by Lisa Teasley
“But Ferdi, you sound insane. And you can’t be sure of something like that.”
“Don’t be silly, Sweety,” he says with an edge in his voice.
The waiter comes for their order, Ferdinand does all of the talking, specifying exactly how he wants it, how Jana wants it.
“Ferd, that’s really a little too much food, don’t you think?”
“We’ll eat it.”
Ferdinand shifts in his seat, then they are both fidgeting. Jana looks around the room, back at him. She puts her hand out on the table, her fingers do a drum roll. Ferdinand laughs, puts his hand over hers, squeezes.
“Ferdi?”
“Yeah?”
“You mind telling me something else … about Connie?”
“What?”
“How did you find out, I mean, that she was dead?”
“I saw it on Entertainment Tonight.”
“You’re kidding me, aren’t you?” she says, beginning to laugh in spite of her own fright.
“It’s because of the film crew, you know, it was a big scandal for them. The owner of the location they’re shooting in is strangled in the alley while they’re in her place, while these people are all over the street? You know. Vans up and down the block? The director was such a dick. I could tell by his attitude that—”
“You mean on TV?”
“Yes, on TV. He just had attitude, like why are you tripping on us. He said, ‘This is downtown, and we all know it is not one of the safest areas in LA.’ He said it with so much attitude. You know, like, Leave us alone, and go bother the homeless who probably did it.”
The waiter brings their coffee, juice, and rolls. Jana butters a roll as Ferdinand watches.
“I have this twitch in my lip, that’s driving me crazy—can you see it?” he asks.
Jana leans over the table, watches his lips as he sits perfectly still. Finally they twitch.
“Yeah, I see it. It’ll go away,” she says, biting into the roll.
Ferdinand sips his coffee, swallows hard.
“So where did you go that day when you left me sleeping?” he asks.
“To Trevor’s.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I needed to. We’re beginning to get close.”
“What do you mean ‘beginning to get close’? It seems as though you have already had your drama together. Don’t you think it’s time to give it a rest?”
“I don’t know what you mean. With me there are always battles, we went a little fast, had to slow down. But he’s a good person. He’s a good friend.”
“I know what it’s like with you. Maybe you trust him too much.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Maybe you don’t know him well enough, yet, to trust him with everything. To just go running to him with your trouble. How long has it been?”
“A while. I’ve known him long enough to know I like him. And trust him.”
Ferdinand shrugs, the waiter brings their food. He puts his fork in, pushes the egg around.
“So what happened with Trevor, when you ran to him that day?”
“We slept together.”
“You did not.”
“Yeah, we did,” she says, smiling.
“You little slut.”
“Ferdinand!”
“Just kidding,” he says, twisting his fork in the food. “So, are you ‘in love’ now?”
“I can’t be sure. No. You can’t tell things like that until you’re sure. But it was nice. It’s been a while for me, and he made me feel good.”
“Yeah? Well, that’s great,” he says, still twisting his fork.
“Lighten up. You are so protective, Ferdinand, it’s absurd. Trevor wouldn’t play with my mind.”
“Was he good?”
“Ferdi,” she says, slapping his hand with the fork in it, “Drop it. I don’t like your tone.”
“Are you seeing him tonight?”
“Did you hear me? Let’s drop it. You’re scaring me. Okay? This is not you. Please stop.”
Sitting up straight in her chair, Jana looks Ferdinand in the eye. He is staring at her now as if he doesn’t know her.
“Come on now,” she says, softening. “You haven’t eaten a thing.”
“I don’t have much time. I should be getting to work early. Let me call and see how much time I have.”
She watches him leave the table.
Jana’s head spins again after gulping her coffee down. She wants to tell Ferdinand about the dream to clear her conscience with him, but not now with this mood. She was feeling these past few days that Trevor was right, that she hadn’t done it. But now with Ferdinand’s weird vibes, she can’t be sure of anything.
Ferdinand comes back to the table, gathers his things, kisses her on the cheek.
“Honey, I am leaving you two twenties to cover it. I have to go, I’m sorry,” he says, bending down to kiss her again, this time on the mouth, and with force.
“Before you go, Ferdi, tell me …”
“What?”
“Was I the first person you called when you found out?”
“Yes. I called you first thing.”
“Okay,” she says, squeezing his hand. “That’s good to know.”
Ferdinand smiles, walks out of the room.
Jana opens the door, Trevor is standing there. His brows meet with tension. She lets him in, keeping her heart in place. He pushes the sleeves of his sweater up his arms. Jana wipes the paint from her hands onto her messy shirt, backs away from him. His big eyes fill, as if waiting for her to speak first.
“I called you the other night. Did you get the message?” she asks dryly.
“No. But I’m here now, if that’s all right.”
“You want something to drink?”
“No, I can’t stay. I came to see how you’re doing.”
“I’m okay, I think. I just keep going back and forth.”
Trevor sits down on the couch. Soon she sits next to him, so close she can feel his breathing. She hopes he cannot hear her heart thumping.
“Nice blue trim.”
“Thanks.”
“Need help with it?”
“No thanks.”
“Well,” he sighs. “I want to talk about the other day.”
“Yeah?”
“First of all, it was a weird morning. In tears you come to my place … then … we make love for the first time, then … you’re telling me you killed someone, then, when I walk out of the room for a second, you’re gone.”
“Yeah,” she says, not looking at him.
“And, it all is still a little too much for me to … to … put in order, and I want to say now, that, we should try and … calm it down.”
“Yeah …”
“You mean a lot to me, and I want to … give us time, give it a chance.” He looks down at his lap, then up at her.
“So …” she says, leaning away from him.
“Yeah, ‘so,’ I came to say that, basically, and to see how you’re doing.”
“Okay.” She slowly turns her head from him, then straightens up in defiance. “Well, I don’t need—” The telephone ring cuts her off. “Should I pick up?”
“I don’t care.” He shrugs.
“Hello?” She holds on tighter to the phone. “Ferdinand? Where are you?”
“I’m home, can I come by?”
“Sure. Well, you know, Trevor’s here,” she says, grabbing Trevor’s wrist as he gets up. “Where are you going,” she mouths to him. He points to the kitchen, pulls away from her.
“I’m sorry, did I interrupt something?” Ferdinand asks.
“I wouldn’t have picked up if you did.”
“Well, this can wait.”
“What is it, Ferdi?”
“It can wait. Call me when your lover is gone.” He hangs up.
“What’s the matter?” Trevor asks, coming out of the kitchen with two glasses of water. He hands one to her, she holds it staring out into spa
ce.
“Ferdinand is tripping.”
“One of his closest friends was killed.”
“Yes, but …”
“But, what?” He shifts his weight.
“I was thinking about everything he’s said to me. It sounds weird.”
“Like?”
“He called me first thing after he heard. It was Saturday morning when he called me, but he told me he found out from watching Entertainment Tonight.”
“So?”
“So, it’s on in the evening, which means he waited hours and hours, all night before he called.”
“Well, seems to me he couldn’t be sure of anything at a time like that.”
“But I know him. If he said he called me first thing, he called me first thing.”
“He couldn’t have called you first thing if he found out at night. Anyway, it would take a while for it to sink in if you found out on TV that your friend was killed! Look, all we have to do is find out when she died. So how can we do that?”
“Call the coroner’s office? … No, they’d never give up information to just anyone,” she says, holding onto her head. “I know. I’ll call Elvie!”
“Okay, call ‘Elvie,’ whoever the hell that is,” Trevor says, walking away to the bathroom.
Jana is about to talk to the machine when Elvie picks up. They go through sweet greetings then Jana takes a serious tone.
“Sorry to bother you, but Ferdi has been under such a tremendous strain—as I’m sure you have been—but I need to ask you a question.”
“What strain?”
“When was Connie killed?”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“No. I need to know when?”
“Did Ferdinand put you up to this? Tell him this isn’t funny.”
“He told me you flew in for the funeral, so I just assumed …”
“What the hell is going on?”
“You mean you don’t know? I have to go, El. Let me get back to you.” Jana hangs up, Trevor is watching.
“Is she dead, or not?!” Jana yells, paces. “What the fuck is going on?!”
“Calm down. We’ll figure this bullshit out,” he says, holding her.
“Will you go with me downtown?” she asks.
“Of course.”
“Yes. Okay, we’ll do that,” she says, goes into the bedroom for a jacket.
“But what will going down there solve?” he calls to her.
“If she is dead, for one thing,” she says, coming back, pulling the jacket over her head. “Ferdinand is obviously out of his mind.”
Trevor and Jana wait in The Pantry for hours. It’s 6 a.m., Sunday morning. Trevor squeezes a napkin, dips it into the cold stale coffee at the bottom of his cup. Jana, wired, slides back and forth across the booth seat until he grabs her arm.
“Let’s go home, already. This is too much.”
“Just ten more minutes. I’ll try his house again,” she says, pleading with her eyes.
“This is absurd. We should go get some sleep, make calls later, straighten everything out.” He waits, and she is not looking at him. “Let’s fucking go home!” he says, shoving a plate with half a muffin across the table so that it bounces off the wall.
“Please, Trevor, ten more minutes. Please. For me.”
“For you? Just do this for you? I go running across town with you in search of someone who is dead, who may not be dead, we find nothing—of course, and what the hell could we find at the door of her building—we can’t get in, then you call Ferdinand, tell him to meet you, and we wait here for this fucking jerk for hours. And I hate cafeterias! What the hell is the point?”
Jana yanks her arm back from him.
“At least I know I didn’t do it. I was never there.”
“Of course you didn’t do it! I fucking told you that!”
“Okay, then leave me here, go on! I don’t care,” she says, squinting her eyes at him.
“What-ev,” he says, getting up, “I don’t need this shit.”
She watches him cross the room, hitting the backs of empty chairs. He turns at the door, looks at Jana like he hates her, but her expression stops him. They look at each other; Trevor breaks into a loving smile. Then Ferdinand walks through the door, Trevor watches him as he passes, heading for Jana. Jana gets up, leads Ferdinand back to the door to catch Trevor who has turned and walked out.
“Where the hell have you been?” she asks him, still pulling him along. He doesn’t resist. “Trevor, wait a minute!” she calls to him, he stops.
Ferdinand pulls away, straightening his jacket, his body puffed up like an iguana. Exhausted, Trevor begins to laugh uncontrollably. Ferdinand gets redder in the face.
“Trevor, stop it already,” she says, looking at him then back at Ferdinand. “Ferdi, I talked to Elvie, he never came here, he didn’t even know! Ferdi, what is going on?”
“Okay, so I was wrong. She’s not dead.”
“What? Where are you going?” she says, following him as he heads for his car around the corner. Many paces behind is Trevor, still laughing. Ferdinand opens the car door, pulls a crowbar out from under the suitcases.
Trevor doesn’t hear him when he says to Jana, “No one laughs at me,” so when he sees her go down, and he’s running to them, Ferdinand has already hit her twice with it. And when Trevor grabs the crowbar from him, after he’s pushed him, thinking he had knocked him out, he gets on his knees, bends over her, his head on her chest, his ear to her breast, her stomach, his hand feeling everywhere on her body for a breath, any movement at all. When he finds her pulse, Trevor darts up, with her blood on him, he runs for the phone, screaming for help. Ferdinand, who has managed to get in his car, gasses the engine, and drives off.
Paris
Sunnie’s Forehead
I find the glass eye on the deck of the boat mid-September, then I meet Berger in the metro two days after that, one a.m. waiting on the last train. One eye follows me, the other one doesn’t. Tiny puff of hair beneath his bottom lip, Auschwitz buzzcut, boxy brown suit. I hold onto my camera bag, but he looks too expensive to roll me. He leans against the post, lights a cigarette, waves the pack at me. Doesn’t look gay, nor the type who collects black men. I turn my back.
A chick descends the stair, slows, seeing two guys in the otherwise empty station, still she has that French cool. Wrinkled dress, brown messy hair, no make-up, curled slim lip, confident of a beauty she doesn’t truly have.
She bums a cigarette, asks him the time. I hear his German accent. The train squeals, we enter, one, two, three, equally spaced apart. The orange seats, our faces reflective, trying to hide mutual curiosity. Perfect photograph.
I finger the eye in my pocket. Berger—whose name I don’t know yet of course—gets antsy. Is my eye connected to his? The psychic thing I go in and out of, depending on how long I can stand it.
I let go of the eye, grasp the camera bag in my lap. He turns away. I put my hand in my pocket again, squeeze it, roll it like a marble. He shuts his eyes as if pained. Power, terror grips me, like the first time you hold a pistol, aim, fire.
The chick gets off at the third stop. She lingers at the door as it opens, probably thinking one of us will follow her. One of his eyes is on her, the other on the rail under her. I touch the eye in my pocket, he smiles the Mona Lisa, and I note his charm. I’m not into men, don’t understand it, nor judge it. Berger is handsome, in that fortyish handsome, East German intellectual kind of way.
I get off, so does he. Some anxiety again, annoyance, maybe excitement.
“Excusez-moi …”
“Oui …”
“Ah, American. Excuse me, please, I just wondered if—”
“Look, I’m not interested.”
“I just wondered, if you please, have a moment?”
One of his eyes pleads, the other doesn’t care.
“Well?”
“I’m, how-do-you-say? I need … well, do you have a moment, please, for a drink?”
&nb
sp; “No, I don’t. If you’d excuse me.”
As I turn my back, he lays his hand on my shoulder. My stomach flutters, I stop.
“What’s happening, man? What do you need?”
“I need to talk, yes? If it’s okay. One drink, if you please.”
I want to take the eye from my pocket, throw it down the street.
“I’m kind of in a hurry, man.”
“One drink. Or I could walk you to your hotel.”
“Okay. One drink.”
I don’t want him to know where I’m staying, which is not a hotel. This woman’s letting me house sit. I don’t think she’d appreciate him knowing where she lives; she is so well-known, her image all over the place.
We walk together in the dark cobbled street. He’s quiet, smoking.
“Uh, it ‘tis how-you-say, ‘one of those nights,’ you understand.”
I nod, see the stones glitter under the streetlamp.
“You live here?” I ask him.
“No. Ah, yes, here it ‘tis.”
He welcomes me to the door with his arm, one eye is on the bar’s entrance, the other on the window. The light spots his hair so it appears as cut crystals. The angle of his nose makes the bone seem to wander with his eye and his fleshy, uneven upper lip. Perfect photograph.
“Bourbon, please, and what would you like?”
“Mineral water.”
Berger holds onto his drink, presses his lips with the glass a bit too long before sipping. We exchange names, the bartender wipes the counter, Berger turns to look at me, I drink, remember we hadn’t clinked glasses, and I suddenly regret this.
“I don’t mean to be … what ‘tis the word … weighted.”
“Heavy?”
“Yes, yes. This past year, it ‘tas been … hard.”
I’m annoyed at the heavy pauses, wishing I knew some German.
“My brother died last year,” he continues.
“I’m sorry.” I move the camera bag from between us.
“He was only forty-one. My mother was …” he clears his throat, “she and I … we never got …”
“Along …”
“Yes, never get on … But this changes, yes? Everything it changes when you have such a …”
“Loss …”
“This sadness, yes. Then my sister … well, I don’t mean …”
“Go on.”
“Not to burden you, yes. But my sister, well, she is ill … how you say?”