Time's Hostage: The dangers of love, loss, and lus (Time Series Book 1)

by Brenda Kuchinsky

  “That photo speaks volumes and obscures volumes at the same time. I’m surprised I haven’t had any dreams about it,” Sophia said.

  “You had a hallucination,” Barth reminded her.

  “Right. Don’t remind me,” Sophia said.

  “How are you going to paint it?”

  “I don’t know yet. It brings up so much. I’ll be hard at work, figuring it out while you’re gone. It’s a bare outline now. But I have some ideas pushing up out of the unconscious soup,” he said. “Maybe I should join you in London for the last couple of days, and we can go to Rouen together.”

  “No, Barth. Stick to the plan,” she said. Sophia did not want her two worlds colliding. She craved as much time as she could possibly get with Dirk. “Listen. I need to tell you about Lili and Chanel. You won’t believe this.”

  “What? Don’t keep me in suspense.” He started fidgeting when she prolonged the agony, stretching out the silence, taking her time sipping wine, looking at him for the longest time before speaking. “Sophia, I’m going to shake you. You’re driving me mad.”

  “Lili and Chanel are pregnant.” She exhaled, realizing she had been holding her breath.

  “I don’t believe it. Which one? Chanel, I guess. She’s the girl,” Barth said.

  “What do you mean? They’re both adorable women. Lili’s not exactly a bull dyke.”

  “Of course not. But she’s the guy.”

  “All right. Whatever you say. Yes, Chanel is pregnant.”

  “See?”

  “Yes, but you will never believe how she got that way.”

  “She had sex with a guy with viable sperm?”

  “Yes, Barth. You’re so smart. No artificial stuff. A friend.”

  “But here’s the uncomfortable part. Lili watched, sitting right by the bed, while they were doing it. On all three occasions. Chanel admits liking the sex.”

  “Not so weird.”

  “I think so. What really bothers me is Lili’s jealousy, which was palpable even over Skype. What if this drives a wedge between them?” Sophia asked, her brow wrinkling, her hand coming up to tug viciously on her ear.

  “Sophia, stop worrying so much. Let’s hope this brings them closer together, as it should. The jealousy will cool and fade. She’s not going to be fucking this guy anymore. Lili wanted to be there to control the situation, I assume?”

  “What if she does have sex with this guy again? She may have liked it too much. What if she dumps Lili for this guy?”

  “Sophia, get a grip. You’re getting carried away. Your fears are slipping out of control, like the runaway baby carriage banging down the interminable steps in that old Russian movie.”

  “The Odessa steps in the Battleship Potemkin. Eisenstein. And then they replicated it in The Untouchables in the train station during a shootout.”

  “Sophia, you are a genius when it comes to film,” Barth said, rising up to deliver a mock bow. “That’s one of the things I love about you. You take me to these unexpected places. Time stands still. I get wrapped up in your mind.”

  “Thanks, Barth. I love you too,” Sophia said, his compliments still echoing warmly in her head.

  “Do we have to turn in soon?”

  “No, Barth, we have time.”

  “I have a confession to make.”

  Sophia’s heart sank. “If you’ve been getting blown, I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Give me some credit, Sophia. Are you always going to go there? It’s nothing like that. What are you? Nuts?”

  “You know the hackneyed phrase. Once burned, twice shy. That’s me.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “What is it then?”

  “I’ve been doing a little research on Dirk.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “He showed an interest in my work. He showed an interest in you. I’m curious about him.”

  “What did you find?” Sophia asked, heart pounding.

  “First of all, the man is sixty-nine years old. Can you believe it? He looks so much younger.”

  “I know,” Sophia said. “I was surprised too.” She was thinking of his sexual prowess. Maybe he takes something. Picasso did.

  “His father, Arnold Salzburg, a museum curator at the Belvedere Gallery in Vienna, was thick as thieves with Hitler and Göring, helping them rob the Jews, so that those two supposed art aficionados could hoard priceless art. And the father was a mischling of the first order.”

  “What the hell is a mischling?”

  “A half breed. Of the first order means half Jewish—one Jewish parent.”

  “Why was a mischling accepted by those Nazis?”

  “I guess he had a lot to offer, and that overrode the Nuremberg laws forbidding Jews to mingle with gentiles. He fed those aspiring art collectors hearty meals of priceless beauty. Also, his wife was a gentile in some Nazi family.”

  “So a lot of dirty money. And a mischling stealing from his own people.”

  “Another awful thing. Dirk had one daughter, who committed suicide at twenty-five. Hanged herself.”

  Sophia emitted a sharp yelp. “That’s so tragic,” she groaned.

  “You’re not going to see him in London, are you?”

  “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “Gut feeling. I don’t know. I’ve become sort of obsessed with the guy. And every time I flash on the two of you naked in bed, kissing, sucking, fucking, I see red.”

  “Barth, how did we go from mischlings and suicide and Nazi art theft to me and Dirk in bed?”

  “How? I’ll tell you how. When he was here, and I turned around from my painting to look into those mischievous eyes, brimming with mockery, I saw you two naked, mirrored in those eyes.”

  Barth rose, consumed with rage and jealousy. He roughly dragged Sophia up from her seat by her wrist and pushed her backward through the open balcony doors and onto the bed. Not bothering to undress, he simply unzipped himself, parted her red robe, and thrust himself into her, biting her ear, her neck, her breasts, his fat febrile tears burning her skin.

  CHAPTER 41

  Neither Barth nor Sophia mentioned the previous night on the ride to the airport. Sophia thought Barth was ashamed.

  They arrived at Virgin Airways departures in no time. Sophia and Barth were caught up in the flurry of unloading luggage and hasty good-byes.

  “I’ll miss you, Barth.”

  “Be a good girl,” he said, caressing her face before kissing her gently on the lips.

  “Of course, Barth. But I get you going when you think I’m a bad girl,” she said, unable to resist the tease.

  “Stop it, Sophia,” Barth said, flinching at her words.

  “I’m sorry, Barth. You be a good boy. Work hard. It’ll be wonderful when we meet in Rouen. I’m trying to take your advice, stowing away worries about Lili and Chanel. We’ll be a growing family. I want to be positive, not inject my poisonous anxiety into the atmosphere.”

  “Good. Now get going, darling,” he said, embracing her briefly.

  Sophia watched him drive away, and she waved, feeling a little forlorn.

  Once settled on the plane, she immersed herself in a novel, hoping it would help the time pass on the long flight. She fell asleep at some point during the interminable journey and was pleasantly surprised to awaken as they were landing at Heathrow.

  The world was suffused with excitement now that Dirk was so near. Sophia was tingling with anticipation down to her toes. Even the freakish hailstorm greeting her and the jet lag couldn’t dampen her enthusiasm.

  And there he was walking toward her on the Thames embankment near the Eye, that famous Ferris wheel. She had hastily dumped her stuff in her room at the Hilton in Waterloo, where she always stayed, and walked briskly to their prearranged meeting place near the aquarium, where an endless stream of tourists and locals wandered in and out of the myriad entertainment possibilities. She was distracted by a short scrawny busker, dressed only in Union Jack skivvies, prepping the crowd for his hero
ics with a bed of nails.

  Sophia loved the big city carnival atmosphere. It inevitably made her realize that SoBe was an incestuous and claustrophobic village decked in the trappings of an international scene. London was the real McCoy, vast and ancient, spacious and established, nonchalantly remarkable.

  Despite Dirk’s somber demeanor, his confident stride, his craggy face, and his heavy long locks plumped up her shriveled heart like a dried cherry expanding in warm brandy. He loped toward her, arms extended, a smile breaking out on his foggy face like the sun piercing through the dismal clouds, a familiar face amid the anonymous crowds.

  “Dirk, it felt like forever,” she said, searching out his meaty lips for a kiss. “Now that’s better. I can breathe again,” she sighed.

  “You’re being so silly, my love,” he said, turning her toward him again to embrace her fully and grab her healed buttocks. “Let’s sit. I’ll dash over there to the bakery and get some coffee,” he said.

  He did just that and returned quickly. “No other hands have been on those buttocks?” he asked, plopping down next to her, his hands full.

  “Well, just Barth’s,” she lied deftly, reaching for one of the burning coffees.

  “Barth’s?” he asked, withholding her coffee in midair. “I thought you were saving yourself for me.” He pouted like a disappointed child.

  “I tried, but Barth transformed into a jealous sex fiend since you came to the house, and he tried to clog you to bits.”

  “So?” he asked, blowing on the scalding coffee.

  “His jealousy turns into insistent sex. It turns him on,” she said.

  “What does it do to you?”

  “Nothing much.”

  “So why has he been having his way with you?”

  “Dirk, you don’t understand. He’s so fired up when he starts thinking about us. He just takes what he wants. Let’s change the subject. You looked so sad when you were approaching me. What’s going on?”

  “It’s the anniversary of my daughter’s death. Eleven years. Puts me in a downswing.”

  “What happened eleven years ago?” Sophia asked, remembering that Barth’s information on Dirk included the suicide of his daughter.

  “She hanged herself. She was staying with me in Monte Carlo before going back to Miami. I came home to find her hanging in the garage. She was gone. No note. No warning. No Monica.

  “You cannot imagine how close we were. Two peas in a pod. We were both bipolar. Not a nice inheritance from me. Her depressions were worse. Maybe because she could fly higher than I could. What goes up, must come down. They even tried ECT. It made her confused and forgetful but didn’t stop the depression.”

  Dirk put his coffee down between them and put his head in his hands. “Her mother was shit. A greedy black-hearted bitch. Monica was the light when she was feeling good.”

  Sophia stared out at the enormous crawling Eye, barely inching along toward the sky, each cabin jammed with people.

  “Let’s walk to your hotel. You’re in Waterloo near here, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll stop at Sainsbury’s. Choose something from their skeletal wine selection. Get some cheese. Then we can go to the Laughing Gravy for dinner,” Dirk said, unfolding his tall frame, picking up their empty coffee cups, and chucking them into a trash bin. “Come on. Take my arm,” he said, reaching out to help her up.

  They walked past the booksellers, skateboarders, and cafés on the river. They passed bustling Waterloo Station, buzzing like a beehive, across the street from Sainsbury’s. They quickly chose a wine from the limited selection.

  The New Vic, cozy, smart restaurants vying for business, and a small park enhanced this self-contained neighborhood with lots to offer within the subtext of a larger London.

  Dirk secured a corkscrew and two wine glasses from the front desk before they rode up to Sophia’s room.

  “Nice, utilitarian, small,” Dirk remarked. “Tomorrow, after your conference day, let’s go to my room at the Ritz.”

  “Okay, Dirk, but it’s easier for me to stay here for the next day’s meetings.”

  “Maybe you’ll skip some,” he said, pulling her close, breathing her in, and nipping at her neck. “Right now, let’s go eat. The Laughing Gravy is practically around the corner and they have great food and wine.” Dirk took command, removing the full wine glass she had just picked up from her fingers, nibbling on her fingertips, his grazing goatee hair stirring her up.

  “The Laughing Gravy?” she asked, her eyebrows arching up, a smile on her lips at the absurdly comic name.

  Dirk smiled back at her. “It’s so good to be with you. You’re balm for my soul. Yes, the Laughing Gravy. Brit humor. Slang for whiskey. And also Winston Churchill named one of his dogs Laughing Gravy.”

  The restaurant was intimate and charming. Wide-slatted rustic wooden floors, an old tin ceiling, an upright piano jammed up against a wall, and a blackboard full of creative specials, including an appealing vegetarian entrée.

  Dirk asked for a secluded corner, ordered a bottle of wine, and ordered food for both of them. The restaurant was nearly empty. One sloppily noisy group of six was in the process of putting away copious amounts of wine, their table littered with empties, dead soldiers waiting to be trashed. They kept taking turns going outside to smoke.

  “Everything’s perfect,” Sophia said, sipping the rich red, admiring the heaped plate of delectable vegetables inventively prepared with beans and whole-wheat pasta. She enjoyed the background laughter emanating from the group feeling no pain. Their infectious high spirits were warming her.

  “Do you want to talk about Monica?” Sophia asked.

  “No, not now. Maybe tomorrow,” Dirk said, morose and preoccupied. “I’m not feeling sexual tonight. So we can drink and talk. Tomorrow, I plan to snap out of it and introduce you to new erotic thrills. Breath control. Remember? I talked about asphyxiation?”

  “Doesn’t sound very sexy. Don’t a lot of people off themselves masturbating that way? They end up hanging themselves accidently, and the family covers up by making it look like suicide. Pretty bad when the cover-up is suicide.” Sophia’s hand flew to her mouth as she was talking, thinking of Monica.

  “No, nothing like that happened with Monica. Besides, that’s a guy’s thing.”

  Dirk’s hand climbed up Sophia’s thigh, pulling aside her panties to insert two fingers inside of her when he reached his destination. He searched out her juicy clitoris and began rubbing hard, circling round and round relentlessly, his hand becoming damper and damper.

  “Stop it, Dirk,” Sophia protested, squirming deliciously, her cheeks flaming, her ragged breath catching.

  “Just come quietly. Like a mouse,” he growled in her ear, snickering.

  And she did.

  She leaned back on the bench, expelling an explosive sigh, momentarily spent. Was the waiter looking at them quizzically? Did she care?

  They resumed eating and drinking. Dirk discreetly wiped his fingers with his napkin.

  “I don’t know about this breath thing,” Sophia said.

  “We’ll do it to each other. No chance of accidental death,” he assured Sophia. “Now finish, my love. I want to take you to a pub.”

  They strolled to the crowded pub, which was gleaming with brass, plush with red velvet and leather, and exhaling a long, ghostly history along with centuries of baked-in cigarette, cigar, and pipe smoke.

  “Barth has been researching you,” Sophia said, once they were seated at a tiny table with their salt-and-pepper-rimmed cucumber margaritas.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think he’s fascinated with you. He knows about your father. He’s Googling you,” Sophia said, leaning back, knocked out by the jet lag and the unexpected orgasm.

  “My father.” Dirk snorted derisively. That Uriah Heep of a scoundrel. Half Jewish and he’s sucking up to Hitler and Göring, who are vying for the better art collection, plying them with paintings ripped off from
his own people, playing one against the other. While he’s funneling priceless art their way, they can overlook the Jewish thing. He saved his ass and made a fortune. Of course he was married to my mother, related to a heap of writhing Nazi snakes. A match made in Hell.

  “He always treated me like shit. He had no time for me. She had no time for me either. What a pair. They had no time for each other. Why they wanted a kid is beyond me,” he said bitterly.

  “Maybe they thought it would lend meaning to their lives,” Sophia suggested.

  “Horse shit. I must have been an accident. She was always primping and preening, handing me off to maids, partying, greedy for fun and money. I was palmed off on this one buxom youngster, she was probably a teenager herself, who initiated me sexually when I was eleven. That was exciting and strange. She would start off spanking me for some invented wrongdoing and then grab my wee-wee while she put my hands on her tits, encouraging me to pinch her nipples. Then she got nervous about getting caught and closed up shop. They would never have noticed—or cared, if they did stumble on us.”

  “Sounds like abuse,” Sophia said.

  “It didn’t feel like abuse to me. Exciting.”

  Dirk began expounding on his art forgery, telling her about an actual handbook a successful English forger had published, going on about wormholes, the right wood, authentic paper, simulated craquelure, and praise for his own successes.

  Dirk’s lengthy exposition had a soporific effect on her. Sipping on her salty sweet cucumber cocktail, she wandered off. His hoarse voice was a pleasant drone, like mood music, soothing her into a near stupor.

  “You stopped listening, didn’t you?”

  “I’m tired, Dirk.”

  “You didn’t hear my story about the Dutch forger Van Meegeren who had everyone bamboozled, including Göring?”

  “No, afraid not.”

  “This just was a perfect example of people wanting to be fooled. We see what we look for, not what we look at.”

  “I like that. That’s so true,” Sophia said, perking up momentarily.

  “This Van Meegeren, a mediocre painter at best, had the gall to forge Vermeers. Very poor shadows of his work. The people looked like ugly ghosts, the details were sloppy, badly executed. Yet, the Dutch national museum, discerning art critics, and Göring all fell for this. His works were so awful, and they were hailed as Vermeers.”