The Meadowlark Sings
Page 7
After being seated, they began watching the other diners, trying to be as casual as curiosity could allow. And they were curious. Most of the tables were occupied by parties of two, a man and woman—a strange sight to Cara and Tim. They stared in fascination, Cara commenting softly on the actions and gestures that were so similar to those she exchanged with her female lovers—a touch of hands, coy smiles, an occasional wink. Seeing such interaction between members of opposite sexes seemed perverse. They observed differences too. The women appeared to defer to the men and the men appeared more solicitous of the women. Men remained standing until the women took their seats; men ordered the meals; men tasted the wine. They could not stop watching.
"My innate nature must be that of a voyeur," said Tim.
Other sights were strange to the eyes of the Calians. The sexes were intermingled at tables where there were children. Male and female parents sat together with their biological offspring who were of both sexes. In Cali, where there was no such thing as a biological child, committed females raised female children and committed males raised male children. So, one rarely saw tables of intermingled sexes, unless opposite-sex friends got together with their respective children for a group meal.
"We are so different and yet so similar to our American counterparts," she observed.
"Would you like to order?" Tim smiled at the beautiful woman, who was suddenly younger than her thirty-two years, almost a child again in this foreign atmosphere.
The food disappointed them. Ordering chicken in a marsala wine sauce, Cara had anticipated a taste with which she was familiar, but the flavor evaded her experiences. The broiled steak Tim described as "horrible…more like pork."
"It must be our scientific farming and pollution-free environment that makes the difference," he volunteered. "We grow the best produce, vegetables, and herbs. Our chickens are raised naturally with the best feed. We have modern cattle farms and fish farms. Our menu ingredients are the best. How can our food not be superior?"
Relaxing after the heavy meal, they sat sipping an herbal tea and reviewing the press briefing for the next day when Cara noticed a young attractive woman at the opposite table. She sat with an older lady, her mother perhaps. To her surprise, the two women actually looked alike. Even more surprising, they dressed alike, both wearing bright floral print blouses with the awkwardly puffed sleeves that seemed so common in American fashion. Never having seen parents and children from the same biological family before that day, she was truly fascinated and continued to stare. The physical similarities astonished her. Both were small boned with brown eyes, light brown hair, perky noses, and small ears. In silhouette, their faces were versions of each other. As she continued to look at the younger woman, their eyes met and the woman smiled in her direction several times. A few minutes later, Cara noticed that she was still looking their way, coyly lowering her eyes to the carpeted floor when Cara caught her glance.
"Tim, I can't really believe it, but I think I'm being cruised."
"Don't believe it. It's me she's interested in. She's been flirting with me since we sat down."
"Oh, I am embarrassed. I just never saw a woman look at a man as a sex object. That's so strange to these lesbian eyes."
They laughed, and as they did, she saw Tim in a way that she had not seen him before. He was handsome. At six foot three he had the beautiful muscular body of the trained gymnast and the chiseled features that hinted of a Greek heritage. His black hair was darker than the black eyes that sparkled with each smile, a perfect contrast to his lover Glen whom he teasingly referred to as "my golden boy." Cara wondered about her appearance with Tim. Did the young woman think they were a couple or did she assume they were brother and sister? They had very different coloring. Did it matter? Such thoughts were new to her.
"Don't you think most of the media questions will be about you and your life in Cali?" he was asking.
Trying to concentrate on the conversation, she faced him squarely, putting her hands to her face like blinders on a horse. "This is the first time that a Calian has ever granted an interview to the American press. Because of the failure of America's history books to deal honestly with this country's role in the establishment of Cali, I'm sure specific questions will be asked. I want you to know that I have been authorized by the governing council to answer truthfully."
"No problem. That's the way it should be," replied Tim, smiling in response to the floral bloused woman who walked deliberately close to their table on her way to the restroom.
"Tim," she asked, "why do you think they hate us?"
"Because we're different from them. Because they don't know how to act in our presence. Because they feel foolish, maybe even rejected, when we don't respond to their flirtations."
"I read a theory once suggesting that heterosexual men have the biggest problem with homosexuals because they fear having other men treat them as though they are women, the sex they consider inferior. That says a lot about the way straight men perceive women." She watched as the woman returned to her table, smiling again at Tim. For the slightest moment, she felt offended at being ignored.
When they finished their tea, they took a taxi back to the hotel. "New York is not safe at night," said Tim.
Twelve
Mornings were Cara's best time. Each one began a new twenty-four-hour adventure to be enjoyed, savored, and relished. Tim disagreed. "Tomorrow, go to breakfast without me if it's before nine a.m.," he mumbled before falling asleep almost immediately upon their return to the Southwind.
It was 6:00 a.m. when she awoke, the equivalent of 3:00 a.m. Cali time, but she could not return to sleep, her thoughts kept alert by visions of the prostitutes and the restaurant. Taking a quick shower, she dressed in American clothes, left a note for Tim, and descended to the lobby in time for the opening of the coffee shop.
Although the lobby appeared crowded for the early hour, she noticed nothing strange and devoured her eggs and potatoes with customary zeal. It was only when the waitress brought coffee that she became aware of unusual activities.
"Isn't it exciting?" she asked as she placed the cup before Cara. "They think the Calian homosexuals are staying at the Southwind."
"That sure is exciting," she said, beads of perspiration instantly forming along the base of her neck.
"Yeah, I'm so flustered by it all, I just keep dropping things and banging into customers," the waitress jabbered, arms flapping as she spoke. "And one of the newspaper reporters just told me that they were able to get in secretly by dressing as two guys. I don't know how they managed that." Lowering her head as is if betraying a confidence, she whispered, "I heard the woman is really quite a looker. Beautiful, they say."
The orange juice was squirming in her stomach, but the temptation to pursue the conversation was greater than her budding nausea. "Really! What does she look like?"
"Black hair, cut very short and mannish, blue eyes, tall and slim, they say. Speaks tough. Almost like a man. I'm keeping my eyes peeled in case she comes in on my shift. It'll be a thousand dollars if I find her for that reporter." She nodded toward a tall lanky man who was draped over a woman sitting at the counter.
"I'll keep my eyes open for you." Forgive me my lies, she thought silently.
"Hey, thanks. Really, that's very nice of you." She refilled the cup, smiled wordlessly, and moved on to the next table.
Cara finished her coffee slowly, chewing feebly on a piece of wheat toast, trying not to appear in too much of a hurry, and watched as the crowd grew in the lobby. It began to loom large. Media personnel, she was sure.
Looking out the window of the Southwind coffee shop, she saw a small group of six or seven men and women gathering at the corner opposite the hotel. Their leader, the shortest among them, a slightly overweight middle-aged man with a ruddy complexion, stood in the middle shouting instructions. A pickup truck pulled to the curb and he ran over, vigorously hauling down signs and distributing them to the others, pointing energetically to the Southwin
d. Cara watched as the band of Olms spread out in front of the Bonner Street entrance to the coffee shop, demanding attention from anyone passing by with a camera. "Fags Burn in Hell," read one sign. "Lesbians Are Sick," said another.
"Those shmucks are at it again," shrugged one man as he hid his camera in his jacket pocket before exiting the restaurant.
When enough time had passed to allay suspicion, Cara nonchalantly walked to the register, gave the pasty-faced cashier the check signed "Mrs. Andrew Smiley, room 3408," and made her way through the milling groups of reporters to the elevator.
Tim was still groggy when she flung open the door to the room, but was fully alert by the time she had closed it and sat down on the bed. She began relating the events of the morning when Tim suddenly grabbed her and pulled her down on top of him, kissing her somewhere in the region of the ear as he did so. Before she had a chance to react, she heard the feminine voice coming from behind her.
"Sorry. Sorry. My mistake. I thought this room was empty," said the woman in a maid's uniform whose body was framed by the doorway, the keys still jingling in her hand.
Tim released her as the door closed. He gently cupped his hand over her mouth and put a finger to his lips as they listened quietly to the same voice apologizing in the next room.
"It looks like she was also offered a thousand dollars. Or maybe she's an enterprising reporter," said Tim. "Well, I guess I'd better call Angelico and see if different arrangements can be made for us or if they want us to stay here and ride this out." He playfully tugged on her long blonde hair. "Short black hair, indeed. They did get the eye color right, but there ain't nothing mannish about you. Wish there was."
"Who knows? If you keep kissing me, I may be forced to change my orientation."
They decided that she should call Angelico while Tim showered and prepared for the press briefing. He answered immediately. "Angelico speaking."
After she explained, in as few words as possible, their predicament and the presence of picketers from the Olms, there was a long pause and a series of beeps. Oh great, she thought, we've been cut off.
"I was checking to make sure the line was secure," he explained as he came back on. "It is. Now, please listen to me carefully. Pack your bags and be ready to move. You will not be going back to the Southwind after today's session. This afternoon, I will have my security personnel pick up your luggage and transfer it to your new location. Leave your things on the bed, put a 'do not disturb' sign on the hall doorknob, and tell the hotel desk clerk that you are going out for a short while and do not wish maid service. Take a cab to the conference site security entrance. I will wait for you there. I'm going to repeat these instructions for you once more." And he did, almost verbatim. "Do you understand, Ms. Romero?"
"Mr. Angelico, I'm a lesbian, not an idiot," she snarled as she turned off the phone switch.
"What was that all about?" asked Tim as he walked into the room, a towel wrapped around his waist.
"That man is irritating the shit out of me," she said as she related the conversation,
"He may be a jerk, but it sounds like he knows his stuff. Clear, concise, and to the point. Can't ask for more." He paused thoughtfully and added with a smile, "Well, I guess we could ask for a gay person, but I really don't think there are any on the American diplomats' list."
"That's the trouble with this country," she grumbled as she began emptying the drawers she had filled the night before.
They complied with Angelico's instructions, stopped at the coffee shop so that Tim could have breakfast, and were ready to leave before noon. The last thing that Cara did before departing the hotel was look up the name Barbra Weissman in the lobby's New York area computer. There was no such listing.
Thirteen
As they exited through the Southwind's revolving door, a small group of reporters rushed up to them. "Nah, it can't be her," muttered one of the men despairingly. "She's beautiful."
"Who says a lesbian can't be beautiful?" asked the lone female in the group. "I'm sure there are beautiful lesbians…just like there are ugly men," she yelled after them as they walked away.
Cara let go of Tim's hand and turned to look at the plump woman with chipmunk cheeks who challengingly stared back. "It's okay," said Cara, "I agree with you. I'm sure there are beautiful lesbians. And ugly men."
The woman started to giggle and as she saw Cara start to grin, she-laughed more heartily, until the two of them were doubled over with laughter. "These men just make me so angry. Opinionated people don't belong in the press corps. Matter of fact, they don't belong anywhere." She extended her hand and shook Cara's vigorously, "My name is Sherry Ryan. Thank you for that wonderful moment. You've a great laugh." She didn't wait for a response, but began walking toward the hotel door.
Cara walked toward Tim, changed her mind, and ran back after the woman, grabbing her arm. "Look, I just heard that the Calians are going to hold a press briefing at the World Conference Center at two p.m. Maybe that's where you ought to be."
"Thanks. That means I won't have to stay here much longer, but there's no sense in me going to the conference center today—I wouldn't be allowed into their press briefing. I don't have the credentials. I'm a junior reporter and a woman. And not even a beautiful woman." A mischievous grin spread across her face, casting glitter into the pale brown eyes.
Without hesitation, Cara reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out a business card. Turning it over, she wrote on the back, "Admit Sherry Ryan, Unopinionated Woman Reporter with a Beautiful Smile." She handed it to her and jumped into the waiting cab before the junior reporter had a chance to react.
"What was that all about?" asked Tim as they passed the Olms, their numbers down to blue cap and two others.
"I never expected to find a lesbian-friendly reporter in New York City. I thought she deserved a reward."
"Are you sure there wasn't more to it than that?"
"Absolutely sure. But maybe we've made a media friend, and that's something we can always use."
As the cab approached 42nd Street and First Avenue, Tim instructed the driver to use the security entrance. He did so without hesitation and then jubilantly asked for their autographs. "Just wait till Mary sees this. Just you wait," he mumbled to himself in broken English.
"Even the cab drivers know about us." She sighed.
Michael Angelico, standing inside the VIP lobby of the conference center, was not surprised to feel the bulge in the front of his pants when he saw them entering through the security doors. She is stunning, he thought silently. Absolutely gorgeous. He wondered if she had ever been with a man.
"Forget it," whispered Tim, glaring down at the diplomat's crotch.
"Did I miss something?" asked Cara.
"I hope so." He took her elbow and guided her past the startled man whose erection shrank in dismay. Catching up from behind, a red-faced Angelico escorted them to a third-floor conference room adjoining the auditorium in which the press briefing was going to beheld.
"Please make yourselves comfortable. We have complied with all of your requests, and the only people on the premises right now are security personnel. The press will not be allowed in the building until one-thirty. There's a carafe of coffee on the table. Now, is there anything else I can do for you?"
"You can tell us where we will be living for the next three weeks," said Cara as she admiringly ran her hand across the surface of the brightly polished solid oak table. "This is beautiful."
"Thank you." He hesitated. "Quite frankly, Mrs. Smi—excuse me, Ms. Romero—that decision has not yet been made. I have made several phone calls to my superiors and I am sure I will have the answer to your question before the end of today's session. However, let me assure you, your luggage is being picked up by our security personnel right now." He stopped to scratch an imaginary itch on the back of his neck. "Your belongings will be properly secured."
"We're not worried about our belongings," said Tim. "It's our bodies we're worried about."
"Just keep in mind that the Olms know we're here."
"Mr. Felmar, the whole world knows you're here." He smiled woodenly. "But you needn't worry about the Olms. This building is fully secured. You will be quite safe. In the interim, if you need me, press the buzzer on the wall by the door." He bowed slightly and exited the room after a seemingly endless session of throat clearing.
As soon as he left, Tim got up and looked around, making sure that the door to the auditorium was locked and the telephone was working. "Well," he said, "this room seems safe enough. I guess I'd better start earning my money and go through the rest of the building. Now, I'm going to leave you here by yourself, but you'll be fine. Nobody knows who you are yet, so you don't have to bother locking the entrance door. If anybody comes in, just tell them you're Mrs. Smiley or something." He grinned, clicked his heels, bowed slightly, and was gone.
Pleased to be left alone, Cara walked around the room touching everything. A wooden table, wooden chairs, parquet floors. Even storage cabinets made of wood. She ran her hand across each and thought about how it felt. To her surprise, each kind of wood had a different texture. Some rough, some bumpy, but mostly smooth. The highly polished table felt cold to her hand. Like glass, she thought, or a mirror. Or even the plastic of Cali. Bending down, she sniffed at the tab-letop but was disappointed when she could detect no discernible odor. She got down on the floor on her hands and knees and tried smelling the parquet. Then she heard the doorknob turning.