“You love it, don’t you? Now that you’re past the shock? I’m taking myself more seriously. No more birds, bees, and babes. And those fucking flowers everyone drools over. I’m sick of it. I’m sugarcoating everything. I want to express my dark side. One more comparison to Matisse and I’m going to puke my guts out.”
“I had no clue that all this was going on with you,” she said. “Where have I been?”
“You’re busy with your work. And you exercise like a fiend. All your spare time. Walking, weights, yoga, Zumba, Pilates. You name it.”
“Don’t be so dramatic.”
“I’m not. Where’s the time for your neglected darling Barth, starving for affection, curled up all by his lonesome in a corner?” he asked. “You’re paid to listen to all those people. I guess by the time you get to me, you’re tired of listening.”
“Not true,” she said, guilt beginning to prick at her.
“Too true. We have a great marriage, though. I’m not knocking it,” he said, leaning over to kiss her cheek.
“So there’s nothing horrible going on with you?” she asked.
“I told you everything,” he insisted. “Don’t psychoanalyze me.”
“Two things in one day. I have a seizure, and you turn into Edvard Munch. You say don’t analyze me, but you complain I don’t pay enough attention to you.”
“There’s a happy medium between complete ignorance and a Freudian spotlight.”
“You’re going to call it Metamorphosis?” she asked.
“Of course,” he replied. “You read my mind. Now let’s talk about your seizure.”
“I don’t have a handle on my illness any more. I’ve been lulled into a phony sense of security because the Neurontin has worked so well for so long. I’m glad I gave up driving. What if I had been driving when this happened? ” She shuddered. “I’m glad I work out of a home office. As long as I don’t get a disturbed patient, who starts stalking me. Right now, my patients are the ‘worried well.’ No personality disorders, no psychoses, no suicidal or homicidal plans.”
“Okay.” Barth’s mellow voice brought her back to the present. “Enough meandering down the crooked, twisted alleyways of your mind. You were beginning to tell me about the seizure?”
“Right, right. This wonderful bubbly has loosened me up. See why I can never honor Dr. Clyde’s ban on drinking? Well, wine and champagne only. It is just so therapeutic—vino therapy.”
Sophia began pulling on her left ear, bewilderment overcoming her. “I really don’t know where to begin or how to describe it. I’ve said this before. I have another consciousness. First off I came to in the vichyssoise. Luckily it was cold soup. Luckily Peter Lorre’s doppelganger was relentless. I don’t remember. It was confusing and bizarre. No warning. Just a face full of soup and the smell of garlic lingering in my nostrils.”
“You could have drowned in the soup,” Barth said.
“I was thinking I could have. You pooh-poohed it earlier,” Sophia said.
“I wonder if there have been cases of people drowning in their soup,” Barth said. Vichyssoise, he thought. A fancy way of saying potato-and-leek soup.
And he was back in Hamburg, sitting on his Mutti’s lap, feeling her reliable thighs supporting him while she fed him the starchy, comforting soup. He could taste the grainy liquid sliding down his throat as he twirled a thick strand of her blond hair, smelling of apples and caraway seeds.
Invariably, Father disrupted their contented closeness by stomping into the dingy flat, the commingled odors of sweat and tobacco wafting in with him as he shooed his son off like a pesky fly, to eat his own soup in solitude. Once home, Father commanded all of Mutti’s attention, shouting after Barth, “And don’t call her Mutti. Say ‘Mum.’”
“Barth? Where did you go? You look like you’re a million miles away. Sorry, I’m boring you,” she said.
He opened his eyes, sighing. “No. No. I was just remembering the potato-and-leek soup we used to eat all the time. Hot, unfashionable vichyssoise, I guess,” he said, sounding distant.
“Okay, Barth, you are getting stewed. I don’t feel like talking about the seizure. The night is gorgeous. You are gorgeous. The cicadas are symphonic. Let’s go to bed. The champagne is gone.” She got up gingerly.
Barth stubbed out his cigarette, stood, and stretched to his full length before grabbing Sophia’s hand. “Do you know what would be the crowning touch to this glorious evening?” he asked coquettishly, cocking his head to one side.
Sophia groaned the words, dragging them out. “Oh, no! A massage. Barth, you are shameless. Who had the wacky afternoon? I know. I give the best massage in town, in the country, in the world.” She sulked, pretending to be reluctant to grant his wish. They both knew she loved to massage him. It usually ended in relaxing yet vibrant sex.
As they bounded up the stairs to the bedroom, Sophia was anticipating the lovemaking.
Barth stripped and flopped down on his stomach. Sophia rubbed lavender oil between her hands until they were well coated. She began using deep kneading strokes on Barth’s compliant back, his vertebrae visible beneath the skin. He moaned, and his skin expanded as Sophia worked away.
Occasionally, Sophia looked up at the gleaming brass bars at the head of the bed. She became engrossed in what she was doing. Her hands slid over various parts of Barth’s body, applying pressure and easing up.
She had become so absorbed by her activity that she did not notice that those appreciative sounds keeping time to her rhythmic touch were gone. Now she realized that he was snoring peacefully. She had put him to sleep.
CHAPTER 4
Sophia was early for her lunch with Lili and Barth. Since she had given up driving, she found herself arriving early for all sorts of things. South Beach was a walking city. And early could be fun.
Sophia entered Van Dyke’s on Lincoln Road. It was her favorite street, a pedestrian mall with a riches-to-rags-to-riches history, from the “Fifth Avenue of the South” in the fifties to a crumbling “Cemetery Road” in the eighties, only to be reincarnated in the nineties as a modern, opulent avenue.
It was late December, the height of the season when Miami boasted the best weather in the country, and the terrace heaved with idling tourists and locals. She walked past the black-and-white-clad waiters, waltzing to the clatter of dishes and the clinking of glasses, into the dim, nearly empty interior.
Sophia sat blanketed by the soothing quiet, hearing the muted echoes of the humming humanity outside. Like buzzing bees, she thought. She surveyed the dark wood-paneled walls, hung with cheaply framed copies of van Dyck’s works. She had opted for solitude. The sidewalk seating offered the joys of viewing the parade of the desperately self-absorbed, so at home in South Beach—a hodge-podge of the terminally narcissistic strutting their stuff.
A waiter intruded on her thoughts. “Excuse me. That gentleman over there asked me to bring you this glass of Burgundy with his compliments,” he said brusquely, gesturing to a table near the staircase before hastily depositing the glass and hurrying away to tend to the insatiable terrace hordes.
Caught off guard, Sophia peered into the gloom. She was not good with strangers in her personal life.
Not knowing what else to do, Sophia raised her glass to the man half hidden in the gloom, bowed her head in acknowledgement, and sipped her excellent Burgundy. In an instant, the man was at her table. He seemed to have flown over and rapidly folded his wings away.
The man, dressed in a sleek black leather coat, smelling of money, emitting an alluring piney fragrance, was electrically handsome. He sent a crackling current through Sophia.
“Such a beautifully intriguing and intriguingly beautiful woman should not be eating alone,” he growled in a deep gravelly voice marked by a faint Teutonic accent. “Say the word, and I’ll join you. My name is Dirk Salzburg. And you are?” he asked as he bowed slightly, his thick dark mane tumbling forward.
“Sophia Werniczewski,” she answered, mesmerized by his p
resence. She wanted to reach out and entwine her fingers in the depths of his shiny locks.
Compliments usually put her on guard. But Sophia was drinking in Dirk’s flattery like a parched woman lost in the desert, gulping water at a newfound oasis. She had to pull herself together and get rid of this imposing man who had appeared like an apparition, stopping time.
“Sorry, Dirk. I’m not eating alone. I’m waiting for my husband and daughter. Thank you for the wine,” she said.
“So sorry to hear that. I thought I had a chance to lunch with such pleasant company. Here is my card. If you would ever care to dine with me just give me a call. I’m sure it would be a memorable evening.” And he disappeared as quickly and quietly as he had appeared.
She was watching the departing Dirk heading into the bright Miami light, thinking only a local would wear a leather coat in December. The tourists were half naked. Sophia realized she was still holding on to his card. Without reading it, she tucked it into her bag and took a few breaths to change the scenery in her head.
Just as Sophia was putting her wine to her lips, Lili swanned in. Lili, striking in red and black with a cape covered in disembodied eyes, whirled around to be admired.
Lithe and long-limbed, Lili sometimes resembled the macabre Morticia Addams of The Addams Family with her jet-black hair hanging tamed below her shoulders and her intense wide-set brown eyes peering out of a narrow, fine-boned face.
“I love the cape. Channeling Salvador Dali? Surreal. How are you, dear?” Sophia was bowled over by Lili’s cool beauty and poise every time.
“I’m great, Ma. Just finished this cape before I shot over here. Is Barth coming?”
“Yes. He’s walking over from the museum. I love seeing the two of you together. You seem more like Barth’s daughter than Morton’s. The same love of fashion, same body type. You’re both eccentric. Unique people. I love you both so much. You stimulate me, and you calm me down. You’re wonderful,” Sophia enthused in a rare outburst of sentimentality as she continued sipping her Burgundy. Too much champagne last night, she thought. I’m in a weakened state.
“Enough gushing, Ma. You’re embarrassing me.” Lili did not look in the least discomfited. “You’ve gone all mushy on me. It’s a good thing you’re seeing Clyde the quack soon. I think your last seizure has made you soft,” she said, picking up the oversized menu. “That Dr. Clyde is worthless.” Lili broke off from studying the menu to continue her harangue against Sophia’s neurologist. “He pumps you full of drugs, doesn’t listen to you, and then just cavalierly changes the drugs when you report a problem. It seems like guesswork,” she said, flicking her obedient ebony tresses.
“That’s what they do. That’s what they all do. It’s the miracle of pharmacology. They look at us as symptoms and try to find the right drugs to address them. That’s why I love being a psychotherapist. I guess I’m a dinosaur, spending a fifty-minute hour with a person at least once a week to talk. Let’s change the subject. How was the film on your reprieve night?”
“Really great. A lesbian love story. Philosophical and artsy, but real at the same time with lots of graphic sex. And the director is male. I enjoyed it and the Cinematheque. I love that cockeyed place. Is that wine good? Should I get a glass?”
“Yes. Sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Let me get the waiter.”
After Lili had her glass of wine in front of her, they both studied the menu in earnest.
“I want the eggplant Parmesan—it’s great in here, but I’ll stick to one of the big salads,” Sophia said.
“Oh, please. Treat yourself,” Lili said.
Barth strolled in, kissed each woman on the cheek, sat down, and immediately began to study the menu. “Salmon and Chablis,” he muttered. “I have to get back. Can’t linger even though the company makes me want to stay.” He smoothed down the lapels of his suit jacket. “As usual, there are a million things going on. People are nervous about Sunday’s gala. They feel ill prepared. Vince thinks the new employee is a spy from the Wolfsonian. You know they never forgave Vince for establishing a museum just down the street with overlapping themes. We’re the new spiffy kids on the block with all sorts of fancy tricks up our sleeves. Showing them up.”
“I’m sure you can handle it Barth,” Lili said.
“Lili, you need to get off your ass and become a designer. You live and breathe fashion. Look at your cape. I suppose you dashed that off in your kitchen. It’s time to stop working for that forgettable magazine while whipping up visionary creations in your cramped kitchen and capitalize on your Parsons education. You were immersed in fashion studies in New York City. What more do you need?” he asked. Before Lili could reply, he turned to Sophia. “You look wonderful after last night’s debauchery, darling.” Barth viewed her. “That massage was one of your finest. Knocked me out,” he said while looking around for the waiter.
Lili, secretive and elusive by nature, did not like to discuss her future plans. “Debauchery? What were you two up to last night?” Lili asked, winking at Sophia, happy to be off the hook.
“Nothing more than a massage. I was on call as Barth’s personal massage geisha.”
“Shame on you, Barth. Ma had a tough afternoon,” Lili said.
“It was great for her. Got her mind off her troubles. That and the champagne. I also troubled her with a new dark painting. But she loves it,” he said. “You’ll have to come see it soon.”
“I can’t wait,” Lili replied.
Once they had ordered, Barth wanted to talk about the charity gala scheduled at the museum for the following night.
“I hope the affair doesn’t bring on a seizure, now that those doors have opened again. These events are stressful,” Sophia said.
“I don’t think there’s much to worry about. Stick close to Lili. Spend some time with Jack. He always has a positive effect on you. Spend as little time as possible with Amanda. She is stress personified. If I painted her, I would have lightning bolts radiating out behind her. Her hair would be Medusa-like—writhing snakes. She would be wearing screaming yellow. And she would be trying to control something, like she tries to control everything. I have it. She would have the earth underneath her feet. Trying to control the whole damn universe,” Barth said.
The food appeared at that moment, and they ate in silence. Lili had gotten the eggplant. Barth was enjoying his salmon. Sophia dug into her appealing salad, topped with artichokes, chickpeas, and feta cheese. Between bites, she snuck wistful looks at Lili’s eggplant.
“I propose a toast to tomorrow’s soiree,” Barth announced as he raised his glass. “Let’s lift our glasses to the A&D: Arts Décoratifs and only success tomorrow.”
Sophia and Lili clinked glasses with Barth as they intoned, “To the A&D!”
What a pretentious name, Sophia thought for the hundredth time. But she didn’t say anything. It was true to the historical origins of the term “Art Deco,” which dated back to an international exposition of the decorative arts in Paris in 1925.
“Since we all seem to be finished eating, and I have to get back, why don’t we all walk out together?” Barth suggested.
Once they were out on the crowded sidewalk, they quickly wished each other good-bye and went their separate ways.
“I’ll be home late, Sophia,” Barth threw over his shoulder as an afterthought.
CHAPTER 5
Sophia, resplendent in her curve-hugging emerald-green-and-royal-blue halter-top gown, arrived at the gala. She settled with the Uber driver and hurried into the building. The lush tropical air, tangy with the ocean water mere blocks away, emitted vaporous fingers of humidity, caressing her skin and stiffening her curls.
The two-story building, a refurbished Art Deco affair once slated for demolition before the preservationists put their collective foot down, was painted yellow with blue geometric touches and orange sunburst patterns under the roof.
It was situated on Washington Avenue. The street housed grunge and glamour side by side. Strip joints and s
eedy bars jostled elbows with five-star restaurants and exclusive clubs. Bodegas and bong shops stood alongside refurbished hotels and brand-name shops. The Wolfsonian Museum, in the thick of things, stood among the rest, modern and imposing. The A&D, the new kid on the block, was also on Washington, well south of the Wolfsonian.
Lili lived down the road in one of the genteel shabby gems on the beach. She had louvered windows and doors as well as terrazzo floors. These were old-fashioned methods of combating the heat and humidity. The louvers could be positioned to keep rain out or allow breezes in. The terrazzo floors stayed cool and comfortable.
Whenever Sophia was in this part of town, she thought of Lili, and thought always turned to worry. She was concerned about Lili’s aimlessness. An expensive education had not yielded positive results. Lili’s secretiveness made her anxious. She never knew what was really going on in her life or her mind. Lili might resemble Barth as far as body type and interests, but when it came to personality, she was very much Morton’s child. Drifting, impulsive, baffling.
Sophia reined in her disturbing thoughts as she entered the building and took the elevator to the second floor so she could look down on the scene and get her bearings. As she gazed down at the confluence of a couple of hundred people in bright colors, she thought of a confectionery with variegated pastries on display. The twelve-foot Norway spruce, positioned in front of the large windows at the back of the enormous room, reminded her of the tree in Rockefeller Center. Festive faux candles lit up the tree, and the gold star atop its dizzying height had an A and a D on its glittering surface.
The ubiquitous celebration of Christmas. American Jews had no problem celebrating the holiday, but Sophia felt left out. There was no escaping the music, the decorations, the gift giving and holiday cheer. It was like a national celebration, not a religious one.
In Europe, Jews were Christ killers. It was a Jewish birthright. Why would they celebrate Christmas?
She was back with her parents, Holocaust survivors, and she saw her obese, bewildered eight-year-old self, being exhorted to shun that wicked Christmas. Her father called it kratz mech—“scratch me” in Yiddish. Christmas celebrations, conspiring to cast Jews in the worst possible light, were anathema to him. Channukah was the proper celebration for them.
Time's Hostage: The dangers of love, loss, and lus (Time Series Book 1) Page 2