Manzev House

@ Excerpt from the Novella, written by Džena Andersone "Manzev House", 2022

@ Translated by Žanete Vēvere Pasqualini, 2024

Manzev House

“Hell is empty and all … are here.”  William Shakespeare

The pointed gable of the irregularly-shaped building prodded the sky like a sword raised aloft. Sunbeams bounced off the quartz tiled façade before hitting the unrelenting walls from which they ricocheted back, doubled in strength. Straight into Gwenda’s face. She took a few steps backwards, unsuccessfully trying to shield her eyes from the scorching sun with one hand, and looked upwards trying to spot the windows of her flat. It was more a question of guesswork.

Straining her eyes, Gwenda peered up at the sixth floor. The seventh remained hidden beneath the ornately decorated cornice. She eventually gave up and looked down, studying at length the building’s coal-black walls, bay windows, decorative reliefs and ornamentation, unaware of the numerous eyes tucked behind the heavy curtains of strangers’ apartments which were observing her, visually groping her, feeling inside the very seams of her clothing.

Gwenda fished her phone out of her bag. Eleven o’clock. She joggled the phone in her hand for a moment or two before keying in a number which rang at length with no reply.

‘Hello, there! Are you calling me, by any chance?’ Someone had crept up on her from behind, as stealthily as a ghost.

Gwenda shrugged and put the telephone in her pocket.

‘Hello!’ she greeted the unknown man. ‘You must be Justas, right?’

‘That I am.’ He smiled, stretching out his hand to her. ‘I’m Justas, the house manager.’

Unhesitatingly, Gwenda shook the hand extended to her. Odd, she thought to herself, such a fine gentleman yet no sense of propriety.

‘I’d understood that you were the owner …’ Gwenda said, turning on her polite smile. ‘At least, that was what I was told …’  

‘Oh yes, I’m that too, of course.’ The man smoothed back an errant strand of hair which refused to stay behind his ear. ‘But that’s of no great importance. What is, however, is my role as house manager, which is my vocation, so to speak.’  

‘Well, this is the first time I’ve met someone who doesn’t refer to themselves as the owner, especially where  a property as fine as this one is concerned!’ Gwenda was aware of a chasm opening up between herself and the young man in front of her, although she kept smiling courteously.

But what business was it of hers, after all, what he chose to call himself? He could refer to himself as he saw fit. A slight irritation started mounting inside her all the same. He should just get on with handing over the keys to her and leave it at that.

‘Very fine, yes. Like everything else from the period of national romanticism.’ The house manager looked up with pride at the building, shimmering blackly in the sunshine. ‘Houses like these can only have one owner though, if you know what I mean.’

‘And who would that be?’ Gwenda asked, looking up at the house whilst trying surreptitiously to have a better look at the building’s owner at the same time.

‘Its creator. The person who came up with the design and actually built it. That is the only real owner. Everyone else is just an heir or someone who, by fair means or foul, manages to make the house their own legal property.’ 

‘How interesting … And who is the creator of this particular house?’ Gwenda asked, wishing to cut this introduction off mid-flow which, in her opinion, had already dragged on long enough. 

‘My grandfather. Theophile Manzev. On the façade of the house facing the street, there is a memorial plaque and a bronze relief of his face.’ Justas turned round. ‘Didn’t you notice it when you arrived?’

‘No, I’m afraid not,’ Gwenda shook her head. ‘I was in quite a hurry, you know. I came in a taxi and simply got out of it and came straight in to the courtyard here. I didn’t notice it, unfortunately …’

‘Well, never mind,’ Justas replied as he started strolling towards the front door. ‘Come on, I’ll show you round.’

Well, at long last! Inwardly, Gwenda heaved a sigh of relief and followed Justas, feeling slightly self-conscious at the sound of her heels clicking on the paving stones. He led the way, marching in front of her with his back as straight as a ramrod, as if taking part in some sort of military parade. It was hard to put an age to him, Gwen mused. He looks too old to be my son but too young to be my lover, she thought. In fact, Justas appeared to be precisely of that in-between age where he was neither one thing or another, resulting in Gwenda being unsure of how to behave with him. Whether to act in a motherly fashion or turn on her feminine charms; both seemed inappropriate in this case.

He couldn’t be more than thirty but he behaved as if he were twice that age. There was something both irritating and truculent about it. At forty, Gwenda was in the habit of acting half her age. But now, confronted with this condescending rich guy, she suddenly found herself feeling at odds with herself. Worse than that, she felt old. It was most vexing.

Justas didn’t invite Gwenda to lead the way, although he did hold the front door open for her so it would slam back in her face.

Maybe that’s preferable after all, she reflected. It would have been even worse if he had fussed over me as if I were some old dear.

The stairwell, the walls about a meter thick, was cool and smelled of permanently wet plaster. Justas had already started making his way up the winding grey staircase. Gwenda tried to keep up with him. The treads were broad and shallow. And so many of them that the staircase seemed to rise endlessly. To mark out their ascent, numbers had been painted on the grey walls in blood red paint. Large and ornate, in an italic script. One, two, three.

‘I didn’t realise that there wasn’t a lift,’ Gwenda said, desperately trying not to puff.

‘Oh there is, actually,’ he replied, without looking back. ‘It’s in the stairwell on the streetside of the building. It goes up to the sixth floor. From there you go along a shared corridor and up the stairs to the penthouse.’

Gwenda stopped for a moment, realising that Justas was actually scoffing at her. She focused on not displaying any emotion, she wouldn’t give him the pleasure of that. What a jerk.

‘Excellent. Great to have the choice,’ Gwenda said cheerfully. ‘That way you can choose to take the stairs or lift, depending on what might be happening.’

‘And what might be happening?’ Justas enquired, stalking stiffly up the stairs ahead of her.

‘Well, if the electricity cut out, let’s say, or I didn’t feel like waiting for the lift. Or maybe I might prefer to use the stairs to get a bit of exercise …’ Gwenda chattered gaily while doing her best not to pant.

She certainly wasn’t going to get out of breath now and give this jerk something to jeer at her about. Gwenda was beaded in perspiration. She shouldn’t have worn this jacket. There was no one here to make a good impression on and now she was paying the price for wearing it. Surreptitiously, she undid the top buttons on her blouse.

‘Do you always go for the healthy option?’ Justas asked, maintaining the rhythm of his stately steps, one after another, while smoothing down the blond mane of his hair. At every turn on the staircase, Gwenda got a flash of his Germanic profile. As detached and indifferent as a falcon swooping down on a hen.

Noting the curlicued number six on the cement wall, Gwenda heaved a sigh of relief. Not much further to go now.  

Gwenda was still trying to come up with a sharp retort to this annoying young man’s last question when, in his rather nasally voice, he launched into another description of the architectural miracle of which he was the proprietor. The ethnographic motifs carved in natural stone over the front door which were of great import. Something about the bay windows, the various textures and colour schemes, the angles of the roof and cone-shaped coronas.

Oh do shut up, Gwenda thought to herself, standing uncomfortably on the stairwell between two floors, a couple of steps below Justas who had visibly come to life and was now gesticulating wildly and staring straight through her as through she were no more than an empty bottle.

‘Nowadays, following the renovations, there are two apartments on each floor. Most have been sold but some are let on long-term leases,’ Justas droned on. ‘The land itself belongs to me, likewise the house in the courtyard and all the outbuildings on the surrounding land.’

‘Yes, of course …’ Gwenda grappled, trying to get her handkerchief out of her pocket. ‘Has it always been a residential property?’

‘The main building has, although the outbuildings were once used as a soap factory. The oldest soap-making workshop in the city; the Manzev Factory,’ Justas related. ‘Did you know that it now houses a soap museum?’

‘A museum? No … I … ’ Gwenda stuttered. She felt ill-prepared and poorly informed. She was aware of an unpleasant piercing sensation in her chest. Everything had happened so quickly. She took a deep breath and increased her pace.

‘Yes indeed. There is also a courtyard house. Complete with a risalit and balcony, although they are harder to spot in summer as there is a vine growing up the front. I live there with my brother. And there are the museum rooms, too,’ Justas continued. ‘I can show you round them if you’re interested.’

Why are you telling me all this? Gwenda asked herself, unable to work out if she was boiling from rage or exertion. At last she had managed to find her handkerchief which she now clutched in her hand.  

‘How kind of you. Thank you, that would be very nice.’ Gwenda smiled at Justus.

She had worked with men like this her whole professional life but still struggled with them. They were all the same; so full of themselves and yet so shallow at the same time.

Justas gave her a look which seemed to wrap her in clingfilm. Involuntarily, she took a step backwards, using her handkerchief to mop her brow.

‘It’s really very warm today. Really … Tell me, does the flat have air-conditioning?’

‘No, it doesn’t. But if you require it, we can look into having it installed. It’s certainly an option,’ Justas replied airily. ‘We do our best to preserve the building’s authentic character as far as possible but a few allowances can be made when necessary.’

Gwenda’s heart was pounding heavily when, at long last, a rust-coloured, scythe-shape appeared on the wall; the number seven. Justas pulled two tarnished brass keys from his pocket. They were as big as pens and covered in tiny indentations that made them look like miniature musical instruments.

‘Here we are,’ he said, holding them out to Gwenda. ‘You give it a go. The door has been restored but, as you might imagine, it is the original, so rather heavy. You need to grasp the handle well.’  

Gwenda had not, in fact, imagined anything. She shoved her hankie back into her pocket and hung her bag over the crook of her arm before tackling the lock on the dark brown, wrought-iron clad door. Sweating, she grasped the handle as instructed and tried with all her might to turn the key. The lock refused to yield. She tried again with added zeal. After a moment of squeaking resistance, the lock finally gave in, the handle clicked, the brass key turned four times and the door opened with a deep, cello-like moan.

Gwenda immediately felt better. Finally! Breathing in, she smiled at Justas. Without even glancing at her, the man walked straight into the flat. Pocketing the keys, she closed the door behind them.

It was like walking onto a stage set. Or into an exhibition hall in which she was the main exhibit. The ceiling, floor and the external walls were all the same shade of pale grey. On the inside, the space had been divided into rooms using clear glass panels like enormous balcony doors. She was surrounded on all sides by windows, some of them with roughly drawn, full length silvery curtains over them. There were also several skylights. Gwenda had counted four when Justas interrupted her thoughts, calling her back to reality.

‘Quite something, isn’t it?’ he asked, looking at her expectantly as if waiting for a round of applause. ‘The apartment covers eighty square metres in all and is an ideal square shape. It has been divided into four equal parts, so essentially four perfect squares.’

Gwenda nodded, trying to keep a pleased expression on her face. She wanted to appear as smart, stylish and chic as possible. The sort of woman who would be totally unfazed by everything. Nothing could surprise her, no miracle, no wonder. She had seen it all. She was young, free and independent; a woman who had the whole city eating from the palm of her hand. Step aside anyone thinking they could mock her or laugh at her expense. Stand back, here comes Gwenda!  

‘So four rooms in all, interconnected with doors. You can go from one room to the next and make a full circle of the apartment. It’s incredible, isn’t it?’ Justas boasted. ‘Not to mention the front door and built-in storage space. There are four doors and six floor-to-ceiling windows, four windows between the rooms and eight skylights providing fantastic views of the street, courtyard buildings, the vine-covered wall and the sky.’

‘The sky,’ Gwenda repeated quietly to herself, gazing up at the expanses of topaz-coloured sky, bursting into the apartment through the countless skylight apertures. She felt as if she were standing on the roof itself since all she could see all around were the tops of gables, cornices and clouds.

‘What was that?’ Justas asked, strolling slowly through the perfect squares of the apartment like a planet in orbit. Gwenda trailed behind like a satellite.

‘Do you have any questions?’ he continued, never deviating from his path like a man transfixed.  

‘I would prefer blinds to curtains,’ Gwenda replied, her tone rising in question.  

Justas stopped in his tracks.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Blinds. I will get blinds,’ Gwenda repeated, looking out of the numerous windows encircling her on all sides.

It’s like a fish bowl in here. I can’t believe the number of windows and glass panels. Oh, goodness, I think I’ve turned into something of a fuddy-duddy. I certainly wasn’t expecting all this in a period house.  

‘But what of the curtains? What would you have me do with them?’ Justas asked, going over to one of the windows and tugging at the silvery, glittering drapes as they hung flaccidly, quivering in the draught like the wing of a dead seagull.

‘I have no call for them. I don’t use curtains. Maybe someone else would like them …’

‘Possibly. Of course, you can do as you please with them; it’s all yours now. But, as the steward of this historic, listed building, I would ask you, wherever possible, to kindly retain all the original fixtures and fittings,’ Justas concluded, caressing the dead curtain.

‘I wouldn’t dream of spoiling anything,’ Gwenda replied, drawing herself up and moving over to the window closest at hand. ‘That being said, I would of course wish to furnish the apartment in keeping with my own tastes.’

‘Yes, naturally always in accordance with the various clauses in the contract concerning the preservation of the building as one having special historic and cultural value.’  

‘Yes, I know. I hope you don’t mind me asking, but I’m curious as to why you wished to sell the apartment if you’re so keen for nothing to be changed?’ Gwenda banged her handbag down on the windowsill with a thud.

‘It is a question of money. The situation here in our country is complicated, you must be well aware of that yourself. Besides, I have my brother to take care of … I have certain expenses.’ Justas looked up at the sun,  his pupils becoming as transparent as crystal in its light.  

‘I see. And yet the asking price for the apartment was considerably lower than its market value,’ Gwenda pushed with her hands against the edge of the windowsill. ‘Or at least, that is what I understood from the paperwork of the three-way agreement you signed with the estate agency. Who lived here before? Was the apartment rented out?’

‘It is all just a question of money,’ Justas repeated. ‘As you must understand, with the economic crisis we have at the moment, it’s become virtually impossible to achieve a price which reflects a property’s real market value. I need the money quite urgently and so have been obliged to sell at a lower price. Luckily everything just fell into place, so to say.’

Gwenda took a closer look at Justas. Something isn’t quite right there, she thought. She would have to ask Kim for some background details.

‘Are you bringing your brother up on your own? I do apologise if I’m being indiscreet, but where are your parents?’

‘All is well and good with my parents.’ Justas licked his lips. ‘They live in South Africa. My brother Trevis can’t stand the climate out there, so he lives here. Right, I think I’ve shown you everything. If you have any questions, just call me. You have my number. When are you thinking of moving in?’

‘Tomorrow. I thought I’d move in tomorrow.’ Gwenda examined the enormous skylights. ‘When I have the blinds put up, I’ll return the curtains to you.’

‘No hurry,’ Justas re-arranged the creased taffeta fabric. ‘Tell me, do you often agree to buy things sight unseen?’

‘Ah, the flat, you mean? Well, I didn’t buy it as such. It came to me in payment, my fee for a deal, might we say.’ Gwenda turned her gaze from the internal glass panels to the windowsills. ‘A sort of thank you payment. It’s all a little too complex for me to go into right now. It’s to do with my work, let’s say, in terms of business relations …’ 

‘So it was all the same to you, then?’ For the first time in their short acquaintance, Justas looked at Gwenda with interest. ‘Did you have no idea what you were getting?’

‘No, it’s not that it was all the same to me, no, no, it wasn’t like that. But I do trust my business partners, my associates. I have absolute faith in their good taste. And anyway, I can always sell the apartment at any point, if I so wish …’

‘I’m afraid that’s not quite the case,’ Justas said, pulling himself up straight and clicking his heels together, as if about to give a military salute. ‘Pursuant to the contract signed, there is a forty-year moratorium on deals with this real estate. Do you not recall? You surely read the contract, did you not?’

‘A moratorium? I think you must be mistaken. What sort of limitations are we talking about here? There was nothing mentioned to that effect in the contract.’ Looking at Justas, Gwenda felt her stomach suddenly lurch.  

She had had a quick look through the contract, but not read it in great detail. There were no risks involved for her personally; she hadn’t paid a cent for the apartment, not even the legal fees or stamp duty. What was the point in reading all the small print? Anyhow, she trusted Kim entirely. They had worked together for other ten years. Why would he pull a fast one on her now? But maybe he had failed to notice something in the details? Good grief, how could she have let something like that escape her? Gwenda’s head was in a spin. But perhaps this pompous, know-it-all house manager was just bluffing? She needed to go through the paperwork with a fine-tooth comb as quickly as possible.

‘As I mentioned earlier, the house is a listed property. Not only in a legal sense, namely as one of considerable cultural and historic interest, but to me personally it also a building of enormous sentimental value. My family has extremely strong ties of an emotional nature with the place and therefore, as custodian of the property, I have taken it upon myself to ensure the inclusion of a clause of limitations in the contract, thus safeguarding the integrity of the building’s original features and guaranteeing that the property shall remain unchanged, unaltered, for as long as possible. The only way to achieve the sort of stability I aim at is by imposing a ban on expropriation for as long as possible,’ Justas explained conceitedly. ‘What would happen if it was put up for sale every couple of years? People would start coming and going, chopping and changing things, building here and demolishing there … it would be ruinous for the house and damaging for its aura. The house is alive; it is like a living organism. I cannot permit it to be ravaged by the whims of others. Do you understand?’

‘In all honesty, no, I do not.’ Gwenda was feeling rather hot and bothered and was sweating profusely. ‘But it makes no odds to me as I actually have no intention of selling.’

‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but I have the feeling that you are not being completely honest with me,’ Justas said, eyeing her sweat-drenched blouse. ‘I believe your intention was to sell the property as soon as possible.’

What the hell is going on here? Gwenda wondered, feeling a lump rising in her throat. Son of a bitch, how dare he speak to me like that? The young whippersnapper!

‘Well you know, Justas, from where I’m standing, it might be said that you’ve gone a little too far. You know nothing about me or my intentions.’

‘You might be right. If so, please accept my apologies.’ Justas smiled as if there was nothing untoward between them and turned his attention to rearranging the curtains. ‘I wish you all the very best for the next forty years of living here! Welcome to Manzev House!’

‘Thank you, truly! Is there anything else I need to know for now? Or could we continue our little chat some other time?’ Gwenda smiled, hoping that he would take the hint and disappear, leaving her alone in her new flat.

What a jerk! My God, what a jerk he was! Where do these people come from? Gwenda could feel rage bubbling up inside her.

‘It’s never a bad idea to keep oneself well-informed.’  Justas pouted. ‘We have set up a club for the residents here; the ‘Manzev House Members’ Club.’ We run it from the ground floor premises where we hold regular get-togethers and meetings to discuss topics of importance for the house and so on. I warmly recommend you joining and getting involved!’

‘Thank you, I will give it some thought,’ Gwenda replied, smiling politely before walking towards the front door as a signal for Justas to leave.

‘Not much to think about, surely! Taking part in the life of Club will help you integrate into the small but very friendly community of our house. All the apartment owners are listed as members. It is a privilege granted to them, unlike the tenants who don’t enjoy similar advantages.’

What is he twiddling with over there? Gwenda was starting to lose it. She wanted him to leave. Now. She had no interest in his group of friendly co-residents or anything else for that matter.

‘Yes, absolutely. Thank you so much.’ Gwenda held her hand out in farewell. ‘I will call you about those curtains. Good bye now!’

Gwenda felt Justas’ limp fingertips in her palm and cringed.

‘Here. A small gift to welcome you to the house,’ Justas suddenly said, pressing a film-wrapped bar of soap in a shade of sickly yellow into her hand.

‘See you soon!’

Without a backward look, he walked out of the apartment without bothering to close the door behind himself. Gwenda could do no more than stand and stare at the bar of soap in her hand as the patter of Justas’ departing feet echoed down the staircase.

Enough. Later, she would have to raise the issue which had just been brought to her notice with Kim, but for now she locked the door, stuck the soap in her pocket and started walking slowly round the flat, trying to imagine what it would be like to live there. What it would be like getting up in the morning, having breakfast, brushing her teeth, going out to work then coming back home again, cooking her supper, reading a book or watching a film; all on her own in this huge glass cube. The list of things that she would do, by herself, in this flat that she now owned, was endless. All by herself.

She had always lived with other people, always, for as long as she could remember. As a child she had lived with Granny until she was twelve, then she had gone to live with her mother. When she was eighteen, her mother had died and Gwenda herself had got married straight afterwards. This was followed by her son’s birth and twenty-five years of marriage. She had always had other people living alongside her.

Gwenda had always had to share everything with someone else. She had always had to take care of someone else; help, support, push and drag them. Now all that was over. At long last, they had all been supported as much as was necessary; pushed into their rightful places, dragged where they needed to be. Her son was now a grown man and married.

As things had transpired, her husband had grown up, too, and Gwenda had managed to divorce him, without too many tears, before they reached their silver wedding anniversary. She looked back on that moment with great happiness. The only other time in her life that she had felt as elated as she did the day her divorce came through was when she had been handed her university degree certificate. Not even the birth of her son had made her feel so euphoric.

The eighteen-year-old Gwenda in her white dress, clutching a small bouquet to her chest as she stood in the vast, empty registry office with the clumsy man who, moments earlier, had legally become her husband, felt no such emotions. Will you, Gwenda, have this man to be your wedded husband? Do you promise to love and cherish him, through trying times and smooth, all the days of your life? Yes, yes, of course I do. Was any other answer possible?

It had been the day of her graduation when, still a young woman and the world seemingly her oyster, when she had run home to her husband a small son, flushed and excited, clasping her blue-covered graduation certificate tightly, that she had felt fit to burst with joy; the happiest woman on earth. Twenty years later, no longer in the first flush of youth and having swallowed many salty tears over the years yet still with the same flushed cheeks and a lively sparkle still in her eyes, she had clutched her divorce papers to her chest and run to work, her heels clicking joyfully. The bird had flown the cage. Gone were the days of sharing both sorrows and joys. The happiest woman on earth was now free.

Things had gone her way. She had built a life for herself, fulfilled her role as a woman. She had raised a child, got married, got divorced – it was all done and dusted. She had a good job, a solid career, stability. She had it all. Now, it was time for Gwenda to focus on herself. Kick up her heels, take pleasure in what life had to offer - a skill she was yet to master. She had to learn how to savour her freedom, something she was still unable to do. For the time being she simply observed it quietly, admiring it from afar, doing her best not to scare it off, fragile as it was.

Taking off her shoes and jacket, Gwenda carefully sat herself down on the grey floor of her apartment. She pulled her knees up and clutched them to her chest, put her head on one side and waited for that much sought-after sense of relief to descend. The longer she waited, the tenser she felt. The sense of relief failed to descend.

Bloody hell, Gwenda thought, rocking back and forth as she had as a child when trying to soothe herself. It was as if some trajectory within herself had somehow been twisted off course. A change in trajectory, a planetary catastrophe. Gwenda had the sense that she was circling somewhere outside her usual orbit. She had gone past the black hole. Her whole life had been spent as a satellite to other planets. Now, the old galaxy had died and she had broken free to become a planet herself, an independent one. Maybe she was even a star, like the sun. She wasn’t entirely sure of the details as yet; it was just a feeling. And it was exciting.

She was distracted from her thoughts by a sudden, loud noise. It sounded like someone was banging on tin drums with all their might. Gwenda got to her feet. Perhaps there was some repair work going on, she reasoned to herself. In any given building, there was always someone fixing something, screwing something in, drilling or just hammering away. That was the defining principle of maintenance work – it was always ongoing.

Gwenda walked round the apartment again, opening and closing the windows as she went. Then all the doors. Then the taps. She ran her hand over the windowsills. With a slight shudder, she pulled open the curtains. She glanced at the radiators and looked under the bath tub. She checked the shelving in the storage spaces. Flicked the light switches on and off. Pulled out all the kitchen drawers.

The metallic bangs in the background persisted, without diminishing in volume. Gwenda opened the oven door. Bending down, she peered inside to examine the selection of pots and pans within. Among the cooking utensils she noticed some scissors. Or rather one half of an old pair of dressmaking scissors. Gwenda picked the useless object up.

How odd, she thought. Who on earth would keep just one blade from a pair of scissors? She ran her finger over the metal, heavy in her hand. Perhaps the owner had been loath to throw it away; it was, after all, quite ornate and finely made. The blade was sharp and the pair of scissors must have been easy to hold. Gwenda put it back where she had found it.

Gwenda put her shoes back on and, throwing her jacket and bag over one arm, left the apartment. Carefully locking the door behind herself, she stood on the landing listening to the metallic clanging noise. When her curiosity eventaully got the better of her, she set off along the corridor in the direction of the noise.