You've got to have complete trust in people who have access to your house. Fortunately, I'm totally trustworthy. It's one of my major assets. I'm known for it.
The day Stephen Gadjewski interviewed me for the job, which I got; he stressed the importance of this. He needed to be able to trust me entirely, he said, chewing on the end of a pencil and swiveling nervously in his seat.
'Stephen,' I said, 'if I may call you that until I get my mouth around your surname, I am just a cleaning lady. But I have a solid gold reputation, impeccable references, and I am an exemplary employee. After all, I have the keys to five different residences in some of the most prestigious parts of the city right here in my handbag, as we speak. It's a responsibility not to be taken lightly. A privilege really, and I can assure you I consider it as such. 'Mrs. Mac,' people say, 'I don't know what we would do without you.' I hear this kind of thing all the time. 'Mrs. Mac, you are pure gold.' I'm quite happy to put in the extra hour or so, if necessary, and my clients seem quite happy to give me a bit extra in the hand for doing so. Peeling the spuds, slicing the beans, waxing the table legs, picking up little Dee Dee after ballet; not a problem.'
'Mrs. MacLachlen,' he said with an almost surgical precision and a courteous smile, 'don't underestimate yourself. I've read your references thoroughly and you are clearly a great deal more than just a cleaning lady. You are obviously an exceptional one. Now let me show you around. Then we can discuss the financial details, and what I expect from you.'
Mind you, not everyone shares my values. But I didn't mention that to Stephen. I know for a fact that some cleaners not only rifle through other people's drawers; they sometime wear them as well. Actually steal things. I'm not like that. I know a woman, who does some of the best homes in Parnell and parts of Remuera, who regularly treats herself to hot scented baths in other people's homes. I can't mention her name for fear of dreadful reprisals. Once, in a rash moment when Mrs. Parker of Upland Road was away for the weekend, this woman I'm speaking of helped herself to a generous glass of vintage brandy, and in a state of near delirium, went into her wardrobe, put on a dark navy sweater, a matching cardigan, a rope of exquisite cultured pearls that had been given to her by her late husband, and armed with one of her enormous, important umbrellas, went out and spent the afternoon shopping. She told me that there was no doubt that what you wore altered people's perceptions of who you were. Got fantastic service everywhere, apparently. She said she put the clothes back and rinsed the offending glass, but there has been a sighting of her with a huge tartan umbrella. I would never do anything like that. It's inconceivable. If Mrs. Parker ever discovered this appalling indiscretion, she never mentioned it. She's eighty-six, vague to the point of dementia, and should go into care, poor darling.

He's an interesting man, my Mr.Gadjewski. A bit of an enigma. He has a reticent, cautious manner, chooses his carefully enunciated words thoughtfully, as though he may be asked to repeat them at a later stage, and when he smiles, there's a gravity in his face that suggests he is recovering from some kind of emotional trauma. He's thirty-seven years old, born in England according to his passport, which he keeps in the top drawer of a stunning antique bureau opposite his bed, and has Polish ancestry. He told me that when I asked him about his name. He's of medium build, nice looking, brown hair, watchful blue eyes which aren't entirely his own, (he wears tinted, disposable contact lenses which I find somewhat deceitful) and perfect creamy skin. He looks as though he doesn't shave, but he does. He uses cheap disposable blades. And he's an anaesthetist. On the day he interviewed me, he told me, quite cheerfully under the circumstances, that it is not at all unusual for patients to be given either the wrong anaesthetic, or not quite enough, although he never said he was guilty of such horrors himself. Some people are actually awake for the entire operation apparently. Silently screaming for help. Imagine! Now that's what I call irresponsible. He's currently under a court order to attend anger-management classes, has missed the last two sessions, according to a crisp, formal letter I came across in the inside pocket of one of one of his leather jackets, and he has a restraining order against a woman who harasses him, by the name of Lita. She sounds barking mad to me, and may have something to do with the fact that he has two removable front teeth. He has a spare set in his bathroom cupboard, wrapped up in tissue paper, next to the mouthwash and the little electronic thingy that removes nose and ear hair. I almost threw them out. This hysterical, demented woman is almost certainly responsible for the seething, anonymous telephone messages he receives, and I have made a decision on behalf of Mr. Gadjewski to delete this offensive, threatening garbage the moment I've listened to it. It's the least I can do under the circumstances. She may also be the reason he needs mood enhancing medication, which he takes every day after meals, and despite the warning on the label which warns him of the danger of mixing this particular drug with alcohol, is something of a heavy drinker. I know how much he drinks by of the number of empty bottles I put out, and I know when he entertains a woman (which isn't all that often) by the lipstick stains around the rims of the glasses, which are maddeningly difficult to remove. After I unload the dishwasher, I do them by hand. The lipstick one of these women uses, which doesn't suit me, is called 'Red Alert.' I found a tube of it under the bed.
And that's where I found the big black box.

The apartment where Mr. Gadjewski lives has vast expanses of glass, and breathtaking views of the harbour. It is a charmless, austere space, completely devoid of atmosphere, and dotted with clinical, cutting edge furniture, which means there is nothing comfortable to sit on, and nothing functional to eat off. On one wall of the main room is a huge, noisy painting of what looks like a group of feral, predatory animals, wandering around in an ominous, depopulated, acid-green and orange landscape. There are all these black things sticking up out of the ground, which I suppose mean something. It is strangely compelling, grotesque, and threatening at the same time. Mind you it could well be an abstract view of Bastion Point or 'Woman with Two Lemons and an Eggbeater' for all I know; you shouldn't take my word for it. These modern things confuse me. But that's what it looks like. Directly opposite it, is a huge, elaborately lit fish tank, filled with numerous multi-coloured tropical fish, hanging suspended in the filtered, glowing silence of their watery cage, like passive condemned prisoners. I could poison them if I felt like it. Some people find fish soothing, and maybe he does too; personally, I don't understand it. I assume that when staring at the painting exhausts him, he just swaps seats, makes himself a ham and cheese sandwich, pours himself a drink, puts his feet up, and stares at the fish. In the spare bedroom is a sad, solitary piece of gym equipment that sits there like a discarded piece of contemporary sculpture that once seemed like a good idea. He has an enormous collection of self- improvement tapes in the back of his wardrobe, which tell you how to be more successful and dynamic, and in his state-of-the-art granite kitchen, are shelves of elaborate cookbooks, although it seems clear to me that he is woefully lacking in domestic skills and never cooks. All I see are empty pizza boxes and the remains of pre-prepared instant meals that go in the microwave. He wears a clean shirt every day, has an enormous wardrobe of expensive, immaculately cared for shoes, jackets, and coats of varying lengths, and an extensive collection of colourful ties, all neatly arranged in a drawer. Underneath the ties is a flat blue folder containing outstanding parking fines. He owes three hundred dollars on these. His body corp. fees are also overdue, and he's considering a trip to Uganda. I saw the brochures. In his kitchen there is a small collapsible stepladder, and in the cupboard above the French doors at the end of his bed, which lead out to the balcony, is a set of weights, a broken lamp-base without a shade, a wetsuit, an old picnic basket with all the plates and crockery in special compartments, a red and black checked rug, and a pair of handcuffs.

The objects that people leave around their house are only window dressing in my opinion. They don't tell you all that much. They're just distractions, designed to put you off the scent. They are chiefly there to impress other people. It's what's in the old chest on the top of the wardrobe that's important. It's the small item in the mail, the whisper behind the closed door, or the insignificant wrapped object concealed under the piles of socks that is significant. That's where the real person is. Hidden.

Inside the big black box which is under the bed, is a photograph of a breathtakingly beautiful child sitting on the red and black checked rug. It's the only photograph in the entire apartment actually. The hand supporting the child with such tenderness belongs to Mr. Gadjewski. I can tell by the broad silver band of the watch, which hangs loosely around his right wrist. Underneath that is a tiny pair of carefully folded cotton pajamas with the name James embroidered on the pocket. And in a white envelope there is an anonymous note signed with a kiss, telling him he is the world's greatest lover. There are two other smaller boxes. One, which has an elaborate, intricate clasp that took ages to open, is lined in black velvet, and contains two glittering gold rings sitting side by side, which the box is specially designed to hold. They look brand new. In the other box is a small bottle of perfume. It's called 'Joy,' and according to the price tag, which is still on the bottom of the package it came in, costs $292.00. It has been opened, but never used, as far as I can tell. It has the most glorious fragrance, like red roses, for those of you who remember what red roses originally smelled like. I imagine it reminds him of someone who is no longer a part of his life.
I get the impression, from the moist tangle of sheets I regularly have to change, wash and iron, and the sleeping mask and earplugs in the chest of drawers beside his bed, that he is a restless sleeper, and possibly takes late night walks through the anaemic yellow light of the deserted city, like a fugitive with no place to run to. I envisage him after one of these solitary episodes, hair still damp from a shower of rain, sitting naked and abandoned on the side of his bed, in a trance-like state, inhaling this intoxicating scent like some kind of hallucinogenic drug. Consumed by loss and grief after this nightly ritual, he impulsively kisses the child in the photograph, and with the help of a couple of barbiturates, drifts off into a swollen-eyed sleep. With an accelerating sense of panic and a headache gripping his head like a vice, he waits for morning.

I would hate Mr. Gadjewski to think it was a mistake to trust me, it's just that sometimes I'm not sure that I can live up to his expectations. I don't suppose my small deceptions are of great importance, and I'm not even sure I need to mention it, but every Wednesday afternoon when I leave his apartment, disheveled and perspiring from my labours, I leave smelling of red roses.
Everyone has their weaknesses.

© 2006 Brett Johnstone