by Marta Acosta
A police car cruised up and the men vanished into the shadows.
My favorite taqueria was about six blocks away, in a mishmash of cafés, restaurants, bars, and small shops. Because my paperback hadn’t dried, I needed a book. I thought about getting another Brönte novel but discovered a used hardback of Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited.
I took my tacos and horchata back to Mercedes’s and read while I ate. This solitary activity usually brought me joy, but my mind kept drifting from the character Sebastian Flyte to the Sebastian I knew, SLIME. Sometimes life intrudes on fiction that way. Sebastian had been so beautiful and clever that I never sensed the corruption at his core. I’d thought that love would overcome the differences of class and culture.
Reading about Sebastian Flyte’s descent into depravity made me mourn SLIME’s descent into amorality.
Disturbing thoughts were scurrying like beetles around my brain, bringing in crumbs of information. I brushed them away, resisting the idea that I might be similarly deluded with Oswald.
It was late when I spackled on nighttime makeup and sprayed and gooped my hair until it had doubled in volume. I went down to the street and hailed a cab, which was easier than driving downtown.
Mercedes’s club was located in a bleak neighborhood of cheap residential hotels, a soup kitchen, strip clubs, and tiny marvelous Vietnamese diners. It had a plain black exterior with small red letters that said “MY DIVE.” A few people in disheveled business attire were smoking on the sidewalk and I could hear the music throbbing within.
Lenny, the doorman, smiled when he saw me get out of the cab, but a deep wrinkle between his brows showed that he was tense. “Hey, girl, good to see you. Give me some sugar.”
Lenny always took advantage of hugs and this was no exception. He grabbed my behind in his hands and squeezed. “Good to feel you, too, ’specially when you got something to grab on to.”
I stepped back before he explored further.
He had shaved his head and I ran my hand over the glossy dark pate. “When did you do this?”
“When there was more skin than hair. What do you think?”
“Sexy, Lenny. You’ll be getting all the groupies.”
“Groupies, huh. Don’t you tell my wife.” He winked. Lenny was married to a minister.
I walked into the club’s lobby, waved to the coat-check girl, and entered the main room. I stood for a few minutes, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness and my ears adjust to the noise. In addition to the usual suspects in a rock band, there was a saxophonist, two oud players, a conga player, and someone on a didgeridoo.
It shouldn’t have worked. The lead singer was shrieking, and the song veered into total dissonance before suddenly falling into place. I couldn’t even tell what genre of music they were playing or the lyrics of the song. But it didn’t matter. The waves of sound filled me. Nothing seemed to matter but the music. I wanted to fling myself into the crowd of gyrating, glassy-eyed corporate types, but first I had to say hello to Mercedes.
On the staircase I stumbled over three people doing something that I was pretty sure was prohibited in the corporate handbook. They didn’t even notice me. I found Mercedes on the balcony by the sound booth. She looked worried and gave me a quick abrazo before turning back to look at the room below.
“Your hair! It’s so cute,” I said, touching the neat little dread-locks.
She ducked her head away. “No me moleste,” she said. “Do you see what’s going on down there?”
“That band is on fire. I’ve never heard anything like it.”
“They’re trouble.”
“What’s wrong with people having a good time?”
She spoke into my ear so I could hear her. “Tribal rhythms mimicking pulse, like trance music, with the rock component. People get loco.”
Glass shattered down below. A young man in a suit jumped on the bar and began stripping and howling. A high heel flew through the air and struck him on the head. He fell into the crowd.
“Oh, hell no,” Mercedes said angrily. “The deposit is not going to cover this.” To me she said, “You might want to get out of here.”
“But I haven’t even danced yet.”
Two women clamored onto the stage and began pulling down the lead singer’s jeans. Mercedes got on her walkie-talkie and hurried downstairs. The man who’d been stripping was hoisted aloft in the crowd. He looked unconscious. I waved to the sound guy and reluctantly made my way downstairs. A man was spraying a fire extinguisher on the crowd, and a woman leapt on his back and pummeled him.
I’d never seen this kind of mayhem in My Dive before, and it was especially shocking when the hooligans had MBAs instead of police records.
Lenny came striding into the club, a walkie-talkie in one hand. He put his mouth to my ear and said, “Better clear out. The cops are on their way.” Then he shouted into the walkie-talkie, “Shut it down now!”
The electricity onstage went out, throwing the band into darkness and cutting off the amplification. People were screaming and howling with laughter as Lenny and another bouncer began shoving them toward the exit and telling them, “Move along, move along!”
The people started toward the door, but circled back to the dance floor in a daze. I pushed my way through them and outside. Paramedics and police arrived as I got into a cab.
When Mercedes came home, I ran a bath for her, dumping in a generous amount of honeysuckle foaming gel. Then I went to the Caribbean blue kitchen and opened a bottle of zinfandel that I’d brought. I poured two glasses and took one to Mercedes in the bath.
I took my book and curled up on the sofa, becoming more and more engrossed in the story, until the city sounds faded away and I forgot where I was. So when the large pale shape loomed in front of me, I screamed and threw the book at the apparition, which amazingly transformed into Mercedes wearing a soft coral quilted robe.
“What the…,” she said, glaring at me.
“Sorry!” I caught my breath and said, “You surprised me.”
She shook her head and her dreads bounced a little. “You and your books.” She picked up the novel and tossed it to me.
Mercedes had caramel skin and a scattering of freckles across her open, honest features. She was just above average height with a sturdy build. She wasn’t delicate enough to be pretty, never wore makeup, and didn’t practice any feminine wiles, but there was no shortage of musicians and managers who pursued her.
She plopped on the sofa with a sigh. “Okay, I think I’ll recover. The company’s CFO said they’d pay for all the damage. He’s smoothing things over with the cops.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad.”
She shrugged. “I’m not booking that band again. Now I understand why they call themselves the Dervishes.”
“Speaking of craziness, I wanted to talk to you about something. I’m freaking out a little bit.”
“You’ve been living with a pack of vampires for a year, and now you’re freaking out?”
“Why do you keep calling them vampires?”
“I am not the one in denial about my identity.”
“Let us not quibble over semantics. I had a big fight with Oswald before he left.”
“Fight and flight. Do I have to hear about this tonight?”
“Yes,” I said, and refilled our glasses. “I mentioned that the vamps were having a party of sorts for the baby? Oh, and her name is Elizabeth, and we’re calling her Libby.”
I described how I’d very accidentally found a peephole in the fence, “just like you find a side entrance in a computer program,” and told her about the scene I’d witnessed, the vile and reprehensible eggheaded creature, my close encounter of the maternal kind, and Oswald’s awful behavior.
When I finished, Mercedes stared at me for a moment, then said, “And that is why I like living alone. I’m going to bed now.”
“Don’t you have anything to say about this horrible situation?”
“I like your friends, especially
Gabriel, but like my mother says, Hay gato encerrado.”
“Your Cuban sayings never make any sense. What do you mean there’s a cat locked up?”
“They’ve got big secrets. Why should they tell you everything when you could bail on Oswald when the infatuation burns out?”
“You are the most unromantic person I have ever met. Except for this argument, Oswald and I are deliriously happy together.”
“Yeah, that’s why you’re close to tears. What the hell was his family doing and why are you going on a date with Ian?”
“He’s not a date, he’s Ian. I didn’t tell Oswald because I didn’t feel like arguing about something that’s perfectly innocent. He didn’t tell me about the ceremony because…because they’re not used to outsiders.”
“Don’t be such a tonta.”
“I am not being stupid. I am being flexible and understanding. You might try it sometime.”
“Believe me, I’m trying it now, mujer,” she said with a smile. She was quiet and I let her think. She was good at that. She finally said, “Even though you love each other, it’s always good to be self-sufficient. Try to get on your feet financially and you won’t feel as resentful about his money.”
“I’m so not resentful about Oswald’s money.”
“Yeah, right. Not that there’s anything to worry about, but always keep me up-to-date on what’s happening…just in case.”
The “just in case” was ominous. Just in case I learned they had skeletons in the closet…or bodies thumping in the dryer.
Six
Swells, Swell Friends, and Swelled Heads
T here was something about Mercedes’s matter-of-fact acceptance of my fight with Oswald that made me feel calmer. Fighting was normal when people lived together. I’d been unused to it because my parents never fought. Both were in perfect accordance that my father’s life’s work was to worship at my mother Regina’s pedicured feet. I got blankets from the closet and made up the sofa. I would call Oswald tomorrow evening and we would apologize to each other and everything would be fine.
The next morning, while Mercedes and I were enjoying our third cup of sweet Cuban coffee and I was feeling a caffeine-induced sense of possibility, my new phone rang. The caller identification was blocked, so I answered with a tentative “Yello?”
“Hello, Misss De Loss Ssantoss, this iss Silass Madisson.”
“Hello, Mr. Madison,” I said. “Thank you so much for the phone.”
“A ssmall token. I was calling to enssure that you had received it.”
“It was a very generous gift,” I said.
“I was hoping that we could get together ssoon. I have been researching our family’s ssociopolitical alliances over the centuries.”
At long last, I was talking to someone who wanted to help me understand the family and maybe, too, understand Oswald. “Yes, I’d like that.” I told him that I was in the City for a wedding.
“Iss Dr. Grant with you?” he asked.
“No, I’m all on my own.” That sounded self-pitying, so I added, “Actually, Ian Ducharme is standing in for Oswald and is accompanying me to a friend’s wedding.”
“He must hold you in high essteem. You are a remarkable young woman.”
His praise soothed my battered ego. Silas and I agreed to meet at a café the day after the wedding.
“Misss De Loss Santos, would you mind not mentioning our meeting to Monsieur Ducharme? I only assk because others of our kind disapprove of open intellectual inquiry and discoursse, and there iss also the last dustup with Willem.”
At least Silas trusted me to be discreet. “Of course, Mr. Madison. The meeting will be confidential.”
The wedding was in the afternoon. Mercedes had heard a lot about Ian and wanted to meet the man for herself. She usually left for the club midday, but she stayed home and watched me prepare for my not-a-date.
Mercedes practiced her bagpipes while I got ready. Her genius was recognizing musical talent in others, not playing. Although she could plunk out a tune on a piano or guitar, her skill on the bagpipes was barely rudimentary.
I came out of the bathroom wearing the rose silk halter dress. The top was cut into a low V-neck, and I liked the way the fuller skirt swirled at my knees when I turned. I was glad I’d done some nude sunbathing in the privacy of the pool compound at the ranch and had an even tan.
I asked Mercedes, “How do your neighbors like you playing Scottish dirges?”
“It’s a ballad, not a dirge. My tenants are fine with it and I’m fine with their parties. The neighbors to the north sometimes call the cops and complain.”
“What happens then?”
“I tell them, ‘Do I look like someone who plays the bagpipes?”
“Your father thinks you do.” The bagpipes were far from my favorite instrument, but Mr. McPherson could play songs that brought tears to my eyes.
“My father also thinks Americans should head-butt more in fights. That dress looks good on you, but there should probably be more of it. Is that jewelry real?”
I was wearing the red stone necklace and earrings that Ian had given me. “I have no idea. Will you help me with my hair?” I held up a hank.
She blew a long, baleful squeal on her instrument. “Sorry, but I don’t know how to deal with straight hair. It’s too slippery. Wait a minute.”
Mercedes went to the hall closet and rooted around. She pulled out a cardboard box and handed it to me. “Mi mami is always giving me this stuff. She keeps hoping I’ll start dressing more feminine.”
“Tell her that I love you just the way you are.”
Inside the box was a bevy of beauty supplies and products. I used a curling iron to make a mass of curls that I gathered atop my head. I slipped on a pair of high-heeled sandals with thin straps and said, “I feel very tall with my hair and my shoes. I feel so tall I can reach things on the top shelf. How do I look? Extremely tall?”
“Nice, but still shortish.” Mercedes wasn’t big on fashion.
I was adding an extra coat of mascara when Ian arrived. He was wearing one of his beautifully made suits and a snowy shirt. He doubtless had a tailor locked up in a dungeon somewhere sewing day and night. He kissed my cheeks and I smelled his subtle spicy aftershave. It made me think of a library filled with old books, a fireplace, leather furniture, and tobacco. It made me think of the times he had taken off my clothes and stroked my skin.
When I introduced him to Mercedes, I was half afraid he’d bow over her hand and say, “Enchanté.” He sussed her out, however, and shook her hand.
He chatted with Mercedes, inquiring about her club, asking informed questions about Croatian folk music, Cuban son, and Hawaiian slack guitar. When we left the house, he said, “I very much like your friend. She’s like a pure note, isn’t she?”
“You are an astute man, Ian Ducharme.”
“I’d tell you how beautiful you look, but I don’t want to be accused of flirting.”
As I general rule, I loved flirting. It made me feel like Barbara Stanwyck in old black-and-white movies, snapping out clever lines that could lure a man in. But I saw a fin circling in the water, so I wasn’t about to cast a line now.
A sleek racing-green Jag was parked across the street. Ian opened the door for me. When we were on our way, I asked, “Ian, who is Willem Dunlop and why is he important to the family?”
“He’s an ugly relic.” Ian deftly wove through the crowded intersections. Ian always drove as if each road was familiar to him. “He officiates at meaningless vampire ceremonies, probably more for his own benefit than anyone else’s.” Unlike Edna’s clan, Ian was unapologetic about calling himself a vampire.
“Is he a priest or a minister?”
“Vampirism is a condition, my dear, not a religion,” he said with a grin. “I’d call him a historian and officiant. Sam and Winnie’s families give him more respect than he is due.”
“How did you know I was hiding behind the fence?”
Ian chuckled. “
A bright and curious girl would be spying, wouldn’t she? Open the glove compartment and take out my cigarette case. I have something for you.”
Inside the glove compartment was the slim gold case. “I don’t smoke and didn’t know you did.”
“Only on those occasions when I need an excuse to wander away. Nicotine is not addictive to me.”
I was learning something already. I flicked open the clasp and saw two buttons from my dress. “Ha, ha, and ha, Ian.” I slipped the buttons into my clutch and returned the gold case to the glove compartment. “Oswald thinks that there’s something between us because of the way I was dressed for Edna’s midnight brunch.”
“He senses the inevitable. Did you have a lovers’ quarrel?”
“As you know, I am truly, madly, and deeply in love with Oswald. I should probably give you back all those gifts. They are beautiful and I thank you, but…”
“A gift given is a gift given. That necklace looks lovely on you. I take pleasure in thinking of the blood coursing through your veins beneath your skin, the same tincture as the stones.”
“My gory flesh, what a lovely image,” I said. “You know, Ian, I’ve always found your interest in me perplexing.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that.”
“You could have stunning women, you could have rich women, and you could have women who are both rich and stunning.”
“And I have.”
“Not that I lack self-confidence, mind you,” I said. “I like to think that I have a number of admirable qualities, and my youthful naïveté must be charming to a roué like you.”
“You talk as if I’m longing to snatch you from convent school.” Ian grinned wickedly. “I have told you already why I admire you. Do you remember?”
Of course I did. He’d said I tasted like life and death and life again, a description that I found both unsettling and intriguing. “I vaguely recall some rather morbid nonsense.”
He laughed, then said quite seriously, “I am fully aware of who you are, Milagro, even if others only sense it.”
We were approaching the church. Guests were going through the tall carved doors, and red-vested parking valets waited on the sidewalk. “That sounds a little fatalistic for me. I’m a believer in self-determination.”