by Cynthia Dane
They crossed the nearest bridge into downtown – and then kept going. Soon they were entering the hills that would either take them to nearby Beaverton or some of the swankier homes in the area. Is he taking me to his place? Is that where a man hangs out on his days off? Nala had to wonder how a man like Vincent lived. He didn’t seem like the type to keep a mansion in the high hills. Nah, more like a penthouse apartment. A smaller one. Something easy to keep clean, even with the help of a maid.
“Oh, I see.” Nala chuckled as the car veered toward the rose gardens. Seemed like a poor time of year to view them, but who knew what a billionaire kept up his sleeve? “You like roses?”
They drove past. “Not really. Why? Do you? Should we go back?”
“No.” Nala remained focused on the road before them. “Where are we going?”
“Here.” The car made an abrupt left into a small parking lot at the bottom of a hill. A shuttle waited to take a new crop of tourists up to the top of the hill, where the world famous Japanese gardens lurked in a small corner of Portland. “Hope you don’t mind I picked something outdoorsy.”
“Mind? My people were made to be hardy in the out of doors.”
They exited the car, Nala’s arms stretching above her head. “Your people?” Vincent asked. The car doors locked with a soft click.
She lowered her arms. “Them stocky Russians. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”
“I may have thought it, but with a name like Nazarov, there isn’t much room to guess. You’re either from that part of the world or in denial.”
They walked a couple feet away from one another as they forewent the shuttle and started the trek up the hill. Little streams of water coursed down pavement, circling potholes, and emptying into natural ditches full of dead leaves and dirt. “Do you know where your family is from?” Nala had met tons of people who had no idea where their ancestors came from. It was such a strange concept to her. Being “Russian” was such a huge part of her identity growing up, even if her parents did their best to quash it so they could assimilate into American culture easier. Especially back then. The Berlin Wall had fallen before she was born, but even Nala still saw traces of the Iron Curtain drawn between her old communities and their all-around American neighbors. TV shows did not help.
“I think they’re from Germany and Britain. Boring stuff.”
“You think?”
“I really don’t know. Maybe Dutch. My family has been here for hundreds of years. My mother joked that her grandfather came over on the Mayflower.”
“My parents came from around Moscow in the ‘80s. My mom still has a bit of an accent.”
Vincent asked the same thing every person ever asked her. “Do you speak Russian?”
“Speak it? Nah. I understand some of it, though, if it’s my mom’s dialect. She spoke it at home a lot, especially after my father died and she didn’t care anymore.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Why? Wouldn’t it be better for me to be exposed to it? You know what a lot of those first generation parents say. They regret holding their culture back from their kids because they were afraid they would be bullied or have troubles getting work. My parents were that way. I think they would have regretted it.” Nala snorted. “My sister taught herself a lot of Russian anyway. Minored in it in undergrad.”
“That’s cool. I tried learning Mandarin. Didn’t take.”
“I know nothing but English and some dirty, casual Russian. My Spanish classes in high school have not stuck.”
“It’s the true American way. Everyone is monolingual, unless they secretly aren’t.”
“Monolingual, immigrants, or overachievers who speak several languages a piece, none of them very well.” Nala had met a ton of those since moving to Portland. They always knew Spanish, German, and Japanese. Always Japanese, as she was reminded when they started up a winding walkway surrounded by bilingual signs. “Anyway, you like this place? Your favorite in the whole city?”
“That’s open right now, yeah.” Lo’ and behold, Vincent pulled out a year pass as they approached the front gate. Tourists mingled in the gravelly entrance. Schoolchildren complained about wanting to go home. An artist carted in an easel and set of paints, and a plethora of photographers took turns coming in and out with their heavy equipment. It was the sort of sight Nala expected to see at one of these places. She had heard the Japanese gardens of Portland were world class, but had never gotten around to going. It cost money to go there and get in, after all.
Vincent flashed his pass and announced that Nala was his complimentary +1. “I’ve never been here before,” Nala said. “Took a stroll through the Chinese gardens in Chinatown once. Doubt they’re alike?”
“Not really. Come on.” Vincent waved his hand for her to follow. “Check this place out.”
“Yes, sir.”
Nala followed with a lackadaisical smile, but it was Vincent who stopped and glimpsed at her with a tired expression. Don’t like me even joking about that, huh? Fine. Nala could mind herself, especially if another paycheck was on the line.
The gardens had no particular route to follow. Some people went right, some went left, and all wandered around aimlessly. The occasional sign pointed the way to a landmark, like the Zen garden or teahouse. For every corner that was devoid of life and as tranquil as one’s own blank mind, there was another packed with people taking pictures and pointing out different plants to one another. Nala didn’t know anything about that. She knew nothing about gardening, art, or even much about East Asian culture. He says he took Mandarin. Is that similar to Japanese? She would never ask that out loud, out of fear of embarrassing herself. For all she knew, it was like asking if there was a difference between Russian and Ukrainian. In her experience, most monolingual Americans assumed a flat no.
The two of them walked along a single path, stopping here and there to observe something in silence. Sometimes Vincent would catch her attention regarding a leaf or the way plants were laid out. Other times Nala would hold up their progression so she could squint and read a sign. It was interesting, to say the least. Interesting, but not something she would choose to do on her own.
So what does this guy like about this place? Vincent looked neither bored nor enthralled. He walked and spoke as he always did, mouth taut and eyes narrowed. He always looked as if he were about two seconds away from either popping a man’s head off or lying down for a long nap. Before, Nala assumed he was a stoic, antisocial mess who worked too much and didn’t care about “fun.” Now, knowing what she did about his past, she realized that a lot of the fog swarming his frame was that familiar face of grief.
This man was in as much pain as she was. Because of Xavier Crow? Nala continued to steal glances at him as they stood in front of a pond, watching carp swim in their brilliant orange glory. Vincent’s eyes followed every trail they weaved, his face finally relaxing. Nala half expected him to say, “I used to come here with Desirée all the time.”
They were in love. Nala didn’t need him to tell her that. Vincent wouldn’t be vengeful if Desirée were “just” a classmate whose project he completed in her memory. He may keep an interest in finding out what really happened to her, but he wouldn’t go as far as he had. He wouldn’t have infiltrated The Aviary, let alone with a woman he just met. They were really in love. Crow had crossed the wrong man. Somehow, Nala had been lucky enough to meet him.
Vincent sat on an empty bench overlooking a wide, man-made lake en route to the teahouse. It was quieter here, although some people continued to pass before him. Nala lingered by the railing, watching water ripple and trees sway in the breeze, before quietly sitting next to him and trying to see what he saw.
Peace. Reverie. A slice of the world that was built for meditation and reflection. Even Nala, who shivered a little beneath her hoodie and had to stuff her hands in her front pockets, had to admit that the world was a better place when she sat here.
“It’s a nice spot.” Her voice acted
as if it broke the fragile glass surrounding Vincent’s space. He turned his head toward her, elbows resting on his bent knees. “I can see why you like it. No one bothers you here.”
“It’s easy to sort out of my thoughts. Business, personal…” Vincent shrugged. “I might have come here today anyway, even if you didn’t suggest it.”
“But I didn’t…”
“You asked me to take you to my favorite place, right? Well, now you know. Even my assistant doesn’t know he can find me here.”
Nala gripped the edge of the bench, her fingers burning in a cold breeze that blew by at that moment. “Thanks for bringing me here. What did you want to talk about? Friday?”
It seemed so far away now. This man was different. This feeling was different. What happened on Friday? Eh. It didn’t matter. So what if Vincent had a lapse in lust and reason? Wasn’t like Nala didn’t want it. She was still a bit tiffed he didn’t bother to make sure she came too, but he knew now…
“No, not here,” Vincent said, interrupting her thoughts. “We should be in private for that discussion. But it’s good to come clear my mind, I guess.”
“You didn’t have to do it with me, so, I’m thankful, I suppose.”
“No problem.”
They remained a respectful distance. People passing by, like the young family trying to get opportune photos with their toddlers, and the German couple gruffly discussing the map, would have never guessed they were a couple. Because we’re not, I guess. It didn’t bother Nala. She wasn’t looking for love, especially with a man she was in an undercover mission with.
Still, boundaries had fallen the other night. The man had touched her. Intimately. He had taken her in such an animalistic way that she couldn’t help but feel connected to him even now.
“I’m not mad about Friday,” she muttered. “It was kinda weird, thinking about it, but I won’t pretend I didn’t like it.”
Vincent remained silent. Wind rustled in the dormant cherry trees above them.
Nala scooted closer, perhaps searching for some warmth, but with a man as closed off as Vincent, the best she could hope for was some of his hot breath as he talked in her direction. “I’ve been trying to stay distant because I don’t want to lose sight of my sister. I was in a relationship before she died, you know.”
A curt voice entered her ear. “No, I didn’t.”
Although he didn’t ask, Nala continued. “Nothing serious, although it lasted a couple years. We didn’t even live together. Just hung out on weekends, talked on the phone sometimes, and, well… did couple stuff.” Vincent was right. Best not to directly talk about sex in public like this. “He was more like a best friend than a real lover. When my sister died… I couldn’t do it anymore. I didn’t want anything to do with anyone. Some people rally others around them when they’re grieving. Me? I pushed them all away. My mother was the same. We pushed each other away. She had lost her husband and a child. How could I compare that to losing a sister? It didn’t matter that I was still around. One daughter was alive, but the other was dead. Let alone the golden child who was probably going to cure cancer.”
“I see.”
At least Vincent was able to pretend he cared about what she had to say. “So I dumped my boyfriend. Is it weird I’ve never missed him? I mean, sometimes I wish he was around to play video games and forget about life with, but I don’t like… miss his touch or weird stuff like that. He was super average.”
Vincent leaned against the bench, hands disappearing into his hoodie pockets.
“I don’t know why I’m telling you this. It’s not like we’re actually friends. I guess I’ve gone so long without talking about myself to someone that… well, after Friday, we don’t have much left sacred between us.”
“Only emotionally.”
“Only emotionally,” Nala agreed. “You seem like a possibly nice guy, Vincent. A hurt guy. A really guarded guy, but potentially nice. I don’t blame you for any of that. God knows I can’t let go either.”
The world continued to go by at a snail’s pace as they sat there, taking in the exquisite scenery. I bet in the spring this place is gorgeous. Cherry blossoms. Plum blossoms. Greens and sunlight as far as the eye could see. Did crickets chirp in unison during hot summer evenings? Could you see the stars twinkling above the ponds? Would Nala come here in a few months and be completely blown away, her heart ripped to shreds because it couldn’t contain such natural and man-cultivated beauties? Was this where Vincent came to think through making a billion dollars? The man had since picked up a small twig and began writing equations in the dirt. After he had smeared and rewritten them half a dozen times, he pulled out a pad and pencil and wrote down a hard copy. Oh my God, he’s officially a geek.
“You’ll be able to let go one day,” he said, long after Nala’s last reply. She had almost forgotten what he referred to. “As soon as we make Crow pay for his crimes.”
“How will we even do that?”
“I have no idea. One step at a time.”
“I would hope a genius billionaire like you would know what to do next.”
He shrugged. “Fucking beats me today.” His last equation disappeared in the dust as he stood and stepped all over it. “Let’s go. Sun’s going down fast.”
At that time of year, such a thing was a given. But he was right. The longer they sat there, the faster the sun disappeared behind the surrounding trees. Fewer people walked by. A nip entered the air that was not there before.
Nala got up and walked by Vincent’s side. They were slow going, not because of foot traffic blocking the paths, but because the tall man’s strides did not wish to outpace Nala’s smaller ones. Their hands remained in their pockets, hoods covering their hair and ears, and breath as frosty as snow every time they exhaled. At least it wasn’t raining. For once.
When they stopped at a pedestrian turnout in a grove of growing cherry trees, Nala caught a look on Vincent’s visage that said the man hid more than a few words of pain. Whatever he thought about, it was making him think of things – and people – lost so long ago.
Nala drew her hand out of her pocket and tugged on his arm. When his hand fell from his hoodie pocket, she wrapped her fingers around him, willing what warmth she had into his body.
They stood there, awkwardly, Nala’s affection not going unnoticed, but unremarked. Vincent did not shrug her off, but he continued to stare ahead, fixated on a contraption that made noise every few seconds when it filled with water. Once the top was full, it banged! downward and spilled the water into a receptacle. A sign said it was a classic contraption used to frighten raccoons and other small critters. If anything, Nala found the rhythmic sound soothing.
Her hand squeezed Vincent’s. A heavy breath racked his body, sending shivers through Nala, who cleared her throat and hoped they would soon move on. They weren’t too far from the path that would take them back to the entrance.
When they continued, it was hand-in-hand, their fingers tentatively entwined in what was perhaps the barest minimum in regards to affection. Yet for two torn up people like Nala and Vincent, hell, it was more than efficient at reminding them that nobody had to be alone, no matter who they were or what they had been through.
Nala needed reminding of that.
Chapter 13
She didn’t ask where they were going when Vincent pulled out of the parking lot and drove with purpose back into downtown. They got stuck in some late afternoon traffic, but it wasn’t enough to trap them on the infamous Burnside Street. They drove past historical hotels, the biggest indie bookstore in the world, and parts of Chinatown that even Nala hadn’t explored before. Vincent whipped to the left before they hit the bridge, taking them up a road weaving through barren industrial parks.
If I thought he were a serial killer, this would be it! By now it was all but black outside, with the occasional light twinkling either from a building or from a plane coming in for landing. Nala didn’t think much of anything when Vincent pulled down a dark s
treet lined with big, brick buildings that looked like they hadn’t been used in years.
Even so, he pulled into a small carport blocked off by a secure fence, cell phone in hand as he called for a pizza delivery.
“You hate anything?”
“No anchovies.”
Nala stood outside the car, taking in the smell of the Willamette River half a mile away. A freeway passed by, high enough in the air for cars to wink in and out of existence as they went on their way. A drizzle began to fall. A part of her was glad to be led up a flight of metal stairs, while another part of her wanted to continue to stand and take in the past of Portland.
She shouldn’t have been surprised by how Vincent lived. A young, affluent bachelor like him was either the penthouse lover or someone drawn to converted lofts. Of course he was all about the latter.
Exposed brick, exposed beams. Open living that would make most middle-class yuppies salivate. The wide, open living area went straight into a dining area and then a spacious kitchen with all the trimmings. A guest bathroom sat to the side, sporting one of the only doors in the loft aside from closets and a back door permanently shut. Up a twirling, wrought-iron staircase was the loft itself. Even from down by the entrance, Nala could see a king-sized bed draped in cream-colored comforters, pillows, and who knew what else.
It didn’t look like much, but between the location and how trendy such a place was, Nala was sure it cost at least a cool mil. It looked well lived in, so Vincent probably purchased it before he became an uber rich asshole.
If there were any great lights in the place, Nala never got to see them. Vincent seemed content to live in the dark, with only a few, soft glowing lamps illuminating the kitchen, dining area, and the bed upstairs. Nala didn’t ask for permission as she flopped onto a leather couch facing a large flatscreen TV. Video game consoles were neatly stacked beneath the coffee table. An advance copy of the latest Fallout game lay on top of the glass. Of course he likes playing games about total desolation. Of course. This man was so damn angsty inside that it almost made Nala laugh.