The Deception Dance

by Rita Stradling

  She pulls back to look at me, “You look tired, Birdie, having nightmares again?” The amused smile she flashes sends heat spreading over my cheeks.

  I roll my eyes, but I doubt she catches the gesture before she skips back to the car.

  Nicholas stands halfway between the car and me.

  I wave, turn and call over my shoulder, “Gotta change. See you there.” I walk into the guesthouse, listen until the car tires roll away, and I’m home-free. Stretch pants, I need stretch pants. Walking past the large oval cheval mirror in my room, I catch my reflection. Pivoting, I examine my sides, then straight on. My nose wrinkles, as I pinch my lips.

  I don’t only have one outfit, just a couple of similar shirts and skirts. And Nelly washed my clothes, so they’re clean.

  I change into my stretch pants, tank top and sweater. Maybe I’ll buy an outfit or two in Copenhagen, but not around Chauncey. I grab the scooter keys and head out the front door to the garage. The bike waits, as I had last seen it. It is, as my dad would say, ‘loved’; undoubtedly, Stephen has had many adventures zooming around on this little red Vespa. I put on the helmet that’s perched on the seat, throw a leg over, sit, and then realize I have no idea how to work this thing.

  I just sit and stare at the switches and levers.

  “Miss,” a man says in a hushed voice. He looks familiar. “Can I show you how?” He gestures to the bike.

  I jump off.

  He shows me where to store my purse, and then explains how to start, ride, stop and turn off the bike; all the while, I’m trying to place him. A second after he stops instructing, I figure out where I’ve seen him before. I avert my gaze and blush; he was Chauncey’s Guy Number Two.

  “Thanks,” I say in a tight voice, suppressing a nervous laugh.

  He stays next to the bike, as I mount and make my escape.

  Why am I being so squeamish? Chauncey has probably gone through half the male staff in the mansion, by now.

  I stop at the end of the driveway and press my thumb to the scanner, opening the gate. The heavy wood parts to let me pass. Dang, I forgot to ask Stewart to draw me a map. Oh well, I’m not going back now.

  In four minutes, I’m lost. It’s obvious that I’m going the complete wrong way, when I come across the ocean, on the wrong side. I stop at a black and white flower shop with a wide wood door and leave the bike running. The woman in the shop tells me I’m in Jonstorp, wherever that is, and I need to keep driving until the 112, which will take me straight to Hoganas.

  “Can I avoid going through Hoganas?” I chew on my tongue waiting for the answer.

  She shakes her head, which is as round and as red as a tomato.

  Maybe I should just go back. Linnie will get me a dress. Returning to my bike, I flip open Stephen’s phone and dial the six button, then bite my lip, flip it closed and throw it into the compartment under the seat. Not giving myself a chance to change my mind, I hop on the scooter and keep going. The countryside is so much more real with my body not encapsulated by a car. Crops and dirt fill the air with an earthy scent that seeps into my too-large helmet.

  As I drive, the sparsely dispersed houses proliferate, though green fields surround most of the road, all the way into Hoganas. The 111 dead-ends at a roundabout with red brick buildings on all sides. I have to loop around the circle to get to my exit.

  With quick glances, I read the passing street-signs, then glance down at my arm. I remember the restaurant’s name, which had eventually scrubbed off, but I don’t even know where the place is. Anyway, it’s probably only one o’clock.

  I pass by street after street, almost turn at one, but continue onto the 111.

  Just keep going; don’t stop. My hands resist steering down every exit. Before long, there are no more warehouses, and nature takes over again, with trees and long, stretching green fields. I’m out of the city. I sigh into my helmet. Good job, I didn’t stop. A sign states I’m now in Lerberget. Know what the best thing about Lerberget is? Lerberget is not Hoganas.

  A gas station nears on my left. I turn in. Argh. What is wrong with me? Looping around the pumps I head back to Hoganas.

  Soon I’m approaching the warehouses I just left. Turning right on the first exit, I slow to ask a pedestrian, “Do you know where the ‘trad-gaurd-veesa’ is?”

  The lanky man lowers his thick eyebrows and pinches his lips. “Hotell Trädgård Visa?” He says the name completely differently.

  “Restaurant?” I say too loudly; wow, I’m tacky.

  He nods and says a stream of unintelligible words, but I understand the gestures.

  I’ll just scout Trädgård Visa out; it’s not as if Andras will be there for another six hours. Two blocks farther, I turn onto the street of the pedestrian’s indications.

  There’s the restaurant, which I guess is also a hotel. There’s a hotel above, where we could have dined. My stomach clenches at the thought. I drive past Hotell Trädgård Visa, turn at the next block, park and turn off my engine. I’m just taking a peek, then driving off.

  I tiptoe to the large, white wall of the neighboring building, place my hands on the corner and peer around.

  The hotel’s lower level is a wall of windows; the strips surrounding large rectangular panes are an earthy yellow. The building looks like a big Swedish house with an extremely sloped roof.

  The street is relatively deserted; a woman rounds the corner and disappears from view. I hold my breath as someone emerges from the restaurant; it’s a family. This is stupid; why am I here, acting like a psycho?

  I step from the wall and back into someone. Jumping away, I spin around. My hand clasps over my racing heart and I gulp. “What are you doing here?”

  Andras’s emerald-colored eyes seem to shimmer, as he grins. “Somebody left their keys in the ignition of that scooter.” He gestures to the Vespa. “I’m here to steal it.” The sound of his soft accent gives me shivers. He walks toward my scooter.

  “You can’t steal that!” I chase after him. “The scooter is not even mine, I’m borrowing it.”

  He climbs onto the seat. “Well, you better jump on then.”

  I hook my thumbs into my pockets and peer around at the side street; it’s empty.

  Andras starts the engine. He’s not kidding.

  Nibbling my lip, I glance around once more, then climb on behind him.

  He’s wearing long sleeves and the mono-strap backpack I associate with Europeans. My arms sling around his chest; then, I stop myself. Instead, I wrap my fingers around the back of the seat, while he steers away from the curb.

  Andras drives the way I came, then turns left on the 111, away from Copenhagen.

  I’m not thinking straight. What will I tell Linnie? Oh, no, I need to call her. “Wait,” I call out; Andras doesn’t hear me. I scoot closer, wrap an arm around his chest and say into his ear, “Can we stop, just for a minute?”

  He veers into a five-car parking lot.

  I jump off, “I need to call my sister, and my phone is in the seat.”

  He dismounts, lifts up the seat and extracts Stephen’s phone. Holding it out he asks, “What will you tell her?”

  “That I’m chasing after a thief who stole my Vepsa.” I snatch the phone out of his hand. My pointer finger hovers over the six but I dial Linnie’s number instead of Nicholas’s. I’ll pay Stephen back for the call. The phone rings three times.

  “Hello?” Linnie asks on the line.

  “Hey,” I blurt out, “I can only speak for a second. I’m not coming; will you make an excuse?”

  “Yeah,” She draws out the word, making ‘yeah’ sound like a question.

  “Later. Love you.” I close and toss the phone into the compartment under the open seat. Andras closes the seat and jumps on.

  Climbing on after him, I clasp my hands around his stomach. His shirt is thin enough that my fingers brush against his muscles through his white button-up. My grasp jolts looser.

  He takes off, back to the road. We weave around cars. Andra
s drives with complete confidence, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Soon the sparse trees, farmland and houses back onto shoreline, and the air smells like marine plants. There’s also a delightfully musky scent; I lean in and realize: it’s Andras.

  Realizing that I’m sniffing him, I lean away, almost breaking my grasp.

  We race by the houses, perching on the coastline, past a tollbooth and into a nature reserve. After weaving down a narrow road, we park in a small, unoccupied lot. Andras turns off the bike. With only a light breeze, I smell his scent again; my insides twist, as I clamber off the bike.

  Andras grins, as he swings his leg over. Without saying anything, he grabs my hand and starts walking down a path.

  I don’t follow until his hand tugs lightly on mine, as he continues to walk. After looking at the bike and sighing, I let Andras lead. The landscape slopes toward the ocean, with craggy rocks, emerging from the grass like hundreds of giant gray thorns. Andras obviously knows where he’s headed. Slowing down after descending the hill, he threads his fingers through mine. Andras’s hand, merging with mine, feels natural.

  Gathering my courage, I peek up. Andras’s profile is filled with sharp, straight lines. He faces forward, glances over, and then returns his gaze to the rocky path. The corner of Andras’s mouth twitches up.

  We stop at a spot with an open sloping field on one side and a steep boulder jutting into the calm ocean on the other. I head for the field; Andras climbs up the rough-faced boulder. The high, small projection juts with its flattened top, thirty feet above the sea.

  “Can we stay down here?” I point to the field behind me.

  He’s already halfway up the small cliff face, then, jumps down and follows me to a rock, protruding from the drying grass. Andras places his hands on my hips and lifts me up, onto the rock. His chest brushes my inner thighs, as I settle on the rock.

  I inhale and look down at his face, a few inches below mine. My face drifts forward, toward him. I start to slip-- catch myself.

  Andras steps away and does a backwards pull-up to sit beside me. He unzips his shoulder bag and extracts, breaks and hands me, half of a loaf of bread.

  I’m starving; I start nibbling before he digs up some soft cheese and dried fruit.

  A brave raven lands beside Andras on the rock.

  I lean in to get a good look at the bird. “Wow, they’re everywhere!”

  “In Sweden, ravens are thought to be the souls of people, murdered.” Andras whispers some word that sounds like, “key-ca,” and the bird flies away.

  Ripping off a piece of bread, I raise my eyebrows and peer at him, “I had a friend when I was little, who could speak to birds.”

  Andras leans back, propping himself up with his arms, and gives me a grin. He raises his eyebrows, “What kind of birds?”

  “Ravens, like you.”

  “What did your friend look like?”

  My gaze unfocussed, I stare off at the sea. I’m silent for a long minute, “I was really young and I can’t remember that well.” I squeeze my eyelids closed, trying to remember any defining feature, other than dirty. “I remember burns; he had burns all over his arms.”

  I turn to Andras and open my eyes.

  A small smile plays across his full lips. Straightening his posture, Andras unbuttons his shirt.

  I stuff a large chunk of bread in my mouth and battle to chew.

  Andras shrugs off his white-collared shirt to reveal his smooth, tan unblemished skin. His muscular arms and stomach have very little hair. The only hair trails from his bellybutton down to his…

  The bread is paste in my mouth, as I swallow. I tear my gaze back to the sea.

  Warm skin brushes against my arm. Did he scoot closer or did I? I stay very still.

  His breath tickles my neck. “What happened to your friend?”

  I slide away a couple inches and turn my face toward him. “He died.” I shake my head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Something bad happened the last day we played together...” I pause then lie, saying, "I don't really remember what happened that day. I don’t know if Andrew died after that, I just always had this feeling that he did. I never had any proof.”

  “Can I ask you a question, Raven?”

  I blink out of my thoughts and focus on Andras. “Go ahead.”

  “The men you are staying with, do they threaten you?”

  I wrinkle my brow at the sudden change of subject. After just staring for a few long seconds I ask, “Threaten me? No, never.”

  “Are you sure you are safe with them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would they harm you for any reason?”

  I shake my head slowly.

  A grin spreads across Andras’s face, "I am relieved. I was worried they would."

  I know the answer to my question, but I ask anyway, “Do you dislike them for some reason?”

  His smile does not falter as he says, “I despise them.”

  I lean away, “Why?”

  His hand drops behind, as he leans over me. “Because they’re trying to take you from me.”

  My lips gape apart. “That’s a really weird thing to say. Take me from you?” I swallow. “Take me? As if... you think I belong to you?” Dodging him, I jump down from the rock. My heels hit the ground hard. I spin to face him, taking small steps backwards. “I’m not yours, Andras. I don’t even know you.”

  He slides off the rock and is inches from me, before I blink. “What scares you more, Raven?” He smirks. “How strongly I feel for you?” He lowers his face; his nose brushes mine. “Or that you feel the same way?”

  “You don’t know how I feel,” I attempt to sound indignant, but my voice comes out shrill. “You don’t know anything about me.”

  His lips are so close.

  I jump back and run up the path, then pivot, before ascending the base of the hill, almost stumbling, catching myself.

  My outburst hasn’t melted Andras’s infuriatingly confident smile.

  “Andras just ...” I exhale loudly and shake my head. “…leave me alone.” I somehow manage not to trip, sprinting up the uneven trail.

  I look back, after reaching my bike; he hasn’t followed. Climbing on, I pull over my helmet and somehow remember how to kick start the engine. Awkwardly, I back the scooter up and turn onto the street.

  The road between the parking lot and the tollbooth passes in an instant. Braking suddenly, I peer into the booth; nobody’s inside. I yank off my helmet and wipe my face. It’s probably ten miles back to Hoganas. I just left Andras in the middle of nowhere, and this scooter was his ride.

  I’ve never done that before, deserted someone. Not even someone crazy. What was all that ‘take you from me’ business? As if, because we kissed a couple of times, he owns me? I don’t think so.

  What if I’m overreacting? He could have meant what he said not the way I took it. He is foreign. English is clearly not his first language. Maybe it was all a misunderstanding. I hope not. I mean…

  What do I hope? I’m not sure. On the one hand, I don’t want him to be a possessive stalker; on the other, if he’s not, I just made a fool of myself, again.

  My palm smacks my forehead. Whatever Andras is, I can’t just leave him in the middle of a nature reserve, ten miles from his hotel.

  Turning the bike around, once more, I drive back to the parking lot.

  I can’t find him. Even when I return to the shore and call out his name, nothing, no response. He is either ignoring me or already left. Twenty minutes later, I trudge to the bike.

  My watch reads two minutes to three, when I arrive at Nicholas’s mansion. Nelly shakes out a rug in front of the guest house; she retorts that the Rolls Royce hasn’t returned yet, when I ask. The sun shines from a clear sky and the air smells like flowers and fresh mowed grass again. I should go explore, but all I feel like doing is crawling into bed. I follow Nelly into the guesthouse, walk to my room, kick off my shoes, throw down the helmet and curl into a fetal position
, on top of my covers.

  Linnie’s right, I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since I met Andras.

  Oh, I hate him! He’s so full of himself, telling me how I feel. I don’t even think about him all that much. And who can control dreams? Nobody.

  I shouldn’t have deserted him.

  No, I should have: he’s potentially a crazed stalker. Fleeing stalkers is the right move, not thinking about how amazing they look with no shirt on.

  Oh, I’m thinking like a lunatic! I wish I could turn off my brain.

  I’ll drift off to sleep. Please God, no dreams, no traitorous dreams.

  ****

  “Up and at ’em, Birdie,” Linnie says, sitting on my legs.

  “No,” I grumble and cover my head with the pillow. “Five more minutes.”

  “Oh, no.” She snatches off my pillow. “You’ve been sleeping at least fifteen hours, maybe longer, and you owe me an explanation.”

  I sit up. “Fifteen hours?” I reach for my phone.

  “Don’t worry.” She pats my knee. “I got you covered; I called dad last night and told him you’re catching up on some Z’s. Now, why didn’t you make it to Copenhagen?”

  I groan. “I’ll tell you, if you get off.”

  She shifts over, enough for me to wiggle my legs free. Linnie asks, “What…?”

  “Nothing happened.” I can’t meet her eyes. “I just got lost and turned back.”

  “I don’t think so!”

  I have trouble maneuvering around Linnie and out of the bed. “What is this?” I point to the dress bag, hanging on the door.

  “Your dress; don’t change the subject.”

  I unzip the bag and examine the deep-purple gown, pouring out. “This is breathtaking, Linnie.” I pull the hanger free to get a better view and laugh. “Do I have any money left for food when we get to Paris?”

  Linnie hunches up her shoulders and plays with her sleeves. “Well ...” she gazes at her feet. “Yeah.”

  My voice is a low rumble, “Linnie?”

  “He didn’t give me a choice!” She says, “I just said, ‘Raven would love this’ and before I knew what was happening the store-lady handed me a bag.”