As before, our friend disappeared for a few days — or at least, if he was around, he was discrete about it. It was still a bit challenging at times to stay in the apartment — the slightest noise set all of us, Tsi-Boo included, to looking around the loft. But instead, whoever this was seemed to leave us alone. Perhaps he was just as afraid of us as we thought we were of him.

But I was still curious as to who he might be. The building manager, a garrulous old woman from Trois-Rivières, had no idea. “Lots of people have died in this building!” she laughed… which wasnt a particularly comforting thought. The management company’s lease records only went back to 1990, and the manager herself didnt start working in the building until 1995. So no one, it seemed, knew… or at least cared to know. It was as though, as far as they were concerned, he never lived there at all. But even odder than that was that no one before us had ever signaled any discomfort at living there. No reports of strange voices, let alone apparitions. Why hadnt he spoken to any of them, I wondered.

I was sitting on the landing, working on an assignment for class while Ray was off on an interview with a hardware store… and for some reason, I knew our friend was back. I dont know why I knew — the air remained the same, Tsi-boo was quietly sleeping on the bed — but somehow I knew. A subtle change in the light, perhaps. But whatever it was, he was in there.

I went into the loft. The light was fading outside, and I started to turn on the lamp… until I looked at the window and saw…

written on the glass.

“Étienne? Ça c’est ton nom? That’s your name?” I called out.

“… J’pense que oui,” came the softly quiet response. “I wanted to write it to see if it felt right.”

“Did it?”

“… I think so.”

He was standing next to the bed. Surprisingly, Tsi-boo just looked up, then put her head back down and returned to sleep. “Ton chat… I think she knows me now.”

Well, that’s one of us, I thought. “Étienne, do you know why you’re here?”

“I think… because I have no place else to go.” He stared intently around the room. “This is… your stuff, oui? Your furniture? Your clothes?”

I nodded.

“And mine is gone?”

“I suppose so.”

“… Oh. Maybe… maybe that explains why I cant touch yours. My hand… passes through it. So that means it’s not mine, correct?”

I wasnt sure how to respond to that, so I kept quiet.

“I tried to sit on your couch. Instead, I fell through to the floor.” He almost seemed to be laughing at that. “Everything seems… so strange. I can touch les murs, les fenêtres… mais I cannot touch you or anything of yours. Funny, huh?”

I grinned. “Ray will be happy to hear that, I think.”

“Ray? He is your boyfriend?”

“He is my husband.”

“Husband! Comment!” he laughed. “C’est impossible! They do not allow us to marry!”

Again, I did not know how to respond. “We… we were married in Toronto.”

“Ah! Toronto. I had no idea they were permitting that. How long?”

“Almost fifteen years.”

“En vrai? Incroyable… When did this happen?”

“We were amoung the first.”

“And I knew nothing of this! Mon dieu! Had I known, perhaps Georges and I could have…” His face suddenly clouded. “You have not seen Georges, have you.”

“No. Should I?”

“When he left, he said would be back. But he never did. Perhaps he’s still having a beer with someone, oui?”

“Perhaps.”

He didnt say anything for a long time. Then: “I think… perhaps… I am not alive anymore. Yes?”

I kept quiet.

He looked at the window. “I remember… sleeping so much. And when I was awake, everything was… si difficile… My body had revolted against me. I would wake up and find the sheets full of sweat, and I couldnt find the energy to get up and change them. I would… have these moments where I didnt know where I was. I tried once to get out of bed, and instead I fell to the floor… and I couldnt move. I think I might have stayed there for a few days. I no longer know.” He looked at me. “You think I might be dead?”

“… I think so, yes.”

“I see…” Oddly, he didnt seem shocked or surprised. “Well, at least I got to keep my best clothes,” he grinned. “If one is to be dead, one might as well be fashionable about it, oui?”

“Indeed.”

“… So how long do you think I have been…”

“I dont know. What’s the last thing you remember?”

He seemed to struggle with the memory. “… Duran Duran. Rio. Une superbe chanson, oui?”

I quietly punched that into my phone. 1982. I suddenly looked up at him. “Étienne, you said you were sick, that no one would take care of you. Do you know what was wrong?”

He stared at the floor. “Le sida…” he said, so quietly I could barely hear him.