Red Lights, Black Hearts

by Fabiola Francisco

  “Not yet.”

  My nostrils flare, blood boiling, I glare at him. I’m the dominant one when it comes to these games.

  “Then you can leave. I have paying customers that are looking for what you’re refusing.”

  “I’m a paying customer. I’ve seen you dancing. A faraway look clouding you. I needed to meet you. Don’t ask me why.”

  “Out.” One word, firm, angry.

  I sit in my chair, my back to him. I know the type. The type that thinks he can save the girl behind the glass. He doesn’t argue. He turns and walks out, leaving the money he paid for.

  The next night he returns. And the night after that. Always demanding the same. Demanding I talk. Demanding I give more than I can. Each time more confident and determined. And every night I turn him away with a firm, out.

  I have grown accustomed to seeing the indigo eyes, and I have grown to resent them. Ever since he walked in saying he had been watching me, wanting to know me, aware of the look behind the darkness of my eyes, he stirred me.

  That part of me that was struggling for freedom was naïvely clawing her way out. Silly girl hasn’t learned yet that all you get out of life is overwhelming disappointment. She doesn’t care; she’s fighting in my chest to break through. A glimpse of hope for the life she once thought was beautiful trying to spark deceitful reason to believe again. It’s a tiring battle to fight against oneself. You are your fiercest opponent. Your stubbornness constantly swaying you in different directions. I’m tired of being a rag-doll, and I refuse to be one to my heart.

  After he leaves each night, I hide myself in seduction. Giving more passion to prove my control. To prove my role.

  “There’s a beauty about you. Not many people have the wild tame you do.”

  The controversy of his words aren’t lost on me. Wild tame. A wild animal living contained and controlled by the space she chose to live. Docile to her mind and her past.

  “We’re not talking,” I say and turn around. Beauty is not what I am. Cruel. Angry. Indifferent. If I had beauty in me, I would have compassion. But when you reach the depths I have, indifference takes over. Indifference fills you with detachment. Detachment allows you to survive in a world that will willingly dismember you if you show one ounce of emotion.

  Emotions are for cowards.

  “You don’t even know my name. I’ve come in here every night for two weeks, and you don’t even know my name.”

  “Names give people meaning. Names give people connections. No name, no vulnerability.”

  “I know your name.”

  I ignore him and wonder how long he’ll linger today.

  “Does that mean I now have a connection to you?”

  “You create a connection with someone, but that person does not need to reciprocate. You created a connection in the delusion of your mind the first night you walked in here, giving me a character you wanted. If I act the part, I am feeding your mirage. If I act as myself, I am starving it.”

  “You don’t act as anything. You simply just are. You don’t give yourself a character.”

  What was it with him and tonight? What was it with him wanting to create something deeper than what this was?

  “I don’t need a character. It’s an unrealistic mechanism to create an alternative to who you are when you’ve lived pages of darkness others can hardly stand to read. When we create fantasy, we live in a constant sense of denial.”

  “I’ll be gone for a while,” he says, staring out the window through the tiny sliver that was left uncovered by the drapes.

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll be back though.”

  “I’ll be here,” I respond.

  “I know,” he answers somberly.

  He leaves without telling me his name. Still a ghost in my reality that appears and disappears as he seems fit.

  I’ll have a break from the incessant need to uncover me. He can dig as deep as he wants, the cavity of my soul is empty.

  “You have an admirer,” Bale chuckles when I walk out of my room.

  “Shut up.” I roll my eyes. He’s the only one who knows. He found me lost and bitter in this city a short while after I arrived. My grand escape plan was a disaster. I was a runaway with zero knowledge of how to hide. Bale had looked at me that night and said, “You can’t hide from yourself.”

  He understood. He was right. I spent my life hiding the part of me that was vulnerable. The part of me that was good. The part of me that pumped hope into my veins. She was also the person that believed in magic. The magic I now believe in is for witches, and we use it for trickery.

  I can’t escape myself, but I can exist in this life walking the dark streets and seducing the night. If my black heart keeps pumping, then I can continue to stay inconspicuous to the truths I hold within.

  This place is a combination of light streaming throughout and souls that come to wander. This city holds secrets in its alleyways and passion in its windows. I walk and I witness it. Those that get high to experience it all, and those that hide in the shadows of shame, pumping it through their veins to escape it all.

  I stumbled into the perfect place for me. A place that understands my secrets when told to the stones on the walls, and a place that provides me with what I need to fulfill this need to strive at dominance. A protection of my source.

  It has been three years that I have lived here, and I have not felt threatened to expose myself. Now a stranger comes barreling in here. If he knew, he’d never return. And I’ve gotten accustomed to those indigo eyes.

  The satisfaction I feel every time a customer leaves happy is almost as much as I feel when he’s getting me off. You won’t doom that which gives you what you want. If I give that species a taste of me, he will swallow it up in a daze of desire and become vulnerable. I can attack, using my body, and offer him something he needs much more than to destroy.

  The cold has taken over the city. Tourists still coming and going. Men seeking warmth beneath a woman.

  I dance in the glow of the red lights, watching to see who will be trapped by my gaze. I’m on display for anyone to see, and for anyone to enjoy at a high price. I never smile. I just dance. I move and lure my prey, starving to have a taste of what they have. When they enter my cave, I devour them, leaving them limp and mindless of control.

  They enter and leave each night. They return to their lives with the memory of a woman who gave them the attention they sought for that short time. Some return to their wives, others to their girlfriends, and a few to the emptiness of their apartments to brag to their friends about the prostitute they bagged under the city lights of Amsterdam. Except to their friends, she wasn’t a prostitute he had to pay for.

  We all have secrets to keep, from others or ourselves. We keep secrets from loved ones, secrets from friends, secrets from the truths our lives hold. Playing up the wonder of life to make it more exciting than what it is. Looking for escapes and drugs of all kinds to hype our reality for a short while. Something exhilarating to keep us motivated until we reach the next pillar that will elevate them higher into the belief that their life is perfect despite the hard truth that they are living blind from what it truly consists of.

  How many people live believing something rather than the reality they reside in?

  I admit I miss my daily visits from the tall stranger I refuse to acknowledge. I don’t know where he went or if he lives here. I didn’t want to know. This is exactly why I stay away, because as much as I say that no names make no real connections, now I’m connected.

  Three weeks. I hadn’t realized I kept anticipating his arrival until I saw him on the other side of the glass window, staring in contemplation. Pulling apart the puzzle. I continue to dance, the wall of indifference higher than usual. I don’t need to turn around to know he’s entered. I knew he would.

  “You’re back,” is all I say.

  “I told you I would be.” His confidence greater than the last time. He walks further into my small space and I clos
e the curtains. It’s not like I’ll be getting any action from him, but policy is if someone is in here, drapes are closed.

  He sits on my chaise and stares at me. My body grows hot under my lingerie set at his scrutiny. It’s almost like he’s found the secret pathway into my being and is slowly stripping it away. Uncomfortable, I move around, organizing my things. I always stick to silence. It’s easier.

  “I was on business,” he says, leaning back.

  “Okay.”

  “I mean, when I first came here and saw you. I traveled here on business. Now too.”

  I don’t understand why he has the need to tell me this. It makes no difference.

  “I live between here and Germany, sharing my time.” I vaguely become curious of the kind of life he has in Germany. Does he have a family? Is he sharing part of his time with me?

  Connections.

  “I’m part Jewish.” A Jew in Germany. Living with the constant reminder of the torture those people put your ancestors through.

  “I don’t believe in God.” I say it before I think. I spew it out.

  “Interesting,” is his only response. He doesn’t defend his belief or tear down mine. He analyzes it in the corner of his mind. It’s how he works. I just gave him another key to unlock the puzzle.

  When I turn to look at him, he’s lazily lying on the chaise with his sleeves rolled up. He looks tired. He looks good. His eyes close for a beat on an inhale and reopen with purpose.

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why do this?” He waves a hand around with mere curiosity. No judgment. No disgust. Just wanting to understand.

  “Why not?”

  “Why choose this career and not something else?” Career. That’s what it is, but so much more. That’s what he wants. Answers. Understanding as to why this is the path I chose.

  “Why did you choose your career?” I challenge.

  “Because it’s something I enjoy.”

  “This is something I enjoy.” I shrug.

  “Samantha,” he speaks my name for the first time.

  I look at him. He stands and walks to me, stopping with just enough space between us to leave me comfortable.

  “You’re a beautiful woman.” He barely touches my cheek with the back of his hand and walks around me towards the exit.

  “Max,” he calls over his shoulder.

  Then he’s gone.

  It’s what we’ve been doing. Silent visits he continues to pay for. I could probably drop his payments, but this is valuable time in the business. If he doesn’t pay, there’s a willing customer who will. I’m here to work, not socialize or get analyzed.

  Drapes open again, and I begin to dance. The music always in my head, never playing in this space. Just beats I’ve been hearing since I was young. Rhythms created by the insanity in my psyche. Music that pulled me in when I was searching to escape reality.

  I hate reality. Or what was my reality.

  This room is left with the ghost of his cologne. It’s all I smell as I’m giving my next client a hand job. I inhale his cologne, I exhale frustration.

  Max.

  I grew up believing the world was beautiful. I grew up believing people were beautiful. I was taught that my grandfather was a wonderful man. The saint painted in red. When I got older, I learned the truth. He was a sick bastard.

  I shake off the thoughts seeking refuge in my brain. No need to remember that. I close my eyes. Breathe. Count to ten. Drink.

  “I hadn’t realized you had a life socializing with the common people.” I hear the laughter in his voice. I look up to see him. His smile is goofy. Almost like he caught me stealing cookies from the cookie jar.

  “I don’t socialize.” I point at the empty seats around me as an obvious indicator. Apparently, he takes that as an invitation to join me.

  “You don’t work today.” It’s a statement.

  “I don’t. Bale requires I take days off periodically. I hate them.”

  “It’s good to rest.”

  “I get enough rest. I don’t need to sit idly.”

  “Get a hobby.”

  “Working is my hobby.” Nothing to do requires thinking. Ironically so.

  “There’s more to you than work.” His eyes glow with determination. I’d never met anyone who cared so much about who I was and what led me to where I am. I just don’t understand why.

  He orders a beer and a refill of my Moscow Mule. Without even asking me. Who is this guy? And why does he think we could sit together in a coffee shop in the heart of Amsterdam. All we are are daily companions in the silence of my window when he comes in thinking he’ll soften my heart and break down my demeanor.

  I sit there and drink my cocktail while Max tries to think of a way of sparking conversation. I see him working his mind to make conversation. He’s trying to find the right words that will seem harmless enough for me to slip and give him some of me.

  I don’t understand why he keeps coming around. He doesn’t pursue sex. He doesn’t force his physicality on me. He’s just there. A reminder of the person he is. We barely know each other, and yet I feel like I know him. He’s the optimist. He’s the hopeful. He’s one of those people who think the world could be a beautiful place if we release ourselves from the ugliness. Except, he doesn’t know just how much ugliness exists in the world because he’s never been exposed to it. I know people like him.

  “Cheers.” His glass hits mine.

  Upon seeing the question in my face, he says, “For meeting outside of the window.”

  “We didn’t meet. You saw me here and joined without permission.”

  “And you didn’t object.” He drinks his beer with a smug smile.

  We have this odd understanding that our time together is tied with silence. He doesn’t push more than he knows he should, and I don’t open up more than divulging I don’t believe in God and his knowledge that I prostitute.

  The last time a man bought me a drink it ended badly.

  My mind is racing. It’s running a marathon backwards. It’s a full speed sprint towards the past with the only way of stopping it being a colossal crash into the unforgettable.

  I chug my drink and stand. He looks up at me knowingly. Regardless, I speak the words.

  “I gotta go.”

  He nods. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  This could be beautiful or it could be tragic. The way my life has gone, I choose tragic.

  Tragedy is the playhouse for the wise.

  Meeting Max has added a different dimension to my life. The simplicity in my complicated life is no longer such. I find my indifference towards him shifting to wonder. Who is he? What does he want? What is his purpose in my life? And why is he still here when I haven’t given in to what he asks for? He doesn’t want from me what other men do. He isn’t just a client in the Red Light District. A German living half his time in Holland.

  He kept his promise of visiting me the next day. His confidence each time greater. Sometimes his words make me chuckle, but I don’t let him see that. He doesn’t deserve to know that he does. Not yet.

  Tonight I sit across from him in a chair hosted in the corner of my room. The memory of my last client gone when Max walked in.

  “Why don’t you believe in God?” His body is relaxed on the chaise. I don’t know how he sits there knowing what I do on that with other men.

  “I don’t.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to believe in some kind of force greater than you to lift off some of the blame from yourself?”

  My breath hitches briefly, but I control it before he notices my composure decomposing.

  “I have nothing to blame on anyone else that I cannot take for myself.”

  “Why are you so vague?”

  “Why are you so nosy?”

  “I’ve been coming in here for weeks. Getting to know the person behind the window, and you keep that glass up as a protection. One day, that glass will shatter. Don’t give it the opportunity to
shatter. Remove it before the glass cuts deep wounds.”

  “The wounds have already been cut. This glass will not be the evil that does that.” I rebuttal.

  “Why don’t you believe in God?” he asks again. Determined. That’s what I can use to describe him. Determined and optimistic.

  “If God existed, he wouldn’t save souls like me. He blesses the pure. Those like me, we’re stained with black. Tainted. Happy endings aren’t an option for me. I’m meant for darkness, for loneliness. The wounds from the glass are the least of my worries.”

  “Sam . . .” I don’t remember when he started giving me a nickname. That’s a sign of comfort I’m not ready to have with anyone.

  He rubs his face. He suddenly looks tired. Like he’s been working on this puzzle for far too long and he wants to dump it all to the ground but his pride won’t allow him to give up now when he’s starting to unlock it.

  Pride. He must be a proud person. He wouldn’t keep coming around if he weren’t. Pride is the food that feeds the ego. No. He’s also compassionate. And compassion is the food for fools.

  “That’s why you shouldn’t try to fix me. No one can fix a person. It is no one’s responsibility to fix anyone. You can put your mind at ease. I won’t blame you for not fixing me because I never expected you to.”

  “I don’t want to fix you. I want to understand you. Don’t ask me why. I don’t have an answer except watching you through that window I saw more than a single mother who needed money for her kids, or a woman who lost it all and needed to find a way to pay off her debt. Not you. You do this for pleasure.”

  Who knew my companion was such an observer. Many women are in situations where this job is what they need to float above. Not me. I could’ve done something else, but this was my revenge. No longer the victim.

  His words are pushing me. That’s why I like the silence. He’s pushing further tonight than usual. He looks at his watch and I sigh gratefully when I realize his time is up. He stands, but I stay seated. His indigo eyes stare into my black holes. He squeezes my knee. The most physical contact we have had.