The Stairs Should Be Painted

It was a rather rainy day. Of course, England isn't known for its warm weather, but the rain was strong enough to be noteworthy. The overlapping rustle of skirts among the shuffle of pressed trousers seemed to call out through these merciless drops, all wading through a thick fog that seemed to churn from factories. Among Queen Victoria's subjects hurrying to and from shops was Albert.

On this day, Albert was trying to hold his head up high, carrying a box of sweets and once again ignoring his loneliness. He was an accountant who had sisters, though they were already married off with families of their own. Coworkers would address him with the impersonal Mister Strauss, which was occasionally mispronounced. As such, he often bought pastries on his own; this awareness, as usual, nearly overwhelming.

One wonderful aspect of going out while the sky wept was the smell, that of bread and soot, mingled with the freshness rain left in the atmosphere. Not only that, but Albert was well aware of a particular tidbit involving this day. It was not a science fair, no, although the art gallery was open for business. It wasn't his birthday— if it were, he wouldn't be in a celebratory mood about it. In fact, today he would dare to express excitement.

Albert made his way out of the crowd, down the road leading to his home. With a slight reassurance, he strode up the stairs and indoors. With the door closed to the world outside, he dropped his weight against the wooden plane keeping him in, keeping him safe, and let out his anxieties in a quiet sigh.

"Mister Strauss!" a woman cried, waking him from his attempted nap at the entrance. Albert gasped, nearly leaping out of his shoes as her shrewd brown eyes bore into him.

"Nadine!" he heaved another sigh. "There you are. Here." he held out the box. "I noticed the stairs. Open the drawing-room windows and ready a pot of tea; we'll share the pastries— all of us."

With a brow raised, she took the package and scuttled down the hall. All of a sudden he noticed how small she was.

Albert trudged up the interior stairs, over to the book-laden drawing room. He sat at the desk, a sketchbook before him. You see, despite the monotony of accounting, he had a keen interest in artistry. Inspiration coming in brief gusts of ideas, he had filled a few pages with several attempts at Nadine's likeness. On a good day, he would always capture the sardonic fierceness in her eyes but he never got the hook of her nose quite right, or her hair was rendered so coarse it could double as a miraculously sturdy rope.

Strauss slouched in his chair, rubbing his eyes as Nadine entered to open the windows. He breathed in the rush of fresh, wet air as the rain continued its tap routine.

"Go ahead and fetch Amelia, would you?" he said, closing the book. "Tell her to wash her hands."

With a nod, Nadine strode out of the room. Albert looked at his own hands and folded their fingers between each other. He tried thinking of colour.

One of his acquaintances had suggested a method of easing his isolation by describing the world around him as one would in a poem. To him, his hands were the colour of raw milk, Nadine was walnut wood without the shine, and Amelia, a tweeny approaching thirteen, was tea with enough cream to make it a rather light brown. This assignment had pushed him to pay close attention to every detail of the world and the people who lived in it, but it drew attention to the amount of grey that tinted his surroundings. He was also aware of the various romantic words such as alabaster or marble, but the subjects of such adoration didn't interest him even when translated to canvas. Longing for inspiration, his mind wandered.

He thought of a rebellious moment years ago, which had opened his eyes to a new realm; sailors. He’d ventured until he smelled salt and could relive the fear that eased into wonder. The taste of ale. The stories, laden with profanity. The hands, roughened by work.

Nadine returned to the room, a lidded plate perched upon a tray between a trio of cups and a pot gently blowing steam from its spout. She placed it onto his desk as Amelia stepped in. Now, Amelia was still new to the house, indicated by her ginger steps throughout the halls, but the exertion of routine drudgery had left her with remarkable strength. Without her, Nadine would still be maid-of-all-work, lonely in her own right. She peeped in.

"Ah, Amelia!" Albert chirped. "Come in, come in!"

With a wary eye, she stepped into the drawing-room.

"Sit." He indicated the armchairs in front of the desk.

Amelia traipsed to the nearest one and sat.

"Come now, Nadine; join us."

Nadine abandoned her leaning against the window to settle herself in the other chair. "Now what, pray tell, is under there, Mr. Strauss?"

"I'm glad you asked." He folded his fingers together. "For the sake of context, it has come to my attention that it is a certain individual's date of birth on this particular day."

Amelia blanched.

"I see you've noticed, Miss Lin!"

Her gaze darted to her knees.

"Well, we can't keep this a secret, otherwise I couldn't possibly know who accepts the first pastry!"

Slowly, she looked up at him.

"Do you know who it is?"

She nodded.

"Can you tell me?"

She glanced elsewhere.

"Shall we guess, then?"

After quick contemplation, she shrugged.

"Hm." Albert placed a finger over his mouth. "Tu parles Français?"

Amelia looked back to her knees.

"It's no shame if you do."

“Oui.”

"Pardon?"

"Oui, je parle de langue, monsieur," she managed to mutter.

"Très bien." He smiled, drumming his fingers against the tray. “Koo-est tsay?”

Amelia furrowed her brow.

“What happened?”

She shook her head.

"Komment tsest?"

Dreadful, but she hadn’t the aptitude to tell him. “W-Where did you learn that?”

“I asked an acquaintance of mine to teach me a bit. It started fine, but he grew frustrated.”

She raised a brow.

"He may think me illiterate." He lifted the lid. "London bun?"

Amelia stood with a gasp.

Albert placed a sweet in her gaping jaw. "This, along with a personal investigation on my own, has led to a conclusion that the two of you should know."

Nadine and Amelia leaned in closer.

"I'm repairing that ruddy staircase. You know the one."

"Thank god," Nadine leaned back into her seat. "This one almost fell off."

Amelia sunk into hers.

"Goodness me, I actually did!" Albert said.

"And, of course, you didn't ask for help?"

"Regardless, I have just placed an ad for a repairman." He filled the three cups. "Tea?"

A man arrived Saturday evening, taking deliberate strides as he followed the listed address. As he walked, he attracted quite a few stares, which were outright ignored. The man approached the door and knocked. Nadine answered and promptly raised her brow.

"May I help you?"

"Yes, I'm here to renovate the staircase." He inclined his head to her. "This is the place, innit?"

"It is, Mister…?"

"Tahir— Jacques Tahir."

Nadine raised both brows. Before her was a man only ever so slightly taller than her and likely as old, with extra weight softening him to a fresh scone’s consistency. She stepped back, opening the door further.

"Come in."

Jacques stepped in just as Albert reached the stairs. Both paused to look at one another. Albert was in awe.

"Who is this?" he breathed, mesmerised.

"This is Mister Tahir, sir; he's come for the stairs."

"Ah…" his voice faded into nothingness. For the first time in recent memory, colour rose to Albert's cheeks, mottling them a vivid crimson.

Mr. Tahir was gorgeous; there was an afternoonified pride in his eyes, which shone in a regal chestnut and were placed ever-so-carefully behind heavy lids. His face was a pigment Albert would have likely seen if he kept to the docks and gazed upon something for which writers would've sullied nations to find and rename, as Jacques was the deepest brown, cooled by something— whether it was a trick of the light or the skin itself, one couldn't be sure. His lips pulled into an outright smirk.

"Would it be reasonable to assume it was you who requested me?"

"Oh, yes…" Albert cleared his throat, straightening his waistcoat. "Yes! Come inside."

"I intended to."

The two men walked indoors with Albert trailing behind. He felt as though his heart would burst, even when he was within his safe haven. There stood an individual to whom he would not dare brand an intruder; in fact, if it were proper, Albert would have taken that Mister Tahir into a neverending embrace, even in the presence of Nadine. Such strong feelings both frightened and intrigued Mister Strauss, but he kept them hidden.

"Shall I escort him to the stairs?" Nadine inquired, slicing through the silence.

"Ah!" Albert clapped his hands together. "Of course! Go on, Nadine."

With a curtsy, Nadine led Jacques to the infamous staircase. The issue with those stairs is that, because it was meant for the help, there wasn't much emphasis on the algorithm designed to make the steps safe to descend. As a result, they were steep, uneven, and crooked— Albert being its latest casualty. Jacques looked at the mathematical travesty.

"Well," he ventured downward in a ginger sidestep. "I can see why you've asked someone." He backed up and looked at the mess proper. "Certainly got yourself a predicament here."

"Can you fix it, Sir?" Nadine called.

"Of course. If you want to continue working here while I do this, I might have to build over the thing, but I'll try to be creative."

Albert wheezed a relieved sigh. "Fantastic!"

Jacques raised an eyebrow.

"What I meant was…welcome. You'll be paid ten shillings and an extra three for each day you repair it."

"Aye, Mister Strauss."

"Please, call me Albert," he blurted. The unconscious smile melted from his face and every square inch above the collar glowed pink.

Nadine looked up at him. "Mister Strauss, you seem to be running a fever."

"Ah, yes, it must have been the rain!" Albert almost ran, taking his housekeeper upstairs with him. Once they were on the first floor and near his bedchamber, he yanked her aside. "What was that?" he whispered through clenched teeth.

"What did I do?!" she retorted, also in a hush.

"You let me speak!"

"Oho, so all of a sudden I'm supposed to make business decisions over a house that isn't mine?!"

"You do everything else!"

"I only make sure you don't starve to death because you were never a baker!"

"I…" he sputtered. "Sh-Shut up!"

"Are you in love?"

"No!" Albert shrieked, jumping at the resulting noise. He kneeled down, lowering his voice further. "No."

Regardless, Nadine had a knowing smirk.

“Nadine,” he pleaded.

“I’m not gonna tell him, but at least the subject of your fancy has a name.”

“They all had names,”

“Do you know ‘em?”

He merely scowled.

Ever so slightly, she cocked a brow.

“Nadine Granger, you are unscrupulous.”

“Thank you.”

Monday morning, Jacques began the repairing session at the bottom stair; it helped him with alignment. Now, because these steps were wooden he had one hell of a time thinking up ways to level them out until he decided upon a makeshift filler composed of sand, glue, and a hint of limestone. This mixture was kept in a bowl and a cup of water was held nearby to prevent drying out.

He levelled out the paste’s placement using the board of the stair itself, as the ruler he was using wasn't that long. Jacques measured the step— twenty centimetres —and replaced the board.

Nadine marched down the stairs, stopping halfway. "I'm on break."

"Oh?"

"Little Albert's left for work."

"What about Amelia?"

"She's coming down." She made her way further along.

"Well, I just put down the first step, so it's not yet dry. May I?" he stood, holding out his arms for her.

"I've got it, fop." Nadine crouched, swung her arms once, twice, and on the third swing, she leapt over the bottom stair and landed with a heavy stamp. She straightened.

"Alright, but I'm going on with the next stair." Jacques knelt. With a lent hammer, he managed to tear out that step in one clean tug.

Nadine sat at the table. A tired and fairly sore Amelia managed to descend the staircase in an awkward trot. She stopped at Jacques' workplace. He looked up at her.

"Need help?"

"She doesn't like to be touched!" Nadine came dashing to the doorway. She extended her hands. "Can you jump it?"

Amelia stared. The stairwell was a corridor, so there was no way of her squeezing through a handrail, and she was three steps up, so the jump would break her legs. She lifted her arms. With a sigh, Nadine caught her as she leaned forward and swept her down. Amelia held herself closer to Nadine, silently gripping her bodice. Jacques avoided putting himself in the midst of something he wasn't involved with by immediately comparing the severed board— four centimetres short.

Nadine brought Amelia to the table.

"I'll go get you something," she cooed. She sauntered into the next room.

Jacques painted on another layer of his homemade paste in order to fill out a pit. He placed the board down to dry. Then he looked at Amelia.

"Are you alright?"

She nodded.

"Well, then." He sat on his legs. "The stair needs to dry."

"Ah."

Jacques patted his knees.

"Do you want something?" Amelia managed.

He frowned, noting the slight accent. "Tu parles la langue française?"

Amelia inhaled at such a pace that it sounded like a hiccup. "O-Oui! Je bien s'y connaître!"

"Êtes vietnamienne, c'est ça?"

"D'accord, monsieur! Qui êtes-vous?"

"Jacques, madame petit. Vous?"

"Amélie, monsieur grand."

"Bonjour," Jacques smiled.

Bewildered and pleasantly surprised at this sudden revelation, Amelia did the same — almost blushing. Her beaming face revealed a missing canine.

Nadine strode back in with a tray of three cups, a pot of tea, sugar, and a tiny pitcher of cream.

"I see someone's feeling better now." She placed the tray on the table. "Come on over, Mister Jacques, and have a drink, would ye?"

"Alright then." Jacques brushed the paste onto the bare stair frame and carefully replaced the board. "Just in case." He got to his feet and sat next to Nadine. She started pouring.

"So, I heard you two birds having a good chirp, anything interesting?"

"Did you know she spoke French?"

Nadine placed out the cups. "’Course. Every training house has our own little tribes, mine spoke Urdu.”

"I haven’t heard Urdu in such a long time,” Jacques grinned.

“You’re from somewhere?”

“Mum’s Luba; they’re in the Congo.”

“And Dad?”

“Algerian.”

“Does he talk about it?”

“He brings us there.”

A bit of envy revealed itself in her smile. “Mum talks a great deal about India. Never been.” She folded her hands together. “She wants the best for me, I know that, but…” a sort of melancholy set in. “It’s too bloody cold up here; I wanna set me toes in the sea without risking one.”

“Vietnam is getting fucked by France,” Amélie said. “My family worried.”

“Clever.”

“I miss the food.”

Jacques smirked. “You always miss the food.”

She nodded, suddenly crying.

Rather than ask, he set his cup down and handed her a handkerchief from his vest pocket.

Amélie sniffled. She took the cloth from his gentle grip and buried her face in, crying again.

"You have me, Amelia," Nadine murmured.

"I'll be staying for a while as well," Jacques said. "Do you mind?"

"Non." Amélie sniffed. "You are fine."

"Okay."

Evening arrived and, with it, Albert. When he came in, packaged cake in his hands, Jacques greeted him with a passing smile. Once again Albert felt the warm pink swarm to his cheeks. If he had less experience in these matters, his knees would have buckled at that very glance. In the light of the lamp, Jacques was still that rich, cool brown. Albert wanted to touch him; to gently feel the hidden warmth; he wanted his fingers to trace and brush the sloping curves of his face.

"Jacques?"

"Sir?"

Albert stole a glance at his mouth. "I would like to paint you."

"Pardon?"

"Mister Tahir, as an accountant I have limited time for creation. O-Or inspiration." Albert had no idea what he was doing! Giddiness swelled in his chest and the cake in his hands was starting to get heavy. Nevertheless, he straightened his back, lifted his chin, and continued.

"Jacques, you are a handsome man." So much so, his face felt as if it were a stone in the desert sun. "As such, I would like to replicate your likeness."

"Sure."

Albert almost fell over. "What?"

“Sure.” A smile fled quicker than it came. “Hopefully we’ll get another word in, eh?”

"Of course." He grinned, emboldened. “Business requires communication, does it not?”

Jacques nodded. He couldn’t quite put his finger on why, but this gaunt man had brought with him a sort of care. Perhaps the shadows under his eyes had brought to mind a familiar frailty. He couldn’t be certain what this practical stranger wanted of him, or if it were anything good, then again, here he was. Oh, the vexation.

Albert held out a hand and they shook on it.

"Thank you, sir."

After Jacques went back to work, Albert rushed down the hall, pushed the cake into Nadine's arms, and made a mad dash for his bedchamber. He slammed the door. His heart nearly pounded through his bosom. His soul cried out, asking what he’d just done.