Mrs. Maffett

On my drive to Ottawa, my mind was so engaged with my upcoming job interview that I didn’t noticed when the road came to an end. The placement agency had arranged an interview with a company in Hull, Quebec. I had to use my cell phone to get directions to a street with an unusual, French name. But, eventually, I found it close to the Hull Casino.  As I was walking in front of the building, two young girls in a passing car, made faces at me. I was carrying a leather briefcase and dressed in a dark, blue suit.  After a three-year marathon of working, learning, and studying in Montreal, I had lots of self confidence.Before entering, I took a few minutes to look at the remarkable building.  The secretary, with her piercings and tattoos, reminded me of a rock star.  Soon after, I found myself in a room with Mr. Gauthier, a tall and poised man. Talking slowly with authority and gravity, Mr. Gauthier switched from English to French in the middle of the interview.  An engineer, with hair sticking up in places and wearing classic, black-framed glasses, participated in the interview. Two weeks later, I received a six-month contract through the placement agency. They asked me to start as soon as possible. Their main engineer had left the company and they urgently needed someone to continue the project. That left me with only a few days to find a temporary living arrangement in Ottawa. The offer was not very lucrative but I felt it was vital for me to change my situation. . It was difficult to leave my education unfinished because I had been enjoying my studies during that time. After being laid off by the manufacturing company I had been working for, I put all my effort into continuing my education in management. Life required me to put money ahead of education now. In the middle of 2000, Ottawa was still a hotbed for booming, high tech industries. A lot of young professionals had been moving to Ottawa to work in growing companies such as Nortel and JDS Uniphase. Ottawa’s high tech rush caused housing vacancies to be more difficult to find. I searched the internet and called several listings without any results. Then I found Mrs. Maffett.  She said she had a vacancy and I booked a furnished room for one week.  It was Sunday afternoon when I arrived in Ottawa to meet with Mrs. Maffett. I was scheduled to start my new job the next morning. I found Mrs. Maffet’s boarding house on a side street in front of a small park. I parked my car in front of the run-down, old house. I thought it would be nice to sit and eat my sandwich in the park. I watched as a few Filipinos came out of the building. When I was finished eating I walked over to the house. The door was open so I went in. It was filthy. There was a water stain on the wall. I entered into the small, dirty kitchen. “Are you looking for something, sir.” I heard a voice from behind. It was a young fellow with an Indian accent.  “Yes, I have an appointment with Mrs. Maffett here,” I answered. Then, I left the building with a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. Mrs Maffett was late. I called her from my cell phone and reminded her that we had an appointment.  Half an hour later, a white van stopped in front of the building. Mrs Maffett was a lady in her sixties. She reminded me of a witch covered with chalky make-up, her eyelashes caked with dark black mascara. Her hair looked like a wig. She spoke fast with a soft voice. I told her that the apartment was not what I had expected; the rooms shared a common bathroom and kitchen, and a lot of people were living there. I explained that our agreement was for a furnished room with a separate bathroom and kitchenette. She stated that she was in the real estate business and had several properties for rent. She said she might have another room available for me. She told me the place would be ready around 7:00 pm because there was some furniture that would be relocated and the place needed to be cleaned up.  To overcome the anxiety that I felt from my meeting with Mrs Maffett, I spent a few hours window shopping to kill the time and look around. I arrived at Gladstone Ave., a few minutes after 7pm.  It was an old, two story building. A few apartments were on each floor and in the basement. I heard a voice coming from the back of the building. Mrs. Mafett was not in front of the building. So, I went to the back where the noise was coming from.  There was a stairway going to the second floor from outside the building.  A long balcony ran along the whole second floor leading to more apartments.  At the back corner of the building the stairway rose a bit higher and ended in a room. I said hello to Mrs. Maffett who was standing on the corner of the balcony, ordering a man with a familiar face and a bushy, black moustache. Mrs. Maffett apologized for the delay and asked me to wait downstairs for a few minutes. The man with the moustache put the last of the furniture into Mrs. Mafett’s van as well as a carton containing some books. Then, he went upstairs to finish vacuuming. Fifteen minutes later, I was in a small bedroom with a very low ceiling. There was a small bed, a table, a toaster, a microwave oven, and a small fridge, a closet, and a sink. Attached to the room was a private bathroom with the toilet and shower. I tried to forget the foul odour of the bathroom and think about the next big day that was ahead.  Working at the consulting company was harder than I had anticipated. I usually arrived late and exhausted, I didn’t have time and energy to search for a new location. So, I paid for a second week. But, Mrs. Maffett told me that she had rented the room for the first of the month and I had to move to another location.  One day, I saw the man with the moustache cleaning his motorbike. He wrapped a scarf around his neck, similar to the one that traditional Iranian roughnecks wear. His appearance and the way he walked convinced me that he was from the south of Tehran where most street hooligans come from. I said hello to him in Farsi. But, he pretended that he didn’t hear me and started rubbing his motorbike with a rag nervously.  The mystery of Mrs. Maffett’s house had been occupying my mind all the time. The man with the moustache was usually hanging around, most of the time, working on his bike. A lot of people were living there from the lowest classes of the society. Most of them on welfare, I guess.  I often saw a handicapped girl in the first floor window, staring like a statue with her mouth open. But the rent was fairly cheap and it was difficult to find a better room for this price anywhere else.  One Thursday afternoon, I was on my way home tired and exhausted, dreaming of opening a cold bottle of beer and jumping into bed.  I stepped up the stairs to go to my room. My key was in my hand, ready to open the door. But, I saw another key in the lock. The door was ajar. I thought Mrs. Maffett’s people might have come to clean the room or do repairs. But, when I opened the door, I saw a fat man sitting on my bed, staring at me.  “Hello, what are you doing here,” I said.   The man looked at me and said, “I live here. I should  ask YOU what you are doing here.” I was shocked by his answer. I wanted to find out the reason behind his presence in my room before reacting. My first thought was Mrs. Maffett had sent him to blackmail me. But, maybe he was a thief. Then I rejected that idea by remembering the key in the door.  In the end, I came to the conclusion that he might be delusional. I tried to remain calm and reasonable.  “This is my receipt.” I told him as I pulled the receipt from my briefcase. “I rented this room till the end of the week. Where is yours?” I asked.  “I don’t have one and I don’t need one.” the man answered calmly.  I was outraged. I threatened to call the police and I ordered him to get out immediately before I took some serious action. He didn’t lose his cool. He reminded me that Jesus never lost his temper. He asked me if I go to church and believe in God. He suggested I pray to God when I get angry.  I called Mrs. Maffett several times without any results. She was not there. I left a message and explained everything, asking her to come over as soon as possible. The man now was lecturing me like a priest, and reading some verses from the Bible. I came to my previous conclusion that I was dealing with a nutcase. So, I tried to convince him that he had made a mistake. I opened the closet door and pointing to my cream colour suitcase asked him: “If this is your room, is this suitcase also yours?” The man said, “Of course, this suitcase is mine. I had more things in this room that are not here anymore.”  At this point, I lost control and exploded in a fury. I thought the man was a harmless, crazy guy. But, now I found him a dangerous actor. I grabbed him by the collar with one hand and threatened to call the police. But, he was so big. My hand could hardly reach around his neck. He didn’t react harshly and stayed calm. So, I released him and pulled out my cell phone. I dialed 911 and asked for help. “Somebody is in my room and claims that my property belongs to him. He won’t leave. Please connect me to the local police so that they can help me.” The operator refused to do so at first and asked me lots of questions. But, finally she connected me to the local police station. The man was unhappy that I had called the police. I tried to keep him busy till the police arrived. But, Mrs. Maffett arrived first. With the arrival of Mrs. Maffett, the truth became clear to me gradually. The poor guy had been living in this room for two years. While visiting his sister and mother in Vancouver, Mrs. Maffett had rented his room to me. She had evacuated all his belongings including a suitcase identical to mine. Mrs Maffett soon disappeared, taking the man away with her.The police arrived after 40 minutes. I was waiting outside for them. The man with the moustache was watching nearby.  The policemen didn’t bother to get out of their car. They asked me to come over. They said no crime had been committed and they had more important jobs to do. While I was explaining the situation to them, the man with the moustache asked one of the officers to come over. When the officer returned to the car, he stopped to talk to me. He said, “That man just told me he doesn’t want to be your friend. He said you’ve bothered him in the past and now he wants you to keep your distance.” I wanted to leave the place immediately after this incident. I had a bad feeling about the place and I couldn’t sleep in that room anymore. Mrs. Maffett refused to pay back the rest of the rent but I decided to leave anyway. I put my belongings in my car and left the house. I drove aimlessly in the city for an hour, still numb by this event. Although I had quit smoking a month ago, I stopped near a convenience store to buy a cigarette. It was a small, convenience store with rental videos, some of them x-rated, hanging on the shop window. A fat lady was at the counter. I asked her if she knew of any rooms for rent. I didn’t expect a positive reply. But, amazingly, she said she knew somebody looking for a tenant. She gave me a telephone number. That was the beginning of the story of Summerset St. house, a house that was somehow even stranger than Mrs. Maffett’s house.