Mirror Maze
( Janek - 4 )
William Bayer
William Bayer
Mirror Maze
1
Mirror Girl
Always on those rainy nights when she decided to drive into the city to play the game, she would first revisit the mirror maze… All that afternoon, warm rain danced against the tin roof of the loft, and the faint howling of a dog, somewhere on the fringes of the park, made her think of pain. With darkness, light from the sulfurous street lamp across the road, cut by the blinds, cast soft stripes across the walls and floor. She sat on her hard wooden stool listening to the patter on the roof and the squeak of the ceiling fan as it thrashed the humid air.
When, finally, she made her decision, she moved with swift resolve. She rolled up the little blue rug beside her bed, opened the trapdoor beneath, then made her way by memory and touch down the wooden ladder to the catwalks.
These she crossed with the grace of an aerialist. When she reached the switchboard, she turned on the lights below. Then she lowered herself deftly to the floor down a soft, thick white gym rope. Finally she stripped off all her clothes and walked out to face the mirrors.
The ones in the sharply angled Corridor met her like angry sentinels-fattening, elongating, disproportioning her body. She strode rapidly past them, wound her way through the labyrinthine Chamber, exited via the sinuous Fragment on Serpent, then entered the Great Hall of Infinite Deceptions. Here, in the middle of the vast room, she stopped, then slowly turned like a skater cutting a figure on a patch of virgin ice.
Her glossy tresses of dark brown hair, so dark they looked almost black in the mirrors, cascaded down her neck, broke upon her shoulders and edged her pale back. Pausing to regard her high cheekbones and sculpted lips, she smiled gently at her likeness. Fair skin, brown irises, dark brows, modeled chin-she was a beauty and she knew it.
She basked before the multiple images. The reflections ravished her eyes. Then she began to look beyond herself, searching out corners and crevices in the silvered glass. There was secrecy in mirror space, places to hide and to conceal, corridors of sparkling light, endless shimmering passages and tunnels.
She positioned her image into one of these, stared hard at her eyes, willed herself entry. Then, in an instant that no matter how often she experienced it would always seem magical, she passed through to become her dream-sister the one she'd known since girlhood, the one who lived in mirror world.
She felt safe then, in a place where so many things were possible, where the rules and laws that governed the world outside were null and void.
Here, in the land of mirrors, normally forbidden acts could be performed without fear or guilt and to degrees of intensity undreamed of even in deepest sleep.
Later, wigged blond, dressed smart, artfully made up, she drove into Manhattan through the tunnel beneath the river, then onto the city's rain-slick streets. She kept all her car windows shut. Only music from the tape deck, dizzying arias sung by great divas, reached her ears.
Cruising the avenues of the upper East Side, she raised her eyes from the herd of taxis to gaze into her rearview mirror. Glimpsing the reflection of her dream-sister, she shivered at the sight. What if she were trapped? What if the mirrors turned cruel and refused to let her out? Then I will be lost forever, she thought, dread dissolving in the vision of street lamps reflected in the gleaming wet black avenue ahead.
She was searching for a bar, one she'd never been in before. She would know it when she saw it. There would be an aura: a rich warm glow, laughter and conversation spilling out, perhaps a handsome, well-dressed man entering alone.
Marks were always to be found in such places. Diana had taught her that.
For the first months after she had left, she had continued to follow her old mentor's rules. She had always been better at the game than the other girls-subtler, slicker, far more credible. Diana had told her that she had a gift for it, was a "natural," that with concentration she could out gross the others ten-to-one. Now, a year and a half after striking out on her own, she had begun to rely on her instincts. Now, too, she played only on rainy nights.
She chose a place called Aspen, a preppy jock hangout with an "apropos ski" look: glowing yellow lamps, a glistening U-shaped bar, the whole place carefully defined by its adornments-tarnished athletic trophies, crossed ski poles and lacrosse sticks, framed amateur team photos crowding the walls-all calculated to create instant nostalgia for some nameless generic school distinguished by its love of sports.
She was standing just inside the doorway, taking in the buzz, inhaling the aroma of smoke, perfume and beer, when she noticed a man glance up at her from the bar. Late thirties, expensive striped Italian shirt, thinning light brown hair. He appraised her briefly, met her gaze, grinned in welcome, then turned back to his drink.
In the instant when their eyes met and locked she recognized him as her mark. Not the flashy type of salesman conventioneer Diana had taught her to seek out, but someone better and less gullible. A superior man with cultural interests, perhaps moderately successful with women. A well-educated man, possibly divorced, who most likely owned an apartment in the neighborhood.
Striped Shirt looked up, smiled at her again. Already she felt regret; this conquest, it seemed, would not be difficult. She turned slowly, a signal that she noticed him but chose not to recognize his interest.
Spotting an empty table, she moved toward it, knowing he was watching to see if she sat alone.
The waiter was a puppy: bright eyes, cute polka-dot bow tie, tail of frizzy hair tied back with a rubber band. He flirted with her ("How're you tonight?"), then asked what she'd like to drink.
She squinted at him. "Have I seen you in something?" He smiled. "You a casting agent?" She shook her head. "Well," he admitted shyly, "I was in an ad in Details. You might've seen me there."
They chatted briefly about his career. He was looking to break through with a TV commercial. "Just in case you know someone in the biz… " he added, wandering off.
When he returned with her vodka, he told her she had an admirer.
"Striped shirt. Over there." He gestured. "He picked up your tab."
"Nice," she said, "but I like to pay for myself."
"Sorry, too late, I rang it up. But if you wanna make things even, you can always, you know, reciprocate." He grinned. He'd put many a boy and girl together; it was what he liked best about his job. "Actually, Roger's a pretty nice guy. Comes in a couple times a week. Works for a magazine. Never heard any complaints."
She glanced at the bar. Striped Shirt was grinning again. She nodded her thanks. He raised his glass in acknowledgment.
"Well?" asked the waiter. She shrugged. "A girl could do worse."
He gave her his best kid-brother smirk. "This girl usually does better," she said. "Want me to tell him that?" She laughed. "Sure.
Why not?"
Striped Shirt appeared two minutes later, hovering at a respectful distance.
"Hi. I'm Roger."
She stared at him. "Hello, Roger."
He stared back. He looked a little unsure of himself. "Welcome to the pub."
"Thank you."
He gestured to the empty chair. "May I?" She shrugged. He sat down carefully.
"You're-?"
"My name's Gelsey, if that's what you want to know."
"Hello, Gelsey." He stuck out his hand. She looked at it, hesitated, then shook it casually.
"Thanks for the drink," she said. "But I wish you hadn't." She reached into her bag, pulled out her wallet.
His face fell. "Please, oh, no, don't! I know I should have asked."
She noted his wounded pride. "Well, just this once." She put her wallet away.
He sighed his
gratitude. "That would have been really humiliating." She smiled to show she understood. "I haven't seen you in here before."
"I haven't been in here before."
"Well, figures." He was floundering. "What made You-?"
"I was out in the rain. I must have walked a long time. Then I felt thirsty and saw the glow and-" She shrugged. "Guess I was looking for some kind of refuge."
"Glad you chose Aspen. It's a friendly place. I know most of the regulars." He hesitated, then took the plunge. "Which is why I can honestly say you're the most attractive woman to drop in here in quite a while."
She pondered his compliment before accepting it. She wanted him to know she could not be so easily won. Finally she smiled, a signal that she would allow him to warm her up. Encouraged, he set eagerly to work.
He did his job well, careful always to offer a personal revelation before soliciting one from her. Still, he was thorough. After half an hour he had touched upon all the appropriate questions.
He was a staff writer at Smart Money magazine. She told him she worked in publicity at Simon amp; Schuster.
He was from St. Louis and had gone to Dartmouth. She told him she was from Oakland and had attended Cal.
He was thirty-six, divorced, an excellent skier, an earnest tennis player, also interested in art. She told him she was twenty-six, had broken up two months before with a live-in boyfriend, belonged to a health club, and, as for tennis if they ever played he'd better watch out!
They discussed some of the concerns of people in their cohort: how difficult it was to live in the city with so much crime, homelessness and AIDS; how hard it was to meet nice people outside of work; the relative virtues and drawbacks of the alternate coast.
They oriented themselves by social-economic class (he was a child of the suburbs; she was brought up near a university where her father taught history); by personality type (he was gregarious; she thought of herself as more of a loner). Then they talked about their jobs.
He told her he'd been thinking about recycling as a TV correspondent.
But the truth was he believed in print.
She did, too, she said, which was the only reason she stayed in publishing, where the workload was heavy and the pay disgracefully low.
Still, she was thinking of moving on. There'd been some sexual harassment at her office. Subtle but unnerving, and, in its own way, insidious. In fact, the reason she'd gone out to walk in the rain that evening was to try to think through her options.
He turned compassionate. He knew exactly what she meant because he, too, had suffered something similar a couple of years back from a female superior.
"And it was insidious, because I knew if I complained I'd look like a total jerk. What could I say? That she made comments about my clothes, my build, told me I played ' major role' in her fantasies? I should have been flattered, right? Physically speaking, she was a fairly desirable woman. Under other circumstances I might have been interested. But not in the workplace. Not for me, anyway. There's a time and place for everything, don't you think? A place to work and a time to play… "
Gelsey picked up a half dozen signals from that little monologue. She made her eyes gleam so he would know she had caught them all.
He stared at her. There was a silence. They listened to a little burst of laughter from a table in the rear.
"Are you comfortable here?" he asked.
"Tell you the truth, there's too much smoke."
"Well," he said, "I hope this doesn't sound pushy. But I was wondering-see, I practically live around the corner."
This was it: the bar pickup end game. She stared at him, noncommittal.
She wanted to make him work for it.
He swallowed. "Like I said, I don't want to sound pushy. But I've got an interesting idea."
She leaned forward slightly. "Tell me."
He grinned to dispel any intimation of aggression. "I was thinking we might mosey out of here, go over to my place and, you know, have a nightcap… or something."
She reached across the table, took hold of both his hands, lightly played her fingers along his wrists. "Is that all you had in mind?"
He tried not to show too much excitement. "Well, that would be up to you," he said carefully.
She met his gaze, then lowered her eyes demurely. "What if we went up to your place and then I told you I'd like us to take off our pants?"
She gazed at him again. "What would you think about that?"
He shook his head. He was enormously aroused.
"I'd think you were about the most intriguing person I'd met in a very long time."
His building was a fifteen-story white-brick-with-doorman, constructed as a rental in the sixties, converted to a co-op in the eighties. There were several mirrors in the lobby, one nice one between the elevators.
They entered, Roger pushed the button for the penthouse, they leaned against opposite sides of the cab and smiled at one another as they rode up.
"Let's get these wet raincoats off," he said, fumbling with his keys.
Once inside, he switched on a set of track lights, then dimmed them down. There was a classic Manhattan penthouse view: squared-off apartment buildings against soaring midtown towers, a hundred thousand lit-up windows, golden cages hanging in the sky.
She looked around. The sparse furnishings were expensive: Matching soft black leather couches faced one another across a spare glass-topped cocktail table. Smooth white walls served as background for a small collection of average-quality contemporary prints. She knew the look: downtown gallery. She peered about more carefully, hoping to be surprised. But she could find nothing personal; the decor spoke to her of risklessness. Yet Roger had taken a major risk-he had invited her into his lair.
"I've been saving a bottle of very good wine. Think I should open it up?" She thought a moment, then shook her head. "Actually, I'd rather have a drink."
"Great. What would you like?"
"Let me make it?"
He grinned at her. "I bet you can mix up something pretty good.
"Gelsey's Special."
"Sounds interesting." "It is. I promise," she said.
He led her by the hand into his kitchen, showed her where he kept his booze, glasses, bar tools and blender, then excused himself to dry his hair.
"Just call me if you need anything." His voice trailed off.
She set up a pair of highball glasses, quickly marked one with a slight smudge of lipstick against the rim, then set to work creating her potion. As she was finishing she heard music. He had put a Mabel Mercer CD on the stereo.
She carried their drinks into the living room. He was slouched on one of the couches, jacket off, hair engagingly tousled.
She handed him his glass, sat down on the opposite couch, took a little sip from hers.
He grinned at her. "Starting to mellow out?"
"Very much so." She leaned back, flicked her hair, then casually stuck out her legs. She looked around. "I imagined you'd have a place like this."
"Really? Like what?"
"Cool. Hard-edged." He looked perplexed. "Am I really that predictable?"
"We'll soon find out," she replied in a throaty whisper. Then she lightly touched her breasts.
It was a fine moment, the kind she tried to create every time she played, full of the promise of lust-tastes, aromas, moves and caresses that could not be predicted and would therefore surprise and delight. It was a moment that a worthy opponent would want to savor and prolong, knowing that anticipation is almost always sweeter than closure.
They drank in silence, matching one another sip for sip. When, finally, he had drained his glass, she excused herself "Don't get up," she said.
"I'll find it on my own."
As she passed him she studied his eyes. They were beginning to glaze.
Unaware of just how tired he was, he broke his yawn with another grin.
She paused behind him, turned, placed her hands on his shoulders, then bent her head down to his ear:
"I think it's getting time to take off those pants," she whispered. Then she patted his head and retired to the bathroom.
She spent three minutes staring into her dream-sister's eyes in the cabinet mirror, then flushed the toilet and wandered back to the living room. She found him dozing, pants down, caught around his ankles. She knelt, placed a hand beneath his chin, carefully raised his head.
"Roger?"
He opened his eyes. "Sorry." He stared at her. "Maybe too much to drink." He gestured toward his glass on the cocktail table. "What did you-?"
She gazed at him. Her voice turned stern. "What did I what?"
"I dunno… " He slurred his words.
"You lied to me at the bar."
"Hub?" He blinked.
"That little story about sexual harassment at the office that never happened. Did it?"
He blinked again. "Whassa problem? I don get-" "Get what, Roger?" she asked kindly.
He glanced at his glass again. "You put something-?"
"In your drink? Yes, as a matter of fact, I did." She nodded sweetly, then watched as the realization struck and the terror filled his eyes.
"Why? What're-?"
"Don't panic. Just go to sleep." She cooed at him like a pigeon from the park: "Sleep, sleep, sleep. Let yourself go. It'll make it so much easier… "
He tried to strike out at her. She pulled back, but even if he had connected, his fist was too feeble to have hurt. After that he drooped; the effort had wasted the last of his energy. She watched as he tried to fight off his exhaustion the way they always did, shaking his head, fluttering his eyes. She peered at him closely. He was terrified. He knew he was defenseless. He was probably wondering whether she had poisoned him, whether he would ever wake up.
"Please… " he begged.
She waited until he closed his eyes and his heavy rhythmic breathing told her he was out. "Good night, sweet prince," she whispered as she rose, then hurried to the kitchen where she had left her purse.
The first thing, always, was to put on a fresh pair of surgical gloves, thoroughly wash the highball glasses, then clean every spot she had touched with her fingertips. There weren't many such places: a few in the kitchen-the refrigerator and freezer doors-the bathroom doorknob, the edge of the medicine cabinet. When she finished with her chores she checked again on Roger. He was snoring deeply, lost in sleep. She nodded and began her search.
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