by Nick Totem
“Fiancé? I had no idea.”
“In many ways, we’ve just met, so . . .”
“Okay, let’s drop it. Let’s go to San Francisco, then.” He leaned back and looked at her. “I was heading there yesterday.”
“Hmm, why not? And I don’t think I can handle any more drama from Lloyd.” Her eyes crinkled at him playfully. “Let me get some clothes at Astrid’s.”
During the drive, a sort of divergence occurred, in which the roadside and with it the outside world flowed by breathlessly, and against this passing her loveliness was beheld in slow motion. He wanted to know all about her past, but couldn’t get beyond her lips pressed in half smiles, her hand holding and squeezing his, and at times her still posture, lost in a forward gaze. Beyond his control, he pressed her about Cristiano a couple of times, but she would only say, “There will be time to tell you everything about me. But do tell me all about you.” So he told her all about his life, about his deployment to Iraq without mentioning the Iraqi boy, his divorce, repeating some of things he had told her before and adding others. On her part, she seemed reluctant to divulge herself, perhaps to prove to herself that even during a long drive together she could keep him at bay, or to keep the past from intruding into present happiness. He couldn’t possibly reckon which was the case, but by the time they got to San Francisco, he no longer had any doubts about her authenticity.
The Argonaut Hotel was located near Fisherman’s Wharf. It was already seven o’clock, and the sky was dark when he drove up to the front door. A cold wind was blowing steadily and bringing with it the smell of sea life.
“Oh, I love this air, Thomas,” Lana said as they got out of the car. Later in the elevator, she said, “There is something in the San Francisco air that makes me so tipsy, like a fine wine.” She put her hands around his neck and leaned into him.
“Let’s freshen up and go out for dinner,” he said.
The hotel room had a modern sleekness. The air was quite warm inside the room. A round mirror covered most of the wall opposite the bed, so that as Thomas lay on the bed waiting, he could see all of himself. Looking at the mirror, he seemed to see a different reality and how things had raced heedlessly through, transpiring in a flurry of happenings to end up in this room, to stop here. In this room, he had the sensation of being cloistered away in a place so far away from all the world, that the air molecules themselves were motionless, that for the first time he could begin to know the “now.”
When Lana came out of bathroom, he was surprised to see that she was wearing only a bath towel. The towel wrapped around her chest and reached just past her thigh. Droplets of water clung to her pale skin, the ends of her hair appeared wet and stuck together, and her face was slightly flushed. Within three steps, she was at the bed, and she jumped on and straddled him. In awe of her brashness, he lay still and stared at her.
“I feel deliciously tipsy, darling,” she said softly, looking down to him, and removed his glasses.
Water droplets soaked into his shirt. The wetness on her skin, her softness on top of him, and a trace of soap and her perfume, aroused a strange intoxication. She took off the towel and tossed it aside. Even just by looking at her body, his mind buzzed with exquisite pleasure—the smooth curves running from her armpits to her waist, her toned arms extending to delicate fingers, and shapely breasts that tightened at the nipples. Straddling him, she looked down at him tenderly. He tried to touch her, but she immediately pushed his hands down. Suddenly her fingers enlaced his hair. Her hands gripped tightly, lifting him up. She licked his lips, and then her teeth teased his lips in a tentative bite. Backing away a bit, she said, “You’re a handsome man, Thomas.” And she started to unbutton his shirt.
“You really think so?” he managed to ask with disbelief.
“You don’t believe me?” she said with the tone of two strangers negotiating a transaction. His shirt was off, and now she scooted down and undid his belt. “You should believe me because I know. I’ve known a few pretty boys, male models.”
“Really.”
“Yes, but you’re not like the pretty boys. You’re handsome in the way a real man should be.”
Once his clothes were off, she straddled him again and leaned down to kiss him, tenderly at first, then roughly, biting him. She sat up abruptly. With eyes closed, she touched herself and let out a soft moan, her pelvis undulated gently over her fingers as she sat over him. Opening her eyes now, she studied him as her fingers went into his mouth, playing with his tongue as he tasted her saltiness—not like the first time in her apartment, when he hadn’t felt the flow of her wetness, the one true sign of a woman’s passion. Then she got off him. Sitting next to him, she ran her fingers lightly over his chest now and pinched his nipples, making him grimace with pain, and very quickly her tongue caressed them. An involuntary gasp escaped from his mouth, and he turned his face away trying to control himself. Partly kissing, partly licking, tasting and teasing his flesh, her mouth made its way downward. Her hand took hold of his manhood, now firmly engorged, and she put her tongue to the tip, flicking softly as her eyes fixed onto his. Those beautiful eyes, that he had so desperately wanted to look into that first time he made love to her, now seized his gaze in a captive hold as her lips puckered and pushed down, taking him in wholly.
“Ahh,” he gasped and looked at her in wonderment, feeling that it was not him that she was doing that to, that he was not there in person, but merely watching a pornographic movie. Such gorgeousness, such captivating eyes, such sultry lips were going down on him. Slowly at first, then with a quickening movement she descended on him, consumed by a ravenousness. Suddenly she stopped and moved on top of him, pushing him down and straddling his face. He took to her willingly, feeling her softness at the tip of his tongue and her wetness oozing so much that he could barely catch his breath. Rocking over his tongue and lips, her pelvis jerked with short movements, and she held her breath until she let out a fierce groan. Still breathing heavily, she moved down and positioned herself over him. Her upper torso appeared to blush a reddish hue. She guided him in and her pelvis began to grind with soft, slow rhythm. Drawing him toward her now, she sucked on his lips and then offered him her breast. At last his mouth closed over the shapely breast and tasted sweat. The hunger in his hands dug into her, wanting to merge with her, to feel the youth under her skin. He caught sight of her slim back in the mirror, simmering over him, a marvelous sight marked by a strange abandonment. He couldn’t hold it anymore, he inhaled noisily. Knowing what was coming, her eyes glinted, she struck him. Her palm flew across his face.
“No. No. Not yet,” she commanded.
The pain on his face displaced everything else. With one hand on his chest, she rocked faster now, and her other hand grasped his hair as she stared into his eyes. A wailing moan escaped from her lungs.
“Hah, hah,” she moaned breathlessly, then inhaling noisily. “Come now. Fuck me. Come, darling.”
He pushed her off a little and held her elevated over him. And he craned his neck to look at the mirror and saw each upward thrust into her. Then he held her face in front of him and stared into her eyes as he quickened the thrusts. He held her tightly, holding onto the moment.
At last, they collapsed on the bed and looked at one another.
“That was wonderful, Thomas,” Lana said finally. “You didn’t expect that, did you?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry I hit you, darling,” she said, smiling.
“It’s okay. You’re so completely different,” he said.
“How so? Different bad, or good?”
“Bad in a good way,” he said and touched her breast.
“As long as it’s good.”
“You have wonderful breasts. So firm and beautifully shaped. Like pears.”
She pressed her lips together, perhaps thinking about something unpleasant, and at length said, “Wretched beauty.” She could see questioning in his eyes and continued, “Whatever you think of me, know that I
’m always genuine.”
“Nothing matters now. I love you.”
18
The next morning, they walked to Boudin Cafe and had a late breakfast of sourdough bread, scrambled eggs, ham, orange juice, and coffee. From where they sat, they could look out at the San Francisco Bay. A gloomy tule fog was coming out to the bay as it usually does from inland during the winter, hiding the turbulent water surface.
“Why are you so curious about Cristiano?” Lana said.
Hearing her, Thomas suddenly realized he had unconsciously mentioned Cristiano three times. “Who wouldn’t be curious? It’s like telling someone not to think about an elephant.”
“But darling, are you sure you want to know an unhappy story?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. How insensitive of me. It’s just that I want to know all about you.”
“All right then . . . After going out with Lloyd a few times, I was busy with writing papers and studying for finals and didn’t have time for him. But he came by anyway, twice a week to drop off food—Swiss chocolate, Russian caviar, fois gras, Iberico ham, and baguettes still warm from San Francisco—and always the obligatory bouquet of flowers. But even with the fine food, some of which I had never eaten in my life, I told him very clearly that I was not interested in a romantic relationship with him.
“Then something happened that would put an end to any possibility of carrying on with him. One day, I was sitting on a bench and reading near the sculpture garden. I can remember it so clearly. The air was cold, and the sun was warming my back when I saw the shadow of someone standing behind me and looked back. Sunlight filtered through the curls of his hair that rolled down to his neck. I squinted, trying to make out his face. Instead, I saw the violin in his hand.
“He told me with a Spanish accent that he was going to play the violin for me. He bowed slightly and put the violin up to his neck. Warm high pitched sounds trickled smoothly, like water, from the violin as the bow moved over the strings, drawing out a cadence that was immediately disrupted by fiery staccato bursts, and then a calming melody returned. I was struck with his intensity, his figure bent toward the violin, cradling it.
“He was a beautiful boy, with piercing eyes, sensuous lips tensing now and then as when the bow needed to dance quickly over the strings, and his prominent chin was soft with youth. He was wearing an old pair of jeans, a faded white T-shirt inside a beat-up blue sweater. Even now I can see so clearly. His curly hair was black and his complexion was on the fair side. He told me it was ‘A Heinrich Biber passacaglia,’ which I thought was his name and called him Heinrich. Haha, I was so ignorant of music. His name was actually Cristiano Caetano Cameos. When he found out that I read philosophy, he immediately challenged me, telling me that philosophy was useless. Of course I argued vigorously. He went on to explain that philosophy could only gather more facts, theories about facts, just like mathematics; what he talked about was existential truth, truth about human existence, the most important of all. Transcendence, according to him, was the only way to truth, just like Buddha transcending his body, Jesus through faith. In his own way, he was going to transcend to reach the truth with his music. He was in his third year in graduate school in the music department. Hmm . . . I fell for him. The way he talked with such earnestness, I loved how he enunciated his words. He told me one day he would recreate the voice of God with his music. You should listen to his symphony; it’s incredible.”
“Where is he now?” Thomas asked.
She looked out at the fog, and after a while said, “I don’t know.”
He saw something distant in her eyes, and he leaned toward her and kissed gently on her forehead. He remembered how he had yearned to be able to do just that not so long ago.
She smiled obliquely. “What should we do for the rest of the day?”
“We’ll let San Francisco know that we’re here.”
“Okay, you’ll have to lead way.”
After breakfast, they strolled along the boardwalk, heading north. A few tourists were scattered about. With a wool scarf around his neck, he was warm enough in his sport coat and jeans. As for her, she wore pants, a gray leather jacket, a scarf, and a pair of red pumps. The cold air clarified the paleness of her skin, intensified her red lips, and amplified some confounding sentiments in her eyes where the fog seemed to have congealed. Walking beside her, Thomas stole glances at her, taking stock of the transient look of being lost. He wanted to know more about her, but he knew not to push it. Her story couldn’t help but be told; its characters were yearning to be given a second chance at remembrance, and the elation, resurrected with Lana re-entering his life, hadn’t flagged one bit, but instead it had been augmented and seasoned with Lana’s bold and commanding lovemaking. But the happiness also shielded something hidden beyond her beauty, a glimpse of this secret he had just now seen in her eyes. He took her hand. He held it for the briefest of moments, because gently she wiggled her hand from his to cross her arms.
“He went away and I don’t even know if he’s still alive,” she said suddenly, as if she had been brooding about Cristiano.
“I’m sorry, Lana . . . you don’t have to tell me any more; you don’t have to tell me anything. Really, I don’t have to know anything. I can just know you as you are, going forward.”
She turned and looked at him, her lips pressed together. “It’s not your fault, Thomas. It’s just that I’ve tried not to remember for so long already. Naturally, when you’re with a woman, you’d want to know about her past. And telling you about my past is the least that I can do after you’ve given me such kindness.”
And just like that, his worst fear came true. So it was a kindness for a kindness, that she was with him because she was repaying him.
“I do enjoy being with you, darling. Never doubt that.” She caught his downcast look. “Let’s not spoil our time together with unpleasant talk of the past.”
“You’re right,” he said. “Let me show you what I call the Art and Booze tour of San Francisco.”
“Art and Booze, hah.” She laughed. “I can’t wait.”
“I know you know a lot about art, but do you know about booze?” He turned around, taking her with him. “Our first destination is the Big Eyes Gallery, just this way.”
That’s right, laugh, Lana, keeping laughing and never stop, he thought as he moved her along, walking very fast so that she, too, had to walk fast, dodging some objects or hopping over an uneven pavement, all the while giggling.
After the Big Eyes Gallery, they stopped by a couple of other art galleries with modernist pieces on display. They wandered about, looking at the prints and sometimes a rare original, without saying much. Once, Thomas caught Lana’s profile against an abstract with its incomprehensible lines and shapes full of colors, and he stood still, entranced.
Near noon, they caught a taxi and headed to the Fitzgerald on Nob Hill St. Though the paintings on the walls and the crystal chandeliers hanging from a high ceiling harkened back to the Victorian era, the scent was undoubtedly of the sea and San Francisco.
“I love the look of this place,” Lana said as she sat at the bar.
Thomas ordered a dozen oysters and two Dungeoness crabs, and two shots of chilled vodka.
“To San Francisco.” He raised his shot glass.
“To us.”
They downed the vodka.
“That’s to pave the way for the oysters. You’ll never have any problem with raw seafood if you prepare your stomach first.”
“Is that so?” She laughed. “Is this the booze part of the tour?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well, then I’d like to try a tequila.” She banged on the bar with closed fist. “Mr. Barkeep. Two tequilas, will you please?”
“That reminds me . . . So a tourist walks into an Irish oyster bar.”
“Are you telling me a joke, Doctor Wilde?”
“Yes, yes I am.”
She looked sideways at him. “Haha, go on then.”
“All rig
ht. So a tourist walks into an Irish oyster bar. He doesn’t speak much English, so he just stands there looking on. After a few minutes, the bartender, a short-tempered Irishman, asks him what he wants. The tourist says something about seafood. So the bartender pours him a shot of scotch and says ‘Drink this and you can eat crabs. Good with crabs.’ The tourist drinks it and . . . as soon as he gulps down the shot, he starts to eat empty peanuts shells and pieces of napkin lying around on the counter. The bartender says, ‘What the hell are you doing?’ The tourist replies, ‘I drink this I can eat craps.’”
“Haha,” Lana roared. “That’s the worst joke I’ve heard.”
“Dear lady, a laugh is a laugh. Doesn’t matter how you get it.”
The clientele was light during lunch. Aside from the few people checking out Lana, the place was very much deserted. With the alcohol rising up his nose, he sucked in an oyster and crushed it slowly between his teeth, tasting sea life.
“Um,” Lana exclaimed as she did the same. So they ate the oysters and the crabs served cold over ice. To lock in the rich taste of the sea, they shared a clam chowder and sourdough bread.
“You know, you can certainly make a living at this,” Lana said as they finished.
Once outside, she said, “Thomas, let’s go back. We can walk back to the hotel, it’s not so far. It’s all down hill.”
“So what does a Stanford graduate with a degree in philosophy think about the art we’ve seen so far?” he said slowly, drawing out his voice.
“She wouldn’t know because she never graduated.”
“Oh.”
“After the third year I took a leave of absence,” she said.
“That’s okay. You don’t have to tell me now. There will be time to tell me everything about you,” he said and managed to laugh.
“You stole my line.” With steady voice she went on, “I left Stanford after my third year and I never went back .”