Madame Mirabou's School of Love

by Barbara Samuel

  What’s funny is that my daughter suggested this morning that my idea of white and green for the shop was too bland, and I might want to think of tapping into the idea of spices, exotic things, the far away. Red and gold, and tigers and elephants. I think she’s right.

  I also want to apologize on two counts. The first is for my strange behavior on Wednesday night at your house. I don’t know what got into me, why I felt so frightened all of a sudden. I just did.

  And I’m sorry about not coming to talk to you at Annie’s this morning. My daughter was with me and she’s still not over the divorce, and she picked up right away that I “like” you and was kind of upset, especially as I’d told her I had no boyfriend (not that you are, but you know—and also what a weird word for a woman in her forties to use!) and then it seemed as if I was lying to her. Since I’m new to all of this, I sort of panicked and let her set the tone, and by the time I realized I’m the adult, and therefore I get to set the tone, you were already gone.

  You may have come to the conclusion that I’m crazy or more wounded than you expected at first, and you don’t want to keep seeing me, but if you’re interested, I’d love to see you again. Maybe I could show you the shop. It looks good. We did a lot of work today!!

  Take care,

  Nikki

  I punched the SEND button, went to the kitchen to pour a glass of white wine, which I thought I’d more than earned, and came back to play Zuma, which I liked mainly for the music. I played one round and my e-mail icon flashed. Putting Zuma on pause, I opened it.

  TO: nikki@scentofhours.com

  FROM: niraj.bhuskar@blipdata.com

  SUBJECT: you charm me

  Beautiful Nikki,

  It is hard for me to keep my pleasure in check here in this e-mail. I had been worrying and worrying for three days that I put you off, that you would not want to talk with me anymore, and that would have made me sad. Not that I’d want to go into the jungle and kill myself or anything so dire as that, but sad enough that I was wondering how to make it up to you for being so forward, pushing you maybe a little more than you wished.

  I am very happy you liked the Ganesha statue, but he is not the gift I brought back from San Francisco. I only bought him on Friday, downtown, because I thought you would like to have him in your shop as a blessing for a new venture. The other thing— it’s only a little bauble—I will try to remember to bring to you the next time we meet. I am not usually forgetful. I sometimes think this thing has a life of its own, and is hiding from me sometimes.

  Mary told me about your daughter’s feelings. She’s beautiful, just like her mother, and just the age to be surly. It is not easy to manage these things, and I understand how it could be awkward. Take your time.

  It seems to me there is chemistry between us—not only physical, but mental and emotional, and I would like to see where it leads us. Seeing that you are new to this world of dating, I will attempt to be mindful of your limits, if you will be mindful of my truth, which is that I have dated more women than I’d like, and you are rare and fine.

  As for the word “boyfriend,” I’ve always preferred the French frankness of “lover.” It encompasses the adult nature of a budding connection, doesn’t it? I would like to be your lover, but I am content for now to be your companion and friend.

  I would very much like to see you. And your shop. I will leave it to you to let me know where and when.

  Is your daughter here for long?

  Leaving you with a single kiss, set at the junction of your shoulder

  and neck,

  Niraj

  Sitting there in my quiet office, with only the sound of the computer breathing, and the low sound of the television in the other room, it was almost as if Niraj were present. I felt him all around me, his lips ghostly over mine. I remembered with a wash of heat how he had looked in the dark, bending down to kiss me, his shoulders smooth in the candlelight, his lips so very talented.

  Before I could chicken out, I wrote:

  TO: niraj.bhuskar@blipdata.com

  FROM: nikki@scentofhours.com

  SUBJECT: Monday

  Dear Niraj,

  Your e-mail gave me shivers. You are a very, very appealing man and I am aching to kiss you again. My daughter will be leaving Monday afternoon. Would you like to meet me at the shop around four? I’ll buy your supper afterward.

  A very warm kiss in return,

  Nikki

  His e-mail came back in five minutes, and contained one line:

  I shall be thinking of it every minute until then.

  21

  Nikki’s Perfume Journal

  THINGS I LIKE TO SMELL

  9/2/73

  My mom’s hairspray.

  Dryer sheets in the air when I’m riding my bike home

  Hamburgers on grill

  Nail polish

  Comet cleanser

  My sister Molly’s shirts after she’s worn them

  Sunday morning, I left the girls sleeping, with instructions for breakfast on the counter. Since we opened a little later, I stopped at the shop on my way to work, carrying in a small stack of towels, and a bagful of toiletries—shampoo, soap, bath salts, and oils— which I settled in a wicker basket on the chest against the wall of the apartment bathroom. I hung the towels, and arranged the soaps in a little fan on a shelf beneath the window. The walls still needed paint, but the bathtub was gleaming, and the light was wonderful.

  I would be happy here.

  At Annie’s, Penny and I set up the buffet, set the tables, and got the restaurant ready for the day. I took a pot of tea to the kitchen. “You need help, Mary?”

  “There’s my girl!” She grinned. “Just full of surprises, aren’t you!”

  I grinned. “One or two, one or two.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind, babe,” she gestured with her knife to a pile of fruit. “Slice the oranges and cut the apples into cubes.”

  “Got it.”

  The music was playing softly—the Beatles Brunch, which got on my nerves after a while most days, but this morning was tracing the story of the song “Let It Be.”

  “One of my top ten songs of all time,” I said.

  “Me, too.”

  “So,” I said, and carefully sliced the end off an orange, “can I ask you, a ‘woman of color’ political question?”

  “Yes. As long as you know I’m gonna tell you the truth.”

  “One of the things my ex said about Giselle living with him and his new wife was that she needed to be connected to the black community.”

  “Good idea in theory, I guess. Is his new wife white?”

  “No. She’s black, too, which he said would make a difference to Giselle. But I don’t think they’re getting along all that well.”

  Mary gave me a measuring look. “Got too blonde for the brother, did you?”

  An unexpected rush of emotion hit the back of my eyes, and I had to duck my head. “Exactly,” I said.

  “Bet that stings. But I don’t have to tell you that you’re better off without a man who sways with the wind like that.”

  I took a breath. “I know. He broke my heart, but I’m over it.” It wasn’t until I said it that I realized it was true.

  “As for your daughter,” she said, and put her hands on her hips. “You’re her mother, Nicole. Use your head.”

  I met her eyes. “Right. She’s so smart, you know? The schools are better out there. But I need to be sure she doesn’t turn into a little snot.”

  “That’s right. You’re her mama.”

  “You can be her auntie.”

  “It’d be my pleasure.”

  “Now,” I said, “tell me about you and Niraj.”

  She paused, smiled, and shook her head. Which made me realize they’d been lovers at some point. My mouth opened. Mary laughed. “What? I’m not that old!”

  I waved a hand. “I never said you were.”

  She started humming a song under her breath, a blues song by the Sapphires,
about a woman who wants a young, young man. I laughed.

  “We got each other through a bad time,” she said.

  “I’m glad.”

  “He’s a man worth having,” she said. “The real thing.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Roxanne got out of jail, promised Wanda and me that she would call her therapist, and seemed to settle down. Amy was furious with her, but when Roxanne dressed up as Madame Mirabou and gave readings for everyone to thank us, Amy relented. A little.

  On the way to the airport, Giselle asked if I thought Roxanne might be anorexic. I had to admit ignorance. “I don’t know what to look for.”

  “She’s awfully, awfully skinny.”

  “I’ll pay attention.”

  We discussed our arrangements for the summer. It was true that Dan offered her more advantages in terms of her education, but I wanted her with me on the off months. Period. She could travel to Spain later, when her character was formed. In the meantime, I needed to have plenty of access to forming that character into one of compassion, honor, and integrity.

  After seeing her off, I went to the Manitou apartment to wash up. I gathered the food I’d made into a brand-new wicker picnic basket, and took it to the roof, where I’d spread a thick blanket I’d brought from home, and set up a bucket filled with ice and root beer and wine. A portable CD player was plugged into the outlet by the door.

  I was waiting inside, the front shop door open, when Niraj came up the street. He wore a white Henley with the sleeves shoved up on his arms, a pair of jeans, and sandals.

  Wow. He was so gorgeous, I almost couldn’t breathe. And he was looking at me as if I did the same thing to him.

  What had I been thinking—he’d been completely naked and I’d left him! When he came in the door, I said, “You look so good, you make my knees weak.”

  His expression blazed. With one hand, he caught my head and pulled me forward into a deep, luscious kiss. My skin flamed. “I have a surprise for you,” I said, and took his hand. “Let’s eat.”

  I led him to the rooftop, and he murmured properly all the way through the building, commenting on the light, the walls, the little beauties. On the roof, however, he paused and smiled, very slowly. “It is very private up here.”

  “Yes.” I opened the picnic basket. “I have made an American picnic,” I said, and sat down on the blanket. I punched the CD player to let a low stream of blues roll out of the box. “First, we have B. B. King.”

  He grinned. It made me look at his lips. “Do you know, your eyes are dilated?”

  “Are they? What does that mean?”

  “It means,” he said, coming over to me and sitting on the blanket, “we don’t need the food just yet, do we?”

  “No,” I whispered, and tumbled backward as he kissed me. He tumbled to the blanket with me, pressing our bodies together in the same heat they’d discovered each time we’d touched. “I am ready to make love to you this time, Niraj.”

  “I am more than ready to be your lover, Nikki,” he breathed, and kissed my throat. “But we will just go as far as we like, and no farther.”

  “I would very much like you to take off your shirt.”

  “Would you?” His eyes twinkled. “I will if you will.”

  “You first.”

  Niraj sat up and unbuttoned his shirt, quickly, then shucked it off, leaving his shoulders and chest bare in the warm spring sunshine. His skin was the color of a walnut shell, polished and smooth. Dark hair spread in a triangle over his chest, and I raised a hand to my own shirt.

  “Allow me,” he said, and lifted his hand to my blouse. I dropped my arms and watched his dark fingers unfasten the buttons, push away the fabric, reveal my bra, this time a more ordinary thing. He drew a finger down over the aroused right nipple, circling it twice before raising his hands to the straps at my shoulders. Slowly, slowly, he peeled it downward until my breasts were bare in the sunlight, and he bent his beautiful head and pressed his face into the softness with a sound of gratitude and delight. His hands cupped me from beneath, his tongue swirled around one, then the other. He raised his head. “Beautiful,” he said, and kissed me. I laughed, low in my throat, and reached around to unfasten it completely.

  We tumbled backward, the bareness of his chest rubbing against my own, our mouths locked in heat and dance. I ran my hands down his sleek sides, down the bones of his spine. He traced the edges of my breasts, suckled my lip, then my neck, then put his entire attention on my breasts. Fingers, lips, tongue. Suckling, releasing, tracing, teasing. His hips were hard against my own and we moved in an old, old motion, an easy bump and grind, his legs between mine.

  “Niraj,” I whispered, aching. “I want you. In me.”

  “Oh, yes,” he said, and we stripped away our jeans.

  And this time, I paused to look at him. All of him. And this time, I didn’t panic, but felt a deep, wild rush of pleasure. I held out a hand. “Come here,” I said.

  And this time, he knelt between my legs and I was shivering with anticipation. Just as he nudged the entry, I said, “Wait one second,” scrambled for the condom Roxanne had given me, and rolled it into place. “There.”

  He raised his head. Put his hands on my face. “Are you all right?”

  Our eyes met, and I felt the blinders and protections fall away. I let him see me, the real me. I saw into his heart, too. “I just wanted,” I said, lifting my hips to meet him, “to be looking at you as we joined.”

  So he did not look away, nor did I, while he slid into me, and for one long, long moment, we were locked there, eyes and bodies joined. “Chakras aligning,” I said, and he said, “Uh-huh,” and bent down to join our lips.

  And that was the end of control. Light burst in my limbs, through my lips and heart and hips and head. He moved slow and hard and I came like I was splitting out of my skin, and remembered, all in a rush, why it was such a good thing to have a lover, to make love, to have sex. “Oh,” I whispered, clutching him to me. I put my hands on the small of his back and gripped him close to me and bit his shoulder, his neck, and he, too, found his release, pressing himself so deeply, tightly into me that it felt as if we were fused.

  Then he raised his head and kissed me.

  And I kissed him back. “Thank you for bringing me back to myself,” I said.

  His grin tilted to one side. “Anytime.”

  We made love for a long time, in the open air of my rooftop garden. Then I fed him cookies and bananas and we drank root beer and listened to the blues, and made love again. His body was not perfect, but it was beautiful anyway.

  Just as the sun was going down, my cell phone rang. I let it go, but it rang again, a full series, and then again. I finally picked it up and saw Roxanne’s phone number on the caller ID. “Hello? Roxanne?”

  “No, it’s Amy,” she said, and I could tell she was crying. “All hell is breaking loose here, and I’d really like it if I could come over to your house and stay with you.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t want to say over the phone. It’s awful.”

  “Amy, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

  “No one’s physically hurt. She’s not arrested, either, but my dad came and got my brother, and he wouldn’t take me.”

  Bastard. “I’m in Manitou, so it’s going to take me a little while to get there. Hang on, okay?”

  “I’ll be here.”

  I looked with regret at Niraj. “That was my neighbor’s daughter. She’s upset—and her mother really has been on a tear lately. I have to go see what I can do.”

  He skimmed his fingers over my collarbones, down the slope of a breast. “I am glad I can now call you my lover,” he said quietly.

  I bent over and kissed him. “Me, too. I’d love to do this again very soon.”

  “I shall look forward to that.”

  By the time I got to the other apartment, the drama was ending. Unfortunately, I didn’t need anyone to tell me what had happened. Wa
nda’s red eyes, Tom’s hangdog face, and Roxanne’s stony, smoking silence told the tale.

  “Hey, Wanda,” I said. She shook her head and pushed by me. Tom followed behind her, looking winded and bewildered. He glanced up, met my eyes, looked away, color flooding his face.

  Roxanne stood outside the apartment, smoking. She wore a little black skirt, with bare legs and bare feet. No bra beneath a blue T-shirt. She was so thin I could almost see her thigh bones. “Roxanne?”

  She bent her head, pressed her fist to her forehead. “I don’t know,” she said. “He just seemed so lost. Or maybe it’s me. I don’t know.” She raised her head. “Why did I do that?”

  “What did you do?”

  Her face was blotchy from crying, her eyes hopeless as she lifted her cigarette and smoked, furiously. “I seduced my best friend’s husband.”

  “Oh, Roxanne.”

  “I know.” She blew out smoke. “I know.”

  I wanted to slap her, shake her. Something. And yet, there was something so devastated about her, as if the marrow of her bones had been sucked away, that I also felt pity. I crossed my arms, mute in the face of the disaster.

  Amy came out with a rucksack on her left shoulder. “I’m not living with you anymore,” she said to her mother. “You make me sick.”

  Roxanne reached for her daughter. “Don’t, baby. Please.” Tears leaked from her eyes. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

  “I have to go, Mom,” she said. “You just can’t get your shit together, and I’m tired of it.”

  “Amy,” I said, “maybe just spend the night in Giselle’s room, huh? Just one night, let your mom have some time, and we’ll all talk tomorrow?”

  She shook her head. “I called my friend Yvette and she’s coming to get me. No offense or anything. I just need to get away.”

  I nodded. Amy plodded down the stairs. Beside me, Roxanne moaned softly, pressing her fingers to the spot between her eyes. “I can’t make it stop hurting,” she said. “Nothing I do stops it. I can’t live like this anymore.”

  “You need some help, Roxanne. You need to get yourself together for the sake of your kids, but mainly for yourself.”