by Bill Cariad
“You are talking and driving at the same time,” said Maria, smiling through tears.
“So you realize the risks you’re running by forcing me to press a gift on you whilst I’m at the wheel of a moving car in New York.”
“A no strings attached gift,” she mouthed quietly, but was heard.
“Only if you don’t want them to be,” said her driver, equally quietly but he too was heard.
Maria stared through tears into a future she couldn’t see... but suddenly wanted to see, “I think I want them to be, Tommaso.”
Kennedy steered the car into the kerbside and brought them to a stop. Maria saw the green eyes twinkling but his voice was serious as he spoke. “Friendship is a good string when it’s used to begin binding a fledgling relationship. You didn’t slap my face when I kissed you, which gives us, I hope, our fledgling relationship. And I know we can be friends. We just have to find out how much string we will need to make it more than just friendship.”
Not waiting for her response, Maria’s driver took them back into traffic. Her thoughts were racing in several directions at once, and she willed the mindset necessary to bring them into some form of order. She wasn’t sure if she had found it, as the thought came that she couldn’t invite Tommaso up to her Waldorf suite because it was too close to her uncle’s room.
Maria could still feel him on her lips, and wanted to feel more, but now didn’t even know when she might see him again. She looked at the bracelet. It was stunningly beautiful, and must have cost an absolute fortune. She replayed in her mind all the things that had been said and done in this single afternoon, and knew that she wanted more. She wanted days, and nights. She needed to find, thought Maria with a sigh, a brand new mindset. This one wasn’t making her thoughts any clearer at all.
It was after four in the afternoon when Kennedy returned her to the Waldorf Hotel.
“I won’t get out,” said her driver, “Till we meet again, Maria. Monday evening at eight.”
“Scusi?” she responded, thinking she must have misheard.
“When I said I didn’t know when we might see one another again, I meant in private. Your uncle has invited me to dinner here on Monday. I presumed, fair maiden, nay, dared hope that you would also be at the table.”
“What would Jung have to say about that?”, asked Maria, determined to regain her composure.
“I’m more interested in what you have to say,” replied Kennedy.
“I will look forward to it,” replied Maria, smiling happily.
Once again her unresisting hand was raised to brush his lips as he quietly voiced his reply, “As will I, Maria Orsinni. As will I. Arrividerci.”
Maria opened her car door as she responded with a smile, “Arrivederci, Tommaso.” She watched him drive away, then made her way inside the hotel. She checked at reception: ‘No messages, Signorina Orsinni’ She told them she was going to her suite now, but that no calls should be put through to her there until further notice. The elevator carried her to her floor; her feet carried her to the suite, and, once inside, her first action was place the Tiffany box and its precious content under the mattress of her bed. She then removed her skirt and blouse, put them away in the closet, and visited the bathroom. She re-emerged toileted and fresh-faced, and moved to the centre of the room before sinking her body into the lotus position. She slowly began the process of emptying her mind of all conscious thought. Within minutes her breathing would become imperceptible to the naked eye, and she would reach the meditation zone that Tanaka had introduced her to many years ago. Those earthly minutes duly passed, but normal time had now ceased to exist for the persona which appeared not to be breathing as it silently energised the Chi channels within its host body.
When Maria rose from the lotus position, her glance at the bedside clock told her that two hours had passed. Feeling refreshed, she stripped and moved into the shower room. Later, showered and changed into slacks and a loose fitting shirt, she made two phone calls from her suite. Mindful of time zones, the first of these was to Italy.
“Sabbatini speaking.”
“Buonasera, policeman,” opened Maria, and waited now with a smile on her face.
“I can receive calls during daylight hours, Orsinni.”
“I prefer disturbing your nights,” responded Maria, instantly regretting her words.
“My own preference,” said Sergio, “would be that it were done by means other than phone calls in the middle of the night. But I don’t believe even you would be cruel enough just to call in order to taunt me as I prepare for a lonely bed. So what can I do for you?”
“You can cancel your flight to New York,” replied Maria, no longer smiling as she waited out the expected silence.
“Why would I do that?”
“Your journey is no longer necessary,” she answered.
“Since when did my journey become unnecessary?”
“Since six Sicilian days from now,” replied Maria.
“Six Sicilian days from now,” was slowly repeated over the line from Rome.
“On the seventh Sicilian day,” said Maria, and the steel in her voice was intended to be heard, “You can tell your mother that her daughter and grand-daughter will be at peace.”
Only Sergio’s breathing could be heard on the line before he finally responded.
“I’ll call my brother-in-law and have the flights cancelled.”
“Arrividerci, Sergio.”
“Arrividerci, Maria.”
Maria’s second call was a local one. Her request was granted without query or hesitation. For the next five days she would have exclusive access to a dojo... and to Tanzen Kimoto.
Her two phone calls having been satisfactorily concluded, Maria stripped down to her underwear and spent the next hour performing a series of Chi Kung exercises. Introduced to her by Wan Lai-Tang, these exercises were developing and cultivating her ability to balance, regulate, and strengthen, the energy channels within her body. When she had finished exercising, the bedside clock told her it was 8-20pm. She phoned room service and ordered ham sandwiches and fresh milk to be brought to her in twenty-five minutes, then went to have another shower.
At 9pm, sandwiches and milk restoratively consumed, she phoned down to reception and left a message for her uncle: Having an early night... see you at breakfast... 7-30. She then appropriately positioned the Do Not Disturb sign on the door to her suite, visited the bathroom, cleaned her teeth, and stripped off all her clothes. But she wasn’t completely naked when she slipped into bed; around her left wrist was the Tiffany’s emerald bracelet.
Two and a half hours would pass before the bedside clock would begin to tick its way into Maria Orsinni’s fifth day in New York.
“Our fifth day in New York is beginning,” said Canizzaro, “and the only times we have been together have been spent having meals in our hotel. I am a poor example of a travelling companion, my child.”
“You’re a businessman,” replied Maria, “and so business must come first. Stop worrying about me, I’m finding lots of ways to spend my time, and you’re a wonderful dining companion,” she ended with a smile. She smothered her sigh. Their fourth breakfast together was following the now routine pattern of an uncle apologizing for his not having spent more time with his niece, and a niece verbally skating around an uncle’s questions as to how she was spending her time. They finally said their parting words at the table and even as she was watching her uncle leave the dining room, she was switching mindsets.
At 9am; with her hair styled back and held by a snood, shod in black high-heel shoes, wearing a yellow silk blouse over a ‘Gina Bacconi’ black flared skirt, and carrying a yellow Gucci shoulder bag, Maria settled herself behind Tony in his taxi.
“Buongiorno, Tony. Two stops only, today. The Plaza hotel first, then Kimoto’s dojo. I’ll be no longer t
han thirty minutes in the Plaza, but I’ll be at the dojo for several hours. I’ll call you from there when I’m ready to leave. Capiche?”
“Understood, and Buongiorno to you too,” said Tony, his practiced ear telling him that would be all the conversation he would have on this leg of the trip.
At 9-45am; Maria entered the Plaza hotel and enquired at the reception desk about hiring The Terrace Room for a writer’s Forum function. She was handed a price brochure and asked for her requirement date.
“Any Friday of next month would do,” she told the obviously interested female receptionist.
“You could have it for the second Friday,” said the woman, “I’ve always admired people with creative talent. Especially writers. Some of those plots! How do you dream them up?”
“I sometimes wonder myself,” replied Maria, “Would one hundred dollars cash be good for a deposit? We would of course settle the balance before the actual day.”
“Cash is good for anything, Miss...? What name do you want on the receipt?”
“The Gina Lanza Writers Society,” replied Maria, confident her framed and silent lunch audience of yesterday wouldn’t object to their newly twinned status. Cash and receipt duly changed hands. “Would you object,” asked Maria, “to my coming in now and then, over the next few days, to get the feel of the room? We’ll be having a special presentation at one point, and I have to try and visualise where, and how best, to seat people. I have only seen it once before, and you can imagine the egos I’ll be contending with if I get it wrong.”
“Just come and go as and when you wish, Miss Lanza. Apart from the 30th of this month. The room will be closed to the public on that day.”
“Thank you,” said Maria, smiling as she added, “I’ll just take a quick look now.”
Maria had no intention of re-visiting The Terrace Room. She didn’t need to go that far this time. On her previous reconnaissance to that area, her guide had led her through what he had said was known as The Palm Court Room. Her target destination on this occasion stood just outside The Palm Court Room, in the form of a door signed Ladies. Opening that door took her into the familiar layout of a small corridor accessing the Ladies Powder Room. Stepping inside that facility, she was unsurprised to discover that its interior was a mirror-image to the one serving The Terrace Room. It was empty, but that could change at any time so she moved quickly now. She chose the end toilet cubicle nearest to the wall, and once inside she locked the door and grounded her shoulder bag. She stepped up on the toilet seat and lifted the cistern lid, carefully stepping back down as she held the lid before grounding it beside her shoulder bag.
Opening her bag, Maria extracted the lethally loaded syringe gifted to her by Doyle. It was now cushioned by cotton wool, its needle point had been corked by Mister Pope, and the ensemble lay inside a clear plastic bag. Gripping the plastic bag by her teeth, Maria took from her shoulder bag the duct tape and small scissors. She stepped back on to the toilet seat and carefully duct-taped the plastic bag above the water level inside the system. Satisfied that her efforts thus far wouldn’t interfere with the mechanics of the system, she then scissored off a section of the remaining duct-tape and used it to secure the scissors and roll of tape itself inside the cistern. She stepped down and then flushed the system, and heard nothing to trouble her. She stepped back up and checked for faults, but found none. Everything was okay. She stepped down, picked up the cistern lid, stepped back up again, and quietly replaced it. She washed her hands, and within thirty minutes of having left him, she was back inside Tony’s taxi.
“The dojo now, please, Tony.”
“Sure thing,” said Tony, seeing her eyes close before he’d got the words out and resigning himself to an equally silent second stage of their travels today.
Tony’s taxi had made good time to the Lower East Side, so Maria knew that it was a little after eleven when Tanzen Kimoto returned the bow of respect she made upon entering his dojo. She saw that his feet were bare, and that the Giri worn on the night he had stood with her against the Tongs was again covering his body.
“Konnichi wa, Sensei.(Good morning, teacher) Kiri, and Hanako. They are well?”
“Irasshaimase, (Welcome) Maria Orsinni. Hai, (Yes) they are well. As am I,” he added with the hint of a smile, “because Tanaka’s Italian Samurai returns to make my day more interesting.”
“I return to embarrass myself by revealing my inexperience,” replied Maria.
“Tanaka once told me that you were the exception to the rule.”
“What rule is that?”
“The rule that says you cannot put an old head on young shoulders,” replied Kimoto, suddenly sounding impatient with this badinage as he added, “You may use my office to change. On the desk you will find a Giri which should fit.”
Maria had heard the impatience in his voice but didn’t question it. Wan Lai-Tang’s voice was in her head now, reprising the words he had used when she had told him she would be visiting, and perhaps using, this dojo: Tanaka’s little Samurai will have to work very hard to impress Tanzen Kimoto. She moved towards the office, reminding herself that this time she wouldn’t be the one taking charge. She may have impressed this man by returning his daughter to him, but that was a world away from impressing him here today. Thankfully this would only be a practice session. Had that not been the case; the outcome would not have been in doubt: Tanzen Kimoto might be more than three times her age, but he was definitely more than capable of sending her out of this dojo in the same condition Forza had been in when he had left it. She used the toilet to rid herself of excess fluid, then shed her clothes and footwear and changed into the perfectly fitting Giri. She allowed herself the small smile which came with the wry thought that Kimoto’s trained eye had her measure in more ways than one.
Maria checked to ensure her hair was securely held by the snood, and returned to the Dojo to find that Kimoto was in the centre of the floor area, standing perfectly still, watching her approach, watching how she moved across the floor. She didn’t misinterpret this; there was nothing salacious fuelling his watchfulness. Wan Lai-Tang, and Tanaka before him, had always done this as a prelude to their dojo sessions and she had come to consider it as passing through an X-ray machine checking her body for hidden faults which could worsen under stress. She saw that Kimoto’s facial expression was serene, and noted that he was projecting a fairly benign looking aura. But she knew that the advanced masters, like Tanaka and Wan Lai-Tang, and this harmless looking man before her now, had long since developed the internal power to dissolve their outer aura in order to prevent their mind from being overpowered by an opponent’s mind. Tanaka’s voice was in her ear now: If your aura is completely dissolved, it cannot be influenced by an opponent.
Maria didn’t think she was being observed by an opponent today. She hadn’t yet reached the expertise levels of her teachers in this particular element, but she was constantly working on it and had learned what to look for and what not to be fooled by. Tanaka had also told her: An expert is someone who knows some of the worst mistakes that can be made in his or her subject, and who manages to avoid them. It would be a mistake, she told herself now, to believe that Kimoto was concealing violent intent and that she must prepare to counter it. Today would be non-confrontational, she sensed.
“When did you last practice?” he asked.
Maria stopped four paces away from Kimoto as she considered now the answer to his seemingly simple question. Tanaka had told her, many times, that the only way she could analyze progress, and strengthen discovered weaknesses, was to constantly test her skills against superior opponents. Solo sessions, and her recent encounters with amateurs, wouldn’t provide for the answer Kimoto was looking for.
“Six days ago, with Wan Lai-Tang,” she replied.
“You should know, before we begin,” said Kimoto, “because it will save us both time, that I have spoken
to Wan Lai-Tang. I have also spoken to Tanaka, who insisted I tell you that you are always in his thoughts. So I now have a clearer understanding of what motivates you, and of the skills you have been attempting to master.”
Maria’s first thought was a pleasurable one; Tanaka was okay and still thinking about her. She didn’t have time for a second thought; Kimoto’s voice saw to that.
“Think of this as one of your unwitnessed solo sessions. You may begin when you are ready.”
Having already deduced that today would not be given over to fighting an opponent, Maria knew that she didn’t have to spend any time clearing the energetic field surrounding her body. That would only become necessary when she needed to be extremely sensitive to the energetic gap between herself and Kimoto when they fought one another. But she was already moving even as that knowledge-thought came and went, and Kimoto’s presence had ceased to concern her as she flowed into a sequence of Tai Chi warming up exercises. Whilst Kimoto’s presence wasn’t a distraction, his unspoken wish to see something of her range of knowledge would have to be granted. So when she had finished warming up, she moved seamlessly into Kou Bu and Bai Bu; the toe-in, toe-out steps of Ba Gua walking. The basic principle of this being that each step was a kick and each kick, a step. She flowed through side kicks, backward kicks, hook kicks and front kicks, until she deemed it time to switch to another discipline and its relevant techniques.
Several discipline routines later, some of them performed at speed, Maria powered down to end her solo session with a series of repetitive slow-motion high side-kicks culminating with a Tai Chi Chuan Lotus kick. Her body clock was telling her that two hours had passed since she had commenced the session, and she was reasonable pleased with how it had gone. She stood perfectly still now, silently absorbed in gauging her body. Her breathing was steady and her muscle tone felt good. She thought her speed had been okay, but only by using it against an opponent could she really know just how effective it was. A voice cut into her thoughts.
“You will find the shower facility,” said Kimoto, “in the gymnasium upstairs. When you have had your shower, please come to the floor above the gymnasium. My wife would be honoured to offer you tea.”