Under the Same Sun (Stone Trilogy)

by Mariam Kobras

  Sadness settled on his shoulders like a big, black bird as he raised his hand to order another drink.

  The ice cream truck was no longer there. Instead, there was a pavilion with tables and chairs around it. They sold beverages and sweets, souvenirs and newspapers. The trees were the same, and the place that rented out boats; even the swings on the playground along the promenade looked much like they had twenty years ago.

  “I remember the exact spot where I kissed you,” Jon said. “It was right here.” He stopped and pointed at a red bench. “I recall that bench. It was here back then.”

  “It might be a new bench. I don’t think they last that long.” She went over to read the plaque on the backrest. “See, it says it was put here in memory of one Madame Madeleine Grisson, who loved to come and feed the swans and sit here. She must be dead. What a sweet, sentimental thing to do, to put a bench here in her memory.”

  “I think it’s perfectly good taste to put it right here. In fact, we should put up our own bench and plaque.” He joined her. “It would say, ‘Here, the universe shifted and made room for lovers. It will never be the same again.’ Or something in that vein. Absolutely.”

  They were, he knew only too well, drifting toward her parents’ apartment. It was not far away, right there in one of the palatial houses along the shore. He had only been there once, after she had left him, in a vain attempt to find her. What a nightmarish experience that had been. Never before had he run into European snobbery in quite that manner, and he had not been in a mood for an overseas tour for a long while after.

  Now, looking up at the elaborate facades of the buildings on the other side of the street, the memory of that day crept up on him.

  It had rained, and an ugly wind had blown down the elegant avenue, whipping the lake into a white-capped frenzy, hiding the mountains behind a curtain of water. That French-speaking doorman had treated him like a street vendor, a beggar, someone who was not worth the dirt under his nails, and had sent him on his way with a look of utter disgust. Soaked, the collar of his jacket turned up against the foul weather, he had stood and stared, his hope washing away with the torrent gushing down into the gutter.

  She had not mentioned with one word where she wanted to go when she had suggested a walk, but he had seen. Shortly after they had been shown to their rooms, she had gone out on the balcony and stood there, her shoulders drawn together, lost in thought.

  Meeting her parents was not something he was keen on. Jon could well have done without ever confronting her father, Olaf, again. If there was one person in the world he hated with all his heart, it was he.

  “Sure.” had been his reply. “Let’s go and find the spot where we first kissed. And I’ll kiss you again.”

  So here they were, and he could see by the way she turned away from the bench and toward the street that the moment had come.

  The thought of ringing that doorbell made him heavy hearted. He could not figure out why she wanted to give herself the additional pain of facing her parents after that terrible scene with her father when she had just woken from her coma, so weak and ill, and he had dumped all his anger about her marriage on her. Jon recalled well how he had wanted to pack his fist into the man’s face right then and there in the hallway of the hospital while the doctors were fighting to bring her back to life. He’d not often wielded the power his fame and wealth gave him in this manner, but that day he had used it to lock her family out of their life with a court order.

  Naomi took his arm. “They love me, Jon. And I love them, despite everything. I want to see my mom.”

  “Of course.” This, he could understand.

  Together they waited for a break in the stream of cars to cross the road.

  chapter 12

  At least this time he made it into the lobby of the house. Curious, Jon took in the marble floors and stucco walls, the highly polished brass mailboxes and the elaborately carved banister. The elevator at the back of the hall had art deco doors, a veritable upright garden of iron leaves and flowers. He could have sworn there was a nymph hiding amid the foliage.

  “They’re not here?”

  The tone in Naomi’s voice made him turn around.

  “No, madame,” the concierge replied with a shrug. “Your parents moved out last month. Monsieur Carlsson told me it was time for him to retire.”

  “And where…” She stopped and bit her lip.

  Jon laid his hand on her shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go.” He led her out to the sidewalk, where she stopped to look back.

  “They can’t be gone,” Naomi said. “They can’t have just moved away. Why wouldn’t they tell me, Jon? And where are they?”

  “Come on,” he repeated, and waved to stop a taxi. “There’s no use in standing around here. Let’s go back to the hotel.”

  She didn’t talk during the short drive, and he didn’t push her. Once again anger at the sheer thoughtlessness of her father blossomed in his belly.

  They had to have known they would be coming to Geneva, known Naomi would try to see them. Looking at her profile, at her lowered head and folded hands, he tried to imagine a scenario in which he would desert Joshua, show him disapproval in such an unforgiving, final manner, and couldn’t. He couldn’t imagine moving without informing his son, telling him when and where he was going. Even now, on tour, even while Naomi had been away, he had called him every night, sometimes just for a minute, just to hear his voice; but mostly they chatted for a while, Joshua telling him about school and the girls he liked. Jon would listen, seeing him in his mind, wishing he was closer. But Joshua had no interest in traveling with them and no interest in the tour; he wanted to be in New York, at Juilliard. In a way, this pleased Jon, the passion he had for his studies, but it also saddened him. He would have loved to have him along.

  “I’m sure they’re back in Toronto,” he said. “Where else would your father go?” Immediately he was sorry for the spite in his statement, and he added, softer, “Call your uncle Carl from the hotel. He’ll know.”

  She nodded.

  “You did talk to your uncle, didn’t you?” Jon continued. “You told him you were going to that hotel on the Eastern Shore; he knew you were there?”

  Yes, she admitted, she had spoken to him, and he had known she was staying there for a while. He had even instructed the staff on how to treat her and not to let her do any work while she was there. Naomi smiled sadly. “But we never spoke about my parents. It was only a brief conversation. I think he was too afraid to say much, in case he might offend or scare me off.”

  “Your father in his senseless hatred nearly killed you, my love.” He had to say it even though he knew it would hurt her. “He didn’t give a damn about your health, about your condition; he just wanted to vent his fury somewhere, and you were there.”

  “He was scared and worried, Jon.”

  The drive was short. Jon realized he didn’t have any Swiss francs with him. He had forgotten to get some from Sal before they had left the hotel. Naomi got some bills out of her purse and paid wordlessly.

  “I never take cabs.” he protested. “Why in the world do we book limousines if we’re going to use taxis?”

  She waved him away and went inside.

  “He never meant to hurt me,” Naomi went on when they reached their rooms. “Only I didn’t lead the life he wanted for me. It’s not his fault. But it’s also not mine. We just disagreed.”

  “Yes, and it was his job to let you lead your own life, Naomi. Children can’t live the lives their parents want for them; they have to pick their own way, whether it hurts or not. And you, dear, didn’t exactly pick the life of a striptease dancer. You’re an artist, a writer; you made a very nice career for yourself.”

  It was the middle of the afternoon, the sluggish, hazy time of rest in th
is nearly Mediterranean climate. Jon imagined lounging in a café along the lake, with espresso and brandy and a good cigar, whiling away the hours until it was time for dinner and a stroll through the old part of the town, maybe some leisurely shopping and a drink with the group on the hotel terrace before retiring.

  “I’m only a writer because you decided you liked my little rhymes, Jon.” She tossed her purse on the couch.

  “You crazy chick, it wasn’t me who gave you that Oscar. And you sure weren’t picked because you’re my wife. You got that award for your work. I’m the lucky one here; you chose me to send your lyrics to. I’m so glad you fell in love with me and not Mick Jagger. Or that Neil Diamond, God forbid.”

  That made her laugh. “You share a love for funny shirts.”

  “Yeah, so did Elvis. What the hell. Don’t change the subject. We’re not talking about my stage shirts; we’re talking about your father.” Jon sat down and pulled her onto his lap. “Baby, he’s a brute. He doesn’t give a damn about your feelings. If I could…” He stopped. This he could not say to her, but right at that moment he wished he had his hands around that old man’s throat or his fist connecting with his chin.

  Her hands were on his face, touching his cheeks gently. “If you could, you would go to Toronto right now and bring him back, I know, just like you did last year in Halmar. But that’s not how it works, Jon. Let it rest.”

  “Yeah.” That hadn’t been what he was thinking,but if it was what she wanted to believe, he was willing to let it pass.

  Jon would have loved to spend the evening alone with her, in private, but there was a dinner invitation, one Sal insisted he accept.

  Grumbling, complaining, he changed into a tux while Naomi watched him from the corner of the bed.

  “I wonder why everyone wants me in a bow tie,” Jon said, “when I really feel best in jeans and a t-shirt.”

  It was a lie, and he could see she knew by the way her lips twitched.

  “These things are uncomfortable. I hate them. They make me look old,” he added for good measure, but she didn’t rise to the bait.

  The last time he had worn formal attire had been at the Oscars. He hadn’t taken it off for two days, sitting by her hospital bed, praying for her. When at last he had showered and changed, more or less forced to do so by Sal, he had thrown it away. He was sure he never wanted to wear it again.

  “You look sexy in a tux,” Naomi said interrupting his thoughts. “And you know it. If there ever was a man made to wear one it’s you.”

  Jon finished tying his tie; he gave his sleeves one last tug before he straightened and turned to her. “Well? Happy?”

  She was indeed pleased; he could see it in the faint blush that crept up her throat.

  “You look wonderful. I’m afraid to take you out like that and have you meet the Swiss aristocracy. There’ll surely be someone with a yacht and a castle in the mountains who will try to entice you away. Can’t let that happen,” he said.

  That made her smile. “I had that chance, Jon, and I didn’t take it. You needn’t worry.”

  He loved her new dress. She had bought it that afternoon, right here in Geneva when they had gone out for a stroll in the old part of the city.

  “Show me,” Jon had said, “where you used to go shopping, where you used to hang out with your friends,” and he had pictured her on those old, cobbled streets, arm in arm with other sweet young girls, carefree and beautiful.

  “I’d have picked you out right away,” he had told her as they’d stopped in front of a boutique where a black dress was displayed in the window. “I’m sure, had I met you here somewhere that day, even without the lyrics, without our appointment, I’d have picked you out anyway; and you’d have been mine. I know it.”

  She had thrown him a cool glance over her shoulder, on the point of entering the store, and replied, “Not so. I’d have seen you first and then quickly made sure none of the others had a chance with you.”

  He had never liked black on her, but when she stepped out of the changing room, he’d nearly jumped up off the couch where he had been sitting. The satin hugged her body like a sheath, and with every step she took, the long slit revealed her leg nearly to her hip. Thin straps crossed her bare back, a startling contrast to her white skin, and very inviting.

  “You can’t go out like that.” had been his first startled reaction. “I’m not taking you out like that,” but Naomi had only smiled and paid for the gown.

  Now, as she rose from the bed and raised her arms in a fluid moment to check the tight coil of hair at the back of her head, his breath caught, all the grief and pain forgotten.

  “You’re so beautiful,” Jon said softly. He wanted to run his hands over the sleek material, feel her body under it, and then slide his fingers up that stretch of leg, all the way up, and find out what she might be wearing underneath; wanted to lay her down and feel the warmth of her skin through the silk, the movement of her breathing. “You give me fantasies. I’ll be thinking of making love to you all evening long, and then I have to bear others seeing you, wanting the same thing.”

  That made her laugh. “Jon, no one but you thinks like that. You have a dirty mind. You’re always thinking about sex. Always.”

  “Nah, I’m not.” He held the door for her, his eyes firmly on that naked leg and the high heels of the black sandals she was wearing. “I’m always thinking of sex with you. Big difference.”

  In the elevator, alone, in a moment of unexpected eroticism, she leaned against the mirrored wall behind her and shifted her hip so the dress fell open, and gave him an inviting, sultry glance.

  “Is that what you want,” Jon growled. “You want to be ravished in the elevator? There’s a camera here; you know that, right? I’ll do it. I’m the rock star, I have a reputation to keep up, and doing it in an elevator won’t hurt it one bit. Come here, then.”

  “You’re too much of a wimp to try it.”

  She was wearing the dark red lipstick she had bought in London, a luxurious, impertinent splash of color.

  “I’m no wimp. You are an outrage in that dress. People will talk. We can’t go out. You’re coming back to the room with me, now, and to my bed.” His heart soared; at last, at long last, they were playing again, enjoying life.

  “I’ll come to your bed if there’s no one else who seems more inviting,” Naomi tossed at him as the doors opened, and stepped out to where Sal and Art were waiting.

  Naomi missed Solveigh more than she could say.

  Getting out of the limousine that had been sent for them, she could just hear her comments on the place and the people, the cars parked along the gravel driveway, even the yachts lined up at the dock.

  They had gone a little way out of town, driven along the shore and then entered the forested estate through a wrought-iron gate, guarded by two liveried men.

  She remembered the villa on the water all too well. Nothing had changed over the years; there was the same deep porch, the white lawn chairs lined up along the beach, the torches stuck into the sand with their reflections flickering on the water, the same kind of music drifting toward them from inside.

  The last time she had been here she had worn a yellow chiffon gown, and she had come with her parents. On the way, her father had once again implored her to at least dance with some of the boys; they were coming here for her sake so she could meet someone since she didn’t want the man her family had chosen for her. And she, an impetuous teenager of seventeen, had told him to leave her alone and stop treating her as if she was his favorite mare, which had made him launch into one of his well-worn lectures, the one about the importance of picking the right husband, one who would contribute to their business and not marry her only for her money. That night he had spoken the fatal words that she had never forgotten.
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  “You are an asset, Naomi. With your looks and your education, you’ll be able to bring someone important into the family,” he had said. “I’m looking for a union with one of the other big hotel owners. If you don’t want Seth then that is the next best choice.”

  Seth. She had never cared for him, or for any of the others her father presented to her. That evening had been no different.

  “You’re dreaming of a knight in shining armor.” Her father had caught her hiding in a corner of the porch, a large bowl of ice cream in her lap. “He will not come, Naomi. You are who you are; your marriage will be a business arrangement. And I’ll see to it that it will be a good one.”

  “He will come” had been her obstinate reply;. “Someday he’ll come and rescue me, and then I’ll be gone and you’ll never see me again.”

  Olaf had thrown his hands up in defeat and returned inside to his talk about money, and her tears had dropped into the strawberry sorbet.

  “Dreaming, Baby? Don’t you want to go inside?” Gently, Jon touched her bare shoulder. “It’s a beautiful place, isn’t it? I love how the air smells. Lavender, isn’t it?”

  “Flowerpots” was her absentminded response.

  The only invitations Jon ever accepted while he was on tour were the ones he could not decline, such as this one, extended by the mayor and a group of bankers too influential to ignore. As always he knew it was not really the men who wanted to meet him, but more likely their wives and daughters. There had been many of these dinners, and often enough one of the ladies had gone back with him to his hotel room for another bottle of champagne, a quick tussle, and a good-bye. The mornings had been the worst, waking up alone, the trace of unfamiliar perfume still on his pillow, the sheets crumpled and the wine all gone.