Intermezzo Intermezzo

The man I let into my apartment was neither tall nor short. He was neither handsome nor ugly. He was older than me by about thirty years, but he was not ancient. He had an air that was at once serious and mischievous, and his countenance was neither calm nor tense. He smelled of smoke but did not stink.

And he spoke with a peculiar slant.

“Beg pardon for dropping by at this hour,” he said. “I thought I heard some familiar music coming from your open window. The doorman let me in.”

He pulled out a cigarette and made a move to light it, catching himself and quickly turning to me before touching flame to tobacco.

“Mind if I smoke?” he asked. I offered to take his coat and hat, but the only thing he handed me was his dripping umbrella. The cigarettes he carried with him were tucked away inside a silver case with onyx inlays of small stones. He took a drag and let loose a stream of noxious citronella smoke that filled my room with a living cloud of faces, places and things. It was like lying on my back on a hill, watching dark clouds.

His black suit was stiffly pressed and his grey hair was pulled tightly back from his high forehead with a generous amount of sickly sweet-smelling pomade. He was neither smiling nor frowning and his eyes shone dark and obsidian.