Edge Play X

by Wilson, M. Jarrett

  And as much as Compton had sent X out with Madeleine so that the woman who would be accompanying him around the city would be dressed appropriately to reflect her status as the companion of a billionaire, he appreciated that X did not make fashion the main priority of her life. All the other women he had brought along on his travels had been all too enthusiastic to spend his money at the shops and boutiques.

  He knew from the details that he had been told about her that she was unlikely to indulge herself in that behavior. The woman had a socialist streak. That is why he had stressed to Steinberg to make sure that the woman thoroughly engaged in this consumer pursuit.

  It was true that she was different from all the others: X, with all her quirks, the genuineness of her being, but especially for her treatment of him, for her capacity for cruelty, had set herself apart.

  Once outside, Madeleine asked X if she was enjoying herself.

  X took a long drag from her cigarette and looked up to the roof lines of the buildings, each peak dotted with the fluttering of birds.

  “The clothing,” X said, trying her best to be kind, “is incredible, beautifully tailored. I can see the difference in it and what is sold at a department store.”

  “You do not usually buy designer apparel, is that right?”

  X nodded her head yes and then continued. “And your opinions of the clothing, I value what you have to say. I do. You clearly have an understanding of what looks good on a person, of what flatters them.”

  Madeleine was quiet, fearful of what X would say.

  “It’s just…” X trailed off, unsure of how to say it, “I saw the tags on the clothing. The bras themselves cost several hundred dollars. The price of the clothing…I cannot in good conscience buy it.”

  Madeleine was speechless for a moment.

  With a fragile voice, Madeleine replied, “Mr. Steinberg was very clear to me that you should purchase whatever clothing you like. Mr. Compton has not set an upper limit for it.”

  “It isn’t that,” X returned. “I am just…not the kind of woman these clothes are meant for.”

  What X wanted to tell Madeleine was that maybe Compton thought the clothing would make her happy, and if he had made that assumption, he was wrong. What was more likely, X guessed, was that Compton had arranged for the shopping expedition as a way to control her. That was how he controlled people, with his money. Maybe he wanted to impress her, thinking her deepest sentiments could be changed, that her feelings about his bloated wealth could be shifted with the right bribe.

  Even so, it was not Compton’s motives as much as the price of the clothing which disturbed X about the shopping expedition. The garments would ultimately go out of fashion; they were ultimately disposable. X knew that women bought designer clothing to demonstrate their societal rank, to show that they had the ability to spend on a dress what other people spent on their monthly mortgage payment. One thing that she was certain about was that purchasing the status clothing wasn’t about impressing men. X had never met one who had ever given a shit about the brand of purse she was carrying.

  X had tried on dresses that cost what X used to bring home in a month of legitimate work; there were purses, shoes and coats so expensive that the money could have supported families like her mother had worked with, to school them, give them medical care, change the direction of an entire village.

  In those years of her mother’s remission, a time when her mother had decidedly embraced life, X had occasionally traveled along as her mother dotted through South America, India and Africa, visiting places where the poverty was so acute as to burn the images into the mind forever. They had traveled to places where women still died outside of hospitals because they could not afford caesarians, where children went blind from lack of proper nutrition, where people picked through garbage for food, and where the clothing that people wore consisted of ragged shirts and shorts emblazoned with American logos.

  X thought to herself that she should not have agreed to this ridiculous shopping expedition, wondering how it was that Compton was able to direct her actions so well, first buying her artwork and now trying to dress her and impress her with apparel that would be out of fashion in less than a year. She had agreed to have Madeleine take her around, but X had assumed that once in the stores that she would be able to browse the racks and then leave; instead, Madeleine had directed X as to which purchases to make.

  “Oh, my,” Madeleine sighed. “I do respect what you are saying. I do. When Mr. Steinberg told me you are a painter, and then when I met you, I could tell in an instant that you are not a shallow woman. The clothing, yes, the pieces are expensive, but as you know, so is some art. Please try to appreciate the craftsmanship of it.”

  “It isn’t that,” X said.

  There was a silence between them, a space caused by neither of them knowing exactly what to say.

  X finished her cigarette and crushed it out under her boot.

  “I don’t want any of the clothing,” X said. “The bra I have on, I’ll keep that since they threw away my other one.”

  X looked at Madeleine and noticed that her eyes were welling up with tears. The woman was trying her best to contain them.

  X gently took a hold of her arm and asked her what was wrong.

  “I don’t want to concern you,” she said.

  “No, tell me.”

  Finally, she looked at X.

  “If you do not buy anything, Mr. Compton and Mr. Steinberg will not hire me again.”

  X thought of Madeleine and her son. There was no ring on her finger, and X assumed that she was a single mother.

  “So Compton always hires you when he brings women to Paris?” X asked.

  Madeleine did not answer her question but X could see the answer in her eyes.

  “Would he really not hire you again?” X asked.

  “Oh, no,” she said, “I am sure of it.”

  In fact, X wasn’t entirely sure that Compton wouldn’t hire Madeleine again if X refused to buy any clothing. But what she could tell from looking at woman was that Madeleine indeed believed that to be true.

  X took a moment to consider what to do. She thought of what her mother would do, decided that if the bastard wanted her to spend his money, he’d get his wish.

  “Alright,” X said. “We’ll get the clothing inside, as long as you promise me something.”

  Instantly, Madeleine’s mood changed.

  “Yes, what is it?” she said happily.

  And this next part X said in French, surprising Madeleine at her fluency and making it so that the bodyguard, an Englishman, would not tell Compton or Steinberg about what they were discussing.

  “Promise me at the next store we visit, and the store after that, not only will we buy things for me,” X told her, “but we will also buy things for you.”

  Madeleine was thinking, weighing out what X had asked her.

  “What is it?” X asked, unsure why she was not answering.

  “Mr. Compton…” she said.

  “Do the receipts list what size is purchased?” X asked. She shook her head no. Madeleine was a size or two smaller than X.

  “He doesn’t have to know then, does he?” X asked, and after a few moments, Madeleine agreed to her request.

  7.

  Later than afternoon, after they had finished shopping, X hugged Madeleine goodbye, the saleswoman all smiles and sparkling eyes, a look of gratitude on her face. Madeleine stayed behind at the last boutique, busily arranging for X’s new clothing to be wrapped, boxed, and delivered to the hotel.

  When X returned to the room, a note was waiting for her on the table in the entryway. She picked it up and opened it. The note, from Steinberg, let X know that Mr. Compton and his business associates had needed to go to an important meeting with representatives from the Paris Stock Market. It went on to say that Mr. Compton gave his regrets, but that he would need to cancel their planned excursion to Versailles.

  X tossed the note into the bin below the tabl
e before heading to the couch and turning on the television. It seemed to her that Compton spent most of his life in meetings, shuttling from here to there, moving around money as if performing a shell game, not just knowing shit from shinola, but through some technologic alchemy, actually turning one into the other. A feeling of disappointment came over her. It wasn’t so much that she had wanted to spend time with Compton (although the idea didn’t bother her nearly as much as it used to), but she had wanted to see Versailles. The son of a bitch had stood her up.

  It was mid-afternoon by then. The note had not specified when Compton would return, and X could only assume that he would not come back until much later. She knew this much, that she wasn’t about to wait around for him in the hotel room when there was a whole city to explore.

  From a pistachio colored box on the coffee table, X pulled out a small round chocolate, savoring it as each bite melted in her mouth. Then, after finishing it, she put her map of Paris into her purse, checking that the agenda that Steinberg had given her was still inside, and she headed out to the metro.

  As she left the hotel and stepped onto the busy Parisian street, the sun finally shining and lessening the chill of the winter air, X had the feeling that, if she desired, she would never need to return to the hotel, that her feet could carry her past Paris until the buildings shrank behind her, that she could continue until the soles of her shoes lifted off the ground, ascending over the concrete, taking her away from her predicament.

  She entered the Metro station and bought a ticket. The tunnels were cleaner than what she had seen in the States but still a commotion of activity. People hurried in and out of trains, zooming past each other or pausing in front of money machines or train schedules.

  X entered a train and it started to move, taking her to Montmartre, the place that her mother had so many times told her about. Then she was quick to send a text message to Agent Simeon telling him that she was alone and on her way to Sacré-Coeur.

  8.

  X’s mother had given her the bulk of her history lessons about Montmartre, telling her how historically, it was the district with cheap booze, cheap rent, and cheap women, the kind of place that artists and perverts were drawn to (X having noted to her mother that the two were often one in the same). X also knew that Van Gogh had lived with his brother for a couple years in a house on a little market street there and how, after living in Montmarte, his colors became more vivid and intense, his scenes more lively.

  But X knew about Sacré-Coeur because in the house where she was raised, her parents had displayed a small photograph of X’s mother which showed the young woman dressed in a simple sheath dress and pillbox hat as she stood on the lush lawn outside the church, its grey-white domes the backdrop behind her. X’s mother had told her how she loved Montmartre, how it was the real Paris, the grittier version, that the area was the lily underneath the gild.

  Now, as X made her way out of the metro and up to the streets above, passing small museums, restaurants, and souvenir shops as she made her way to the church, she thought of her mother, how she wished that they could have been together to explore the city. Finally, after a few more streets, X was in the same yard where her mother had been photographed. As she stood in virtually the same spot, X realized that the photographer would have probably been lying on the ground in order to get the photo of her mother.

  Along with all the other tourists, X climbed the steps leading to the building and then paused at the top to take in the view of the city. She was energized from the climb, from the cold, fresh air in her lungs, from the sun on her face. It was beautiful, the city stretching out in front of her, and X tried to identify the buildings in the distance: the domed Pantheon, the Gare du Nord train station, the dome of Les Invalides.

  She was by herself, able to enjoy the experience without being shadowed by the bodyguard, a man who seemed completely uninterested in any sort of conversation. But that was what Compton expected of him, his silence; he wasn’t getting paid to talk. Sure, Steinberg had told her that Europe was more dangerous than back home, hence the need for the bodyguard, but she had her doubts that she’d be kidnapped from one of the biggest tourist traps in the city or that anyone even wanted to kidnap her.

  X turned around, ready to enter the structure, its portico flanked by giant bronze statues of Joan of Arc and King Saint Louis XIV, their immense forms seeming to guard the entrance. She went into the church silently, a feeling of reverence swelling up within her. The last time she had been to church had been to attend her mother’s funeral mass. X walked through the church towards the altar, the impressive image of Christ high above, his arms extended to reveal his sacred heart afire with compassion and love for humanity. X hoped that it was true—hoped that there was a God, hoped that Christ had pity on the world.

  She continued through the church, past the stained glass windows depicting Saint Joan of Arc’s life, past Saint Peter’s bronze foot which she rubbed for good luck like all the other tourists. Finally, she entered a pew, kneeled, crossed herself, and began to pray.

  As the woman prayed, her head bowed down towards her interlaced fingers, Agent Simeon spotted her. He stood motionless, not wanting to interrupt her, in awe of her in the same way that he was in awe of the Basilica. He wondered what she was praying about, was amazed that she was praying at all. Maybe she was praying to God to forgive her for how she had taken pleasure in hurting him and Compton; maybe she was praying to be free of them.

  The thought of X being free from them frightened and saddened Simeon. He didn’t want the dynamic between them all to end or for X to leave them behind and go on with her life. He wanted to cloister her, keep her as his own like a bird in a cage, fully aware that her freedom was what was best for her, the thing that would make her happy.

  After X crossed herself again and finished her prayer, Simeon entered the pew and sat next to her. The pair was silent for a moment, and then X handed Simeon the agenda that Steinberg had given her which listed the attendees of the meeting. He opened it and scanned it before folding it up again and putting it into the interior pocket of his suit jacket.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you very much.”

  He stood then and she looked up at him, surprised that he had nothing else to say, nothing else to request of her.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow evening,” he said and then began to walk away.

  X was ashamed to be thinking of the event that she would be going to with Compton the night after, a masquerade ball that Simeon would also be attending. She wondered if she would be able to recognize him with a mask on, be able to recognize him at the upcoming orgy, and then she bowed her head and started praying again.

  X spent the remainder of the afternoon touring Montmartre. She went by the Moulin Rouge and down to the Pigalle, or Pig Alley as the soldiers used to call it, still filled with sex shops and peep shows, streets where once it was night, the homeless would be paid to pass out porn advertisements that would litter the sidewalks on a street as worn out and tired as old hooker.

  She went past Renoir’s house and then Picasso’s studio, remembering how Picasso had said that he painted things not as he saw them, but as he thought them. She visited the house where Van Gogh had lived, pausing reverently outside of its door. In the town square where the artists still hawked their works, she stopped to get coffee and a croissant.

  Her last stop was at the cemetery. As she walked through the graveyard’s nooks and crevices, admiring the sculptures at the tombs, she noticed the small groups that gathered near the graves of the famous writers, artists, and musicians. As she sat on a bench and paused for a smoke, X felt peaceful, alive. Her heart beat faster and a soaring happiness welled up within her. All the dead in their elaborate graves and exquisite tombs reminded her of the simple fact that she was alive. It was the antipodal nature of being near the dead that engendered the feeling, the same way, she noted, that pain could make the pleasure seem better.

  9.

  When Comp
ton returned to the hotel room with Steinberg, both of them somewhat tipsy from the drinks that had been served at the dinner meeting, Compton expected that X would be in the living room waiting for him. Instead, after searching each bedroom and the upstairs conference area, noting the neatly piled boxes and bags of clothing that had been placed by the hotel staff into X’s room, he found only emptiness.

  Compton had Steinberg call the hotel to see if the bodyguard they had reserved for X had gone out with her, and it was reported that no, the man was still in his quarters. Steinberg checked the table for a note from X and then spotted his own in the can below. The hotel checked the spa, pool, restaurant, and lobby, unable to find her anywhere.

  Next, Steinberg called X’s cell phone and was forwarded to her voice mail. He told his boss these things reluctantly. The years of working together had given Steinberg a super-sensitivity to Compton’s slightest nuances of emotion, and sensing the tension and anxiety that lingered under the surface of the man, usually so stoic and detached, he tried to reassure Compton that the woman had probably just gone out to buy a pack of cigarettes or to visit a shop and would be right back.

  Compton dismissed Steinberg, thanking him for the work he had done today. That was one of the things that Steinberg liked about Compton: besides the exorbitant pay that he received, besides the fact that he had traveled lavishly around the world with the man, meeting the upper crust of society, hobnobbing with dignitaries, celebrities, and royalty, Steinberg appreciated that his boss so often thanked him for his work and told him that he was doing a good job. Most of the time, Steinberg felt that it should be the other way around, that he was the one who should be thanking Compton. Steinberg had decided years ago that he would do almost anything for his boss, that he would go to extraordinary lengths for this extraordinary man.