A Postmodern Love

by Nick Totem

  Finally sitting in the car, he considered calling Lana about the man with baseball cap, but he didn’t want to alarm her. The connotation of something negative was too much to risk. What’s more, he was afraid that he, too, might be paranoid and that the man could very well be an innocent bystander. At length, he concluded it was probably a coincidence. In Los Angeles, there must be thousands of men wearing baseball caps and driving around in black trucks. Perhaps the few cups of wine had made him more suggestible than usual.

  He exited the parking lot and meandered slowly, savoring the midnight streets, past the Biltmore Hotel, the Concert Hall, the MOCA, all rippling under the streetlights. Nothing exemplified the romantic soul of Los Angeles more than the streets that were emptying as midnight approached, the milieu of Garbo Greta, Cary Grant, Audrey Hepburn. The few headlights gleaming in the far distance could very well signal the imminent consummation of a great love, or a passionate, illegitimate affair, or the delivery of someone lonesome homeward. In the streets flanked by high-rises standing still in the descending night, modernity was making way for the old charm as the city’s old soul rose during the only time of day it could. Driving through its streets, Thomas had an intuition that the city’s old soul acknowledged him, whether happily or tragically, he couldn’t say.

  6

  Still Thomas couldn’t see past her beauty, beyond which he could glimpse the confounding things like the dazed and lost look on her face in the lobby of his office building, her not owing a car or having a job, her agreeing to accept money from him, her age, and the possibility of the man with baseball cap following her. He was impotent to do anything about his doubt, in the same way that if he were to witness a driver who had fallen asleep at the wheel while stepping on the gas, he couldn’t even yell a warning. He heard her voice again and again most unexpectedly. The clear intonation that was measured and echoed a subtle haughtiness resounded now and then with her laugh. Her image flashed in and out of his attention, but at moments when he found himself free, his mind would conjure her face whole and its every detail, the singular mole on her left cheek and the upward curls of her eyelashes. The movements of her face and her expressions were visualized mentally, rewound, and projected in an endless loop from which he gleaned morsels of thrill. The movements Lana had made, the sound of her voice, all came bouncing about in his head and at times fit together with extreme precision, if not to thrust him back in time then to create a world with equal weight to the real world. He was acutely aware of his obsessive nature and his weakness for beautiful women and had a profound fear that he was racing fast forward and setting himself up for a crash against a dead end as he had once experienced in college. Desperately, he tried to hold himself back, but his mind would not obey.

  Is this what people mean when they say love at first sight? Maybe, maybe he had already fallen in love with her, he admitted.

  The next Monday, he went to her apartment to give her the check for five thousand dollars. The sunny sky was intensely lively, like many other noons in Southern California, with tall palms swaying in the cool January air. He went unannounced, feeling capricious and playful, or maybe because she had agreed to take money from him so that, at least subconsciously, he might even believe that they had entered into a different kind of relationship. He wanted to surprise her and take her to lunch.

  The decrepitude of the apartment stood out in the sunlight—the old walls, the paint flaking in different places, and the creaking of the metal gate as it opened. At the metal gate, he stopped to scan the street, looking for the man with the black baseball cap. There was no sign of him, though at the end of the street was a black truck that looked similar to the one he had seen. It was too far away for him to go and check out. So he went through the gate, climbed the stairs to the second floor and went to her apartment. He knocked and waited, thinking how ridiculous it was that a thirty-nine year old man should still be nervous. Looking over his tailored suit, he was pleased. Then he heard movements inside and the door opened.

  “Oh, hi,” Lana said. Her face was plain, and even in plainness, beautiful. She stooped a little, caught in one of those moments when a woman is not ready to present herself to anyone. Her hand flung wayward strands of hair from her face. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, and shrugged and tried his best to smile. “I thought I would surprise you.”

  She straightened up. A stillness of strange dignity suddenly came over her face. “In that case, please come in.”

  It was a typical one-bedroom apartment, sparsely furnished with an old couch and a coffee table. The dining area, a table and four chairs, started only a few steps away. Except for a shelf filled with books, there were hardly any personal objects, no photographs or mementoes; the place gave the impression of not being lived-in.

  “Your place is pretty sparse,” he said.

  “Yes, it looks that way because I keep all my valuables in a bank vault,” she said and laughed. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “Water, please. Thank you.”

  She took a few steps into the kitchen. She was wearing white pajamas with blue roses that appeared loose on her.

  Thomas sat on the couch and observed her. Sunlight outside lit up the curtains behind him. He smelled shampoo, perhaps from a morning shower. Heat rose to his face, but he knew it was just him, the heat burned inside him alone.

  She brought him a glass of water and sat down.

  “Thank you,” he said and took a sip. Then his body abruptly moved, shaking with an unmistakable dread. His hands clasped together and then went apart again, not knowing what to do with themselves. Suddenly, he remembered the check and gave it to her.

  “Thank you so much, Thomas. I’ll make sure to repay you.” She put the check carelessly on the coffee table, and said. “So, how’s work?” Her legs were crossed, and her arms rested lightly on her knee.

  “I saw a lot of patients this morning. The usual: throat infection, ear infection.” The strain in his voice came through.

  “It must be very rewarding to be a doctor.”

  “I guess so. What about you? What did you do all morning?” he asked, but he was really thinking ahead and craving her with an animal ferocity.

  “I was reading, talking to my friends, and generally making concrete plans,” she said, and looking at the awkward tension on his face, she added, “Is everything okay?”

  “Everything is fine,” he said. There was such a brooding endearment in his eyes as his gaze lingered over her that it seemed to reduce her to silence. She must have realized the meaning of his expression or pitied it because she didn’t say any more. After a moment, in a hushed tone he said, “You have such long eyelashes. I thought they were fake.”

  “No, everything about me is quite real.”

  “You’re so beautiful,” he blurted. His hand, trembling, reached out to her cheek and touched it lightly.

  A half smile came to her lips.

  He leaned forward, his lips touching hers. He jerked back a little but then pressed on headlong. Inhaling her scent, feeling her softness with his lips, his hands clasping hers and embracing her—he uttered a faint and desperate moan of relief.

  His hands caressed her body minutely. He looked into her eyes. Right on the couch, he yanked off her pajamas.

  She seemed to study him as he took off his clothes and glasses, her eyes exuding an animal luster, as if she was more of an observer than a participant, witnessing some horrendous act that was too gory to be ignored.

  The porcelain whiteness of her face, like milk, seemed to have overflowed down the rest of her body, but over her left belly, a shower of tiny freckles, faintly brownish, rose up toward her left breast and ended in a sharp point like a dagger. He ran his hand over her skin. He kissed with a desperate urgency, sucking her lips, and the softness of her tongue was all so sweet. But he had to draw himself back from her and take in her beautiful face. Her youth swelled firmly in her breasts, and while straining to lo
ok up into her eyes, he kissed them. His tongue caressed her nipples. His manhood was now fully engorged, and he moved on top of her. Into those eyes, into her soul, he wanted to enter, but she closed her eyes now and averted her face, as if what she had wanted to see she had seen. His body inched upward, pushing against her, and then backing down only to push up again. She enclosed him tightly, yet something wasn’t right, but he was here, and beyond this there was nothing but suffocation. So he went on.

  As his body arched over her, he said out loud, “I love you,” and felt it truly.

  Perhaps she hadn’t heard. Her face was still turned away so that he could only see her profile, as perfect a profile as he had ever seen. “Gosh, you’re beautiful.” But won’t you look at me? Won’t you look at me?

  And then it was all the sweetness and tenderness in the world that came over him, that came from him.

  She finally looked at him a few seconds after they lay rigidly motionless. Her look pushed him off, and he got off her and saw the same stillness of dignity in her eyes and the same half smile. Quietly she went into the bathroom. Hurriedly, he got dressed and sat in the same spot, waiting.

  Dressed in a bathrobe, she went to the sofa and sat down. The half smile on her face held a sort of bemused condolence, or understanding and forbearance, that he found difficult to grasp.

  “Would you like to have lunch? We can . . .”

  “You must have work to get back to,” she said.

  “Oh, okay. I guess I do,” he muttered. “I guess there is not enough time. Maybe another day.”

  “You’d better go then,” she said and stood up.

  He stood up with her. Wanting to give her a kiss on the cheek, he leaned toward her, but the half smile on her face, the one that would have made Mona Lisa proud, seemed to forbid it, and so he said, “Bye,” and went out the door.

  Down the stairs he hopped, and he ran through the gate and jumped into his car. The car screeched out onto the street. Suddenly he stopped the car, parked by the street, and sat there. His insides dropped away, and in its place was a profound sadness. The truth came to him clearly: This was nothing but a repeat of the encounters he had had with Crystal, the escort, if not in actuality then in spirit. He had given her money; he had thrust himself upon her. What could be worse? The poor girl had taken his money and therefore had to put up with him. From his gut, sadness seeped along his arms. Everything was shameful except what he had said, that he loved her. He had fallen in love with a poor girl who lived in a decrepit apartment. He still didn’t know what she had been through, why she was struggling. Now he wanted to protect her. He wanted to take her away from that shit-hole of an apartment. He wanted to run back to the apartment and take by her shoulders and stare into her eyes and tell her he loved her, that he would make it right and dignified and noble, that she deserved no less.

  He called the office and told Mike he wouldn’t be able to come back for the afternoon clinic, that a sudden sickness was coming over him. And he was not lying. The sickness was real, and it was of the worst kind, a sickness of love and pity and regret. He should have been patient and not given in to an animal urge, giving her all she needed without even thinking of taking anything back. He should have been there, just to be there, however long, so that in the end he might win her over.

  He wanted to go back to her, but he didn’t.

  7

  Sadness and guilt kept him up all night, but he consoled himself that he truly loved her. When sleep finally came, it was light and his mind still teetered on the edge of wakefulness, thinking how things could still be made right. The light of a new day solidified his determination. He called the office and rescheduled his patients, telling them that he was still sick. He made himself presentable with a tan sport jacket and a white shirt. Around nine o’clock the next morning, he drove to her apartment.

  The words that he would say to her, however, refused to abide in the order he had assigned them. The phrases floated about and rearranged themselves haphazardly. In one version, he would say to her: “Lana, I want to say something to you. You know I’ve known you for a short time, but I feel like I’ve known you all my life. You probably have had a ton of guys telling you this before, but it’s true. Anyone can see that you’re very beautiful, but I know that you’re also a good person. You’re a very intelligent person. And I want to get to know you more. It seems like there is something you don’t want me to know . . .” But then in frustration, he would mumble, “Oh God knows, I love you . . . I don’t care what you say. I really don’t care. You can tell me anything and I’ll believe you . . .”

  The working-class neighborhood had already awakened and mobilized for work. A distinct smell of gasoline exhaust tainted the air, and the roar of traffic ricocheted off the atmosphere murky with low clouds. He parked in the street. As he approached the gate to her apartment, he was so flummoxed by sleeplessness that he didn’t notice until he was very close. Right in front of the gate, the man with the black baseball cap was leaning against the black truck. There could be no mistake, he was the same man whom Thomas had seen that night at the art exhibit. Under the baseball cap, the face appeared Asian, dark brown, and brutish. The man’s eyes tracked him. He was wearing a black T-shirt, and he stood with his muscular, tattooed arms folded.

  Thomas moved away from the man and headed toward the gate.

  “Girl not home,” the man called out behind him.

  He kept the man in the corner of his eye and moved on. He entered through the gate and went up the stairs.

  At her door, he knocked and waited. He put his ear to the door and listened. All was quiet inside. He knocked again, this time much louder. Still nothing. By the time he decided that she was not home, any doubt that the man had been talking to him also vanished. He called Lana; it went straight to voicemail. Now he remembered the photo of the truck’s license plate that he’d taken on the night of the art exhibit. He brought it up on his phone and, though the photo was fuzzy, he could make out the letters and numbers.

  Thomas descended the stairs with heavy steps and marched through the gate and straight toward the man. The man stood in the same posture, but now a sneer appeared on his brutish face.

  “Who are you?” Thomas said, hardening up his face.

  “Girl not home, told you,” the man said in a heavy accent.

  “Why are you following her? And don’t you deny it.” He held up the phone. “See here. I took a picture of your truck in downtown LA the other night. You were there outside the gallery, following her.”

  “Go. Leave her. Go.”

  “Stalking is illegal. Do you understand? Stalking someone is illegal. This is America, not wherever it is you came from. I’ll call the cops.”

  “Go. You don’t bother her. Leave her.”

  “For the last time, why you’re following her.”

  From the man’s eyes, Thomas saw a glint, not of fear, but of some change. Breathing hard, his heart thumping all the way to his tightened fists, Thomas stood still, head slightly cocked, staring with cold eyes, waiting to see if the man would heed his threat and leave. The man didn’t budge; instead, the sneer deepened on his dark brown face.

  “Money, lot of money,” the man raised his voice.

  “What money? What are you talking about?”

  “Girl owe money. Girl take loan, okay.” The man’s face tensed with a strange frown, his lips rising to reveal brown teeth.

  “How do I know you’re talking about the same girl?” Thomas clenched his teeth instinctively, expecting punches at any moment.

  “Lana Fauves,” the man said, and the ‘a’ sounded like the baa of a sheep. “Same girl. Pretty girl, yeh.”

  At the taunt, Thomas yelled, “You leave her alone. Do you understand me?”

  One side of the man’s face lifted into a crook smile, exposing a big pointed canine. He said, “Pay back. I leave. Not up to me.”

  “Who then?”

  “My boss.”

  “Leave her alone.”


  “Or you do what?”

  “I’ll call the cops.”

  “Won’t help. Pay me or someone else come, heh.”

  “Then I’ll deal with whoever it is myself,” Thomas said roughly.

  “You can take me?” The man snickered.

  “Maybe not. But that’s why people have guns,” he raised his voice. His heart jumped as he said that.

  “You think me afraid,” the man said and drew up his shirt. “See.” He pointed to a deep round scar on the side of his abdomen. And in the middle of his abdomen was a long straight scar running from his chest to the belly button. “Should see the other guy.”

  From his days as a surgical intern at the Los Angeles County Hospital, he recognized those scars right away. One scar appeared perfectly round, like a bullet entry wound, and the other long straight scar, was where the surgeon had cut the man open to fix the injuries.

  “Heh, Jesus say, turn other cheek. Heh, you not Christian,” the man added.

  “What?”

  “You live by gun, you die by gun, yeh. Jesus teach,” the man added.

  Thomas couldn’t quite catch onto the game the man was playing, but wanting to know the extent of Lana’s trouble, he said, “How much?”

  “Twenty K,” the man said, resuming a crooked smile.