The sofa

Damn. Cazzo! Was there a different way? Don’t think too much. She had decided to do it, so now she’d get on with it. Ha! After all, they had managed to get it upstairs, so it would go down again too. She flipped the sofa on its fabric-covered backside and let it slide down the stairs. It was much lighter than it looked.

The staircase wound around the elevator core and was generously cut. On each level there were two flats, and the stairs to the next level had two steeper stretches on each side. The mezzanine had only two stairs. The corners were wide enough to manoevre. She descended the stairs, moved past the sofa and pushed it around the corner, so it was sitting almost level across the two stairs. It would work. Only a few more rounds of this, and it would be on street level. Sure, it would be easier with some company, but if she had waited around in life for the other person to arrive, she might well still be in the village.

Suddenly she felt like the urge to smoke a cigarette. 

That hasn’t happened for a while, she thought. And why shouldn’t she smoke? After all, she could do anything she wanted. But where to get cigarettes? Her neighbour on the third floor, he’s a chain smoker, or used to be. 

She turned the sofa back on its dainty wooden feet and pushed it as far as possible to the outside wall. Like so, anyone who needed to pass could squeeze by on the inside while she enjoyed her newly re-discovered vice.

She quickly climbed up the stairs again. „Herr Schmitz?“ She pressed the door bell, then knocked on the door so would know not to buzz her in from the street. Another knock. „Herr Schmitz?“ She could discern the shuffle of feet and after a little while the little man opened the door. Herr Schmitz looked just as tiny and shrivelled as last summer, when he had given her a strawberry-scented candle for their housewarming.

„Hello, Miss…Neighbour.“

He squinted a little, clearly he unable to recall her name, but at least he seemed to recognize her.

„Is it the heating? Mine seems to be working for a change.“

„No, no,“ she reassured him. „All good. Hello!“

She smiled, self-consciously.

„Mmmh, I wanted to ask if…. “ She hesitated, then blurted out, „I have a stupid question, do you still smoke? I am dying for a cigarette…“

As soon as the words had left her mouth, she scolded herself inwardly. It was not done, just knocking on people’s doors asking for a smoke, on a Tuesday afternoon. Rumour had it that he was very sick, most likely he wasn’teven allowed to smoke. And here she was, giving him stupid ideas.

„No, not really.“ Herr Schmitz said. For a moment he did look quite sad. Shit.

„But Frau Singer, she has my emergency ration, let’s go there.“  He turned around, took his beret and his keys from the inside of the door and ushered her towards the stairs. Considering all the shuffling earlier, she was surprised at his speed. 

„Come on! She lives down on the second floor, you know her for sure.

He grabbed the banister and started to move downstairs. She watched him. Only after the first few steps, he discovered the red sofa on the half landing.

„Fancy that.“ was all he said.

Annika moved past him and started pushing the sofa this way and that so he would get past it more easily. She stood in the corner of the landing while Herr Schmitz continued downstairs.

„You know, it has to go down, but then I thought, maybe a cigarette first…“

„Call me Alois.“

He had almost arrived in front of Frau Singer’s door and was ringing her doorbell before arriving at the bottom of the stairs. He then knocked on the door energetically and called. „Maria, open up, I made some cake!“

Herr Schmitz giggled mischieveously and turned to look up to Annika who stood watching the scene.

„I always say that.“

She smiled back uncertainly. Clearly, they had their little routines. Frau Singer opened the door.

„Alois, you promised me – “ she paused in mid-sentence to take in the situation. Her gaze moved from Alois up to the red sofa. „Fancy that.“ Then she smiled.

„Hello, Miss Annika.“ 

Her white hair was layered in freshly arranged waves, and the chain of her glasses glittered in a few rays of afternoon sun that had strayed into the staircase. Then she straightened up a bit and pushed her glasses back on the bridge of her nose.

„It looks like cigarettes alone won’t do. Alois, would you like some beer or do you join us for some bubbly?“

„Beer. We wait outside.“

While Maria Singer disappeared in her flat without a further comment, Alois climbed up the stairs again and sat on the red sofa.

„Maria, don’t forget the ashtray!“ the tiny man hollered. 

Annika looked back and forth between the open door and Alois. What a voice. 

„So-“ she tried again.

„Sit, my dear.“

He patted on the sofa next to him. She obeyed. He had moved to the far end, so she sat in the middle, with her knees almost touching the elevator casing. Frau Singer arrived presently with a tray and climbed the stairs graciously. On it were a bottle of Kölsch, and two small „Piccolo“ bottles next to two Champagne flutes.  The ashtray, a packet of American Spirits and a book of matches completed the arrangement. She placed the tray between herself and Annika and sat very ladylike on the edge of the sofa, turning towards them, knees touching. She expertly distributed the drinks, while Alois took care of lighting the cigarettes. He fumbled a bit with the matches, but then everyone was set up.

„Is it time, my dear?“

She looked at Annika and winked lightly, the cigarette in her left, raising her glass with the right.

„Cheerio!“