Beauty Is In The Eye of the Beholder

BEAUTY IS IN THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER

She looked around the apartment for, she knew, the last time. She had not seen it empty like this since the day she and Andre moved in in 1963. The building was just new, they were one of the first tenants. She was so excited. She and Andre were newlyweds. This apartment was perfect, and in retrospect, the perfect size the the two of them and their daughters. They had all loved this apartment. It had always been home.

*****

The key turned in the locks, and the door opened.

“Just came on the market,” said the man.  

His name was Bruno, and if a person could look like his name, it was Bruno. He was a tough bulldog of a man. He was also the superintendent of the apartment building the couple, Claire and Fernando, were now viewing.

“Mrs. G., she just died. In her sleep — there weren’t no murder or anything, in case you was wonderin’. It's a safe building. She was old. Her heart, or somethin’” He looked around.  “Her family just cleaned the place out a couple of days ago. We need to do some work, I guess. She lived here for almost sixty years.”

Fernando lifted his brows. “Wow. That is a really, really long time to live in one place.”

Fernando was a very handsome and very fit twenty-something. In fact, he was a print model who appeared in high-end magazines and in online ads; he was trying to make the transition from still photography to commercials. Standing about six feet, two inches, he towered over both Bruno and Claire.

“Yeah,” said Bruno. “Perfect tenant. I been the super here for over twenty years, and she was a peach. I wish all of my tenants were Mrs. G.” He looked a bit wistful — not a usual expression on his otherwise hard face.  

Claire wasn’t listening. She was looking around the apartment.  

She circled her hand, encompassing the whole apartment.

“It certainly needs a new paint job. When was the last time it was painted? When the building was first built?”

“Mrs. G. preferred to paint the apartment herself. Mr. G., before he died, was a general contractor, and took care of all that.”

“Humph. The colour is distasteful. No one paints anything peach anymore.”

She shook her head at the wall, as if she was disappointed in it for being painted a colour that she didn’t agree with.

Claire was a manager at a public relations firm. Weighing in at one hundred pounds and five foot two in heels, she was a force to be reckoned with. She was compact and fit — not Fernando fit, but still someone who took her workouts seriously. Stylish, medium brown hair skimmed her shoulders, natural makeup applied to her eyes — Claire looked like a manager. She should, it was a persona she strove to achieve — she had a closet full of power suits to back it up.  

“I kinda like it,” said Fernando looking around, smiling slightly.

Clair looked at Fernando with something akin to horror.

Fernando and Claire had been dating for almost three years.  They had just decided to move in together. They weren’t serious enough to actually purchase a place together, but they were willing to split the rent. 

Although he wouldn’t admit it, Fernando was beginning to have doubts about his relationship with Claire. She was always pushing forward, like a teeny-tiny locomotive. There was very little room for anything laissez-faire in Claire’s life — she had to control every aspect of every detail of her life. And because her life included Fernando, he was subject to her dictates.

“It’s peach. Peach is not a colour I can live with.” She looked around, a slight pout on her lips. “It would be much nicer in a white — maybe Acadia white, or maybe something a little darker, like ecru, or maybe Navajo white. It would make the space much crisper and clean.”

“This was the last thing Mr. G. painted before he died in 1984. He fell off a ladder and smacked his head on the hearth of some brownstone he was remodelling.  Died instantly. Mrs. G. was devastated. She said she would never paint these walls. They were the last thing her Andre had painted. And, she told me that they had argued mightily about the colour. He wanted something more dynamic, she wanted peach. He finally said that because it meant so much to her, and because he didn’t think that it was important enough to fight about it, he painted it. She’d gone to visit her mother over the Labour Day weekend, and when she came back, he’d painted it this colour.”

*****

She remembered the row she and Andre had regarding the colour of the living room and dining room. Andre had tried to persuade her that a nice demin blue would make the furniture pop. But she had been insistent. 

“It’s a fad colour, Andre. It won’t last and you’ll have to repaint.”

When she had taken the kids and gone to visit her mom in a snit, he had painted the walls the peach that she wanted. She was so surprised when she got home.

“Thank you, Andre! It’s beautiful!” she had said. “I’m sorry I was so awful.”

“Life it too short to fight about something as inconsequential as paint colour. If it makes you happy, then it makes me happy.”

He had died the next day.

*****

“Uh huh,” said Claire, not really listening to the story. 

“That’s so sad but so sweet,” said Fernando. He wondered if Claire would ever do anything so selfless for him. 

Probably not, he thought.

Claire was pointing at the ceiling.  

“What’s with the crown moulding? It’s rather dated, don’t you think?” she asked no one in particular.

“Yeah. Mr. G. was a master plasterer, from Europe. It was his specialty. When they moved into this apartment — I think it was 1962 or ’63 — Mr. G. wanted to add a little something special.“ Bruno pointed to the crown moulding. “He did all this by hand. Mrs. G. told me she was his assistant, mixing the plaster, carrying it to him. They worked on it for a week together, before they moved in.”

*****

She had been conscripted as Andre’s apprentice. She loved the smell of bitter wet plaster — something that surprised her. She wasn’t usually a person affected by smell.

They had worked beautifully together — Andre the master, she in awe of his ability to create such beautiful work. It had taken them five days to finish the work. After they had cleaned up, and were surveying a job very well done, Andre had turned to her and said, “This apartment feels like home. It’s going to be the place we raise our family."

She had turned to him. “In about seven months that’s going to be true.”

Andre’s mouth fell open. “You’re pregnant?”

“Yup. We’re going to be a family of three.”

Andre had cried tears of joy.

*****

“Well, I’m not sure it’s what I see as my style.”

Fernando looked around at the coving. He could tell the work was done by a master craftsman. His father and two of his uncles had been craftsman. Uncle Vin had actually been a master plasterer, and had taught Fernando a little about the process. From what he knew, the work he was looking at was superior — you never saw this level of skill and commitment from master plasterers unless they were from “the old country.” Fernando admired the craftsmanship that Claire rejected.

“Babe,” he said, “This is the best work that I have ever seen. There is obvious craftsmanship here. You will never see work like this now — this was all done free-hand, without moulds. It’s amazing!” 

Fernando variably glowed, gazing up at the crown moulding.  

“Whatever,” said Claire. “It doesn’t matter how well done it is if it doesn’t fit The Decor.”

Fernando cringed. “The Decor” as Claire instead on pigeon-holing everything related to her living space, was a major pre-occupation with her. She pored over design magazines, and recorded all the style shows on HGTV. It didn’t matter whether or not she liked a certain style, if one of her celebrity gurus said something was “in,” Claire was all over it. And, because they were a couple, this included Fernando, and Fernando’s living quarters.

“Fernando,” she had said the first time she had slept over, “You don’t expect me to sleep in a queen-sized bed, do you? I’m definitely a king-sized girl.” 

Regardless of the fact that she wasn’t even five feet tall in stocking feet.

This statement had been accompanied by a very toothsome smile, while naked, sitting on his chest. The next day Fernando had purchased the best king-sized mattress, boxspring, headboard and footboard, even though he thought it too big for his space. He’d had to move his dresser into the closet to accommodate the ocean-sized bed.

When she had arrived the next day, instead of being excited about the changes he had made for her, Claire has criticized.  

“Eww, Fernando! Who told you to buy that headboard and footboard? And those sheets! How do you expect me to sleep on something so … so … so gauche?”

So Fernando had returned the headboard and footboard, and paid the fifty percent restocking fee. He had suggested that Claire buy the headboard, footboard, and sheets that she wanted, and he would pay.

And pay he would. The total bill came to over five thousand dollars. He was stunned. It was a bed — you slept on it. In the dark. If the mattress was comfortable, what else mattered? It was the last time that Fernando had let Claire buy anything “for him.” He wasn’t that wealthy.

Claire looked down at her feet, and the floor below them, tapping her toes.

“And this floor! It must be updated! It’s so dated!”

Fernando knew that they were standing on cherry flooring — a durable and timeless choice for hardwood.

Bruno looked horrified.  

“Mr. Gerard and Mrs. G. put this floor down together. Little Amanda wasn’t even a year old. I remember Mrs. G. showing me a photo of her asleep on the pile of hardwood, while Mr. Gerard worked in the background. He’d work all day, and come home and work on this apartment. They loved this place.” He shook his head, disconsolate. “Everything they did to this apartment was an act of love.”

*****

She remembered the flood. It had been a disaster. Mrs. Cranston, the septuagenarian upstairs had gone out, and left the kitchen sink running, flooding their apartment. The ceiling had collapsed and ruined the living room floor. She had cried. They had lost their carpet, coffee table, and couch. But the disaster had been the floor.

Andre had made a deal with the owners — they had paid Andre to fix the apartment in lieu of rent. Together she and Andre had re-plastered the ceiling. Insurance allowed them to purchase new furniture. But the living room floor had been the work of art. Andre had used cherry with a decorative maple inlay. Each piece had been sawed by hand. She had stained the wood by hand. It was an busy time, with a one year old and Andre starting his own business, but together they had finished the flooring. Andre had never installed a floor before.

“Flooring? Who knew?” he had said, looking at his masterpiece.  

She had smiled and hugged him. “I knew.”

*****

Claire apparently didn’t hear or didn’t care. She marched through the apartment.

Bathroom — “Total gut job!” Bruno knew that Mr. Gerard had enlisted a friend from Italy to hand make all the tiles in the bathroom.

Bedrooms — “We definitely need new trim here. Both Bruno and Fernando looked at the marked woodwork, knowing that it was a record of the growth of Amanda and her younger sister Summer — their growth documented with dashes and dates on the doorjambs of their respective doors.

The master bedroom — “Paint! New flooring, and expand the closet to include the smaller third bedroom.” Bruno looked stricken.

“You can’t change a three bedroom apartment into a two bedroom apartment. It’s against the lease!”

Claire scalded him with a fiery stare.  

“Can’t I?”

Master ensuite — “Gut, gut, gut!” Fernando looked at the same hand-made tiles, and cringed. Claire was like an urban planner gone mad — destroy all that is old, and replace it with new, regardless of the aesthetics — if it was modern and trendy, do it. Forget the fact that it would be dated within a decade — who still had painted hardwoods? Or a chevron tile floor? 

Claire clomped on to the kitchen. There was an audible gasp.

“What. Is. This?” she questioned, a look of horror crossing her face.

Fernando looked around the kitchen — beautiful dark hardwood shaker cabinets adorned the walls, from ceiling to counter. He walked over and opened the doors and examined the boxes.

“They’re solid wood, babe. And expensive.”

“Miss Amanda and Miss Summer built those cabinets for Mrs. G. after Mr. G. died. It was a present for their mom. She always wanted a new kitchen. Both them kids learned wood workin’ from their dad.”

*****

She had been so proud of her daughters. Their determination, and attention to detail had brought joy to a heart broken by the loss of her one and only love, Andre. The girls had taken control, and insisted on making and installing the cabinets on their own. Summer was actually a finish carpenter, Amanda a designer, and together they had given their mother not only the kitchen of her dreams, but brought a sliver of happiness into her life at a dark time. 

“Just like your father would have done it. I’m so proud of both of you,” she said, tears streaming down her cheeks.

*****

“I don’t care,” said Claire. “They are hideous!” She looked around the room. “And where is the island? Where is the breakfast bar? We’ll have to take down the wall to the dining room.

Bruno was flummoxed.

“Miss,” he said. “This is a rental. You can’t be takin’ down walls.”

She turned on Bruno.  

“Why not? That old lady and her husband ‘customized’ their apartment.”

“Mr and Mrs. Gerard lived here for sixty years. They raised their children here. And, they did all of the ‘customization’ on their own dime, but with the permission of the owners. They are never going to let you take down the wall.”

“Well then, apparently this apartment is not for us.” She looked at Bruno, then at Fernando. “Let’s go!”

She exited the apartment without a backward glance, Fernando following.

When they were on the sidewalk, Claire turned to Fernando.  

“What a waste of time!” She turned and walked towards the corner, intent on hailing a cab.

 Without turning around, she said. “I have to go.”

And she was gone. Fernando knew that she was gone — not just right now, but forever, out of his life. He knew that they were finished.

He turned and walked back into the apartment. Bruno was just locking up the door.

“I’ll take it,” he said.

“But your lady — she wasn’t none too happy.”

“That’s fine. And I’m not sure she’s my lady any more. But I want the apartment. Just for me.”

“I can see that,” said Bruno. “You want to go back in?”

“Yes, please.”

As he was opening the door a young woman rushed up, breathless.

“Bruno!” she said breathless. “I’m so glad I caught you!”

“Miss Delta,” he said, a smile creasing his face for the first time that day. “What can I do for you?”

“I want to ask a favour,” she said. “Mom and Auntie Summer a little down after Gran’s death, and I want to do something special for them. Can I replace the door trim on all the bedrooms?”

Bruno furrowed his brow.

“Why would you do that?”

Delta smiled. “I thought that I would save the growth charts from the two bedrooms, and give them to both of them. You know, to cheer them up. They both grew up in this apartment. A large part of their lives was spent here.”

Bruno looked at Fernando.  

“This is the new tenant, Mr. …”

“Vezina,” finished Fernando. They shook hands.

“You’re the new tenant?”

Fernando looked at Bruno, who nodded hs head.

“Yes, I am. And I just want to say, the work that your family did in this apartment is outstanding. Obviously it was a passion project for everyone involved. The workmanship is outstanding. And, yes, as long a Bruno says yes, you are more than welcome to take the door trim. No paint should cover such a memory.”

Bruno smiled. “No problem with me, as long as there’s door trim.”

Fernando smiled at Delta, and Delta back at him. Bruno handed Fernando the keys. He and Delta walked into the apartment. 

“I love this apartment,” said Delta smiling wistfully, looking around. “I’m gong to miss it. I came here every Sunday for dinner with Gran.” 

Tears glistened in her eyes. She shook her head, sniffed, and smiled at Fernando.

“Anyway, Did you see the kitchen cabinets?” said Delta walking towards the kitchen. “Gran told me that Mom and Aunt Summer dovetailed all the boxes, never used a nail. And did you see the bathroom? All the tiles were handmade in Italy. Gran said she helped Grandpa with the tiling and grouting …”

They walked through the apartment, engrossed in their conversation.

*****

She smiled, knowing that the apartment — her apartment — was in good hands.