A Postmodern Love

by Nick Totem

  She turned around, startled. “Thomas. Hah. What are you doing here?”

  “I was just walking by and I saw you.”

  “How was your day?” she leaned in and gave him a kiss.

  He observed her with unmoving eyes.

  “I’m craving something sweet. A slice of German chocolate cake. Would you like something?” she said.

  The salesperson handed her the slice of cake in a plastic container.

  “Nothing for me,” he said curtly.

  He waited until they were outside walking back, and said, “Who were you walking with?”

  “What?” She turned and squinted.

  “I saw you walking next to a man just a few minutes ago. He wore a baseball cap and a dark blue jacket. He was walking next to you and I’m sure he was talking to you.”

  “What man? I don’t know what you’re talking about . . .” She shook her head. “As you can see, Thomas. There are many people walking next us now, but we’re not talking to them, are we?”

  “Hmm. I guess,” he said.

  She took hold of his arm and pulled him close. “Darling, let’s have dinner in one of these restaurants, here. Let’s get a table next to the sidewalk. They’re so charming. They remind me of Paris. Please.”

  “Sure.”

  “I was thinking about love,” she said later after they sat down at a table. “Do you know what love is?”

  “What?” he said, faintly suspecting that the subject of love was a digression.

  “You once told me you loved me. In San Francisco. Do you remember? I’m curious what kind of conception you and other people have about love in general,” she said with a didactic tone, as if she was in a philosophy class, reassuring him that she was not interested in his love for her, per se.

  “I’ve never really thought about it. To tell you the truth. I didn’t study philosophy. I just took it for granted. It’s a feeling, I guess.”

  “I was just thinking about it the other night,” she said, a touch serious. “Maybe sometimes it’s best just to know that it exists. I suppose it’s one of those things that only the poets can define. Not the philosophers.”

  “Well, my mother has her own theory.” He felt himself rising to the challenge. “She said that love is suffering.”

  “That’s interesting, but it begs the question of what comes first. One loves, and then suffers for it or because of it? Or one suffers first, and then through suffering one has love?”

  “Or as my ex-wife sees it; it’s just another name for practicality. She lives with someone, does things together to live, satisfies all mutual needs and calls it love.”

  “That’s too utilitarian for my taste. But it does have some support in some academic circles. I’m sure you have heard of the chemistry theory, that love is nothing more than the working of molecules.”

  “Well, Miss philosopher. What’s your theory then?”

  She pressed her lips together and then said, “Like Cristiano. To love is go to the very end with it.”

  What she said moved him; it captured perfectly that irresistible forward motion toward her that had propelled him since the first meeting. He wanted to hold her now, to kiss her, to make love to her, and she appeared willing enough, but he couldn’t overcome it, that nagging voice forbidding him; not like this, it told him, not when she was vulnerable—her wellbeing was at stake—not when she was about to go through an ordeal. He leaned forward, his face assuming a painful frown, but moved no further, held in place by a tension in the air. Directly across from him, on her face was a half-smile, full of willing tenderness, awkwardly waiting for something to happen.

  “That’s probably as far as we can go in defining love,” she said at last.

  “Right, and I’m no poet.”

  And just like that, love filled his head, displacing all doubts and questions of Chau the Dog talking to her. It was all in his imagination anyway.

  Truth be told, it was not only his conscience inhibiting him from making love to her, but also the fear of the past, that it would be repeated, that the scene in her apartment when he had first lent her money would recur, when he had arched over her and begged her to look at him in the eyes. That cursed money-cock. He would rather rip his heart out first. The possibility that she was handling him the same way she had done with other men also crossed his mind and further strengthened his resolve. He must wait, he told himself, until the day when she was ready to take flight, and if she were to fly to him, it would be worth it. Being in the apartment with her was enough. Sometimes when he told her a joke, she would bend over laughing and then get up and tickle him in return. And on one occasion she cooked something that turned out to smell awful, and she tried with much playfulness to force him to eat it, chasing him around the apartment, gripping his hair to hold him down, and finally straddling him. How easy it would be to push himself up and take to her lips, but he lay immobile as though paralyzed. Instead, it was she who bent down and kissed him, but the kiss was fleeting because his inhibition and fear, her having wrecked him previously, made him push her off. He smiled awkwardly, sadly, and disappeared into the bathroom. So despite the obsession he had contracted, making him dive into her past, and Cristiano’s and even Lloyd’s, he could not move an inch beyond an invisible boundary that surrounded her. The tension, in the following days, continued to mount relentlessly and in the all the wrong places, peaking in his head and far more commonly in his groin, and with that he would sometimes rush home to release himself, alternately beating himself and the wall with his bare fist, with the feel of her cool skin still on him and the smell of her perfume still strong in his nose.

  32

  Happiness in its simplest form is always the purest and thus the best. But for Thomas, it was manifold, nuanced with hope and doubt, and plagued by danger. Every time he approached the apartment, he would look over his shoulder. He would study the faces of passersby, anxious to find the brutish face of Chau the Dog, and scan the streets, trying to pick out the black truck. Once, he ran after a man, ready to call the police, ready to detain the man himself, only to be enormously relieved when he caught up with the man and saw that he was someone else. Shadows and shades of danger lurked under trees, in the bright coffee shops, and in the trucks speeding by, and increasingly Thomas began to experience a vigilance bordering on anxiety until he was safe inside the apartment and happy seeing Lana. “What’s the matter, Thomas?” Lana would ask, seeing how he was watching the street intensely. And he began to carry a leather bag with his computer and the Beretta inside, always carrying it close and ready to open it and reach the gun. Inside the apartment, he found physical safety but his mind continued to churn. Was Chau the Dog watching Lana to get to him? Did he figure out the reason that Mosqueda was after him because of Thomas’s testimony? If that was the case, Thomas had drawn danger to her.

  The thought of any harm coming to Lana disturbed him immensely, and so Thomas decided to retract his testimony. He went to the police station to meet Mosqueda to sign the papers, retracting his accusation and intent to testify in court.

  “What gives, Doctor?” Mosqueda was visibly angry. “Why the sudden change of mind?”

  “No reason. Just changed my mind, that’s all.”

  “People who get ripped off don’t just change their minds. You were ready to put this guy away for a long time. What gives?” Mosqueda leveled his eyes at Thomas. “Did he contact you? Scared you maybe.”

  “I went on patrol in Iraq. I was shot at, so don’t fuckin’ tell me I’m scared.”

  “What is it then? It must be the girl?”

  “We’re done here.” Thomas walked out.

  But he was not done yet. He must communicate to Chau the Dog to let him know that he had backed off. How would he do that? Thomas continued to watch out for signs of Chau the Dog, not to detain him or scare him off, but to tell him that he was free to go, that the police were no longer after him.

  A few days after his retraction, there were still no signs o
f Chau the Dog. Each day before he went into the apartment, he would walk the street, checking the windows of trucks, and after leaving, even when it was very late, he would do the same.

  At last, there was only one thing to do: go to the source.

  Thomas went to Lloyd’s office at the appointed time, and a receptionist as gorgeous as a model greeted Thomas and led him in.

  “Doctor, please come in,” Lloyd said warmly. His hand shake was genuine and welcoming. “Please have a seat. Would you like a drink?”

  “Nothing for me.”

  Lloyd’s office overlooked downtown and its high-rises, and sitting behind his desk, Lloyd appeared to preside not just over his company but the whole of downtown. A real Picasso on the wall confirmed his stature, and Thomas couldn’t help ogling it.

  “So Doctor, how is Lana?”

  “She is fine.”

  “How is she with you . . . now?”

  “She’s not. I don’t know whom she is with. ” He emphasized the “with.” “I’m just helping her out, lending her my expertise as a medical doctor. That’s all. But I’m not here to discuss her.”

  “I heard about her predicament.”

  “Yes, I guess it is a predicament.”

  “Convey to her my best wishes. I wasn’t even aware that she has such a genetic defect. My resources are there for her, but she’s in one of her fighting phases. Just between me and you, the breasts make the woman.” His serious manner gave way to a weird, lascivious look. “I don’t care about the implants. Sometimes they tend to go overboard, but still the breasts make the woman and having them removed, that does some damage. No matter how tough you are.”

  “I’m not here to talk about Lana.” Thinking of Lana’s safety, he suppressed his irritation.

  Lloyd’s eyes gazed in the space in front of him, his lips pursed slightly, apparently thinking, and then he said, “To what do I owe this pleasure, then?”

  “I want to ask about Chau the Dog.”

  Lloyd’s eyes shot back to Thomas. “Go on.”

  “Are you aware that there was warrant out for his arrest?”

  “No.”

  “Well, there was and I was the reason they issued the warrant. Actually, they wanted to get to the Asian gangs . . .” Thomas lied, knowing that the cops also wanted to get to Lloyd, but he went to tell Lloyd about the rest of the details. “. . . So you see. I retracted my testimony. I’m no longer a witness. I just need to give him a message so he doesn’t bother us anymore . . . I just don’t know how to get in touch with him. I thought you may be able to help.”

  Lloyd’s eyes, now cold and calculating, glinted. “I don’t understand you, Doctor. I specifically gave you back the money, but you didn’t take it. Then you insist on litigating an old issue. Now it’s back to bite you,” Lloyd spoke in a slow, assured way. “After that night, his boss, my associate, brought the man in and questioned him. He had the appropriate punishment then. This certainly alters the situation.”

  Thomas almost laughed when he heard this, knowing that Lloyd had hired Chau the Dog to do just that, instead he said curtly, “Can you get him to back off or not?”

  “This certainly is an unexpected complication. I was never the jealous type, despite all the men she . . . She tried to get to me, you know. I guess I got tired of her games, so I put an eye on her. I never suspected the man would have such business initiative. Trying to make money on the side. Hah, anyhow when the authority is involved, things get complicated in a very bad way. But yes, he’ll back off, way off.”

  “Thank you for your time.” Thomas stood up and went to the door. He had had enough of Lloyd’s lies.

  Lloyd stared at Thomas and said, “That goes for you too, Doctor. This will not go any further, on your part. Do I have your word?”

  “No further.”

  Thomas then invited Dietrich Gassiot to La Descarga. Sitting at the bar, he faced a collage of colorful alcohol bottles—the light blue tequila, the amber cognac, the crytal clear vodka—bringing to his mind the labyrinthine situation of Lana, Lloyd, and Chau the Dog. After priming Dietrich with several glasses of single malt scotch, Thomas began his questioning. “You know, I’m helping Lana with a medical problem, but Chau the Dog keeps showing up. There is something else going on here. What do you think?”

  Dietrich looked askance at him, with clear eyes, as though he could see through Thomas.

  “I know what I missed the most,” Dietrich said. “I miss the poems she wrote for me. Maybe because they’re so different from what I do. Let me see if I can remember one: Come, come to me, love. In the heat of a summer night, stillness, darkness, sweat . . .”

  “What can you tell me about that money laundering investigation four years ago?” Thomas interrupted him, unable to listen to personal things about Dietrich and Lana. And he hoped one day he would never have to meet Dietrich again.

  “My friend, forget it. It’s a dead end. You’re becoming obsessive. It’ll ruin you like it did me. I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I’ve moved on. I’m dating a model now. I’m finally out of her strangle hold. Don’t push me, man. Otherwise I might feel the itch to get back into it again. I know it’ll ruin me.” Dietrich raised his glass. “Here’s to our sanity.”

  “C’mon. Give me something.”

  “Forget her. Just like me. I gave up on her. I gave up on taking revenge on Lloyd. You know why? Because you’ll lose. Lloyd is a vindictive son of a bitch. He’ll protect his interests. You made a big mistake by coming to him. It shows that you’re weak. If anything, you’ll see that Chau the Dog will keep the pressure on you; he might even up the stakes. God forbid, Lloyd might even order that maniac to gun you down.”

  33

  When the time came for Lana to have a biopsy, she was hysterical and almost paralytic with fear. He reassured her, but to no avail. He held her hand and accompanied her all the way into the operating room. Then Thomas sat in the waiting room and tried to distract himself from thinking yet again about the pathology. Despite Lana’s dream of dying during surgery, he did not worry about that. All his fear revolved around what the pathologist would find under the microscope, what a cancer diagnosis would mean to them both.

  After the surgery, Thomas brought Lana back to the apartment, and since she was still under the effects of anesthesia, he laid her in bed with her head propped up on pillows. To the bed’s left was a night stand with a framed picture of Lana and Bethany as teenagers. Neither was smiling, and Bethany had her arm around Lana, whose eyes exuded a feline precociousness. He set a chair a few feet from her and sat down, and drifted into a sort of heightened awareness. His eyes gleaned the rising of her chest, the twitching of her eyelashes, the quivering of her lips, as she began to come out of anesthesia. His ears picked up the soft murmuring from her throat. Through the glass wall, bright sunlight flooded into the stillness of the bedroom. He noticed the tiny corrugation of her lips, the sharp philtrum, the straight nose, and then, turning away from her to other things, he noticed too the folds of the blanket, the wrinkles on the pillow casings, the straight headboard. He knew that he must take in these things and make them permanent.

  “Hmm.” A soft utterance escaped from Lana. Then, after a prolonged moment, she stirred and opened her eyes. She looked at him and smiled. Then her smile slackened, her cheeks eased, giving her face a serenity, and Thomas returned to gazing. She drifted in and out of wakefulness. Finally, when she became alert enough, she beckoned him. He reached out and held her hand.

  “You don’t have watch over me, darling.” She managed to say. “I’ll be fine. Just so sleepy.”

  With that, Lana drifted off again. A few minutes later, she opened her eyes and said softly, “Darling, you’re still here. How sweet. Don’t just sit there. Please read me something. Something by Proust.”

  “Sure thing.” Thomas went to the bookshelf. Among all the books, he recognized a thick book with a green cover, the same one she had held when he first met her. A folded paper was in the middle of th
e book, and the book fell open to it. Something in the margin of the page caught his eyes; there were long lines of numbers, looking suspiciously like bank account numbers, next to abbreviations, perhaps of names of banks. He tried to figure out the abbreviations; did the C stand for Chase, or Citibank?

  At last, he returned to his seat and read, “She was, as it happens, a most intelligent woman, and remarkably beautiful then; she’s a dowager now. And he has had any number of others since. I’m sure I should have gone stark mad if the woman I was in love with lived in Paris and I had to be in Rome. Highly strung people ought always to love, as the lower orders say, ‘beneath’ them, so that their women have a material inducement to be at their disposal . . .”

  That night Thomas dreamed that he and Lana were getting married. Everyone they knew attended the ceremony—Mike, his family, Dominic, Astrid, Elizabeth, and Grace. Cristiano’s symphony played in the background. Then the pastor began the ceremony. He recited the words of St. Paul, “Love is patient, love is kind . . . So faith, hope, love remain, these three; but the greatest of these is love.” Everyone laughed and everyone cried. Dominic screamed out Woohoo! and they all clapped loudly. Thomas held Lana’s hands, squeezing them tightly, as if communicating secrets. Lana couldn’t take her eyes off the ring on her finger, but when she finally looked up, her face became the face of Cristiano, the face of a stranger, drained of blood, the color of ashes. Cristiano’s face hovered close, and he said, “We are bonded forever.” And in that little space between them, bereft of air, Thomas struggled to breathe.