NVK

by Temple Drake

  He had been thinking about the small man with the suitcase. Wondering who he was. Where he had gone.

  “Then you walked up to me,” she went on, “and you had a kind of serenity about you.” Her face seemed to empty out as she thought back. “You were afraid of boring me—not like all the others…” She smiled. “I liked your eyes.”

  Not like all the others.

  He had known she would be used to being looked at, to being wanted. How could she not be? Still lying on his back, he pulled her closer, his left hand on her rib cage, below her breast. She drew up one of her knees until it rested on his thigh. Her hair smelled of a perfume he didn’t recognize.

  “That small man with the suitcase,” he said. “Didn’t you say you saw him too?”

  “Yes, but it was earlier. He was in the round bar, next to the restaurant.”

  He had been sitting on a cowhide sofa, she said. He had a drink in front of him that looked like a piña colada. He seemed to be on first-name terms with several of the staff.

  “Perhaps he works for the club as well,” Zhang said. “You think?”

  “I don’t know.” Zhang remembered how the man had appeared beside him as he was washing his hands. He remembered the darkness in the men’s room, the kind of darkness out of which almost anything might feasibly emerge.

  “It’s strange,” he said, “but when I talk about him I feel as if I made him up.”

  “If you’d made him up, I wouldn’t have seen him.”

  He was losing the feeling in his arm and had to move it out from under her. Drowsily, she turned away from him, onto her side. He turned with her. As he held her from behind, he thought he felt a ridge or roughness in the skin on the inside of her elbow.

  “What are you doing?” she murmured.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  “It’s late. We should get some sleep.”

  He kissed her shoulder, then leaned over her and kissed her on the lips. “You’re very beautiful.”

  “So are you,” she said.

  * * *

  —

  When he woke, he was alone in the bed. He glanced at the other bed. It was empty, undisturbed. The blind on the long window had been lowered, but a soft white glow came from the living room, where it looked as if a light was on. He remembered Naemi standing beneath the trees in People’s Square, and how time seemed to become suspended as she walked towards him. It wasn’t that she had been walking slowly. It was more as if the distance between them was greater than he had realized. As if she had been farther away than he had thought. He was still turning those moments over in his mind when she appeared in the room, already dressed. He glanced at his watch. It was 6:44. They had slept for less than three hours.

  “Sorry if I woke you,” she said.

  “Are you leaving?”

  She came and stood next to the bed. He put an arm round the back of her thighs and pulled her close, his face pushed against her skirt. It smelled of the night before—perfume, alcohol, the faint trace of a cigar. He felt her rest a hand on his head, then she stepped back.

  “Don’t you want breakfast?” he said.

  She seemed to hesitate.

  “Go to the restaurant,” he said. “I’ll join you.”

  He thought she might say something else, but she only nodded and turned away. The door to the suite opened and closed. He got out of bed and crossed the room. He wanted to tell her that he would be twenty minutes at the most, but when he opened the door and looked down the corridor, towards the lifts, there was only the huge red painting and the beige walls and the intense, almost supernatural hush.

  He had a shower and pulled on his clothes, then he texted Chun Tao, telling him to be outside the Park Hyatt at eight o’clock. As he traveled up to the 91st floor, he remembered waking in the night to see Naemi kneeling at the window, naked, looking at the view. Had she slept at all? He stepped out of the lift and checked his watch: 7:06. He wasn’t hurrying. There was no need. He didn’t believe that she’d be there.

  But she was.

  She had taken a table against the slanting window, next to a white pillar that soared up to the roof of the atrium two floors above. She was writing something on her phone. The city sprawled below her, the Huangpu River wide and mud-colored, and winding lazily through a mass of tall buildings. The sky was a flawless blue. Small puffs of white cloud lay close to the horizon.

  “That was quick.” She placed her phone facedown next to a half-full glass of water.

  He stopped a passing waiter. “Would you like coffee?”

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “I don’t eat breakfast.”

  He ordered a cappuccino—very strong, very hot.

  “That room…” She shook her head.

  “The Chairman Suite,” he said. “It’s supposed to be the best room in the hotel.”

  He had paid 40,000 RMB for the night, but in November, which was the beginning of peak season, the tariff would more than double.

  “Did you reserve it in advance?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  “So you knew I was going to sleep with you?”

  “How could I know that?” He adjusted the position of the cutlery in front of him.

  “What would have happened if I’d said no? Would you have stayed there by yourself?”

  “No. I would have offered it to you.”

  “And you would have driven off into the night, alone?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  But he didn’t want to talk about what might or might not have happened. They had spent the night together, as he had hoped, and he was still under the spell of it. Her cool concealed nature. The sudden blood-heat of her mouth. Her body like a dancer’s, somehow both voluptuous and lean. Sitting across from him, she seemed remote, though. Disengaged. As if she hadn’t been to bed with him at all. As if he had slept with someone else entirely. Was this discretion on her part, or was it the tip of some deeper determination not to become involved? His cappuccino arrived. He took a sip. Just right. He nodded at the waitress, and she left.

  Naemi was looking at her phone again. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t have long. I have a meeting.”

  “What do you do? I never asked.”

  “I work for a gallery.”

  “A gallery?”

  “We specialize in Chinese art, from the late twentieth century onwards.”

  It was the first time he had seen her in daylight, and there was something unusual about her appearance. To begin with, he couldn’t work out what it was. Then he realized. Her irises were almost exactly the same color as her pupils, so much so that it was hard to tell the difference between the two.

  “You’re staring at me,” she said.

  “It’s your eyes,” he said. “They’re black.”

  “Oh that.” She smiled at him. “I suffer from photophobia. I have to wear special contact lenses.” Her phone rang, but she declined the call. “I should go—”

  “Nina?”

  Naemi’s head swiveled, the response so swift and primal that Zhang was startled. His shock registered at a deeper level too. In most relationships, there is a moment when you glimpse something the person you’re with has been trying to suppress, and this revelation, no matter how trivial or minor, tends to signal the beginning of the end. But he and Naemi had only slept together once…Still watching her, he saw her cover up that aspect of herself, and it was accomplished so smoothly and slickly that he was reminded of the way a membrane slides across a snake’s eye, to protect or moisten it. Who had spoken, though? He turned to look. A man stood next to their table. He had the kind of face that softens as it ages, with pouches beneath the eyes and jaw, and cheeks that sagged. His thick brown hair was generously dusted with gray. He appeared to be in his early six
ties.

  “I’m sorry,” Naemi said, switching to English. “Do I know you?”

  “Nina.” The man seemed transfixed by her, and also paralyzed. “It’s me. Torben.”

  “You must be confusing me with someone else. My name’s not Nina—”

  “It’s uncanny. You haven’t changed at all.”

  “You’re making a mistake.”

  The man gave an astonished laugh. “You’re Nina. You have to be.” He looked around, as if for support, and then looked back at her, the fingers of his right hand moving nervously against his thigh. “There’s no one else who looks like you.”

  Naemi glanced at her phone. “I really have to go.” Getting to her feet, she turned her back on the man and kissed Zhang on the cheek. “Thank you for everything. I’ll call you.”

  Zhang watched her leave. How could she call him? She didn’t have his number. The man was also watching her. He clearly felt the urge to run after her and plead with her, but she didn’t offer him the chance. She was too decisive. All he could do was stand there haplessly.

  “Do you know her?” Zhang asked.

  “Yes. I mean—I’m not sure…” One hand clutching the back of his neck, the man looked at Zhang with a dazed expression. “I’m sorry. It’s a bit of a shock. I haven’t seen Nina for forty years.”

  “Forty years?” Zhang stared at the man. “But that’s impossible.”

  “I know.” The man looked away again, towards the entrance to the restaurant. “I feel like I’ve just seen a ghost.”

  Zhang was still staring. “Perhaps you’d like a coffee.”

  “I’m disturbing you.”

  “Sit down,” Zhang said. “Please.”

  The man sat where Naemi had been sitting moments earlier, and when the waiter came he ordered a double espresso. “The name’s Gulsvig. Torben Gulsvig.” He took a business card from his wallet and handed it to Zhang.

  Zhang studied the card. Gulsvig was a professor at Helsinki University, with a long list of letters after his name. So he was Finnish. Like Naemi.

  He looked up. “I’m Victor Zhang.”

  Victor was the name he had adopted while studying abroad in the early ’90s. He still used it when he met foreigners who couldn’t speak Chinese. It made things easier.

  “Pleased to meet you.” As Gulsvig reached across the table to shake hands, his sleeve caught a small vase of flowers and it toppled over. Water spilled onto the tablecloth. He said something in his own language—a swear word presumably—then switched back to English. “That was clumsy. I’m so sorry.”

  The waiter came and cleared up the mess. Gulsvig apologized again.

  “That woman you were with,” he said. “She looked exactly like someone I used to know.”

  “Someone called Nina?”

  “Yes.” Gulsvig’s double espresso arrived. He leaned forwards and brought the cup to his lips, but put it down again without drinking. “Is she a colleague of yours?”

  “Yes,” Zhang said.

  “I’m sorry,” Gulsvig said. “It’s none of my business. I hope I didn’t upset her.”

  “She had to leave in any case. She had a meeting.”

  Gulsvig shook his head. “Extraordinary, the resemblance.” He brought his cup to his lips again. This time he drank. Letting out a sigh, he put down the cup. “You don’t forget someone like Nina. Can I tell you a story?”

  “Of course.”

  Once, Gulsvig said, he had met Nina in a pub near the British Museum. This was in London, in the ’70s. A man came over to where they were sitting. He was drunk. He told Nina she was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. He wanted to buy her a drink. He wanted her to go out with him that evening. He wouldn’t leave her alone. In the end, he—Gulsvig—interrupted. He told the man that Nina was his wife. The man lurched backwards, shocked. He wanted to know how long they had been married. We got married yesterday, Gulsvig said. We’re very happy.

  “Nina thought that was hilarious.” Gulsvig paused, thinking back. “I was always braver when I was with her.”

  “You were just friends, though,” Zhang said. “That wasn’t my point—but yes, just friends.” Gulsvig nodded to himself, head lowered, his smile embarrassed, wistful. “She was out of my league.”

  Zhang finished his coffee, then glanced at his watch. “I’m sorry,” Gulsvig said. “I’ve taken up too much of your time.”

  Something suddenly occurred to Zhang. What if Naemi was related to Nina? What if she was Nina’s daughter, for instance? If that was the case, though, surely she would have recognized the name? And why would she have reacted with such unease?

  “I still can’t get over the resemblance,” Gulsvig was saying.

  Zhang rose from the table. “Our memories play all kinds of tricks on us.”

  “You’re right.” Gulsvig let out another sigh and shook his head. “It’s probably the jet lag. I only arrived last night.”

  “Well, it was nice to meet you.”

  Gulsvig shook hands with him again and thanked him for the coffee. “You have my card?”

  “Yes, I do,” Zhang said. “And here’s mine.” He put his business card on Gulsvig’s side plate. “Enjoy Shanghai.”

  ONCE IN THE TAXI, Naemi leaned forwards, her elbows on her knees, her hands covering her face. She was sweating, and her brain whined and crackled like a radio stuck between stations.

  “You’re not going to throw up, are you?” The driver was eyeing her in the rearview mirror.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “Just drive.”

  He muttered a few derogatory words, then shifted into gear and pulled away from the hotel.

  She hadn’t wanted breakfast in the first place, but Zhang had talked her into it. And it had gone well, she thought. Then, just as she was about to leave, she heard a name she hadn’t heard in almost half a century.

  Nina.

  If Torben hadn’t told her who he was, would she have guessed? She doubted it. Unless, perhaps, she had closed her eyes and listened to his voice, which was tentative and candid, exactly as she remembered it. To look at him, though? No. He was just a middle-aged man in a crumpled beige suit. She had a sudden, sickening realization. The world was full of such people. Since they looked older, they could stand right in front of her, and she’d be none the wiser. It was as if they were in disguise. To them, though, she was instantly recognizable. She corresponded to the memories they had of her—because she hadn’t changed at all. Time had rendered her conspicuous, like a rock exposed by an ebbing tide, there for everyone to see.

  She ought to have had a strategy in place, but she had been caught off guard. In a panic, she had done the only thing she could think of doing. She held on to the genuine bewilderment she had felt when he said, “Nina.” She pretended she had no idea who he was. Then she fled. Through the restaurant, down in the lift, and out into the sunlight, trembling…

  The bars on Changyi Road slid by, their exteriors sleepy, shut-eyed, unsuited to the daylight. In her mind she traveled back to London. June 1974. She was in the Students’ Union with friends when a young man came over, an empty beer glass in his hand. He stood in front of her in his maroon velvet loon pants, his hair unfashionably short.

  “They tell me you’re Finnish,” he said.

  “Do they?” Her voice was lightly mocking, but she already knew that he posed no threat to her, and that she could be kind.

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  She lit a cigarette. “I’m from North Karelia, originally.”

  “I was born in Helsinki.”

  “Ah,” she said. “The sophisticated type.”

  He grinned.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” he asked.

  “I don’t drink.”

  “What kind of Finn are you?”

  He was joking, or half joking, but this was a question
she had often asked herself, a question she had no answer to, and she looked at him steadily, no longer smiling. He didn’t understand the look—how could he have done?—and yet it didn’t seem to bother him. He was a little drunk, of course. He told her later that he had been wanting to talk to her for months, but had never dared.

  “Am I so frightening?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “You are.”

  Was it that same night that she and Torben set off through the streets of Bloomsbury? When they came to Coram’s Fields he spread his raincoat on the ground and they sat down. They smoked roll-ups and talked, with London all around them, murmuring and mumbling under a warm charcoal sky…He seemed oddly familiar to her. It was as though she already knew him, or had known him before. As though he belonged to the part of her life that she thought of as the happy time, the life that had come to such a sudden end on that day of sun and wind, when the world went dark while she wasn’t looking. Perhaps he reminded her of somebody she had been close to as a child—or perhaps it was simply that he was gentle.

  They began to seek each other out. They drank endless cups of coffee in cheap cafés. They went to art galleries, and to the cinema. They walked for hours—through the West End, in Richmond Park, on Hampstead Heath. Since they shared a secret language—Finnish—they could talk about people without them knowing. They laughed a lot. Once she had Torben as a friend, it became clear to her how lonely she had been before. And there was something about his company that rekindled the innocence in her. The youth. He helped her to be the age she appeared to be. The age she was supposed to be. Up until then, she had felt like an actor in a spotlight, delivering a monologue. Now, suddenly, she had someone on stage with her who she could play off, someone who could give her cues. Also, she was able to unburden herself without arousing suspicion or being judged. Once or twice, she came close to telling him the truth. Since she couldn’t make sense of it herself, though, she doubted she could explain it to him, despite the fact that he was intensely loyal, and would want to believe her. At times, the temptation was almost irresistible, but she never quite gave in.

  Though she realized he might want something from her, and that he might, at certain moments, long for that, she also realized he was in no position to insist. In other circumstances, this might have caused him pain, and yet it seemed to her that theirs was a relationship from which both parties stood to benefit. No, she wouldn’t sleep with him, but he gained in confidence and stature just by being in her company. They were both able to inhabit themselves more fully. Like balloons that were filled with air, almost to bursting, they became lighter, and more joyous. And perhaps, in the end, she thought, it came as a relief to him that he couldn’t entertain the possibility of sex with her. As much of a relief as a regret, at least. Not to have to win her, or risk losing her. As it was, he could have it all—or almost…