The Cloning

by Washam, Wisner

“The drink will help you,” she replied, then stepped expertly back into her bindings. “Follow me. I take you down the baby run,” and before he could reply, she was on her way.

  “You haven’t told me your name . . . “ he called, but again, she was already out of hearing distance.

  *

  Twenty minutes later, they were warmly ensconced before the stone fireplace in a tiny café located just above the village. They removed their boots, and roasted their feet on the hearth while sipping hot mulled wine.

  “My name is Freda,” she said.

  “Freda from where?”

  “I’m Swedish.”

  “A red headed Swede?”

  “My . . . how do you say? . . . ancestors . . . they were friendly with visitors.”

  “That’s good to know. You come to France often?”

  “I live here now. Where do you live in America?”

  “Boston. Cambridge, to be exact.”

  “Do people from Cambridge always wear their dark glasses inside?” she inquired, noting that Marc had put on his glasses as soon as he’d removed his ski goggles.

  “Not always. But I like it this way.”

  “Are you maybe in show business?”

  “Not likely,” he laughed.

  “You’re not an actor?”

  “No way.”

  “Or a director?”

  “No.”

  “Good. I don’t like directors,” she stated with a defiant toss of her head.

  “Why not?”

  “I was married to one. And he was a shit.”

  “Oh,” Marc nodded, making a mental note that she’d used the past tense. He also noted her full breasts, her flat belly, and well-proportioned legs. She was probably thirty-five but looked younger. “Anybody I’d know?” he asked, managing to pick up the thread of their conversation.

  “No. He’s French. And a small director. Nobody knows him in America.”

  “So you’re unattached now?”

  She lowered her head, then lifted her eyes to his in a way that implied more than paragraphs could say. “For the moment. And you? Who’s the lucky woman in your life?”

  “I’m unattached too. Isn’t that convenient?”

  “And are you in Chamonix for a long visit?”

  “That remains to be seen. I may never ski again after that last run.”

  “You’ll be okay. You need a sauna for your tired muscles.”

  Marc thought he detected a hidden invitation. “You know, I’ll bet you’re right. Where could I find one?”

  “Every hotel has a sauna here.”

  “Great,” he said, masking his disappointment that she hadn’t asked the name of his hotel.

  “But I have a sauna in my chalet . . . just a small one.”

  “That ought to do,” he replied, brightening considerably, instinctively knowing that he’d just scored. “Shall we go now, or would you like another drink?”

  “Let’s go now,” she said with a candid look straight into his eyes.

  Marc felt his heart rate rise a notch or two. He motioned to the waitress for the check, reached into his pocket and pulled out a bundle of bills and coins, a mélange of Euros and American.

  “Which is which?” he muttered, trying to sort through the currencies.

  “Here . . . let me,” Freda offered. She quickly found the right amount, gave it to the waitress, then noticed the small glass vial which Marc had kept in his pocket along with his cash. “What’s this?”

  He had hardly thought of the hair in several days, yet it wasn’t something he was willing to discuss. “Nothing important,” he replied.

  Freda looked closely at the vial. “It’s a petite hair, yes?”

  “You’ve got good eyes too.”

  “Why do you carry it in your pocket?” she asked, looking even closer.

  “Oh . . . it’s just a souvenir.”

  “Of some girlfriend? A brunette?”

  “No,” he said, reaching for his boots in an attempt to end the questions.

  “Then who?” she persisted.

  “I told you, it’s not important.”

  “If it’s not important, then why do you carry it?”

  “We have an expression in America: Curiosity killed the cat.”

  “I take my chances,” she shot back without hesitation, then challenged, “You said there was no women in your life.”

  “There isn’t,” he assured her hurriedly.

  “Then whose hair is it?”

  “I’ve already told you once. It doesn’t matter.”

  “Okay,” she conceded, “if it’s so unimportant, then let me have it.”

  He hesitated, wondering why she was making such an issue of it. Did she sense it was something special? Or was it just innate female jealousy? “Why would you want it?”

  “Just a little payment for using my sauna.”

  Again he hesitated a beat, fearing that if he didn’t cooperate, his score would suddenly revert to a big fat zero. Why was he holding onto the hair anyway? He’d already decided that its origin could never be proved, so what value did it have? If he let her have it, he’d never have to worry about it again.

  “Why not? It’s yours,” he informed her.

  “Merci,” she said, then placed the vial in her fanny bag. “Let’s go,” she murmured sexily.

  *

  Her chalet, located on a hillside overlooking the village, was small but certainly large enough to make two people very comfortable. Her sauna was also just large enough for two, he noted . . . that is, if the two were seated side by side or were strategically positioned in a horizontal mode.

  Without further ado, she stripped to the skin and invited him to follow suit. He was out of his ski clothes in a shot but was more hesitant about removing his dark glasses. If she were to recognize him at this critical juncture, it could throw a monkey wrench into the moment. But leaving the glasses on inside the sauna would raise more questions than he cared to answer. Off the glasses came, and to his surprise, she didn’t blink an eye. Marc assumed that she had been too busy with other pursuits to pay any attention to his activities with the church.

  As she led him into the sauna, he observed that her body, although petite, was perfectly proportioned: full-hipped, small-waisted, and lightly tanned over every inch. Not a bra or bikini line in sight.

  “How’d you manage that?” he asked, pulling her close.

  “Simple. I sun-bathe in the nude . . . on my private deck. Would you like to see it?”

  “Later,” he replied, moving closer.

  “You must drink a lot of water in the sauna,” she instructed. “Would you like some now?” she asked, turning to the door.

  “No, thanks. I have my hands full,” her replied, putting his arms around her and cupping his hands over her generous breasts . . . again chastising himself for not having a more sophisticated line of chatter for occasions such as this. It’s amazing I’ve made out so easily all my life, he mused, considering that my lead-ins are such clichés. Oh well, this is not the time for a self-improvement course.

  The sauna was already blazing hot, he noted, wondering if she’d planned to find someone to bring home, or did she always keep it simmering to enjoy all alone after an afternoon on the slopes. Probably the latter, he rationalized to himself.

  He pulled her nearer and savored the softness of her body pressing close against his. She responded appreciatively to his touch for a minute or so, then turned away to toss a ladle of water on the hot stones. The tiny wooden room immediately filled with hot steam, increasing the sensation of heat enormously. His skin began to glow with perspiration, and her body took on an added flush of health and desirability.

  After spreading fresh towels on the redwood bench, she seated herself, then reached for him and pulled him by the hips toward her. As her hands caressed his buttocks, her tongue slid into his belly button, then searched slowly down the line of dark hair that bisected his belly.

  My God, he thought to
himself, what have I done to deserve this? Or does it just seem so spectacular because I haven’t had any for so long?

  He responded immediately, but she was expert enough to stop in time, allowing him to continue enjoying every moment, and when he reciprocated in kind, her enjoyment seemed as complete as his . . . but more vocal.

  “That’s it. That’s the spot. You know what you’re doing, don’t you?”

  “Hummm,” he managed to respond.

  And so it went, from one position of pleasure to another with the temperature in the tiny room rising by the minute until they completed their duet awash with perspiration.

  After a quick ice-cold shower, they fell into bed, and Marc slept until after the sunset.

  *

  He waked to the aroma of something delicious cooking downstairs. Freda had left a terry robe on the chair next to his bed, so after donning it, he followed the scent into the kitchen where she was opening a bottle of Chablis.

  “Sexy man,” she commented.

  “It takes two,” Marc replied.

  “I roast a chicken. Do you like it?”

  “I think I'd like anything you do.”

  “Oooh, so gallant,” she smiled and handed him a glass of the chilled wine.

  He lifted his glass to hers. “To fun and games.”

  “To us. A very good pair.” They drank, and she continued. “I sent to your hotel. Your suitcase is by the front door.”

  Marc was taken aback to say the least. “Suppose I don’t like it here?”

  “But you do like it here. I could tell.”

  “True. It's just that I'm not used to women being quite so . . . so assertive.”

  “Do you object?”

  “Not when you do it. But you make it seem so matter of fact,” he ventured.

  She gave him a penetrating look. “You're not the first man in my life, Marc. And you probably won't be the last. Can you live with that?”

  “Guess I'll have to if I want some roast chicken.”

  She laughed. “Now tell me about you. What you do in Cambridge?”

  Marc was surprised that she still hadn't recognized him, but it was a relief to know that his face wasn't universally identifiable, that there were still some people who didn't know him on sight. But it was possible that she'd heard about his work with the shroud and would realize his identity if he told her too much about his activities. He was enjoying this anonymity and feared that if she knew who he was, their relationship might be spoiled, so he simply told her that he was a high school teacher who'd won a lottery and was taking some time off to tour Europe. It was comforting to put thoughts of the shroud totally aside.

  *

  After dinner, they sat by the fire and she told the story of her life . . . how she’d been a model in Sweden when she was a kid. After nearly a decade of that, it was pointed out that she hadn’t grown tall enough to continue modeling as an adult, so she decided to become an actress; however that was not as easy as she’d expected. She happened to meet her ex-husband while he was filming in Sweden, and he took her back to Paris, promising to make her a movie star there. They lived together for six months, then decided to take the plunge.

  “That was the big mistake. If we were still lovers, we would be together yet.”

  “What changed?”

  “He had an ideal of married life: the man is the boss, and the wife is the slave, like his parents lived. It was the only way it could work for him.”

  “How long before you found out that it wouldn’t work for you?”

  “I knew right away. But I stayed for five years, trying to be an actress, but the truth is that he didn’t want his wife to have a career. He never said that, but I knew. And I finally decided not to fool myself any longer. I had no marriage and no career.”

  “Bummer.”

  “All I have is alimony.”

  “Better than nothing.”

  “I suppose,” she shrugged. “And you? You must be married at least once.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “My folks were a bad example too. I don’t want to live a life like they lived.”

  “And you’re happy with only a night here and a night there?”

  “Or two nights,” he replied with a lascivious smirk.

  “Good. I am not a one-night stand.”

  *

  As it turned out, it was three nights, but the third one wasn’t as pleasant as the others. He had a disturbingly realistic dream about the Vatican, specifically the anteroom where he’d waited to hear the Pope’s final decision about the investigation. But the dream wasn’t about the Pope at all; it was about the general and his daughter who were arguing over their private audience with the Pontiff. Marc was reliving the moment, clearly remembering her impatient tone of voice as she told her father that she’d rather go shopping than see the Holy Father. And the smell of the girl’s cigarette smoke invaded Marc’s memory, as clearly as if she’d just lit up. The defiant little bitch, he thought to himself . . . then he remembered rising from his chair and looking at them for a brief moment.

  But then the dream took a truly bizarre turn. Marc was suddenly turned upside down, as if someone had lassoed his ankles and yanked him up toward the ceiling. Everything was topsy-turvy; he was seeing the world from a totally new angle. The blood rushed to his head, he became dizzy. His entire range of vision was whirling in an upside down circle, round and round . . . causing him to feel as if he’d throw up.

  He sat up in bed, damp with perspiration, reeling from the vividness of the dream. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, than another . . . and the dizziness began to dissipate. He quietly went to the bathroom for a drink of water and slipped back into the bed without disturbing Freda. But the dream wouldn’t go away no matter how he tried to dismiss it, nor could he fall asleep again, so, after what seemed to be hours of lying awake, he got up with the sun, showered quickly, and was dressing when Freda wakened.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, looking sleepily confused from under a beautifully tousled head of red hair.

  “I told you, I’ve got to be moving on. I’ve barely left myself time to get to England.”

  “No, you cannot go this early.”

  “I’ve got a lot of kilometers to drive,” Marc reminded her as he stuffed the last of his clothes into his bag.

  “Come back to bed for one more hour,” she pleaded, reaching out and tugging his hand. “We always make love in the morning.”

  “I’ll never get to London,” he protested, although in truth he could have spared an hour.

  “You didn’t want to make love last night either. Is something wrong?”

  Marc didn’t honestly know the answer to that question. He’d never been sated like this in his life. Maybe I’m getting old, he thought. Or is it that dream? “No, nothing’s wrong. I’ve had a fabulous time.”

  “You’re mean,” she pouted.

  “Just realistic.”

  “Then I must give you breakfast,” she insisted, and jumped out of bed, giving him one final, tantalizing look at her naked frame before slipping into a robe.

  “That’s not necessary,” Marc said.

  “I take five minutes only. Come to the kitchen when you are ready.” She hurried downstairs.

  Marc finished dressing, took a final glance around the room to see if he’d forgotten anything, and was about to leave when he noticed her fanny bag on the dressing table. He picked it up, then hesitated for a moment, confused about his own feelings. He glanced toward the door. There were noises coming from the kitchen downstairs. He slowly unzipped the bag, looked inside, and found the glass vial. The hair was still in it. Without understanding his own motives or even stopping to consider them, he slipped the vial into his pocket, re-zipped her bag, and went downstairs for breakfast.

  *

  Half an hour later, after he and Freda had said good-bye, making empty promises to keep in touch, Marc jumped into his Ferrari and pointed it westward. The
auto continued to please him completely, clinging to the curves and inclines without deviation as he negotiated the foothills of the Alps. As soon as he hit the Autoroute, he took it to one hundred miles an hour, then sat back for a record-setting trip across France, determined to make only essential pit stops.

  He skirted the western tip of Switzerland, then turned north at Macon and proceeded directly through Burgundy to the Ile-de-France. It was tempting to stop in Paris, or at least to drive through the city to feast his eyes with a brief glimpse of its wonders, but he kept to the Autoroute toward Picardy.

  Throughout the trip, the recollection of last night's dream disturbed Marc from time to time. Was it the odor of the cigarette that was so unsettling? He'd never smoked after a few highly unsatisfactory trial runs in high school, but he'd certainly been exposed to his share of second-hand smoke over the years . . . without any ill effect. Even cigar smoke never offended him. So what was the problem? Something in the memory was obviously very upsetting, so much so that his world had seemed turned upside down. Was it something the general’s daughter had said? Her impudent tone of voice? But why should that matter to him? A little SAP, he mused . . . a Spanish American Princess, with a major problem about her father, but what did that have to do with Marc? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Still, the dream continued to annoy him from time to time throughout most of the day even though he did his best to dismiss it.

  Before the sun had set, he'd left the Ferrari at the Calais dock for shipment back to the United States. He took the Chunnel train, and by nine o'clock that evening, he'd been whisked under the Strait of Dover and had checked into Brown's Hotel in London. While emptying his pockets onto the dresser, Marc found the vial once more and was again baffled by his own behavior. Why had he taken it back from Freda? Obviously, its importance was less than he'd originally thought; else he'd never have given it to her in the first place. So what prompted him to take it back . . . without even telling her? He wasn’t a deceptive person by nature. He found it troubling but decided that instead of worrying, he'd prefer to have dinner. He called the concierge and asked for a reservation at the best restaurant in London. It never occurred to him that the vial might someday be related to his dream.