Nights in Black Satin

by Noelle Mack

  Aha. Behind a pillar where no one had vacuumed, there was one. She unpacked again, plugged in the transformer and then her laptop.

  Sarah made a nest of sorts, getting comfortable with her back against the wall and Old Faithful on her lap. She booted up, waited, looked out at the storm throwing itself against the windows, and waited some more. She half-expected to see more specters but evidently Roman ghosts were quieter.

  A faint humming noise made her look down. All right. Home sweet home page. She knew she shouldn’t make herself crazy, but she googled Marco again, just to see his face.

  There he was, looking raffish and sexy and elegant. Waaahhhhh. She wanted him. Now.

  You made your decision and you’re going to stick by it, she told herself sternly. Just look at all those women hanging all over him if you need a reality check.

  She clicked on a thumbnail of a picture she didn’t remember from her first snoopy foray. Him in period costume—wait a minute. She knew that outfit. She knew the interior in back of him. Sarah used the zoom function. That was her in black satin cut down to her waist, right behind him. Blurred, fortunately. How had he done it?

  He’s in the photo, she told herself, zooming in so far the image turned into boxy little pixels. She zoomed out again and saw a photo credit in the lower right-hand corner. Veronica Suona.

  Sarah should have known. More magic, having to do with the eyes of the cat, no doubt. Ombra was a digital kitty.

  It was all too much to think about. She shut down her computer and flipped the laptop shut, but she didn’t disconnect it. Old Faithful needed to nurse, electrically speaking, for a while longer.

  A college kid burdened with a heavy, grimy backpack dropped to his knees beside her. “Mind if I…”

  “No. Go right ahead.”

  He was American. She was beginning to feel like she was on her way home. With nothing to do, she watched him extract a laptop that had to cost at least $3,000 from the grimy backpack and plug in next to her.

  He hunched over it and got busy, not saying a word to her. After a couple of hours, he packed up and wandered off.

  The hours dragged on, and she spent an uncomfortable night, feeling itchy and scruffy when she awoke.

  Sarah dashed to the bathroom, dragging her new bag, did what was necessary and managed to wash her hair in the sink.

  No one gave her disapproving looks. Women were opening sample-size bottles of shampoo to do the same thing. The bathroom looked like a beautician’s salon.

  The storm did not let up. Those who had stayed followed its progress—or lack of progress, because the system was stalled over central Italy—on the TV monitors overhead. Another night came and went, passed in the same uncomfortable way.

  She awoke the next morning to see that the heavy rain was no longer sluicing down the floor to ceiling windows next to the spot where she’d camped out.

  Sarah struggled to get up, dragging her bag to a bank of arrival and departure monitors, looking blearily for her flight.

  They were good to go. She wanted Marco. If she’d had his number, she would have called him from one of those funny public phones that looked like a toaster. She wanted one of those phones to take home. They were really very cool.

  In another few hours, checked through, blinking with fatigue, she filed onto the plane to New York with a lot of equally weary people. She stuffed her new suitcase in the overhead compartment, taking out blankets and pillows first. There was nothing left to do but fall into a coma for the next seven hours.

  Much later…

  Sarah could have sworn she heard someone tell her to move her brain to the upright position and fasten her garter belt. She cracked an eye open. The flight attendants were going through the aisles, passing out cellophane-wrapped biscotti and expertly pouring tiny cups of coffee that smelled wonderful.

  Good-bye, Italy, she thought. Hello, New York. The airborne caffeine molecules should be enough to wake up the whole sluggish planeload of exhausted passengers.

  In another hour, they were approaching JFK. The landing was smooth, as landings went. A few idiots applauded. Sarah didn’t. The pilot was supposed to know how to fly the plane. It wasn’t a performance.

  She got through customs without too much trouble and headed down the long corridor that would take her to the A train, not wanting to blow big bucks on a taxi all the way to her Brooklyn neighborhood, even though it was snowing lightly. There were only a few other people on the open-air subway platform this late at night. Pockmarked with blackened gum and badly lit, it wasn’t a very pleasant place to wait but you couldn’t beat the price. One swipe of a farecard and she would be within a block of her apartment building. She was somewhat refreshed by her long sleep. At least she didn’t have to get up and go to work at WetPaint the next morning.

  Sarah sat down on her suitcase, positioning it so she could see down the tracks and spot the A coming in. The handle pressed into her ass, and she wriggled to get comfortable.

  There it was. Two headlights blazed through the snow, and the platform rumbled under her feet. The train pulled in and the door whooshed open. She avoided the sleeping dude in the hooded sweatshirt who’d taken up a whole bench, and smiled at the mother in the down jacket whose three young children nestled against her like baby chicks.

  Coming home felt all right. Good old New York City had its own way of making you feel welcome, kind of like a big, dirty, kindhearted dog deciding to lean on you. There wasn’t that much you could do about it besides lean back and forget about the dirt. The train rattled through the stops, doors whooshing open and slamming closed as Sunday night riders got on and off.

  There were several people going into the city from JFK, who’d wrestled massive suitcases onto the train and sat behind them in a group, like pioneers circling the wagons in hostile territory. They were undoubtedly headed for Manhattan hotels. No one had told them that they would have to go through Brooklyn first, and they consulted subway maps with worried expressions, jumping up every time the train pulled into a station.

  You could always tell the out-of-towners because they only asked the other out-of-towners for directions, Sarah thought. But their herd instinct would get them where they were going eventually.

  She yawned. The other riders ran the gamut from home boys in athletic wear to weary grandmas, each lost in his or her own thoughts. Sarah propped her sneakered feet on her suitcase and didn’t look directly at her fellow New Yorkers. It wasn’t done. She studied the rainbow’d Dr. Zizmor ad instead. His happy chipmunk face and testimonials from satisfied patients were a subway institution.

  Her stop came sooner than she expected. She stood up quickly and got off, rolling her suitcase to the stairs, bumping it up one step at a time. It was getting heavier by the second and she scolded herself for dragging clothes halfway around the world and back again. Next time she went anywhere she was limiting herself to a grass skirt and a paper bra.

  Sarah reached the street level and paused to catch her breath, looking up at the quiet brownstones and brick buildings. Most of the windows were lit and she could see people walking around inside their apartments.

  A man and a woman came near their window, talking. She couldn’t hear, of course. For all she knew they hated each other. Or they could be madly in love. She couldn’t tell either way but the sight made her ache with loneliness. She was going home to…nothing.

  Not even a guinea pig. She should have gotten one when they were on sale at Ye Olde Pette Palace. Was it too much to want to hear a squeak of joy when she turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door?

  She told herself to stop being maudlin and rolled on down the street, stopping at the bodega for a pint of milk and a package of her favorite awful cupcakes that looked like boobs. In honor of Valentine’s Day, the marshmallow icing was tinted a lurid pink.

  The older man behind the counter opened a small paper bag and stood it on the counter. She glanced at the seasonal slogan on the wrapper, outlined in hearts: Perfect for s
haring with someone you love!

  Gah.

  Sarah went back to the dairy section and picked up another pint of milk so no one would think she was eating alone.

  The older man behind the counter got a bigger bag, and put the two milks and the booblike cupcakes in it. He gave her a big smile when he rang up the sale and handed over her purchase.

  She probably hadn’t fooled him. He was too nice to ask why a pretty girl like her didn’t have no guy.

  The snow was still coming down, white and sparkling in the light around the streetlamps. Sarah was almost home. The wrought iron railing with the garbage cans chained to it was iced with snow. She bumped the suitcase up the stairs, got inside the vestibule, and peeked at the grille of her mailbox. Every envelope in it looked white.

  She was hoping for red or pink, the telltale colors of be-my-Valentine action. Not a one. But then the holiday wasn’t here yet and she hadn’t sent any out. Sarah fumbled for her keys and put the tiny one into the mailbox lock, hauling out the accumulated mail with a gloved hand and stuffing it in the bag with the cupcakes.

  One last flight of stairs and she would be in her sublet apartment. By herself.

  She missed Marco so much it hurt. He would have levitated her suitcase up the stairs, pointed a commanding finger at the blank walls and summoned up a mural of nymphs and satyrs, and then thrown her on the bed for some welcome-home sex.

  Pure, pointless pleasure. Love to the max.

  Sarah put the paper bag on the kitchen table and shucked her jacket, scarf, and gloves. The mail could wait. Long white envelopes meant several things, none of which interested her at the moment. She’d been pre-approved for a limited-time offer! She could shop around but she wouldn’t find a lower rate! Now was the time to meet fun singles in the Poconos!

  She slid into a kitchen chair, listening to the very faint ticking of a clock on the wall in the next apartment. Sarah opened a pint of milk, paying attention for once and not struggling to open the side that said Open Other Side. She unwrapped the boobcakes and poked one to see if it was fresh. Mmm. It was. She pried it out of its plastic holder and took a bite, following it with a swig of milk.

  The mail slid off the table and onto the floor. Sarah picked it up, noticing the Alitalia envelope because of its logo and getting a little choked up. Must be her miles. Her unexpected two-night stay at the Rome airport had given the envelope time to get here ahead of her.

  So what. Put it in your scrapbook of golden memories, she thought gloomily. But she opened the envelope and unfolded the piece of paper in it.

  This is your e-ticket confirmation to… It was a one-way, first-class ticket to Venice. There was a computer-printed Sent From section that showed Marco’s name and his message.

  Come back. My heart is sinking faster than the city. I love you and I need you. But I will not call or e, and I will not bother you. You must make your decision without pressure from me.

  All my love, always,

  Marco

  P.S. I have given up sorcery. It is easier to be normal

  (I think).

  Sarah sucked in her breath and looked again at the flight information. The date was one month from now. He was willing to wait, and he respected her terms. He had listened. He would be hornier than hell in four weeks and they would have a lot of fun.

  She was really pretty sure that she did love him. Anyway, she had four weeks to obsess, chew all her nails off, and then finally decide. She would keep the promises she’d made to herself while waiting for a flight home: to think it through, talk it over with a trusted friend, not rush into a long-distance relationship because she was desperately fucking lonely, and enhance her self-esteem with regular workouts at the gym.

  It was a good thing she’d paid her membership six months in advance because she no longer had a job.

  But someone loved her. Everything else would work out.

  Sarah rested her head on her folded arms, looking over them at the letter with Marco’s message.

  Come back. All my love.

  Cool.

  She hung around the store, looking at the new stock, and smiling falsely at the store manager as he rushed around doing a lot of bogus busywork and harassing employees. Al Speer looked exactly the same: short-sleeved white shirt, scratched glasses that were too retro to be hip, and pants with torn pockets. She didn’t even want to think about how he had torn them. The man was kind of a creep.

  But she might have to ask for her job back. She continued to smile falsely at him even when his back was turned, sending thoughtwaves into his brain to make him forget that she’d quit.

  He stopped to take a breather and spotted her by one of the display cases of fancy stationery. “Hey, there you are! I want to talk to you. How come you quit?”

  So much for her telepathic ability.

  “Oh—I was offered a job in Venice—”

  “You’re fulla shit.” Al grinned at her.

  Rude, creepy, but not stupid. Sarah wasn’t sure she should sound him out.

  “Want to come back? We’re shorthanded. That conceptual-art guy completely screwed up the accounting.”

  “I’m not a numbers person.”

  “You can file.” Al put his hands on his pear-shaped hips and looked at her hopefully. “Whaddya say?”

  “OK. For one month.”

  “Ya got it. Start on Monday. I know you want to talk to your buddy Vincent. He’s downstairs, cutting mats. G’wan.”

  “Thanks,” Sarah said. One thing less to worry about. She had her crummy job back.

  Vincent was behind a long counter, a shop apron around his waist, slicing into a piece of mat board and making a neat beveled edge. The art awaiting framing was nothing special: a cross-stitched panel of two winsome kittens in a basket, and a dental college diploma.

  “Hey, Vincent.”

  He looked up. “Sarah! When did you get back?”

  “Last night.”

  “Did you have a good time? How was Venice? I deposited those checks.”

  “I know you did. Thanks. I had a great time.”

  “I’m glad they didn’t bounce.” He looked around to see if the store manager had overhead that, flipping his ponytail back over one plaid-shirted shoulder. He was a slight guy with long hair, shorter than her, but he liked to dress like a lumberjack, complete with steel-toed workboots and a Leatherman making a suggestive lump in the front pocket of his flannel-lined jeans.

  He studied her. “You look different.”

  “I do?”

  “Yeah, like someone broke your heart.”

  Sarah stared at him, unable to hold back the tears that welled in her eyes. “I broke my own heart. He wanted me to stay but I told him I had to go.”

  “Sarah…don’t say that. You sound like a goddamn country-and-western song. Who was the guy? Do I have to fly to Venice and beat him up?”

  “He’s bigger than you. I’ll tell you all about it. But not here.”

  “Okay. I’m off in an hour. Want to ride back and forth on the Staten Island ferry? We can get something to eat. Watery cocoa. Rubbery hot dogs. My treat.”

  Sarah sniffled and wiped her nose with the shredded tissue in her pocket. “You’re on.”

  They took the subway down to Battery Park and surged through the gleaming new ferry terminal on a wave of homeward-bound Staten Islanders. Vincent was treating to her to dinner—he’d had to work through lunch. But she didn’t care. It was good to see him again, and his advice to the lovelorn was always really good.

  Vincent looked at the limp dog cradled in its stale bun that he’d bought. “Oh man. They gave me one from yesterday. Only onions can save this puppy.” He went back to the counter and got a dollop of onions in a greasy tomato sauce, taking his first bite on the return trip. “Better. So tell Uncle Vincent what happened in Venice. I want details.”

  She kept it short. He ate and nodded now and then. “Uhhuh. Interesting. You say he’s older? Man, that can be truly weird. I was with an older guy for
a while—that was before I started working at WetPaint.”

  She listened, just as comforted by someone else’s tale of love gone wrong as by telling her own.

  “He treated me like I was a figurine, you know what I’m saying? The Boy, in fine bone china. I was like, excuse me? I am twenty-five even if I do weigh only 110 pounds. I started thinking he was going to put me in a velvet suit with a portrait collar, so I bagged it. Told the chicken hawk to take a walk.”

  He finished his gruesome-looking snack and wiped his mouth. “You’re not eating. Eat. Eat a lot. You have to keep your strength up. Love is hard.”

  Sarah took a chomp on her limp dog. It wasn’t too bad. Nothing about it reminded her of Marco.

  “So how much older was he?”

  “Oh, not that much. A few centuries.”

  “Ha ha. You can tell me the truth, Sarah.”

  She laid it out for him, watching Vincent’s eyes get wide.

  “A sorcerer? No kidding. In Venice, huh? Bet he gets to go to some wild parties.”

  “He does. He took me to some.”

  “So what’s the problem here? Actually, I’m not getting that there is a problem, Sar. He has lots of money, magical powers, is hung like a horse, would do anything for you, and he’s Italian.”

  Sarah set aside her dog and gave him a hug. “I can tell you anything.”

  “Well, yeah. I want to meet this Marco.”

  She told him more, talking on and on until the ferry rumbled into the Staten Island slip, and they disembarked. They followed the homeward-bound crowd as far as the terminal waiting room and sat down to wait for the ferry back.

  There were a few pigeons strolling around inside, who didn’t seem to care if ever they ever flew again. And why should they, with an unlimited supply of bagel crumbs and doughnut bits, Sarah thought. They had everything they needed. A big one with a puffed-up purple-gray chest pecked near her sneakered foot. If he could talk, he would have a New York accent for sure. Gimme a cuppa cawfee, milk an’ two sugars. Being a city bird was a great gig. The Venetian pigeons would like it here.