by Elyse Lortz
“Are you saying you don’t work?” It shouldn’t have surprised me. He smiled and slid his bare feet into the water where that bug had once been.
“Why should I? I have enough money to last me a lifetime. Two, if I feel like going around twice. No reason to waste my time in some old office. Don’t tell me you work?”
“I’m a writer.” He grinned.
“You mean like a magazine writer? I’ve met a few of those in my time. Had a lot more energy under the covers than—”
“I mean a writer writer. I’m a novelist.” His face plummeted lower than the most acute case of disappointment, though it was not a reaction foreign to me by any means. At last he cleared his throat and squinted upwards toward the sun. “What does your husband think of that? You working, I mean.” The ice ran cold and fast through my veins and my fists clenched into iron blocks.
“I’m not married.” I cleared my throat; a painful action. “And if I was, you can be certain he wouldn’t give a damn about my career as a writer. He would at least be supportive of women reentering the workforce.” Sam Barker sat up a little straighter.
“So you’re one of those feminists types. I should have known. Seems every girl is now. Babbling on about women’s careers and all that. You should be thankful we gave you the vote.”
By tongues of men, from lack of thought.
“I wouldn’t say I was a feminist, but I wouldn’t say I wasn’t either. And as for women, you men should recognise us more. A friend once told me that everything is relative. I believe that includes our perspectives of others, as well as ourselves.”
“Who said that? Einstein?”
“Probably, at one time or another, but he wasn’t the one who told it to me. That makes all the difference.”
I LEFT THE PARTY JUST as I had come; expecting nothing and gaining less. Something Sam Barker had said—if he had really said anything—struck me with the weight of the world. Einstein had indeed made some offhanded comment regarding the relativity of life, but Keane had mentioned it first on one of our sailing trips. I remembered it vividly; the tossing of the sea, the churning of the ocean, my companion fiddling with the sail, and the crisp English tones of his voice skimming effortlessly over the frothy waves.
“Never surrender to the stupidity of categorization, Lawrence. From where you stand, you shall always see a subject differently from another’s eyes. The stars may appear insignificant flames from here, but we are but dust to them. Everything is relative.”
I had only smiled then, a brief grin and some strand of words that meant so little now I can only recall they were incredibly well mannered and obhorrably dull. They were nothing like those great philosophical lines that poured from Keane’s mouth as honey from a diligent hive.
Everything is relative.
Just as I became warmed by these three words, God lashed out his hand and sent great torrents of rain hurling down upon this speck of dust floating beneath the stars. The color of life drained away into shades of varying grey; outlined with black paint dripping from the sky. That yellow California sun ran away to be replaced by half a dozen ominous clouds, scoffing at our lives sheltered from what we wish to ignore.
What fools we were then.
I hesitated, which is not an unusual occurrence when both sides of one’s mind are occupied in a heated debate which marks the division between separate articles of one person. Some femininity that had survived banishment insisted I turn round immediately and call a taxi. Surely that was not too weak and womanly a thing. In fact, the more those damnable droplets found their way down my neck, the more reasonable that desire became. But the consequences of one’s actions are so often worse than enduring some temporary discomfort. And the truth was I had no energy to return to the party and again submerge myself in a society of young people. I disliked young people as a whole and deplored them as individuals. Not all of them perhaps, but I had found a sufficient number of poor representations to soil the group as a whole. I really ought to have been thankful to the rain for chasing away the blistering heat and giving me a viable excuse to return to my own environment. I could no longer bear the bending and bowing to chivalrous graces and laughs that bubbled upwards like overpriced champagne. To endure such mental pain for so long was not only dangerous to one’s sense of pride, but no doubt one’s back as well.
Of course, it had occurred to me that I would need some sort of transportation back to the beach house; however, at that exact moment, I was suddenly and inexplicably content with being aimless. I traveled on the winds of instinct, sheltered by the colored canopies jutting outwards from the various storefronts as overstretched umbrellas. There is some virtue in being a wanderer. When you forget to worry about where you are going, you are not concerned about how you get there. I passed people desperately seeking shelter, yet there was a glorious feeling pent up in my soul, which was slowly released with every step along that mirrored pavement. So intent did I become on my imaginary axis, my eyes shielded themselves from my surroundings, only to have the blinders completely torn away by a strong hand maliciously clamping down over my mouth.
I lashed outwards; fists and shoes begging to meet unsuspecting flesh. Every jerk shot a dose of adrenaline through my veins. Heart pounding. Muscles screaming. Head whirling. A single glimpse of pinstriped cotton was enough to fuel my efforts further as my assailant dragged me toward the ominous alley. My fingers clawed at fabric sleeves until I heard the painful creaking of overtaxed bones on the verge of snapping. They were not mine, but that of the figure who’s shoulder I now had twisted in a way that was believed anatomically impossible without complete separation from said limb to the rest of the strong body. It was a loud cough of a voice that exploded through my ear as the hand pressed further against my mouth. I recognised not the frozen rasps of words, but the words themselves held some familiarity. I had no choice. I fought harder until a great cannon fire shattered my eardrums with its close proximity.
“For God’s sake, stop struggling before you hurt yourself.” I slammed my heels into the sopping pavement and spun round with fists at the ready.
“Keane, if you don’t want me to fight, it may be best to find another way to gain my attention. Brute force does not give a pleasant impression. Besides, you should be more concerned with injury to your own limbs before you begin analysing mine. I do hope your shoulder hurts for a while.” An appraisal of the man crushed all hopes of ensuring some physical discomfort. His arms appeared fully intact without the slightest twinge of onsetting pain. But, where I was seemingly incapable of unraveling the muscles of a person’s complex anatomy, Keane’s necktie had been sufficiently disturbed from its infamous knot. This; however, was quickly remedied by a few casual strokes of his long fingers.
“Well?” He lifted a grey fedora from the dirt at his feet, brushed the rim, and placed it rakishly on his head. “How do I look?”
“Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. If Mrs. McCarthy could see you now—with your hair slicked back and that vulgar suit—never again would she complain about your tweeds.”
“I admit the style is rather . . . flamboyant.” Obnoxious, more like. “And I can’t say I am particularly fond of the cut of the jacket, but ‘weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning’.”
“And what might that joy be? Nevermind, I don’t want to know.”
“You don’t?” A greying eyebrow climbed high on his forehead. “And here I thought that adventurous spirit of yours would leap at the chance to enjoy those fruited seeds of prohibition.”
“Now I really must decline. You aren’t suggesting we raid some mafia hideaway to find what? Armed murderers?”
“A photograph. A rather compromising photograph depicting James and his maîtresse. Remember, Lawrence, ours is not a task of attack, per se. Merely an act of infiltration. But come, we mustn’t stand out in the open like this.” Keane’s gentle fingers fell upon my arm and pulled me further into the dark shadows of the alley. I allowed my legs to follow h
is lead, and yet my mind had not yet fallen into his path.
“Let’s say—hypothetically speaking, or course—I did go along with whatever it is you’re doing. What the devil would I disguise myself as? A blasted fly on the wall?” My companion smiled; a boyish glow banishing the creases of his face to the unnatural gleam of his eyes.
I wished I hadn’t asked.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
ALL MY PRIDE—EVERY inch of disillusioned superiority—shattered in a single blast of teetering life meeting the solid wood of poorly crafted floorboards.
“Lawrence?” There was little true concern in the voice flickering over the creased edge of the morning newspaper, only a question created to stifle a bubble of impending laughter. I scraped myself off the floor, planted my hands on my hips, and glared down at the reclining man before me.
“Damn it, Keane, these blasted shoes have a heel two inches too high and absolutely no laces with which to keep them secured to my feet. I swear, if I sprain an ankle, you can be sure I will be chasing after you with a knife.”
“I would very much like to see that; galavanting about with a sprained ankle indeed. You might at least like to create a threat which may be less ridiculous and more logical: one to strike fear into your prey”
“You’re hardly prey. Besides, what good would I be to you limping around like an injured deer? None. May I please take them off now?”
“Do as you like.” I did. I tore the shoes from my wronged feet and flung the offending objects on the opposite end of the sofa from Keane. The heels were a vulgar red with a polished piece scarcely covering the toe and heel and a thin strap buckling over the top of the foot itself. Oriental women had their feet bound.
We had ours bent and broken.
I threw myself into a chair, which had no doubt suffered worse abuse in its time, and began rubbing my scraped ankles.
“Why couldn’t we stay at a hotel? This flat is hardly large enough to room a family of mice.” The newspaper slowly folded in half and Keane thrust it onto the low table between us before standing; pulling me to my feet with him.
“We may turn to a hotel when our act has reached perfection, but not before. Walls must be torn and rebuilt with precision, and, unlike Rome, we only have a matter of days. Now,” Keane towered over me, his greasy American brand pomade banishing much of the curl and wave from his hair. “Say it again. ‘Buy me a drink’.”
“Buy me . . . a drink?”
“No, Lawrence, it is not a question of whether or not you want a drink, but if the person will buy it for you. And try to sound more American. Britain will forgive you under the circumstances. Again.”
“Buy me a drink.”
“No inflection on the pronouns. Again.”
“Buy me a drink.”
“No. Again.”
“Damn it all! Buy. Me. A. Drink.” My companion’s arms jerked wildly into the air above his head before diving down for his cigarette case.
“No. No, that will not do. Tell me, what is this girl feeling?”
“What girl?”
“You, of course. Or whatever name you use for an acceptable alias.” I sighed, folding my arms across my chest with my fingers gripping painfully into the flesh of my arms.
“Well, what name would you like me to use?”
“Blast it all, I don’t give a damn what name you use as long as you respond to it.” I thought for a moment, my mind reeling through the thousands of proper nouns to possibly fit the occasion. It had to be something unique (not Elizabeth or Emma or Mary), but still retaining enough dignity to separate my character between a woman who takes pleasure in life and one who makes pleasure a profession. At last I glanced past my companion’s shoulder with an air I hoped to resemble nonchalance.
“How about I go by. . . Natasha?” So violent a reaction ought not ever befall the force of man. Keane’s fists slammed into his pockets as the roar of machine gun fire spat from his slightly opened mouth.
“Like hell you will! That name is no better than the calling card of a painted woman! Choose something else! Consuela?” I scoffed.
“I hardly look like a Consuela. And really, Keane, ‘like hell’? What an American thing to say. I do hope it isn’t catching.” My feeble attempt at humour met a wall of fire and was immediately burnt to ash as he stuffed the end of a cigarette hurriedly between his lips.
“Do what you like, but you are not using Natasha. I forbid it.”
“You do, do you?” I felt the singing flickers of a flame edge upward through my face. “Well then I have half a mind to do it. What do you have against the name anyway? It sounds incredibly interesting. Exotic even. Italian perhaps?”
“You’re wasting time. Say it again. ‘Buy me a drink.’”
“I won’t say that damnable phrase one more time until you get us out of this revolting apartment and into something more respectable. And don’t you make me walk around in those blasted shoes. They aren’t good for anything but sending one to the hospital. Besides, it’s late and I’m tired.” Keane dropped onto the sofa and ran his long, tapered hands up over his face and through the slick oil spill of his hair. I was particularly opposed to whatever that was he had started to grow over his lip.
“I know you’re tired, and no doubt your nerves are raw and broken in places that, in time, might invite some form of infectious insanity. You have made it quite clear those shoes ought to be burned and that I will feel your anger if—God forbid—you are required to wear them again. But think of what we are accomplishing here, Lawrence. We will be freeing James from his past sins, at least in a mortal sense, and Cohen and his like will no longer have any hold of him for as long as he stays away from those pills. Think—think of what good we can do, not only for him, but those in the same position. We are liberating his son and lover—wherever they may be. Think of it, Lawrence. Think of it.” I did. I thought long and hard over his words; words spoken with the unfaltering hope of a young boy who believed himself capable of saveing the world. Or at least all of humanity. Then again, he had that face that never seemed to age; never seemed to grow old. There was always a youthfulness to its features. For as long as I knew him, they were there, though be they smoothed over my wisdom’s sand. There was an aspiration to do such great and good things. Logic was a thorn viciously tearing through his flesh that his blood might spill onto the earth as a final plea for his dignity. I thought of it. I thought of those late hours when I heard Keane slip out the door and disappear until the early whispers of the morning. He would then sleep until lunch. A few hours followed rigorous study into our characters. Then the entire process repeated itself again. And again. And again.
Yes, I thought of it.
I sucked in a breath and gripped at the corners of my elbows with a vigor unfortunate to the fabric of my shirt.
“Keane, have you ever considered that you may have already placed yourself in danger. They have already tried to kill us once, not to mention their attempt to set the theatre alight. What makes you so damnably sure that no one in Cohen’s circle will recognise us?”
“Lawrence, what they are searching for is a name, and those can be easily changed or adapted. Did you hear my lecture at Princeton? ‘The mind better recognises titles than the strength of a single individual.’ So long as we conceal our names and I am not attributed my intellectual status, all will be well. Now, if you would repeat that phrase once more, I believe we can both get some well-earned rest.” I sighed, releasing my arms and throwing my hands above my head for exaggerated effect. But my companion would not falter. He never did; be it conviction or stubborn pride. When I feared he would insist I perform that poorly grammaticized line once more, I groaned, threw my head back, and surrendered the last few threads of my dignity.
“Wadda’ya say? Buy me a drink?” A light snapped to life behind his eyes, showering the blue pools with a twinkle I had seen rarely and welcomed easily.
“By God,” He whispered. “I think you’ve got it.”
“
Have I? I feel ridiculous.” My companion cleared his throat and rose to his feet.
“That is to be expected. You are playing a part so far beneath you it drags in the gutter. It will crush your pride and turn it into dust for the worms. But listen to me, Lawrence, if a few days—a week—it may all be over and we can again return to our lives knowing we have achieved something noble in our absence.”
“Keane, if the rest of my costume is to be as hideous and demeaning as those shoes, I would hardly call this performance ‘noble’.”
My companion smiled gently. Damn it. I knew that smile, as I intimately knew the words that were to follow. Those great souls of the Romans and Greeks never ventured far from his lips, though they had been dead from the minds and hearts that knew them best.
“‘The noble man should either live with honor or die with honor.’ And what could possibly be more honorable than saving another human being? It has been a point of recognition and promotion for thousands of years. In the middle ages, saving another person’s life—especially one of considerable nobility—was an attribute of impending knighthood. In both recent wars we have seen that as well; heroes awarded medals for various shows of chivalry and courage in the face of something ought never to be experienced in a person’s lifetime. Yes, Lawrence, there is nothing nobler than assisting in the mortal salvation of one’s fellow men, or, in your case, women.” He had a point. Of course he did. His mind was always as well tuned as Mozart’s piano, honed to the finest degree that its performance might not be spoiled by some unforgivable moral fault. Such was the truth I had grown and flourished under through the passing years. And now I followed that same man in full knowledge we were soon to enter the den of lions.
IF THE WHOLE OF AMERICA had one vice, it could be most easily found in the basement of an obnoxiously large, red brick building thrust carelessly upon the earth. From what I could discern through the dismal shadows of evening, a white-washed sign dangled above the main doorway. Keane threaded my arm firmly through his, steadying my ankles from the damnable heels and my mind from forming an escape that might free me from my impending fate. We descended a flight of concrete stairs bereft of all light, save that which is born from natural necessity. There was a gentle brush to my arm, a breath of warning, and the creak of a solid door with shattered shards of laughter leaking out into the night.