Mr. Contacts, whose real name I don't even know, doesn’t sit up; he’s still lounging on the bed, watching me and grinning.
I say, “What’s your name?”
“Andras.” He props his head up on his hand, with his elbow pressing into a pillow. "You are beautiful, Raven, but you would be more beautiful to me if your hair were up. Here," he sits up, "I will call my maid and have her bring you something to put your hair up."
"No, um, that's okay." I say almost laughing. Is he serious?
"It is no trouble," he says, turning to the door where the maid left.
"No, I mean, I'm not putting my hair up, I like it down."
He smiles at me, this knowing smile, which is just a bit... aggravating. "What if I asked you to cut your hair? It would look best short. You would not do it?"
"Um, of course not." I wrinkle my forehead, not sure whether or not to laugh.
The smile he gives makes me squirm. "Do you not wish to put your hair up because I asked you to? Are you the defiant type, Raven?"
"No." I say, then quickly add, "I mean, I..." I trail off, stumped for a response; looking up at his smug face, I realize he's testing me. Yeah, I don't think so. I glance around for somewhere to put my coffee. "I should probably go."
He crawls toward me, not smiling anymore. "Please, don't go. There is something I much want to show you.”
"Here?” I almost drop my saucer.
Andras's eyes twinkle as he answers, "No.” He climbs off the bed again and offers his hand.
"Yeah, okay." I pass him my coffee and accept his assistance in maneuvering off the bed. Andras keeps hold of my hand and sets down the coffee to pick up his violin, before leading me from the room.
He directs me through his room, the short hallway and into the sitting parlor, which no longer reeks from the smell of my throw-up. My foot only twinges a little when I put my weight on my heel, so I manage to match his pace. The marble feels like ice on my bare foot and I utter a little gasp. He pauses and glances down.
Without a word, he hands me his violin case, scoops me into his arms and carries me across the room.
“You’re always carrying me,” I say, then giggle, actually giggle, like a hyena. Oh, just shoot me now!
“I enjoy holding you," he says.
My face rests on his chest; I use all my concentration for breathing regularly. I consider asking if I’m too heavy, but the question will just make me sound more ditzy, if that's possible. He carries me out of the sitting area, to a gothic stone foyer with tall, angular and thin, pointed-arch lancet windows on the walls.
“Was this once a church?” I ask.
He smiles, as if at a private joke. "A long time ago, not anymore.”
Now, this building makes a great deal more sense. The interior wood walls must have been added after the exterior stone frame and marble floor. I wonder why I didn't figure it out right away.
Andras carries me up a stone staircase with cracked marble steps. Even though the stair has a line of mounted candles along the wall, a single dangling lightbulb lights the space.
He steps into a room that, now that I know, was obviously the churches balcony, now converted into an office and library. Without even stepping in, we turn to a closet, where he sets me down.
“Do you think you can climb with your foot?” He asks me while taking back the violin case.
I nod my assent.
He opens the closet door to reveal a ladder. “It is pitch black in here; can you climb in the dark?”
I nod again.
He starts up the ladder.
I follow. It’s easy to just use the toes of my left foot to climb; the bandage on my shoulder pinches, but my cut doesn’t seem to open. It is the highest ladder I’ve ever climbed. After the first couple of feet, I am completely submerged in darkness. The act of climbing a ladder is so repetitive, I don't have any problems.
Above, a hatch opens and a couple of the night’s stars blink down. I climb the rest of the ladder with my gaze skyward.
When I climb out of the opening, Andras’s extended hand helps me onto a tiny railing-less platform. The space is only a few feet of flat surface on a severely sloping roof. Andras has to hold my hand, as I balance on the edge of the platform, so he can close the hatch. I feel a touch of vertigo and have to sit.
Visible only by their fluttering movement, black birds perch on the roof on all sides of us.
“Are those ravens? I thought they avoided cities.”
Shifting feathers reflect moonlight like gleaming ripples in oily water.
Andras shouts a word at the birds; it makes me shiver.
As if of one mind, the birds all fly from the roof. They scatter, merging into the shadows that still cling to the early morning.
I stare at Andras; his toes hang off the end of the platform.
"Have you ever been to America?"
He looks down, "I want to, but sadly...” He shrugs, "perhaps someday."
Um, he's not Andrew. What was I thinking? I quietly clear my throat, then ask, “What did you just say to the birds?”
Andras sits down suddenly, inches from me, in the small space. His nose almost touches mine. He says, "Shoo!”
From where we perch, I have a perfect view of the dark sea of rooftops in the gray morning moonlight. In the distance, the sky lightens with the first shades of sunrise. A gust of wind blows on my bare arms and I scoot into Andras before I think.
"You know," he says grinning, "You might not be so cold if your wet hair were up."
I huff out a "Ha!" and shake my head.
Andras traces the outline of my cheek with his thumb, then tangles his fingers into my drying hair.
He lowers his face to mine, his mouth onto mine, parting my lips with his tongue. I melt into him. Our lips and tongues play, and then dance together. Kissing him feels right: this moment is supposed to happen.
He grabs my arms and tugs me closer into him, closer and closer, as if our kiss could merge us. His soft lips caress my cheek, before he kisses my ear, neck and then, uninjured shoulder.
I sigh, closing my eyes, when a sudden burst of light shines through my eyelids. I open my eyes to the sun, peeking over the furthest rooftops on the horizon.
“Yes,” his words tickle my neck, “this is my favorite way to see a sunrise.” And then, he keeps kissing me. I comb my fingers through his black hair; the curls are as soft as I imagined.
Our lips meet again. I’m dizzy; I yank back to make sure I’m steady on my perch.
Andras’s hands grasp my shoulder. “I won’t let you fall off the roof, Raven,” he whispers.
I lick my already wet lips.
He asks, “I want to play a song for you; do you feel safe?”
I nod and he lets go of me to retrieve his violin.
The song he plays to the sunrise is shadowy and cruel. I imagine many people would sell their souls, just to hear a song that delves so deep. I curl into a ball and rest my head on his knee. His body jerks with the intensity of his bow. The sun ignites houses along with the rhythm of his song. The melody is of the darkest cruelest love, of the passion of loss, the ecstasy of hate and the thrill of pain. I could fall in love to his music. The notes wrench out my heart and hold me, until he suddenly and unceremoniously ceases.
The sun finishes its ascent in cold silence.
“I feel as if I’m meant to be here, as if I’m supposed to be with you.” I add, “On the roof.”
“You are,” he says.
He slides melodies across his violin strings, until the sun is well into the sky and the red gleams from the rooftops are too much for my eyes. We carefully maneuver back onto the ladder and descend.
At the bottom, I step out of his way so he can descend the metal rings.
He jumps down and, in one swift turn, he pins me to the wall. My eyes widen, but I rest my head against the wall and laugh. He kisses my chin. I lower my lips to his and we're interrupted by a phone, ringing.
He glares at the
old-fashioned phone, chiming from a large, dark wood desk against the far wall, and growls.
The rumbling sound excites me; how embarrassing!
Andras pecks my lips, then releases my pinned arms.
I check the bandage on my shoulder: no blood leaks through; good, the rapid movement didn’t reopen my cut.
Andras does not speak English on the phone; his words sound Italian. He turns his back to me, blocking me from reading the expression on his face. The phone clicks and he spins. “I’ll be right back." He walks to me. “Will you wait for me?”
I stare up at his beautiful eyes… and nod.
"Five minutes," he says as he rushes from the room.
My legs don't want to support me, so I sink down the wall.
Chapter Six
Day Five
I sit crumpled against the wall, a shiver traveling down my spine.
I cover my face and whisper, "What am I doing?" I’m in a strange man’s house. And . . . no one knows where I am. Nicholas and Chauncey probably came back into the club and found me gone, missing, vanished. What must they think?
Did they call the police? Or worse, did they call my dad?
…and I didn’t bring my cell phone.
I cross the room to Andras’s desk; his clock reads seven thirty in the morning. I reach for his phone, then pull back my hand. I doubt he’s okay with my making an international call from his landline; he doesn’t even know me.
He doesn't even know me and I don't know anything but his name; which means I’ve been locking lips with a complete stranger!
I grab my cheek. I said I was meant to be here. I thought about falling in love. "Way too much, way too fast," I say. I need to get out of here, leave before Andras comes back.
Ignoring the consequences for my bandaged foot, I get up and run out of the room, down the stairs, across the foyer and to the door. I catch my breath and reach for the doorknob, which is turning.
I’m locked in one instant of sheer panic. Then, I spin on my heel and dash from the foyer into the sitting room. I peer around for some escape route. For a moment, I consider retreating into the bedroom, then snap out of it by screaming, internally, "No! Focus, Raven, escape!" A small door interrupts the nearest wall and I sprint for it. I yank the door open to find a broom closet.
Footsteps rap behind me. I step into the closet and close the door. What am I doing? I’m acting like a crazy person.
There’s a window. I weave through the brooms, mops and vacuums and reach the window, right as there’s a knock on the door behind me.
The metal window lock is old and I have to shove hard to unfasten the latch. There’s another knock. I slam the pane up.
“Raven, are you in there?” Andras voice calls, but it doesn’t matter because I’m out the window.
I scoot off the windowsill and dash down the alley. I’m six blocks away before I pause to exhale a nervous cackle. I check my heel; my bandage is so dirty and worn, I doubt the gauze protects my cut from infection. No blood; the cut hasn’t opened. I enter a busier street and hold up my hand.
A taxi stops: the driver’s smoking. Beggars can’t be breathers. I climb in.
I say, “Hotel Paradiso, please.”
I should have left a note. No. What would I have written? ‘I had the most amazing time with you; sorry I escaped out your window.’ He would think I’m insane. What am I thinking? He must believe I’m crazy: I escaped from his house like a thief.
Oh god, what if he thinks I stole something? He probably does.
I taste blood and realize I’ve been chewing through my lip. I cover my eyes with my hand and don’t look up until the chimney in the driver’s seat pulls over and points to his meter. I give him the Euros stuffed in my bra, not bothering to wait for change, and step out in front of Hotel Paradiso.
Hyper-conscious of my bare feet, I smile at the doorman in his top hat, and enter the hotel. My heart pumps so fast, I can’t concentrate on anything but walking to the stairs and up to my room. The suite’s door is propped open, so I walk in.
“Hello?” I call, as I stroll from room to room.
No one answers.
My cell phone is in on the bed. I snag it and hobble to the bathroom. I climb into the tub and dial my sister’s phone number. As the phone rings, I peel off the tape on my foot’s bandage.
There’s a click and a fiddling sound on the other end, “Hello? Raven...” comes Linnie’s anxious voice.
I stammer for a second because I’m looking at my foot. Where I expected an unhealed, dirty cut there is nothing but a little tape residue.
Linnie cries, “Raven!”
“I’m here...”
“Oh…my...God!” Her sobs punctuate every word. “Where are you?”
“In our room, I...” She hangs up before I finish.
I stand and place the phone on the sink counter. While examining myself in the mirror, I rip off my shoulder bandage: nothing, not a mark on me. Did I imagine the attack? Was I hallucinating? I feel as if the floor is dropping out from under me. There had to have been a cut. Why would they bandage me if there were no cut? I stare at my shoulder, breathing hard, until I hear people crash into the room.
Five people rush in: Linnie, Nicholas and three policemen.
I exit the bathroom and am barreled over by Linnie; we land on one of the beds. She might be saying something, but all I can hear is feverish blubbering. After her crying dies down to quiet whimpers, she curls into a ball on the pillows. I right myself to a more dignified position and look up at Nicholas and the officers, who are hanging back.
The way Nicholas looks, the dark circles under his blue eyes and mess of blond hair on his head, makes me want to sink into the bed; I should have come back, or at least called, hours ago. He takes a small step toward me, “Do you need to go to a hospital?”
I glance at my shoulder, “No.”
One of the officers says something in a language that is not English and doesn't sound like Italian. Nicholas responds in the same tongue. “German,” he answers to my quizzical look. “I don’t speak Italian and they don’t speak English.” He looks so exhausted.
“I’m fine,” I smile to reassure him; “You can go to sleep now.”
“I need to help interpret for your statement.”
Statement? I didn’t see this coming; I stare at the bed, breathing fast and having no idea what to say.
Nicholas misinterprets my panic saying, “They say you can wait and give it at the station if you’re too traumatized.”
“No,” I shake my head, “I’ll give my statement now. I just need a minute.”
“Of course, Raven. We already know, I mean, the bartender told us that some man practically carried you from the bar.” He sits on the edge of the other bed.
I explain what happened, slowly, choosing my words carefully, not lying, but leaving out that someone drugged me. When I get to the part where Horse-face attacked me with a knife, Linnie starts sobbing and Nicholas drops his head into his hands.
Maybe I should have left that detail out, too.
Linnie’s arms wrap around me from the back and her head nuzzles into my shoulder, her tears dripping down the back of my arm.
Nicholas relays my story from under his hands.
“I escaped him. And...” I glance around for how I can tell this part. Slowly I say, “A lady helped me, she gave me a change of clothes and let me stay in a church.” That’s almost the truth, almost. “I didn’t realize how late it was until I saw a clock; I forgot my watch.” I hold up my wrist, “I needed to sleep.” Needed to, but drank coffee instead.
The officer speaks to Nicholas; before he can interpret, Linnie yells, “Enough. She’s had enough for one night!” She’s so belligerent, the police back toward the door. “Nicholas, you can take care of the police, right?”
He raises his head and looks at Linnie: “Yes, of course.”
“Okay.” She jumps off the bed and herds the men out. “I need to be alone with my sister.”
When Nicholas lingers at the door, she says, “Fifteen minutes,” before slamming it in his face.
I exhale and let my shoulders fall. It's impressive that Linnie has the ability to read what I need, even when she’s so distressed. She returns to the bed, sinks in and gazes at me. “Now, what really happened?” Her face is tearstained and splotchy, her expression, intent.
“I don’t know, Linnie, I was all screwed up. I think some things happened, but I’m not sure what actually did. I’m all confused.”
“What didn’t you tell the police?” It never ceases to amaze me that someone like my sister, who seems as if she might start a cheer routine at any given moment, is perceptive enough to know whenever I'm hiding something.
I concentrate on my lap. “A man saved me from the, uh, mugger. He fought the mugger and I don’t know how badly he hurt him.” I force myself to meet her gaze. “I thought turning him over to the police would be poor repayment for saving my life.”
“Yeah,” she huffs in half-amusement, “It would be. What else?”
“I was...” The word drugged perches on my lips, but I bite it back and finish with, “shaken up. Sorry I didn’t find a phone, I was out of it.” Then I remember why Nicholas left me alone in the first place, “Where’s Chauncey?”
“Hell, if I care!” Linnie says glaring at the wall. “She takes my baby sister to a club, feeds her hard-alcohol then ditches her to get a tattoo with some random men.”
“So that’s what she left to do?” Strange, didn't Chauncey say just last night that she'd never get a tattoo? She's a walking contradiction.
Linnie harrumphs. “Chauncey told me that you told her to leave you alone with Nicholas, but I can tell she's lying. What really happened is she met some guys at the bar who convinced her to go get a tattoo."
"Nicholas chased after her," I say.
"And by the time he caught up to her, she'd already gotten it. He ran back to the club, but couldn’t find you." She glares at the ceiling, “Stupid, stupid Chauncey, I hope she catches hepatitis!”
The Deception Dance Page 6