The deck was full, but not crowded. As we walked, we passed behind a continuous picket of tourists, wide-eyed as I was, speaking several different languages to one another. It felt like we had come to the center of the world, and a thousand different futures sprawled out around us, inviting us in every direction at once. I pulled closer to Henry. I just wanted to be with him, whichever way he went. I wondered what his eyes saw as they swept the landscape like a hunting falcon’s. We circled again, netting Gretchen and playfully dragging her to the elevator. While it filled and descended, she held Henry tightly around his waist, beaming up at his smile, chattering excitedly as if she were me, the yokel.
There were hands on my legs, arms alongside mine over the edge. Everyone on the deck was there, pulling him back. I didn’t care if I pulled him back or not. I just wanted to be with him whichever way he went. He was panicked, hyperventilating, when the crowd finally got him up through the hole. He glanced around frantically like a cornered animal, then scrambled for the elevator where another group of people just arrived. He charged in, knocking people aside, and I chased after him. He seized the control panel, hip-checking the operator (who immediately tried to pull him off, yelling in angry French), and started pushing buttons.
There were shops and exhibits on the lower floors, and we had to visit them all. I followed behind the two of them, laughing to myself. She looked like a child in Willy Wonka’s factory. She was so energetic and animated, playful and giddy! I remained gladly in tow, afraid to say anything lest I break whatever happy spell she had cast on herself. Instead I just watched and laughed.
The operator gave up and started talking on a radio. Henry leaned on the buttons all the way down, blocking them with his body. I had never seen him move like that, so fast and strong. I didn’t know what to do, but I knew I couldn’t let him get away from me. I was afraid that if I grabbed him from behind, he might hurt me, thinking I was trying to pull him from the controls. Instead I went to the doors and waited.
Eventually we left the tower and milled into the sparse crowd, walking through gardens and statuaries and lamp-lit paths. Gretchen settled into a solemn bliss, every bit the girl in love, wandering Paris’s cobbled streets. Her spell was contagious. I walked up next to Henry and held his other arm. I closed my eyes and floated with them into the night.
When the doors opened, his body hit me hard, but I was able to hold on. There were staff there, maybe gendarmes. I didn’t look. He dove straight into them like a football player, but they tackled. The crushing weight nearly suffocated me. I closed my eyes and held him with all my strength.
We walked. I don’t know where. I don’t know how far. Every time I opened my eyes, I saw a picture postcard from every girl’s fantasy, and I closed them quickly so as not to overexpose the film. I saw beautiful carvings on stone-front buildings, a single window dimly lit behind chiffon curtains, candlelit tables through a restaurant window with a pair of glowing faces in each orb of light. I thought I heard the clip-clop of a horse-drawn carriage, but I didn’t look because I couldn’t risk it being something else. The soft light and rich decor of our hotel’s lobby marked the end of the fantasy, at least the censored versions.
“Please, my dearest darling”—the polished texture of Gretchen’s voice slid smoothly into the magical silence—“will you stay with me tonight?”
So that was how the uncensored version continued.
“I will.”
The gendarmes eventually quit trying to pry me loose, probably tired of my relentless hysterics every time they did. They held us in a blank, little interrogation room instead of the holding cell, which in retrospect was kind of them. Henry never said a word. Even with my head over his shoulder, I could feel the vacancy of his stare. An inspector who mostly spoke English came in to ask us questions. I answered with all the facts I knew, but I had no idea what was supposed to happen next. All I knew was I couldn’t let go.
“We telephone your embassy and they send someone tomorrow morning. But, consular services are for the health and safety only. We do not release you until you answer the accusations. You may hire the attorney to do it if you please.”
Yes! That was what should happen next! That would save us!
“He has an attorney,” I answered. “Could you please contact her?”
--Yimiko--
I’m more likely to get some sleep with a man in my bed than without. The finding isn’t reliable. Better luck next time. I had high hopes for this one. He is big, a Swedish ex-pat, blond hair, blue eyes, late twenties. I can lay on his chest with nothing beneath me but his flesh and nothing over me but a thin sheet. It feels good, like I could float away. He is in shape too, slow, calming heartbeat, probably military or private security. Even after touching him, I still can’t tell what exercises he does. I like that about a man, leaves a little mystery.
He had either been the bully in school or had hurt someone more than he intended somewhere in his early teens. I can’t tell which because his hands are too soft. Whatever happened made a lasting impression on him. He likes small women because we make him feel like it’s OK to be big and strong. That’s why I picked him. I felt like being tossed around a bit, and he didn’t disappoint. He has an older brother and at least one younger sister. His parents supported him to about 18, but he has been on his own since then. They’re both still living but can’t do much for him because his brother is in some sort of trouble, maybe addiction, and it has been hard on the family.
He is an affable guy but doesn’t have any friends in Tokyo, doesn’t speak a lick of Japanese. He has only been here for between two and four weeks, and he isn’t planning to stay more than another month. He isn’t planning on coming back either.
I wonder why he came. Business of some sort, I’m sure. His English is good but bookish and labored. I only had to look clueless for about 10 seconds before he gave up and switched to Swedish. Hurna flurna; bork, bork, bork. That made things both easier and faster. A man’s insecurities are a much wider swamp to cross when he thinks he can talk to you.
He is also a very sound sleeper. I managed to get off of him and answer my phone before the ring woke him up. He was 90 minutes into a REM cycle when it rang, and I am good, but I’m not that good. They call the ringtone “city bird,” but it sounds to me like a crying baby. Something somewhere needs its diaper changed.
“Moshi moshi?” It’s Amaya, my assistant. Not many people have this number.
“Mister Higgins has been arrested in Paris.”
I told them to wake me up if Henry ever needed anything. Wait. Arrested? “What charge?”
“Breach of peace.”
Weird. He isn’t exactly the type of man to get in a bar fight. Standard procedure for any client is to file for immediate release and deal with it in the morning. I suppose it’s early evening in Paris. “Did the local office handle it?”
“They wanted to check with you before having him released.”
“Why?”
“It’s Miss Gilbert, ma’am…” Something is wrong. Amaya doesn’t hesitate like this. “She’s dead.”
I don’t hesitate like this either. Digital service makes the silence spooky. There is no static, only void, emptiness, loneliness, loss. I don’t know what he’ll do without Gretchen. No, I know. I only wish I didn’t. Getting arrested probably saved his life. “When is the first flight?”
“I have you on a charter, ready in 45 minutes; runways are wide open at this hour. Your car is on the way. I’ll have a translation of the police report for you on the plane.”
Looking over to the bed, I see he is already back into REM. Good. I have to pack quickly. “Amaya, can you stop by my flat later and tidy up?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Thank you. You’re welcome to him if you like. He won’t be able to tell us apart.”
“Condolences and safe travels.”
Beep is the new click.
--Sally--Eurydice--
I followed Henry and Gretchen into
the elevator like a movie camera to capture their sex scene in a single, long, impossibly perfect shot, swinging around behind them to watch their lips meet as did the lift’s closing doors. They pressed even closer in their kiss but parted as the doors opened. Henry swept his arm into the hallway, inviting her to precede him, and as she did, his other hand slid across her back to follow her hips’ slow and sultry sway as she walked. I, the camera, followed them, showing how his hand followed the curved waist of her simple, high-necked dress and pushed up the tail of his sports coat, with which he had shielded her bare arms from the brisk night air.
Yumiko-sensei was there waiting when they released us. She said something in Japanese then bowed so low that her (uncharacteristically) loose hair fell to touch the ground. As she slowly rose, it hung forward, veiling her face the way corn silk wraps a cob late in a mild, rainy summer. Her eyes, barely visible through the veil, remained bowed.
Gretchen had her key ready when they reached her door, but she missed the lock with it. The hands on her hip and shoulder kept guiding her steadily into the door. When she pressed against it, one of those hands slid up her back to unzip her dress. Her purse, then her room key, fell to the floor. As the hand moved down and up her back, unfastening her dress, then her brazier, under his jacket, her soft voice muttered something, surely some sorcerous incantation to open the door, and it worked. I turned the key. He pushed out around her shoulder. I wrapped her lost and confused fingers around the door handle. He slid down her side, down her hip, pushing down her lacy, elastic waistband. She opened her door.
Yumiko-sensei wore a kimono and obi both of matte-black silk, except for five small white seals, embroidered one on each shoulder, one on each sleeve and one on the back. They were all the same, some sort of stylized flower. I recognized the design. She had worn it before, but I’d thought nothing of it. Set in bright white against her black robes, it looked almost like some sort of official seal or magical ward. There is so much about her that I’ve never understood. The first time I met Yumiko-sensei, she had dressed me as a statue of a woman in a cherry grove, blossoms falling softly around me. This time, she dressed herself as a statue: the Angel of Death, weeping for the mortality of all the world.
Gretchen’s shoes fell next to her purse as the hand sneaking between her legs pulled her close and lifted her. As she floated forward, her neck craned back and forth, searching for his lips; her arms wandered, useless. The hand at her shoulder slipped down her neck, pushing apart dress and coat, exposing her soft, round shoulder to a kiss. Her arms swept inward, tugging at her dress to bare her chest, to let those lips wander where they would, to feel his touch everywhere. The hand pushed down her side until her dress fell away and her underwear clung precariously around her thighs. She rubbed her knees together and kicked until she wore nothing but a man’s warm jacket over one shoulder, his jacket and his arms.
“Thank you, Yumi,” Henry said, stepping forward. While he kissed two fingers and reached to touch them to the back of her neck, she stepped toward him, turning her head into his arm so he would have to reach farther around, drawing him closer to her until the side of her face touched his chest. She swung her black leather briefcase, which she had held in front of herself with both hands, to hold it behind his back. I reached up, offering with my fingers to carry her briefcase. She accepted, then used her hands over the backs of his shoulders to pull herself up off the ground, into his arms. She floated upward until he could bury his eyes behind her neck and shoulder. Then she stopped, and his arms slowly clamped tight around her. He didn’t make a sound, but I could tell from the way his shoulders quaked that he was crying.
He rolled Gretchen onto the bed, out of both his jacket and his arms. After struggling to turn her face to his, it seemed strange that she simply laid back and opened her posture once she was turned to face him. He towered over her. My cinematic eye watched her legs and arms slowly spread while he, in the foreground, pulled his button-down shirt over his head and threw it aside. He leaned over her, hooking an arm around her to drag her higher into the bed, undoing his belt and trousers while he slowly descended onto her. His whole body kissed her passionately.
We entered Yumiko-sensei’s room only to discover that it was next to ours, dividing doors allowing the hotel to configure the rooms as individuals or a one- or two-bedroom suite. She ordered me to remain in the sitting room while she led Henry into the far bedroom and closed the door. I sat watching that door for hours. I trusted her. She would know what to do for him. Alone with my thoughts, I realized it had been a full day since I had eaten, longer since I had showered. I cleaned myself up, put on the hotel robe (my clothes were in the room forbidden to me) then ordered cheese, bread, and fruit from room service. I didn’t know when that door would open, and I didn’t know what might happen when it did. In any case, I was hungry, so he probably would be too. I wanted to know what she was doing, but the way she closed the door made me too afraid to open it.
--Yumiko--
Tha-thump. I’m awake, which means I must have been asleep. I’m sitting, leaning up against something, which seems an odd position in which to sleep.
Tha-thump. I can hear a man’s heartbeat. He is strong, but the beat also sounds anxious. He is under some sort of duress.
Tha-thump. Henry. I’ve never heard his heartbeat before. What’s wrong, Henry? Why is my face pressed against his back instead of his chest?
Tha-thump. We’re in a hotel room, continental Europe, judging by that electrical outlet. We are sitting on a cushion on the floor.
Tha-thump. I’m drooling down his back, embarrassing. At least I’m not grinding my teeth like I always do. He is naked. Is that a blanket covering me from the waist down?
Tha-thump. No, it’s a kimono. Paris. Gretchen! No!
My head jerks up out of the kind of cloud of safety and calm I haven’t felt for a long time and into my waking nightmare. I can’t believe she is gone. He was too tense, even after I gave him a warm and gentle bath, but Gretchen massages him. I must do it differently so as not to magnify his grief. That’s why I curled up behind him with my arms around him, sliding my jaw around his back. That’s where I fell asleep. He is still awake. How long has it been? Hours. It’s twilight.
If I had known how it would feel to press my body against his, I might have taken him to bed anyway, even knowing it would only delay his grief, not heal it. Is it because he is a client that I have ignored my feelings for him? I’m such an idiot. It’s too late now. I have done all I can for him. He needs to be alone, to start to make himself whole again. It will take time, but he must start now.
I wish I could stay. I need to be whole again too, but this is not my time. He needs this time to be his.
--Sally--Eurydice--
I zoomed in slowly behind Henry and Gretchen, taking off his shoes and socks as soon as they were out of frame, pulling down his pants to finish stripping him. He rolled onto his back, bringing her with him, into the classic posture of R-rated sex: woman on top, laying too high on the man’s chest, camera watching their kiss, ignoring the most important parts. My cinematography failed there. She sat high enough on his torso that his hands reached around behind her. I remembered what he had done to me, and I wanted to watch the magician reveal his tricks.
The door opened silently, only far enough for Yumiko-sensei to slip through it. Her open kimonos hung down from her waist, leaving her arms and chest bare. While pulling them loosely back onto her shoulders, she floated around the room, turning on and off every lamp, every light, frowning disapproval of each one’s cast of light and shadow. Untying her obi, she returned to the table on which her briefcase sat. I stood to go check on Henry, but without turning to look at me, she said, “You will sleep in the far room.”
I fondled him while I watched, swiftly completing his erection. Gretchen moaned and twisted, struggling like I had days before, to find more of him. She was ready for him, more than ready, and he still teased her. This time, he would be teased too. I sl
id my lips down around his penis, moving slowly all the way in, all the way out. I let it point straight at Gretchen, then I dragged the tip of my tongue up and down his shaft, breathing heavily on them both.
With her black and white outfit carefully folded, she slipped on a single, sheer, sensuous, silvered kimono, purest white and more revealing than anything I had ever seen her wear in the months I had known her.
“I need to make sure he is OK,” I apologized and started for the closed door.
The tone of Yumiko-sensei’s voice halted me. “You do not. I have tended his wound. He must now be alone.”
Slowly, they met and continued. Gretchen’s delighted cry leaked out from around his kiss.
I couldn’t leave him alone, not then. She continued her work, making a tiny lamp from a flanged wick out of her briefcase and a highball glass from the bar, which she lit and set on the floor. How could she leave him there so casually? He wanted to die only the day before. I was there. I caught him. I pulled him back into this world. Where was she?
Carried Away Page 15