Nicole was sitting on the futon when I emerged from the kitchen, Art Pepper playing softly on the stereo, obviously carefully selected from my jazz section. Her taste impressed me.
“Thanks for dinner,” Nicole said when I had joined her on the futon. She patted, then stroked my forearm softly. “It was delicious.”
“Your company honors me greatly. A splendid repast is the least I can do.” I pointed at the steel box. “Tell me about your father.”
Nicole took a sip of wine and held the shimmering glass in front of her eyes. “My father,” she began. “Like I said, he was a classics professor here at the UW. He died when I was in my early teens.” Her voice trailed off.
“At least you got to know him.”
“Yeah,” her voice bore a slight tinge of bitterness. “People always tell me that, that I was lucky he was alive long enough for me to get to know him, for me to be able to remember him, but a lot of times I almost wish I didn’t get to know him. If he died when I was just a little girl, then I wouldn’t know what I was missing, not having a father. That must sound terrible.”
I patted her hand gently. “No, not necessarily. You may feel that way sometimes, sometimes not. It is quite natural.”
“Yeah. Besides, my memories are mostly of him sitting in his study, reading Latin or Greek from some musty old book. Rome was his specialty, but I think he really hated the Romans. He was always talking about how stupid they were, how derivative their culture was. How no Roman ever had an original thought in their entire history.”
“Why dedicate his whole life to the study of a people he did not care for?”
“Good question.” She downed the remaining contents of her glass and reached for the bottle, her soft breasts brushing against my thigh. “To tell the truth, I think Rome killed him.”
“An interesting hypothesis.” I watched her place the bottle on the floor between her feet.
“I think he felt trapped, felt very unsatisfied. There he was, a tenured professor, with a nice house, a very nice wife and such a sweet little girl, but none of that made him happy. He didn’t really have any other interests outside his work, and he didn’t really like his work.”
“But it sounds like he found antiquity quite fascinating, even if he did not care for the subjects of his study.”
“My Mom told me Dad would’ve liked to have done his research on Greece, not Rome, but where he got his doctorate it was either Rome or nothing. And it was the only grad school he could get into and get funding, so he didn’t have any choice.”
“As a professor, he should have been able to do any research he wanted.”
“True, but I think Dad chose to wallow in the trap. Maybe he’d been feeling sorry for himself for so long, he didn’t know any other way.”
I studied the fine lines of her jaw, the aquiline nose, her high, scalloped cheek bones. So much like Anya, but different, so totally different once I was able to get to know her as her own person and not the ghost of another. “You seem to possess tremendous insight.”
“You think so?”
“Certainly.”
She again touched my forearm. Her hand lingered, stroking the thick, black hair on my arms, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. In a deep, distant place, there was a tingle.
“May I ask you something else?” I said quietly.
“Sure.” She folded her legs in front of her and turned her body toward me. “Ask me anything.”
“As I have stated previously, I am most flattered by your attention, but I am puzzled that you would be interested in me when there are so many younger men available. I look around, and there are so many strapping young lads. Why am I the one who arouses your interest?”
Nicole laughed heartily. “Al, you’re not that old. Mid-thirties, maybe late-thirties. I don’t think you’re old at all.”
I smiled broadly. “You might be surprised if you truly knew my age.”
She scrutinized me closely and completely. “Well, if you’re that old, you’re pretty well preserved.”
“Ah ha!” I laughed. “Yes, well preserved. That is it.”
Nicole touched my hair with the palm of her hand. “Very well preserved. You’re hair feels so soft. I’d say silken, but—it’s more like it’s smooth, like a marble statue.”
I reached up and touched the hand stroking my hair. Our fingers intertwined, then dropped slowly to the space between us on the futon, lingering together until I gently pulled my hand away.
“I do not seem that old to you?”
“Well, first of all, you’re not so old that you’re not good looking. You remind me of some of those very pale, very handsome British actors, like a young Lawrence Oliver, with even more charm.”
Kern’s “Old World charm,” but it was just supposed to work for tips. He had never said it would work elsewhere.
“You are older, Al, no question about that, but that means you’re just mature, a lot more mature than these boys. I’m not really interested in them. I mean, a few years makes a big difference.”
“You have had experience with less mature people?”
“Damn right, and I’m tired of it.” Her head bowed for a moment, then rose. “You seem like a gentle, kind person. You’re intelligent and easy to talk to. You seem to understand things, and you’re funny, too. Plus, you’re a good cook, a neat housekeeper and you don’t have any roommates. What else would a girl want?”
Funny? That is not an adjective I have often heard another person use to describe me. Perhaps, as the Americans say, funny strange, as opposed to funny ha ha.
Nicole slapped me on the thigh. “Well, I showed you mine, now show me yours.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“This woman you said I remind you of. What was her name?”
Quid pro quo. It would have been unreasonable to get something for nothing. Nicole’s parents were children when Anya was murdered, yet for one such as myself, it was merely yesterday. Scarcely a night passes when I do not feel the phantom sensation of her hand touching mine.
“Her name was Anya.”
“Did you love her?”
I nodded silently.
“She meant a lot to you, didn’t she?”
“Yes, she did.” I stared at the wood-paneled wall across the room, the grain fading and dissolving from the here and now before Nicole’s voice pulled me back.
“How’d you guys meet?”
My voice sounded wistful. “I was in Prague , conducting business.”
“Nice city. Been there a couple times.”
“You are fortunate. One night, I was attending a play by Anton Chekov. During an intermission, a friend introduced us. I think that from the first time we looked upon each other, we knew we were destined to be close. It was not so much that we were kindred spirits. Oddly, our meeting was a strange coincidence. We knew not of each other, yet I was actually quite close to her family. She was a gypsy, and my family had had close relationships with gypsies many times over the years.”
“I’m part gypsy,” Nicole interjected.
“Yes, I can see it in your eyes, black like the soft, velvety night.”
Nicole cooed softly, then laughed, beckoning me to continue.
“It was summer, and we went on outings together. I had to do a bit of traveling, and she accompanied me. It was not long before a bond formed between the two of us.”
“It must have been very special.”
“It was. So much of my life has been spent alone, and when someone emerges that I can enjoy such a bond with, it is quite exquisite.”
“So what happened to her?”
I paused, the here and now dissolving before my very eyes, but Nicole pulled me back again, lightly touching my shoulder, her fingers ever so softly stroking the fabric of my shirt.
“She died protecting me,” I began gingerly. Nicole nodded, prodding me to reveal more, to reveal all. “We were hiding from soldiers. Actually, I was hiding, and she was keeping watch until i
t was time for our train to leave to take us safely out of Prague . She could have fled to save herself, but she did not. Anya stayed with me, even when the storm troopers broke the door down. From where I was concealed, I could hear them beat her, rape her. Then, there was silence, and I was powerless to do anything to help her.”
“My God,” Nicole gasped, clamping a hand on my wrist. “God, how horrible. You must feel terrible. No wonder you were a bit freaked out. How can somebody ever recover from something like that?”
“Time heals.” Indeed, time does heal, though some humans do not live sufficiently long enough for that to happen. Still, at least they do not get haunted by memories for the next several centuries.
Nicole shook her head, her raven tresses falling forward, covering her face. She lifted her head and crossed her legs. “Wait a second. Storm troopers? In Czechoslovakia ? I thought they didn’t really have much of a standing army.”
“You are correct.” I paused for a moment, gathering my gumption. “They were not Czech. The soldiers were German.”
“Ah, East German soldiers. But what were they doing in Czechoslovakia ? Oh, must’ve been 1968. There must’ve been East German soldiers along with the Soviets when the Prague Spring was brought to its knees. I think I remember reading that the Soviets went in there with Warsaw Pact troops. Jeez, you were there? Wow. But, Al, even as terrible as that was, that’s a pretty long time to be carrying that kind of baggage.” She reached over and stroked my cheek. “You gotta let go of the past sometime.”
Indeed, but while short-lived mortals have the luxury of letting go of their past, eternity gives me the opportunity to wallow in it. “It was a little longer ago than ninteen sixty-eight,” I said, after pausing a bit, summoning the courage for full disclosure. Yes, full disclosure! Speak quickly before common sense can stop that reckless tongue! “Those Germans were not of the Warsaw Pact. They were Nazis.”
Nicole’s back straightened abruptly. “Nazis! Come on. You can’t be serious. You can’t be that old. No way. You’re pulling my leg.”
“I can assure you, this is no jest. They were Nazis.”
She slid away from me, her back rigid, but her voice still soft. “Why are you doing this? I don’t understand. Are you having an approach-avoidance problem? I mean, it’s probably my fault. I’ve been practically throwing myself at you when you’re obviously not in the kind of space where you can get close to somebody.”
“But I am ready. You are correct. It is time for me to let go of the past.”
“Then, why push me away when I get close? Why are you making up stories?”
“I am not—” I stopped myself, deciding to try a different tact. “You do have gypsy blood coursing through your veins? How much?”
Nicole’s expression turned from concern to bewilderment. She inched a little closer. “My maternal grandmother was a hundred percent gypsy. Why?”
“Do you or did you know your grandmother at all?”
“Did. She died fifteen years ago.”
“Do you remember her telling any stories about strange creatures her people had encountered over the centuries?”
“Yeah.” She stretched that single syllable in an auditory gesture of feigned patience. “Just children’s stories, bedtime stories about werewolves and vampires and strange creatures who were human, but had to eat raw meat.”
I reached for her hand, taking it in mine, not squeezing it, just holding the soft, precious thing. “You know, back in the old country, I may have known your grandmother. In fact, I may even have known your great- or great-great-grandmother.”
She yanked her hand away, abruptly stood and marched toward the door. “Okay, that’s it. I’ve had enough.” Her tone was annoyed, but still relatively calm in the placating way an overindulgent parent might speak to a petulant child. “I’m outta here. Thanks for a pleasant evening. Don’t call me.”
Nicole slammed the door behind her, leaving me to sit bewildered on my futon. Something metallic shimmered. She had left her father’s book behind.
Chapter 8
The Consequences of Truth
Thinking with your cock?
What manner of vulgarity is that? Such a queer expression, and quite inaccurate for one such as myself, if I correctly infer your meaning.
Well, perhaps in an odd sense, you may not be totally incorrect, though the degree to which you are correct is in a largely abstract manner. My judgment was in fact skewed in this matter, and considering the alleged dedication to purpose, I had made quite a royal mess of things. Common sense should have stopped my tongue from causing any further damage.
Briefly, I considered flight. With a few thousand dollars at my disposal, transport to anywhere on the planet could be arranged. Maybe Tibet . Francois was living there the last I had heard. He had made the decision to leave humanity; perhaps it was time I did the same.
No, I would not take such rash action. Nicole merely believed me insane. Frank, most likely, did not know what to believe. Surely, no one would believe him, even if he was able to articulate what he suspected about my nature.
The business with Frank was simply the kind of accident that happens to my kind on occasion. However, I cannot say what form of temporary insanity caused me to reveal myself to Nicole before knowing her well enough to consider her completely trustworthy. Wait and see what comes—this was the only viable option. No sense taking flight, not yet.
The only certainty was my responsibility to the job. Despite the situation, they still expected me to come in and drive a cab, even if the driver would be a mere shell, heart and soul too distracted to even be considered present.
Tuesday, I drove aimlessly, with little monetary gain to show for my efforts. When there were no calls in front of me, I would drive toward the intersections recited by the dispatcher, but never in time to be awarded a call. I would commence toward the nearest cab stand, until the next intersection was called, then would turn around, drive toward that call, only to be beaten.
Perhaps, if I had spent more time in a cab stand instead of constantly changing directions, the reward would have been greater.
Nicole was on the road that night. I wanted to talk to her to get a sense of whether she did believe me insane and, if she did not, whether or not she would betray me.
A chilling realization set in, that even if she did not believe me, if she repeated what I had said, and if Frank told anyone what he suspected, someone might, as the Americans say, put two and two together.
Realizing the futility of playing the board, I drove to the airport, knowing the wait might be substantial, but eventually a customer would be there for me.
Two cabs ahead, a door opened, and a large bulk emerged and lumbered toward my vehicle. It was Truck, aptly named for his big-boned frame bundled with vast rolls of fat covering rather thick muscles. His hair was long, black and stringy, his beard overgrown and quite unkempt. He wore a black leather jacket covered with thick, shiny zippers, heavy chains hanging from both epaulets.
He stopped by my door, his beard fluttering in the soft breeze. I rolled down my window.
“Hey Count, “ he said, a gentle smile on his face.
“Good evening,” I replied blandly, annoyed at the interruption of my solitude.
“You okay?” His smile faded, replaced by an expression of furrowed-brow concern.
“Adequate,” was my terse reply.
“Well, I was wondering, because earlier you and I were racing for a call—”
“We were?” Indeed, my preoccupation was apparently quite overwhelming.
“Well, yeah.” He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “You had me dead to rights, but when I got to the call, the passenger was waiting out front, and you were nowhere to be seen.”
“Then, apparently, you just simply beat me.”
He shook his head. “No, man. I’ve seen you in action. No way in hell I was beating you to that call. Hell, you’re one of Kern’s trainees. When Kern trains somebody, they win race
s.”
The fellow was sincerely concerned, though my mind was racing with various paranoid possibilities as to his real motive for speaking to me such. “I have been preoccupied, that is all.”
“Yeah, that’s what I figured.” Truck reached through the window and slapped me lightly on the shoulder. “Hey, just keep your head in the game. You got something on your mind, don’t let it get you into trouble. And if you’re that distracted, feel free to come off the road. You tell dispatch you just can’t drive, they don’t have a problem with you checking it in early.”
I thanked Truck. He bid adieu and returned to his cab. Shortly thereafter, headlights drew my attention to the rear-view mirror. A cab pulled up behind me, its driver long of raven hair, angular of face. What is it the Americans say? Let sleeping dogs lie? It seemed a good policy, except I still possessed her father’s book, far too valuable a relic to keep when it belonged to someone else. Civility certainly mandated that something be said to her regarding this.
To say the least, Nicole was less than happy to see me. Upon seeing me approach, she leaned back in her seat, arms crossed in front of her chest. She opened the window but a crack.
“Yes, Al.” Her tone was guarded and condescending, the way one speaks to a child.
I backed up slightly and raised my hands, palms facing her. “I am not here to harass you in any way.”
“Better not be.”
“I merely wish to inform you that I still have your father’s book. It is safe and awaiting your retrieval. If you so desire, I can drop it off at your house.”
Perhaps, the mention of her father’s book might have softened her demeanor. Perhaps not. “I desire no such thing,” she snapped. “I’ll come by and pick it up.” She closed her window and buried herself in a book.
At least her emotion was anger and not fear, a fact allowing for a certain degree of solace. Obviously, she merely thought me insane. One does accept camouflage, regardless of whatever bizarre shape it might take.
Eventually, a trio of planes landed. Flights had been delayed, but now the Cab Gods had blessed us. Every cab at the airport was able to load. Unfortunately, by this time, too many cabs had pulled in behind me, thus making it impossible to get a split-load, but at least there was activity with which to occupy myself.
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