The Rooftops
The man standing on the rooftop of the south block building pokes a wet finger into the pale belly of the sky. A cool wind coming from the north lifts gray strands on his head like semaphores signaling rain. There is a tangy whiff of burning chemicals and marzipan in the air. He leans over the edge to see the street cordoned off with yellow tape, then tightens the belt of his pink terry robe.
The man on the north block rooftop pulls soft black leather moccasins onto his feet. It is a beautiful morning for exercise. He pauses, picks a kumquat from a potted tree, and peels it with the tips of his fingers as if he is undressing a very tiny woman. He then divides it into four parts and devours each one separately. His rooftop neighbor with the candy-colored robe drills his ear with a pinky finger and sighs with pleasure. The North Man grunts with disgust, lifts a leaf that has fallen from a potted tree, and shakes it at him with a fierce grimace. The South Man picks up a scrap of debris and throws it in his direction, as he has done every morning for the past eleven years.
The South Man wakes to find white flyers strewn on his rooftop like strips of bandages after a battle. The strong northern wind must have sent them all the way here to the twelfth floor. They are advertising piano tuning for a very reasonable price. Maybe he will invite the tuner to come by and tune his wife’s old piano. He has just made yellow gelatin in a mold that wobbles like a blinking traffic light and he needs help finishing it off, perhaps with a glass of cool lemonade.
The North Man does a few exercises in his leather moccasins, imagining he is fighting off villains in slow motion, then stops to see if his geraniums have blossomed. There is one flower, red and shattered. The North Man plucks it, looks south, and shakes it triumphantly above his head.
The South Man flings a balled-up bunch of flyers.
The flyers are multiplying. In his bathrobe, the South Man sweeps the rooftop and sets the pile of paper on fire. He watches the embers ascend until his face is warm, while across the street, the North Man is doing his peculiar martial arts. Maybe one day he will hurt someone underwater like that. Maybe one day he will kill an underwater sloth. The North Man’s black hair glistens like a patent leather purse but beneath the carefully parted coif, the skin has faded. The South Man rolls a ball of lint from his robe’s pocket and propels it in his direction.
The South Man holds a banana in his fist and pulls its skin down to his knuckles. He is trembling. The banana topples as the buildings quake like baby goat legs.
The north rooftop becomes the wrinkled surface of a lake at noon. Perhaps the earth is regurgitating an ill-digested burden, the North Man thinks, or people have broken something that wasn’t meant to be cracked open. He clings to his scarecrow, and they sway like gentlemen waltzing on a careening Titanic.
The South Man looks over the edge to see people scatter with alarm, then looks at his missing banana and tosses the peel north.
The olives have not ripened properly in their pots. The North Man makes a pigeon loft with cubbies fashioned from stacks of cereal boxes, collects the fertile droppings, and garnishes his pots with them. But there are too many pigeons and too many droppings, so he throws some south then builds a scarecrow and dresses it in a woman’s pink dressing robe.
The South Man throws handfuls of gravel at the scarecrow, like a bitter ex hurling rice at a wedding.
The South Man hangs a whole line of white boxer shorts and undershirts. He chases pigeons away from his laundry with loud explosive noises and a broomstick.
The North Man naps at the foot of the scarecrow, lulled by the guttural cooing of pigeons.
It is an unusually warm morning. The South Man unties his bathrobe and allows the compass of his genitals to guide him north.
The North Man trims his olive trees with the delicate utensils of bonsai art but only manages to make his trees look like poorly groomed children. They are cold, he thinks, and arranges a cardigan over their slumped shoulders. His half-naked neighbor shakes obscenely with laughter. The North Man throws his useless shears at him.
The South Man picks up the tiny dented shears and clips his toenails as the North Man looks on with distaste.
Chanting is heard from below. The breaking of glass. The North Man looks down to see a crowd dressed in black with blood drawn on their faces. There is a group of topless women in the front and men with breasts painted on their chests and they are doing a dance that resembles bowling, and some of them actually are, rolling Molotov cocktails toward a line of human pins in helmets. Things explode. The North Man repeats the bowling move in the direction of the South Man, and the South Man tosses his nail clippings across the divide.
When the South Man reaches his rooftop just before sunrise, he finds the North Man has already commenced his calisthenics, but he is interrupted by pigeons that land on his head and his outstretched arms.
The clouds are thick today, inviting. The South Man pretends a cloud is a Papakha and settles his wiry head beneath it. He imagines he is a Cossack hunting wolves in a blistery wilderness.
The North Man uproots the scarecrow and chases pigeons with it. He then dismantles cereal boxes and throws them toward the South Man.
The South Man removes an apple core, a matchbox, and a line of used floss from his pocket, then flings them north.
It snows.
Snowflakes fall listlessly onto the rooftops and melt in dark smudges. The North Man lies down on his back and opens his mouth to welcome the extraterrestrial guests, then sweeps his arms overhead, swings his legs wide, and beckons the angels.
The South Man shapes a tightly packed, weightless snowball in his palms and lobs it into the northern outfield.
Today the South Man’s green gelatin slips smoothly out of its mold, displaying twenty-two perfect, glassy curves. He feels the urge to show someone. He decides to call the piano tuner and the North Man appears at his door with his case of tools. The South Man responds with a furrow between his eyes that is deep enough to hide money in.
The North Man offers a vague nod. He feels disorientated, then realizes that the layout of this apartment is exactly the same as his, but inverted. He walks over to the piano, slides his hands across its dark wooden shoulders, and presses a single key with a pointed finger. “Oh, very bad. You play this?”
“No, it was my late wife’s.” The North Man looks around the apartment and notes the dusty picture frames, poorly folded throws, the dingy bathrobe, dishes in the sink, evidence of a man who was taken care of and then abandoned.
“You married?” asks the South Man.
“No, I was a happy bachelor. Now I am just a bachelor.” The North Man laughs mechanically, as if he has made this joke several times. He spreads open his tools and gets to work.
The South Man notes the fastidious cleanliness and neat order of tasks that would not have tolerated the compromises of marriage. He stands at the kitchen sink in his wife’s pink bathrobe, and the window above the basin frames him in soft afternoon light. He secures the window sash and handles the dishes carefully. Click of plates, clap of keys, the chaotic clatter of efficient domesticity. The North Man completes his job then plays a quick-fingered tune on the piano that the South Man recognizes. He pauses to listen as hot water runs over his hands.
When the North Man wipes his fingers on a folded grey towel from the tool case, the South Man gestures toward the kitchen table. “Some lemonade?”
“Thank you.”
Beside the green gelatin mold, there is a pitcher with juice and an orange plastic bowl filled with sugar cubes. The North Man scoops up two cubes with a spoon and stirs them into his juice. There is a slice missing from the gelatin which creates a perfectly smooth vertical fissure. The South Man takes his finger and slides it slowly down the cool crevasse.
The North Man looks at him aghast. “What did you do that for?” he asks.
The South Man looks at his moist finger and smiles. “It felt nice.”
The North Man runs his finger along the cleft and nods in agreement. The South Man trims the sides of the gelatin where their fingers caressed it then cuts a slice for each of them. They sip and swallow silently in the reassuring company of one who knows the other better than anyone else.
The next day, the South Man arrives on his rooftop and lights a cigarette. He goes to the edge of the roof and looks down to see hundreds of people, perhaps thousands. They are chanting and shouting heatedly. Tear gas floods the scene and the South Man seals his mouth and tightens his belt.
The North Man exercises in silence. The surface of the roof is as smooth as a lake at dawn. Soon there is screaming in the street below. There is real blood, windows break, and cars explode until the scene whites out with smoke. The South Man looks at the North Man dancing in his leather moccasins. How did this begin, he wonders? He pulls pins from an imaginary grenade with his teeth and tosses it north. The North Man catches it and tosses it back.
Originally from New Jersey, Maria Poulatha has been living in Athens, Greece, with her husband and daughter for the past twenty years. Her short stories have appeared or are forthcoming in SmokeLong Quarterly (finalist for the Grand Micro contest), Copper Nickel, and Gordon Square Review.