The last song

When Mr. Jones knocked my apartment door, disturbing the usual serenity of Saturday morning, I wasn't particularly delighted. He explained himself after apologizing for being discourteous --- the man in his 50s, wrinkles-worn, two ends of unibrow as if horns; tailored suit fits, black eyes sunken like abyssal pits; boney hands shivering, ecchymoses on forearm under sunlight glittering, he has told me what he was going through, and begged for my help.

He is dying. The cancer had tormented the man for some months, right after the diagnosis.

From the neighborhood I was raised, man dies and woman sleeps with strangers. I didn't buy what he tried to tell me, nor did I give any damn about his stories --- I had this preexisting thought that he was a salesman preying on people with a great deal of sympathy, sympathy that is misplaced.

Until he offered three thousand euro for renting one room of this building of mine for one month, no matter the size, no matter if furnished. "Any apartment, sir. With one bedroom or even with none, a studio works. Anywhere in this building that has a door claiming its independence, and... I'll bring my own chair if there isn't one." Mr. Jones almost went on his knees, but I still didn't let him in --- the conversation went on at my doorway.

I, unfortunately for me, had then no available rooms, not even a storage --- I couldn't just earn his money, good easy money. "The suburban Athens is overly populated, Mr. Jones, you can see that. It's almost like China! But I own another building in city centre, with your budget, you can live there up to two months."

"I don't even have two months, my friend. It has to be here and I will only rent for one month, that's my most optimistic guess. Money wouldn't be a problem, there must be some way to figure this out!" Jones stomped his foot on the steel doorsill, making a few repeated and loud thuds. His doorframe-attacking limb wasn't exactly strong, perhaps due to terminal illness, but I could see its old glory --- muscles have gone but the volume and the girth of thighs announced the owner's former strength and former good health. Sadly, the many demons that crawled out of Pandora's box had corrupted many ones of mankind and took their prideful youthful might, including rich Jones.

The thuds alarmed my nextdoor neighbor. She was a single mom in her 30s with a two-year-old, hair messily curled, withered beauty as if the taken queen of netherworld; a scar of many stitches on forehead, bruises had yet stopped speaking the dread; the hoodie shaded her facial expression, but tears sliding down her cheeks telling depression.

The poor woman bacame my tenant a year ago when a terrible car accident took her memory. Without the knowledge of a husband or any helping next kin, she received full compensation from insurance but she eventually had to pick herself up from helplessness and feed the family of two lonely souls. Some tenants had gossiped, which I overheard when I occasionally throws out the trash, that she used to have a husband, an uncaring jerk that treated her like garbage... I didn't care for the rumours, after all, I got no reason to complain about this amnesiac lady, she always remembers to pay the rent on time.

She opened the door, expanding the slit to the extent that she could barely reach out her head to see the origin of the thuds. And she saw him, eyes watery and almost speaking, but eventually spoke nothing else than silence. It wasn't a sight of recognition, but definitely an arousal of affection --- she knew she had seen this man, but confused about where and when. The other party, however, Jones panicked, he had a moment of eye contact but shortly looked down. His hands, crumpled and quivering, pushed me in my room through the doorframe and stormed in with me.

"What are you doing!?" I yelled.

"You have to pardon me, sir! Listen, I'm very sorry, but I need a room to stay..."

"Not MY room! You don't live here! You can't live here! I don't care if you're dying, or whatever the creepy bucket list you might be trying to complete, GO!" I yelled at Jones, which the latter waved his hands, gesturing me to speak quieter.

"Shh...... Please, you'll startle her! Fine, I won't live here, I only ask to come by to this apartment two times a day, just to hear her sometimes when she speaks loud. Please, I can't go to her... I'll pay ten thousand euro for half an hour each day putting my forehead on that wall that you share with her. Let an old man live for one last time, will you? Kind sir?"

"You... You old imbecile... Fine. But only because you are dying, and I need cash, not a penny less." I said.

"Thank you...very much, sir." He uttered with full gratitude but the last half was mumbled out of his mouth, as Jones was slowly reaching towards that thin wall, without even asking for any permission as if the title deed of this property had just transferred under his name. His forehead, as foretold in his request, kissed that wall and his ears, as Jones had longed, insatiably devoured the woman's walking and speaking sound as well as the toddler's. "Yes, Ayla, yes. Your voice, as usual, is like moonlight shines upon my mind. Sorry, I'm terribly sorry, my dear, I couldn't be there with you. Our honeymoon was delayed and never actually took place, it was my fault you went on that road trip by yourself... If only I could be a husband again, a father again, if only I deserve a second chance, I'd be... I promise to be a good man for you."

Salty liquid crept down his age-worn cheeks --- Regret? Guilt? I couldn't tell, but I could, however, apply some witty sarcasm about Jones' pathetic creepiness and how much a simp he looks, or how his lady has probably slept with many other men in her absence of memory about him. I rehearsed quite a few wordsplay in my mind, each and every one was legendary and super smart, each and every one was sufficient to broke his heart even more --- which my sick pleasure will exactly revel in, for that I couldn't care more about his perverted love...

But I didn't eventually.

I only re-channelled my wit on his confidence of hearing her. "I'll take that as a derogatory compliment... The wall of my living room isn't that thin, come on!"

The following days, he kept pretending to come home the same time she goes out for or returns from work, just to have a glance at his love. I mean, every single morning 0730 and evening 1800, he creepily pretended to open the door and spent minutes on putting the key in the keyhole as if a clumsy patient of Parkinson's, so that he could see her through his pair of sunglasses that would block any incoming sights of her queries.

Jones told me to gift all his savings to her after the reaper finally comes for him. "I couldn't just give it to her myself, she'd know it was me, I don't dare a bit facing her. My ego, my inflated ego forbids me. Or perhaps it was my guilt?" The same day next month, as he lost all strength to even stand up, he chatted with me on deathbed. Except the death bed was my couch --- the only place in my apartment he could hear her voice.

"Why wouldn't you tell her that you're sorry? She might want to recover that memory of you, you never know." I asked, a month of acquaintance softened the sticks and stones in my heart, my conscience made my palm pat his coughing chest that tumultuously went up and down.

"Oh, I have sinned, sir. I can't go back to those good moments we had... I just can't..." He said.

"I guess I could relate..." I mumbled to him, or rather, to myself. No matter how ridiculous his acts were for this entire month, a man is dying in but hours, if the blood runs in me is still above room temperature, I had to pay tribute, no?

"I had a crappy dad..." I said it to comfort him merely for his generosity on cash, I told myself. "My old man loved me but never learnt to be proud of me. I always remember how he drowned me in swimming pool to force me to learn swimming, didn't flinch even when the last moment of my consciousness faded --- the life guard saved me --- a stranger went softer on me than him! He called it strict love, perhaps, I never understood it. But we had occasionally some moments, like when I won my medals for 200m freestyle, or when I earned enough money from lawyer work and retired early from renting apartments. We had beers, his homemade beers, he saved them for big occasions, like my graduation, my wedding and my retirement, the beer was the best among all beverages if you ask me. The last time I was lucky to drink it was his funeral, he finally stopped to give me that despite looks, but I felt something was missing, if only he could keep giving me that damn hateful look, keep giving it to me while I strive for my goals..."

"I was uncaring to my dear, work had been my main since we got married. We didn't even have a proper honeymoon. She told me she would rent a convertible car to drive in suburban Italy, no hard roof on the car so we'd raise our arms up in air, we would sing our favourite song, the one was played in our wedding, oh, and many others! --- she likes to sing, she used to sing all the time..."

"Really? I haven't heard her singing voice all these days, actually, not even before you came. Does she sing good?"

"Not a single note hit, sir." He smiled, eyes shut but there was a big smile. "She couldn't carry a single tune if it has handles. But she's happy when she sings, and her happiness made my work-filled wretched days a little brighter. Church hymns, tiktok meme songs, she likes to sing for me whenever she feels in need of my love. I would be in my studio working on a huge project, and she'd be singing in her room, totally off key and completely unbearable to listen to, but every time the incomprehensible voice illuminated my soul, I smile to myself and I chuckle. What a woman, what a life!"

"But," he continued, "what does it matter in the end? But nostalgic sentiments and invincible regrets."

His voice gradually faded but smile never dulled one bit. His eyelids lost all their strength to lift up and thus this world blackout, he's about to take his last breath, without her forgiveness.

I sat for a while motionless in my chair, and sent a text out. A few minutes later, a singing voice appeared on the other side of the wall.

It was a beautiful song, nameless or should I narrate it as 'unable to identify the song'. But it wasn't exactly a beautiful voice, what Jones said was true, every time you felt familiar with the tune and you were about to tell which one the tune was, it changed to another mysterious rhythm, as if a cover on a mashup remix music, blending every popular song of sentiments into this tune of horrible wonder: firstly, I thought it was "never stop believing", the next, it went on as Clean Bandit's "symphony", the pitch was ever changing and failed everytime it tried to reach a high note.

Nevertheless, I enjoyed it. The toddler, too, enjoyed it and thus gave laughters of infancy. I looked at Jones as he as well heard it, his eyes bursted wide open until his silently giggling smile narrowed down his eyes into slits. He cried also, tears of joy ran down his cheeks as he took the final sob.