Embraced by the Shadows

by Mayra Calvani

  The creature in my dreams ... But no, no, ridiculous ... The creature in my dreams was a panther. His brows, deeply black and somewhat slanted, gave him an air of seductive malevolence she had not seen before. And yet this seemed to be a trick of his features, for there was nothing evil-looking about the rest of his face. It was only the eyebrows, diagonally drawn like that. His eyes appeared yellow-brown, almost golden—she couldn't tell very well because of the flashing red lights around them—and were gazing softly, warmly at her. He was immaculately dressed in a white and blue-striped shirt with white trousers. Casual clothing, sleek, expensive looking. Like last night, the first four buttons of his shirt were undone, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, and his slightly wavy, black hair was gathered back into a ponytail.

  All this she took in, in a matter of seconds.

  "Hi,” she told him, smiling, rising to her feet. “How are you?"

  "Fine, thank you. And you?"

  "I'm fine."

  "I'm sorry I'm a little late. You know how the traffic is in Old San Juan. I couldn't find a parking spot,” he said apologetically.

  She glanced at her watch. “Hmm. Only six minutes late,” she said kindly.

  Sadash glanced around. “This place is too noisy and crowded. Would you like to go someplace else? Do you know El Patio de Sam?"

  Alana hesitated. This club was her territory, here she felt safe. Victor and all the waiters and bartenders knew her. But to go somewhere else with a stranger was another thing, even if she knew El Patio de Sam, which was a respectable bar and restaurant where many artists, intellectuals and tourists hung out.

  "How? In your car?"

  He seemed to have sensed her hesitation. “Whatever you prefer, Alana. We could go in my car, or we could take our own cars and meet there.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “Don't worry, I don't bite."

  "Oh, it's not that. I don't mean to insult you or anything, but you know how things are in this city, and I hardly know you...” her voice trailed off. But even as she said these words, one part of her wasn't worried or afraid at all, one part of her trusted this stranger completely. She regarded him for a moment.

  He was gazing intently at her. But he appeared calm, relaxed, his hands slipped inside his pockets, a smile playing over his lips.

  "Okay, we can go,” she finally said. “We can take our own cars and meet there. It's easier for you like this, so you won't have to drive me back here afterwards to get my car."

  He nodded his understanding. “That wouldn't be any bother at all for me. But sure, just as you like. It's very thoughtful of you,” he said. Was there a trace of sarcasm in his voice or was it her imagination?

  Sadash escorted her out of the club.

  Outside the night was warm and muggy, with a velvety liquid quality to it, and the air was filled with a deliciously salty tang—slightly fishy, actually, but delicious nonetheless—coming from the nearby Caribbean. For a Sunday night the streets seemed unusually alive. Tourists still strolled down the cobbled streets, though among the local people who hung out after this hour must have been individuals far from respectable, drunks and junkies, dope dealers, maybe even killers. Dubious-looking men in shabby shirts and pants leaned against the doorways of open bars or sat on top of the hoods of cars, drinking beer and grunting and making jokes, their coarse laughs echoing in the dimly lit street. Island music came out of these doorways, romantic ballads, salsas, merengues. Some of the women, clad in tight strapless tops and mini skirts, their bodies brown and voluptuous, slowly swung their hips from side to side with the music.

  Fortunately, Alana's car was parked close to the club. “See you in a few minutes,” she told him, opening the door of her car. She got in and started the engine, watching Sadash as he waved goodbye and disappeared into a dark side street toward his car.

  El Patio de Sam was only a few minutes away, very close to El Morro Fortress and with a distant view of the sea. There were more people in this area, more tourists window shopping. But there didn't seem to be any place to park her car. For God's sake, it was a Sunday night! Didn't people ever give up?

  She drove around the nearby streets for a few minutes, until finally she was able to find a free spot. The street was dark and quiet, too dark and quiet. But only for a second, the thought of possible danger crossed her mind.

  Sadash...

  She didn't even know his last name. What a crazy thing this was!

  Was she really doing this? Meeting a man she didn't know anything about at this late hour? For all she knew he could be a psychopath. Either she had lost all of her senses, or she was under the influence of a spell. And since it couldn't be the latter, then it had to be the first.

  She locked her car and trotted quickly down the street, vaguely disturbed by two narrow alleys she had just passed, and by the ominous darkness behind her. She turned left at the corner and went up the steep cobbled street. Here there were lights, cars, strolling people. Ah, civilization. She was safe again. A block farther she turned right.

  Here it was. El Patio de Sam. A cluster of what appeared to be young artists stood by the doorway with drinks and cigarettes in their hands, talking.

  Alana squinted into the bar, searching for Sadash, but she couldn't see him.

  He was probably having trouble finding parking, too. She stood nervously by the entrance, distractedly aware of the leering glances she got from the men. She didn't want to be misunderstood, taken for a classy prostitute. So many women went to bars looking for company.

  Then she saw him approaching.

  Alana held her breath. Here it was again, that odd vertiginous sensation of closeness, of intimacy. For a fraction of a second his face seemed to glow, to acquire that subtle opalescence she had seen the night of the opening, like a quick prismatic flash in the distance. What was it? A trick of her vision? A devious effect created by the fluorescent lights of the street? It had to be an illusion. And yet, she had seen it, she was sure of it.

  Sadash smiled, coming to her side, and Alana pictured herself standing on tiptoe and kissing the dimple on his face. The image was clear and vivid in her mind. She pushed it aside, feeling a hot wave wash over her face.

  "Have you been waiting long?” he asked.

  "Oh, no, just a minute or two."

  He glanced over her shoulder at the restaurant. “Are you hungry? If you're hungry, we can go into the restaurant. It's not twelve yet. I think they're still serving food."

  Imagine, thinking of food at a time like this! She was going to have trouble just sipping her drink, with him in front of her. “No, thank you, I'm not hungry."

  "Me neither. But let's go into the restaurant, anyway. It's a lot nicer there,” he said. His hand closed around her naked arm—again that tingly coolness, that subtle possessiveness—and he led her into the restaurant.

  The restaurant was a big square open patio adorned with tall green plants set in large ceramic pots. Naturally, it was almost empty at this late hour. A waiter showed them to a table and asked what they would like to drink.

  "I'll have a glass of wine, please. Red, blood-red,” Alana said, leaning her elbows on the table and her chin on her crossed hands. She saw Sadash's eyes momentarily widen. “Did I say anything wrong?"

  He smiled. “Just curious at your choice of words. The reddest of wines can never be blood-red,” he said.

  "To tell you the truth I don't even know why I said that,” Alana said.

  "A Coca-Cola for me, please,” Sadash said to the waiter.

  After the waiter left them, Alana said, “Now is my turn to be curious about your choice of words. Coca-Cola. No one says Coca-Cola anymore. They just say Coke."

  "What are you talking about? Coca-Cola. Coca-Cola. It sorts of rolls off your tongue. I love that word."

  For a moment they just looked at each other, smiling.

  "It's so strange, being here together,” she finally said, though she herself wasn't quite sure what she meant by this.

  "Strange? Don't tell
you're not used to ... being asked out,” he said.

  "Well ... let's just say I'm a little antisocial."

  "Then we have one thing in common."

  "You're antisocial? How can someone who's antisocial be such a good dancer?"

  "Touché. Let's just say I have my moments. But usually I prefer staying at home and reading a good book."

  "Really? I love books. All kinds of books. Though I have to say horror books are my weakness. The only problem is I can't sleep afterwards. I know it's childish, but I get scared. I get...” she began, her eyes involuntarily avoiding his, “...nightmares."

  "The power of suggestion. Too much imagination."

  "Or the sign of a weak mind."

  "No. Too much imagination is never the sign of a weak mind. Take my word for it."

  "Well, I'll take that as a compliment. Thank you. What about you? What kind of books do you like?"

  "Oh, all kinds of books, too. History, philosophy, theology. In fiction I can't say I like horror books very much. I prefer detective novels. Actually, I'm quite addicted to them. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Agatha Christie..."

  "I love Conan Doyle and Christie! I've read all of their books."

  "What about horror authors? Which one is your favorite?"

  "Horror authors?” she said, a bit startled. Why was she suddenly uncomfortable? There was one author she adored, more than all the others—Bram Stoker. But for some unexplainable reason admitting this to him made her feel guilty.

  His eyes were intently fixed on hers.

  "Stephen King,” she lied. Partly lied. She rather liked King, too.

  At that moment the waiter came with their drinks. As soon as the waiter put her wine on the table Alana took a long, generous drink. What in hell was wrong with her? She suddenly felt as if she hadn't had any liquid in two days.

  "I didn't realize I was so thirsty,” she said apologetically, licking her lips. The wine went straight to her head like a shot of some powerful drug. She saw he moistened his lips, too, though his Coca-Cola still lay untouched. In a second everything around her seemed to acquire an eerie, surrealistic quality.

  "Tell me more about yourself, Alana,” Sadash said, leaning closer to her over the table. “About your job. Do you like working at the restaurant?"

  She shrugged. “It's all right, for now. The job doesn't have anything to do with what I studied. I majored in philosophy. I just graduated this last June. I don't know. I saw the job ad in the newspaper and thought I'd give it a try. It's fun, to dress like that and everything. And the salary is good. But I think next year I may go for my master's degree. After these last few weeks working at the restaurant there's one thing I've found out for sure—I'm the academic type."

  He smiled. He seemed eager for her, for her words. “Tell me more. I want to hear more about yourself. Everything."

  "Everything? Are you sure you want to get bored? I hate talking about myself,” she complained. Yet she was smiling, secretly pleased.

  "Nothing about you could possibly bore me,” he said.

  "How can you know that? You don't know me.” She found herself admiring his eyes. The restaurant was brightly lit, and for the first time she was able to see their true color. They were splendid. The hell, a man had no business with eyes like that! Deep-set and very light brown and speckled with luminous green and yellow flecks which appeared to flicker and vibrate as he moved his head under the lights. Their luminous hue was heightened by the dusky tan of his skin.

  "Can I be honest with you?” he asked.

  "Please be,” she said.

  "When I first saw you, the night of the opening, I was immediately drawn to you. It wasn't just your pretty face. It was something else, an intensity in your face and in your eyes, a sadness directed at yourself and at the rest of the world around you, as if you were carrying a heavy load on your shoulders. This instantly intrigued me, because it made me think you didn't have the slightest idea what this load was. I felt I understood you, and even though we didn't know each other, I felt very close to you ... unnaturally so."

  Alana listened, a bit baffled. Should she tell him what she had thought about him in that instant, when the yellow light of his eyes had seemed to pierce and scan her very soul?

  But she didn't have to tell him, for he seemed to have read her thoughts.

  "I felt the same impression coming from you. When our eyes met I felt a ... connection between us. Actually, I'm not exactly sure what I'm saying. I hope I'm not sounding stupid,” he said, smiling rather sheepishly, though his eyes were quite solemn and keenly fixed on hers. Such a contrast, those demonically slanted brows, that soft warm smile. “Of course, I can be totally wrong. Was I wrong, to have thought this?"

  "I don't know...” she said. “I was drunk that night. That probably explains the expression on my face. I get very depressed when I drink, not to say totally idiotic. I shouldn't drink.” As if to prove her point she downed more of her wine. Then she said, “I'm not sure what I felt when I saw you. Your face looked ... not familiar, but ... I don't know.” She let out a wry laugh. “I thought I was hallucinating.” Then she added, as though telling him a secret, “You know ... I went to Turkey once."

  "Really?"

  Alana nodded. “Twelve years ago. With my family—my mother and uncle, anyway.” The image of her mother's face flooded her mind. In spite of herself, she felt a pang of grief.

  "I haven't been there in years,” he said. “Where in Turkey did you go?"

  "We went to Istanbul. You know, on one of those organized tours. We spent a week there."

  With his fingertip he traced the round edge of his glass. The ice had begun to melt in his Coke. “What did you think of it? You must have been too young to enjoy it."

  The image of the bazaar sprang into her mind. “Yes ... yes, you're right. I was only ten. I didn't have a great time. I remember that. It was very hot and crowded. But if I were to go now it'd be different. I'm fascinated with the Middle East. Its history and mythology. I minored in history at the university. Specifically, Middle Eastern history. I took many courses in mythology, too. I think it's fascinating."

  "Tell me about your family."

  "My family?” She shrugged. “There's nothing much to tell. My father died when I was two years old. He had cancer. But I was too small, I don't remember him. After that my uncle—my mother's brother—came and lived with us. He became like my father. We were very close. We are, actually, very close. But he lives in France now. He's a fashion designer."

  "What about your mother?"

  My mother ... “My mother? She died when I was thirteen. There was an accident...” Alana's voice was calm yet restrained, an edge of ice in it. “She drowned in the pool. She mixed some sedatives with alcohol and she drowned in the pool. It was an accident."

  "I'm sorry. You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

  "No, it's okay. Really. I mean, I can't turn my back on the facts. I faced reality a long time ago. The reality of death."

  "It must have been very difficult for you."

  "Yes ... Uncle Angelo took me on a long trip to Europe. He was totally devastated. He thought the trip would help us forget. But you can never forget something like that, can you? I might as well tell you she was an alcoholic. I don't think that I ever came to know her.” She gave him a bitter smile. “I'm sorry. You must think I'm crazy, don't you? Talking to you about my mother's death and smiling. But I always cover my emotions with a smile, even though I'm dying inside. I don't know why, I just do."

  His voice was soft, soothing. “I know. And I regret I asked you about this. The last thing I meant was to make you unhappy."

  As if she hadn't heard him, she said, “She began drinking after my father's death. But I was just a child. I couldn't have helped her. I didn't even realize it until much, much later."

  "Never blame yourself for it,” Sadash said, almost a command. “You were just a child. There's nothing you could have done about it."

  Ala
na finished her wine. Then she lifted her empty glass at him in self mockery. “The ironic thing is I love drinking,” she said, putting the glass back on the table. “I should hate alcohol. But I love it. I perfectly love it!” She knew part of her only wanted to prove that she could control her drinking, that she could enjoy her wine and rum and Coke without ever becoming dependant. Yet another part of her froze with fear at the possibility of turning into her mother.

  "A few drinks here and there can never harm you. It's the obsession with the past what can harm you. And the past is what you're still carrying on your shoulders. That's what I perceived, when I first saw you. That heavy load on your shoulders ... it's the past."

  "Maybe,” she said. Then a haunting memory came to her thoughts. Disturbing words that an old woman had told her in Boston. Words that had confused and enraged her, and that, even though she had forced herself to ignore, still had the talismanic power to baffle her. She later had told Valeria about it, and Valeria had been stunned. Then upset and angry. She hated to see Alana sad and depressed, and had told her to discard the whole thing as the ravings of an old woman.

  "What is it?” Sadash said, seemingly curious by the sudden expression on her face.

  "No, it's nothing. I was just remembering something. I can tell you, it's no secret. It's something that a woman, a gypsy woman, told me in Boston three years ago.

  "She was a palm reader. I'm very curious about palm-readers, not that I must believe what they might tell me. Anyway, we were at a fair and a friend urged me to try my luck and go inside the gypsy's tent. I was a little amazed, actually. The gypsy told me many things that were true, about my past, about my family, about my plans for the future. It's true that many of the things she said could have been applied to half the population of the world, but the thing is, she seemed good, she impressed me a bit. And then ... she told me the most incredible thing. She said that my mother had been killed. I told her that my mother was indeed dead, but that it had been an accident, that she had drowned. But she shook her head. She told me she couldn't see the details clearly in her mind, but that my mother had been killed. Whether accidentally or not, she didn't know. But that she had been killed by someone.” Alana stared at him, her brows furrowed in bewilderment. “Really strange, isn't it?"