Janine Armin - Toronto Noir

Sorting this out would be easy enough if Magda could actually talk to me, but with her English...?

“Magda, are you in trouble?”

“Thank you, Chris,” she says, indicating the bathrobe.

“Where are you from?”

She shakes her head. She doesn’t understand.

“Polish? Hungarian?... Romanian? Russian?” Nothing.

I go into the bedroom, find my laptop, and bring it to the kitchen. I connect to the wireless and search for free online Polish translation.

“Magda, Polski ?”

She laughs, nods her head. “Yes, Polski .”

Oh god, lucky break.

I start typing. There was a man here looking for you . I click on Translate and show her the screen. Her smile dies on her face.

“Type,” I say to her. “Type in Polski .”

I gesture at the keyboard. She two-finger types and pushes it back at me. I click Translate .

— He (it) is a bad man .

I take a deep breath.

— Why is he a bad man? I write.

— He (it) produce I make bad thing with people .

— Why did you get on the train?

— It ran away from bad person.

— S hould we phone the police?

— If I call police, he (it) will kill me. He (it) will kill my family. He (it) say that owe money. I must pay. If sufficient amount pay him (it) money; he (it) will leave me sole. I make bad thing with people to produce sufficient money.

— How much money does he want?

She shrugs her shoulders. She’s hugging her knees up on the stool, rocking back and forth.

— What should we do? I type.

She shakes her head. “Don’t know,” she says out loud. She types something and clicks the mouse.

— Hide away?

Oh crap.

I get up and turn off the rice burner and pull the fish out of the oven. It looks and smells like fish, so it’ll do. I empty a bag of pre-washed mixed greens into a bowl with some cherry tomatoes and pour out a half-finished bottle of white wine into two glasses. Liquid courage. We might even be able to manage a little dinner conversation.

By the time I sit down at the table, Magda has typed another message for me.

— I understand you like girls .

I look up at her. She runs a finger along her lips. Then types again.

— I like girls too.

I smile awkwardly and give her a thumbs-up sign. Then I hand her a fork and a plate of fish. I’m not going anywhere with those thoughts right now.

After dinner, we settle on the sofa with bowls of ice cream and I switch on the TV. I bring the laptop in there too, in case there’s something we want to say to each other. I give Magda the remote. She settles on one of those stations that play nonstop makeover shows. It seems not much is lost in the translation — she cackles right on cue with the purchase of an ugly shirt and tie.

It’s after midnight and Magda is doing the last of the dishes when the phone rings.

“This won’t take very long,” says the voice on the line, “if you listen carefully.”

“Hello?” I say. “Who is this?”

“I know Magda is there, and I don’t want this conversation to be even a second longer than need be.” Comb-over?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, buying time.

“Cut the crap. There are these things called phone books, and once some old bitty gives you a name and you have an address, it’s easy-peasy to look a number up. I know you’re in there, and I know Magda is in there too.”

Easy-peasy. I want to laugh. His scratchy voice sounds exactly like a pimp, or at least a bad dramatization of a pimp. Magda looks over anxiously.

“What do you want?” I say.

“I want my employee back, or I want you to pay for her time.”

“I didn’t ask her to come here.”

“That’s of little concern to me. Right now, whether you choose to accept it or not, you are in possession of my property, and you are not paying for its use. So, if you would like to keep her there, you either hand over her rate in cash, or you hand Magda over, understand?”

“And what if I don’t? What if I call the cops instead?”

“Well, then you have made some pretty powerful enemies; enemies who know where you live. And don’t think you’ll be doing Magda any favors either, calling the police. We’ll just recruit her twelve-year-old little sister back in Poland. I can’t wait to ripen that tender ass. Plus, once Maggie’s deported back to Poland, we’ll just pick her up and put her right back into harness.”

Magda finishes the dishes and lays the dishcloth over the tap to dry. She walks over and puts her arms around me from behind. I’m not expecting it, and I shiver a little. She holds me closer and rests her head on the back of my neck. I start to pull away, but then I wonder if she’s trying to hear the phone. I don’t move.

“Look,” I say. “I’m tired. What do I need to do to make you go away so I can think this through?”

“Pay for her. $400 for tonight, and $200 every night after that.”

“Fine.”

“You’re a smart dyke.”

“Yeah. So how would you like the money? I don’t suppose you take PayPal?”

“You’ll be passing through Union Station in the morning?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Go to the pay phones nearest the digital platform sign at 8:30 a.m., all right? Bring the cash in a plain envelope and leave it underneath the third phone, then just walk away. I’ll be watching you. If it’s not the right amount, I’ll drive straight to your place and wait for you to come home. Got it?”

“Yeah.”

“Nice doing business with you, Chris. Enjoy Magda tonight. Just pay extra in the envelope if you’re not through with her. If you misplace the merchandise and she goes AWOL, though, you’re responsible for the full price of the goods, got it?”

“And how much is that?”

“Ten thousand dollars, at least, and that’s if I give you a discount.”

I hang up. Magda unwraps her arms and looks at me, a question in her eyes. I get the laptop and tell her that it’s okay, but just for tonight. She reads the translation, eyes bright. She pulls on my hands and giggles. I tell her that I’m tired and need to go to bed. She puts her hands on my waist and pulls me into a long hug. Then I go to my room with the laptop and shut the door. I plan on researching a place that will help Magda, but I’m too tired to think. I scrunch the duvet up around my ears and fall asleep.

I pick up the cash and do the drop, just as comb-over said. Then I pretend to leave the station, but do a U-turn on Front Street and come back down. I watch the pay phone from behind one of the pillars. A redhead in a Hooters T-shirt and jeans is on the phone. One hand on the receiver, she reaches under the box and slips the envelope into her purse. Is that what Magda was up to yesterday? I shake the thought out of my head. If that were the case, why should she run away?

I’d put $600 in the envelope, to buy us time. I had the savings, and it wouldn’t even pinch. She was still asleep when I left the house this morning. I poked my head into the guestroom. Her full lips were parted, eyelids soft, her hair arranged in spokes, like rays of the sun, over her pillow. I left a loaf of bread on the counter, an econo-sized jar of peanut butter and my phone number at work scribbled on a pad, just in case.

After work, I unlock the door and find her sprawled on the sofa with a bag of nacho chips and the remote. More makeover shows. She’s wearing another oversized T-shirt of mine from the ’80s. Relax, it says, in bold caps. She stands up and gives me a kiss on the cheek.

“Hi, Chris!” she says cheerily. “Laptop?”