Once more, I was fantasizing a full-blown relationship before one got off the ground. A bad habit. Something wrong with my learning curve. Painfully, but to remind myself of what I almost forgot I learned, I relived events with Boot Riley.
A year after Grant’s death I’d made the mistake of having sex with an oil-field roughneck who worked the off-shore rigs out of Galveston. Employment was sporadic. During slack seasons, Boot picked up handyman jobs. When he finished whatever he had fixed in my house, we would sit in the kitchen, where I’d listen to his complaints about Doris, his overweight and overwrought wife, while he rolled a joint from the shreds in his Tupperware box. “Just as well you don’t use,” he said. “Expensive habit.”
Which I probably subsidized. He might have been overcharging: I could never bring myself to tally his receipts scrawled on the backs of envelopes. When he began dropping by just to talk, I should have paid attention to the flashing red lights
Hellos and goodbye hugs led to trysts on the sofa, where I told him ‘no’ again and again, not because I didn’t want to, but because I was listening for the word ‘love,’ explaining, whenever my mouth was free, that otherwise, we might as well be crickets rubbing our back legs together.
He must have been startled that hot afternoon when my no was not forthcoming. Only my saying, ‘I don’t care,’ while my greedy hands tore at his shirt.
Afterward, he leaned over the edge of the bed to grope for his shoes. My silk robe was on the back of the closet door. I looked good in blue: slip it on, we could hang out in the kitchen, then go back to the bedroom. I smiled up at him. “I’ll fix coffee.”
Without meeting my eyes, he fastened his belt. “Got to pick up Doris at the mall.”
The following night we argued over his bills. Later I realized I started the fight. Some relationships can only end in anger. This was one of them.
Thoughts of Boot merged with those of Zak until I finally dozed off. After four hours of sleep, it was eight AM. Too late to go back to sleep, I was stuck with my mouth feeling like an owl’s nest, and I could only get out of bed by offering myself a bribe. How about Marbella? I’d been wanting to explore the upscale shops. Then to appear civilized among the privileged Marbellians, I put on a dress. After a quick spin around a grassy strip with Mozart, we went to Casey’s, Mozart’s sitter.
He opened the door. “Breakfast time, love, want some?” He wore a nightshirt, of all things.
“Where on earth do you buy them?” I asked.
“My housemate whips them up on his sewing machine. Good old Harold’s already gone to his bookstore to flog his outdated stock no one buys.” Casey rubbed his head, the shaggy curls falling back in place.
“Coffee, if you have it. Can you keep Mo while I go shopping in Marbella?”
“No problem. See today’s Sur In English?” The gossipy tabloid that was distributed free.
“No, why?” I followed him through the living room to the kitchen where he spread the newspaper on the table and skip-read aloud, tracing the print with his finger. “Police find remains of a decapitated young woman.” Casey looked up at me. “The picture doesn’t show much, you can understand why, too gruesome, but there’s a description of facial tattoos, comments from the Sergeant.”
The article went on with the statistics of violence on the Coast.
“Says here,” Casey read, “the Guardia Civil investigating North African migrant communities. Evidence—they don’t say what—suggests hate crime.”
He slid the paper over to me and went to the sink to add water to the espresso machine. The picture showed a Guardia Civil officer standing amidst weeds.
I moved the paper aside. “Casey?”
He turned off the spigot.
“I think I found the hostage, The imam’s baby.”
“Sorry?”
“I said, I found the hostage.”
“Christ on a bike. What I thought I heard.” Leaning against the counter, he reached for his wrist and began counting his pulse rate.
“They’re keeping him in a bombed-out church near Dad’s place.”
He broke off the count and asked, “You certain it’s the right kid?”
I described the grandmother and the sick baby winding up with, “If you could come along to translate—”
“Of course. Happy to.”
“We may need an ambulance. I suspect meningitis—”
“Count on me. Love to go with you. Absolutely love to,” he added.
“Why so enthused? A day on the road can’t be that interesting.”
He lowered his eyes, raised them. “Curiosity, and all that.” In a brighter tone, he said, “Harold can take care of big-boy. Right Mister Mo?”
Mozart raised his head from the sofa, then went back to sleep.
I left Casey turning pages of the newspaper, the tails of his nightshirt tucked between his knees.
. . . . .
I love stores, good ones, where there’s no noise but the soothing scrape of hangers riding metal bars. And perfumed air pumped through the vents. I milled around through Ferragamo’s, Gucci’s, Burberry’s, and Furla until I came to Sayyed Kavandi’s Iranian Imports, where I lost it.
The warning to myself not to buy, was lost in the smell of dusty wool and cardamom tea. Tall and slim, Sayyed was graceful as a panther as he glided across the showroom. “Tea? Coke?” Sayyed asked and clapped his hands. A teenaged boy emerged from a back room carrying a brass tray with glasses of tea and a small plate of cookies. I sat on a regency chair and balanced the cup on my lap as the boy flipped rugs one-by-one to show me. Bijars, the scarlet work-horses, Kazaks and their alarming geometrics, and zany Ardebils sporting cartoon camels. “Stop. Go back. The Tabriz.”
According to Kavandi’s account of its provenance, the three-by-five was a clone of one in the palace of the now de-throned Shah Pahlavi. Lavender vines embraced a medallion of yellow lilies. The underside was signed by the weaver. But a dealer in Houston told me his first job in the Teheran bazaar was weaving signatures onto unsigned carpets. Oh, well.
“Euros?” I asked.
Sayeed started at three thousand.
I hung in at one-five until we settled on an even two-thousand.
The flipper-kid carried the folded rug to the car. Home, I unfolded it in front of the credenza and opened the balcony door to the western sun beaming down at the pale velvety Tabriz. From one angle, its background appeared to be cream: from another angle, ivory. Two thousand euros? Not bad.
Are you kidding? Of course, it was bad. What was I thinking? Without income, by this time next month, I’d be into my savings. I should have known better than to set one foot into Sayyed’s. On the other hand, the sanctions against Iranian exports dried up the European market, making the rug a good investment. Rationalizing? You bet. I stroked the wool that was soft as mink. The Tabriz was far more than a rug. It was a work of art. A gift to the world from Persia, where poets are honored and where carpets fly.
Mozart came up behind me. I turned to him. “Not one paw on that rug.” He advanced anyway, only to spin and yip at the knock on the door.
I rose, unfastened the latch, and faced Zak in the hallway. “Why so surprised?” he asked. “We were on for seven, weren’t we? Or did I make a mistake?”
A leather briefcase hung from his shoulder. He wore the linen blazer he had on yesterday only tonight it was over a navy tee-shirt. He was one of the few men who could pull off a day’s growth of beard without looking as if he slept under a bridge.
“I picked up wine,” he said, opening the plastic bag. “Where should I put it?”
I led him into the kitchen, where he took tw
o bottles and a box from the bag. He set the Malaga on the counter. “I remembered you like this goo. The rioja’s for me. And this...” He held the box aloft. “Is for our furry friend.” The Bocadillo box pictured a grinning Chihuahua. Mozart nuzzled Zak’s leg. “Can he have one?” Zak asked.
“Make him sit.”
“Sentarse.”
“He doesn’t speak Spanish.”
“Watch this. Sentarse.”
Mozart sat quivering, grabbed the biscuit, and trotted into the living room.
Zak turned to me. “Where’s your wine glasses?”
If Zak wants to take charge, let him. “In the cabinet above the stove.”
The drink he passed me was filled to the top. So many questions were poised on the tip of my brain all of them concerning the Knights, most importantly, was Zak a member? Was he involved in the kidnapping? The words “mother,” and “taking her to her baby” spoken by the Arab in the restaurant came to mind. Zak understood the references. I would not confront him directly, rather, I would ease into it.
Watching him pour his own drink, I asked, “How well do you know Kurt?”
“Let’s see—” He raised his eyes to the ceiling. “About five years. Why?”
“He strikes me as being kind of rigid. Opinionated. The way I would picture a man of convictions. Any chance he’s one of the Knights?”
If Zak were annoyed, he didn’t show it. “Who cares?”
I motioned for him to follow me to the living room, where I sat at the desk, and he took the sofa. I was working up the courage to ask if he, himself, was a Knight. And what did he have to do—if anything—with the woman’s head on the beach? At that, he might get up and leave. I was prepared.
“It’s that Kurt will be alone at Dad’s house,” I said.
“All my men are bonded,” Zak snapped. He opened his briefcase. “Don’t worry. Meanwhile, the bathroom tile’s been delivered, and we’re waiting on the lumber. Shingles come Monday.” Zak held up original receipts stapled together.
Shades of Boot O’Rourke and his padded bills and Boot making a fool of me. And giddy me, playing into his hands.
“The bottom line—in dollars—is a thousand, three hundred, and forty-two cents,” Zak said.
‘Check’s ok? I’ve signature authority on my mother’s account.”
Mozart rested his head on Zak’s knee. “Still a hungry boy?” Zak asked.
“He’s begging.”
Zak nodded at the checkbook. “While you write that out...” He stood and headed into the kitchen with Mozart padding behind. “Sentarse” was followed by the clink of Bocadillos hitting Mozart’s steel bowl.
With Zak out of the room, I reached in the desk drawer and took out the vial of Vicodin. Not a good idea on top of the Valium and wine, but the pain in my chest was writhing and whining. The tablet went down with the dregs in the glass.
When Zak returned, I tore out the check and asked, “Do you listen to Radio Gibraltar?”
“I run my ad over it, sure.”
“They say anyone, the guy next door, the meter reader, anyone could be one of the Knights because the whole country’s reverted to the old game of Christians and Moors still at each other’s throats. Bystanders like me could be caught in the crossfire.”
“This has something to do with Kurt?” Zak asked.
“I mean, these days you can’t be too careful.”
“What’s gotten into you? You usually make sense.” Zak studied the rim of his glass, then looked into my eyes as if totally baffled. “What are you really afraid of?”
“The entire world’s terrified of drive-by-shootings, being beheaded—”
“Good Lord, your imagination’s on overdrive.”
I set the wine on the table and motioned to the glass. “Maybe too much of this.” My laugh came out all wrong.
He got up to take the check and stared down at me. Then circled my chair and placed his hands on my shoulders, his thumbs gently massaging the tendons of my neck.
“You’re probably uptight about the cost of the renovations. Plus, too many decisions.”
The tendons melted under his hands. I stiffened my muscles so he wouldn’t know how good it felt.
” You’ve nothing to worry about.” He ran his palms down my arms, up to my shoulders again.
Maybe he was only weakening my defenses so I would trust him. For that’s what seduction does, doesn’t it? Weakens resolve, distorts judgment. The techniques of Boot Riley’s seduction to loosen me up and wear me down. I braced myself, determined to ignore his hands wherever they went. But the body has a mind of its own.
I closed my eyes wondering if my suspicions about Zak were delusions brought on by the aftershock of the woman’s head on the beach. Paranoia working its way to the surface of the brain the way a splinter works its way to the surface of the skin.
The heel of Zak’s palm dug pleasantly along my spine, then inched lower. “Careful, it’s still tender from the accident, remember?”
His thumbs returned to the neck, “What can I do to get you to unwind?”
I should have said, get your hands off me. But I didn’t want to.
His fingers caressed my throat, temple, hair. “Nasty old pins.” He pulled one out, and I tucked the loose strands behind my ear. He began taking out the others, one by one, leaning to drop them on the table.
My hair fell loose.
This has to stop. Go in the kitchen, get away from him. I glanced at the pins on the table. “You forgot the barrette.”
He leaned and drew his cheek across mine, a hint of lemon from his rough beard.
The balcony door was closed, but the sound of the sea lingered in the captured air. Now his hand was gentle under my elbow, as it would be if I let him levitate my body from the chair, not that I had to. I followed him to the sofa on my own free will.
We lay facing each other side-by-side on the imitation leather cushions, his breath warm on my forehead. Two pairs of jeans lay crumpled on the floor. How had that happened? I felt his weight on me and mumbled, “This isn’t a good idea.” I ran my hands over the tight muscles of his back, every inch of him hard, the fever in his thighs firing mine. He slid my leg aside with his knee, and I must have gasped, for he asked, “Am I hurting you?”
“Probably.”
A gagging cough came from across the room. I turned my head and screamed, “Oh, my God. Mozart, get off.”
The dog stood on the Tabriz with his legs splayed, back arched, and his head lowered as green liquid spewed from his mouth.
“Drag him on the tile,” I shouted and ran to grab him.
Zak leaped from the couch.
“He’s slipped his collar,” I said, reaching to pick it up. It lay in a pool of slime, and I changed my mind.
The dog gagged. “Zak, grab his fur,”
Mozart heaved, and thick yellow mucus splashed onto the medallion. A sour smell of grass and bacon, the essence of Bodacodillo, rose from the floor. With me pushing the dog from behind, and Zak pulling him by the scruff of the neck, we managed to slide him onto the tile and across the room.
“Quick, the balcony.” Zak shoved the dog outside and closed the door. “Cold water, the sooner, the better,” Zak caught his breath. “And every rag you’ve got.”
I raced to the bathroom for a towel. Where did I leave the bucket? I tore into the kitchen.
“Too much to wipe up,” Zak said. “Best thing’s the bathtub.”
“No way.”
“Arab housewives wash them in the ocean. Colors don’t run in saltwater.”
The box of salt was in the cupboard, and I handed it to Zak, who was bent over the tub and swirling the carpet under the cold-water tap. Mozart’s collar rode the waves, the rabies tag clanking against the porcelain.
“I think we caught it in time,” Zak said.
“Two thousand euros.”
“Oh, yeah? When’d you buy it?”
“Today.”
He lifted his head. “Holy shit.”
“The stain’s coming out.”
“Think Mozart needs a vet?” Zak wrung out a wad of fringe. “Maybe he’s sick.”
“He always does that when he overeats, it’s a Weimaraner thing. But never before inside. Do you think the pink flowers on the hem will fade?”
“Can’t tell while it’s wet. Let it soak a minute, and I’ll hang it on the balcony.”
“Can’t. It’s against the management’s policy.”
“Fuck the management.”
“Maybe so long as it can’t be seen from the sidewalk.”
Zak straightened, and instantly, my face went hot. I looked away, realizing how naked we were. Carefully keeping my eyes on his face, I reached for the rack at my elbow and pulled two towels from the rod.
“Adam and Eve.” If he meant it as a joke, it didn’t come off that way. “The first sin.” He knotted the corners of the towel at his waist. “But not the last.”
9
Leaving his Audi in the car park, Casey made his way through the crowd of tourists swarming Gibraltar’s duty-free shops. He walked while studying the map that the sea wind was struggling to rip from his hand. He looked up. The building he wanted must be that high-rise across the street with the plate glass entrance. He waited for the light to change, the map flapping like a captured bird,
The lobby was cool, silent and dark, a vault of hidden currency and commerce. The white letters on the black directory board read AGS, Assertive Global Solutions, and in italics, International Conflict Resolution, Samuel Weber, President.
The Loss of What We Never Had Page 7