter sunlight. There was a well-used fireplace in the wall facing her, and a one-person balcony in front, overlooking Santa Monica Boulevard—one and a half persons if they were on very friendly terms.
    It was love at first sight. She strolled into the smallish bedroom, the even smaller but efficient looking kitchen, and the surprisingly enormous bathroom. “Part of the master bedroom at one time,” Jan explained when she commented on the odd disparity in room size. “They made these old places over sometimes in imaginative ways.”
    It was not a lot of space overall, but that just meant she would have less furniture to buy. Back in the living room, she indicated an expensive-looking leather sofa that sat alone against one wall. “Bill didn’t mention furnishings.”
    â€œThe previous tenant’s. She needed money for airfare, so I gave her cash for it, in the hopes that the next person might want it. If not, I’ll have it hauled away.”
    â€œWhy did she leave?”
    â€œOh, you know, the usual story. You come to Hollywood to conquer the movies. You knock on all the right doors, but nobody answers them. The nights are longer and colder than you expected and you end up sleeping alone, or with the wrong guy just to keep the night away. The money runs out, the dreams fade, and Mr. Touchdown back in Eaton, Ohio begins to look a lot more attractive to you.” He sighed. “Two hundred for the sofa. I’ll throw in the dreams.”
    â€œSold.” She wrote a check, he gave her a set of keys, and they shook hands.
    â€œI hope you’ll be happy here,” he said with a grin that flashed a sea of white teeth, and left her standing in the middle of her new home. She turned around slowly, wondering for a second or two if she had been too quick, and deciding that she was entirely happy with her decision.
    The little balcony overlooked Santa Monica Boulevard itself, where those two young men were now having a conversation, but on the top of three floors it was high enough to escape much of the noise and the smell of auto fumes, and the bedroom was to the back, which meant it should be quiet enough for sleeping.
    And those stairs would be good for her butt, too, she thought with grim satisfaction.
    She checked out of the Lodge and went shopping. She bought a lamp and a mini stereo for the living room, and ordered a bed and dresser delivered, and a small television for the bedroom. She imagined herself lying abed watching Jack on the TV, though why she should be lying abed at four in the afternoon she hadn’t yet worked out.
    She called Rose to have the Hanukah bush delivered to her new address instead of the house, and thought about ordering a second one for Walter, but decided he probably wouldn’t care. Probably wouldn’t even notice, truth to tell.
    Some linen, a coffee maker and some fresh ground coffee—her idea of roughing it was a morning without coffee. Some juice and some cereal and some milk.
    Wheeling her cart through Gelson’s, she had a last-minute inspiration and added some Beefeaters, a bottle of Noilly Prat and some olives to her cart. By five o’clock that evening she was standing on her little balcony sipping a martini and watching a drooping sun trying to cast its evening colors on an uncooperatively gray sky and managing only a pallid mauve