by Sarah Dunant
I stood by an ice-cream stall and watched him. It was hard to know whether or not he was enjoying himself. There was something manic in his concentration, and after a while he made me uneasy. I left him traveling in circles.
From the square it was a five-minute walk to the store. Once you hit the right street you couldn’t miss it. HERMOSA, as it was now called, in bold gold lettering across the window, was altogether a fancier piece of work than I had anticipated. The front was all glass, dark and smoky, giving the bags and garments displayed a kind of instant exclusivity. In one respect at least it was Elly who had taken Lenny upmarket, trading on memories of Biba mixed with Bauhaus.
Inside it was cool and luscious: summer shoppers must buy just to get away from the heat. No Elly. Instead, at the sales desk—a kind of mirrored altar—sat a High Priestess, dark and statuesque, eyes buried inch-deep in mascara. The man who had come to repair her gas leak must have thought he had been called out to visit Theda Bara. She was talking on the telephone but slid her hand over the mouthpiece as soon as she saw me come in.
“Hi there. Can I be of any assistance?”
She had one of those drawling voices which implies brain damage. I knew better than to be fooled by appearances: such lazy somnolence can hide unexpected sharpness. On the other hand, there was no immediate evidence to suggest that this girl was the Truman Capote of the rag trade. She seemed so languid that I feared the effort of raising her head in my direction might prove fatal. I had to admit it, though, she did suit the store. They might almost have been designed together.
“I’m just looking, thanks,” I said, loitering over some leather, pretending to browse.
“Sure thing.” She went back to the receiver. I fingered a few pieces and registered their price tags on the Richter scale. The stuff was a long way from the usual traveler’s magpie hoard. The sweaters, the rugs—even the leatherwork—looked more Manhattan than Bogotá. Elly had undersold herself. A lot of energy had gone into these four walls, and a good deal of commercial imagination. There was only one thing wrong with it. It didn’t feel like Elly.
“You know I will, I told you.” Her voice was breathy, for his ears only, but I happened to be en route to the jewelry, passing close by the desk. Maybe all salesgirls call their lovers when the store is empty. “Yeah, of course I’m sure. Listen, there are some things she doesn’t—Hey, look, I have someone in the store. I’ll catch you later. I promise.”
Behind me the telephone tringed. This time the voice reached out to caress me. “Oh, that is just beautiful, isn’t it? You know, it’s the last one in the store. Perfect for day or evening wear.”
Perfect yes, for someone else. I laid the necklace back down on its black velvet.
“We have other kinds in stock if you’d like …”
“No. No thanks.” This time our eyes met. It seemed churlish to pretend any longer. She would only resent it later. Anyway. I had a curiosity about her, this languid lady whom Elly had not seen fit to mention.
“I’m a friend of Elly’s. From England. I arranged to meet her here.”
“Oh, you must be Marla.” She became almost flustered. A hand, which I now saw carried deep mauve fingernails, fluttered up from the counter in a gesture of recognition. Was she worried about her phone call? Surely not. “Elly’s just out at the bank. She’ll be back any minute. She asked me to look after you. Oh, I’m Indigo, by the way.”
It wasn’t that I disbelieved her. But let’s just say I had a nagging suspicion this was probably not the name she had been born with. Surely her parents had nurtured a different vision for her future, one more befitting a Sandra or even a Tracy. Indigo must have been a more recent baptism, perhaps marking her arrival in a New York where Andy Warhol legends still promised fame for fifteen minutes—especially for those with names like Indigo. Evidently things had not worked out quite as planned. But then the world is full of people who didn’t, after all, become famous. She seemed like the kind of person who could look after herself.
“How’s the gas leak?” I said to make conversation.
“The gas leak? Oh, oh, it came from the apartment upstairs. Some ditz had put a chisel through the pipe. Hey, imagine you knowing about that.”
Pause. Both of us spoke at once. After the clash I let her continue.
“This is your first visit to the store, right? It’s pretty neat, don’t you think? All thanks to Elly.”
“What was it like before?”
“Oh, I don’t know really. I wasn’t here then. But I’ve seen a couple of pictures. It was kind of hokey. Lots of money but not a whole lot of taste.”
“How long have you been here?” And who were you talking to on the phone? Be quiet, Marla, you always have had a suspicious nature.
“Four, five months, I guess. I came when Elly was … er … sick. Just to help out. And then I kinda stayed on.”
“And did you know her and Lenny before then?”
She shook her head, and a wave of dark hair shimmered over her shoulders. In the light, without the coal deposits around her eyes, she might well have been a pretty girl. As pretty as Elly. “No. No. I met Lenny at a friend’s house—just before Christmas. I was looking for a job, and he took my number. A couple of months later he called me up. And here I am. When Elly got back, she liked what I’d done and they asked me to stay. Of course, you know, this isn’t my real profession.”
There was something about the simplicity of her innocence that troubled me. I knew she was about to tell me that she was really an actress or a dancer, and that this was just temporary employment, filling in between engagements.
“Actually, I’m an actress.” She smiled coyly. “But well, you know how it is. It’s nice to have something to do when you’re resting.”
I didn’t ask how long it had been since her last exertion. “Were you born in New York?”
“Oh, my God, no. No one is born in this city. I come from the Midwest. Iowa City. It’s in Iowa. A real good place to leave, believe me. I should never have been born there, of course. It was a complete mistake. We were gonna live in Chicago, but then my grandfather died and my dad had to take over the family business.”
She paused, presumably for breath. I was fascinated by this sudden garrulousness, so out of place beside the more assured, glamorous appearance. But then people who tell their life stories so readily to strangers always intrigue me. Does that mean they have another life tucked away for more intimate occasions, or is it the same shop-soiled one in private as well as in public? On the other hand, she was a performer. I had the impression she was trying for Dolly Parton. But all I was getting was Ruth Gordon in Rosemary’s Baby. Absurd but true. It all went to support my thesis that she was not as birdbrained as she might have liked to appear.
Behind us the shop bell rang. I turned, anticipating Elly. Instead there was a well-dressed woman, immaculate in spite of the heat and with a haircut you could have hung in the Guggenheim. She glided over to the rails and fingered her way delicately through some cotton shifts. Over my head Indigo’s voice wafted, lush and persuasive.
“Lovely, aren’t they? And of course, all our own designs.”
The woman scooped up a small handful of clothes and disappeared behind the curtain, presumably in an attempt to get away from the voice.
The shop bell rang again. This time it was Elly. She was dressed all in white. I looked at her in the chic surroundings she had created. There was still an edge of tension about her, an energy gone sour. She came to us grinning.
“Hi. Did you two introduce yourselves? You haven’t bought anything yet? Indigo, you must be slipping.”
Indigo smiled serenely and put a finger to her lips, indicating the curtain concealing a wallet of credit cards. The woman emerged, cool and clean in silky cotton. The dress was well cut. She stood in front of the full-length mirror and sucked in her cheeks in that way all women do when presented with themselves as models. She went over to the jewelery section and began picking out necklaces to put ag
ainst the dress. She was the right shape for them. Indigo, smelling blood, melted off her stool and re-formed herself next to the woman. It was like watching mercury move. Elly watched me watching her and smiled, pulling me toward the back of the store. Out through heavy velvet curtains there was a storeroom, mercifully more scruffy, and piled high with crates and boxes.
“We should leave her to it. She’s very good. I’ve seen her send people home with whole wardrobes they didn’t think they needed.”
I nodded. “Is she as dumb as she makes out?”
Elly laughed. “Not quite, I think. We don’t really have that much to do with one another. Her staying on was one of the decisions Lenny made when we got back together again. I’m grateful really. It gives me more time to do the buying—the day-to-dayness used to bore me stupid. She doesn’t seem to mind. And there’s no doubt that when she puts her mind to it, she’s shit-hot. Look at her now. I couldn’t do that.”
Outside Indigo was leading the woman gently toward the cash desk, necklace and earrings in hand, ring in her nose. “Maybe it’s the performer in her,” added Elly.
“Maybe. How much does she know?”
“About what lies behind the business? Nothing. It was all set up long before she came along.”
“So where does she think Lenny got his money from?”
“She believes what he told her. What he tells everyone. That his rich, indulgent father squandered some of the family fortune on his wayward son. It’s not so far from the truth. Well … what do you think of it?”
I searched for the right word. “It’s very exclusive.”
“You betcha. And the higher we write the price tags, the more people buy. You don’t approve?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t feel like you.”
She looked at me for a second, then frowned. “Well, perhaps I’ve changed.” She stood up abruptly. “This place gives me the creeps. I’m always waiting for tarantulas to crawl out of the crates. Let’s get out of here. Celebrate our last few hours of freedom.”
It was the kind of cocktail bar that could have doubled for an album cover, all pink and white with a shimmer of chrome around the edges and a background of jungle potted palms. Everything in the place was shiny, including the waiter. It was 6:15 P.M. Smart New Yorkers were beginning to trickle in for the first alcohol of the evening. We sat at the bar facing fractured images of ourselves in mosaic mirrors, happy-hour concoctions with cherries and Japanese umbrellas in front of us. We were, as they say, in a countdown situation—Lenny was due to meet us in just under an hour. One hour. I was impatient to get him center stage and throw some light on this character actor, while I, the inquisitor, lurked in the shadows. He had prowled around the edges for too long.
We had tried talking of other things. But I had no story to put against Elly’s, just a lot of day-to-dayness with the odd question mark, not the kind of thing to go with multicolored cocktails and pistachio nuts. So I dodged the inquiries, and somehow in the silence that followed all roads led back to Lenny. But still I said nothing of my sleepwalking visitation. Why not? The subconscious, they say, is a many-splendored thing. Sometimes you should trust it. Sometimes.
“So, what does he know about me?”
“I’m not sure. In the beginning I told him quite a lot. Recently I’ve kept you to myself. But he has a good memory.”
“Does he know why I’m here?”
A nervous shrug of the shoulders. “What Lenny knows and doesn’t know is a continual mystery to me. When he got home last night, I told him you were here. I said I had called you on the spur of the moment and that on the spur of the moment you had agreed to come. It was near enough to the truth. He was very interested. Asked a lot of questions, paid me a lot of attention. Very Lenny. He does that sometimes—switches on as well as off. And just as there is a sense of his absence, so there’s also a sense of his being there. You’ll see. It’s almost tangible. Like being caught under an ultraviolet light. You can almost feel the plants grow. Last night it kind of spooked me. I kept wondering if maybe he hadn’t been there all along, hiding out somewhere on the balcony, listening to our conversation.”
“Houdini he may be, God he isn’t,” I said lightly, but she didn’t seem to hear.
In the prism behind the bar, the door had opened. Elly glanced up, and I saw the spark in her eyes. The barman snapped into attention. Trumpets blared and angels sang. I, however, refused to be rushed. I turned slowly and began with the feet. Maybe it was the white shoes which gave him away, such a delicious contrast with the wild pink of the carpet.
Traveling upward, it was all a similar hymn to good taste. Ours were not the only heads that turned. Unpredictable as ever, Lenny was early.
He came toward us, a high-voltage smile cracking the air. It pains me to say this, because it is not in my nature to believe in charisma, but Lenny was special. I had hoped that my airline memories might have blown him out of proportion; that he was really just another good-looking guy with more than his fair share of confidence. But it was more than that. Confidence, vanity, energy—call it what you will—Lenny came into one’s life like a prizefighter, dancing on his toes, watchful, wonderful, and unable to contemplate the possibility of defeat.
At the bar he bent to kiss Elly lightly on the head, then, stationing himself behind her, turned the spotlight on to me. You will, I think, believe me when I tell you that he knew me. And that he knew I knew him. Not that there was any outward sign of recognition; no flickering glance, no half frown or split-second hesitation. But it was there all the same. Something crossed between us. Maybe it was simply the warmth of ultraviolet, who knows.
“Hello there, Marla.” The voice was dark, melodious even, but hardly the kind of song to draw sailors off course. “I’ve heard so much about you I feel as if we’ve already met.”
“We have,” I said, with less music but more force. “It’s just we haven’t been formally introduced.” And I smiled.
He smiled back and laid a hand on Elly’s shoulder. I looked at them. Yes, they went well together. Her small dark head beneath his fair one. A couple to sell engagement rings. There was a hint of implied ownership in his stance. I found myself thinking of the times they must have made love together, taken each other for granted in all kinds of ways. And I felt suddenly as if I was watching two people in a foreign film with the subtitles erased. I began to feel like a voyeur, and a familiar shiver crept over me. For that moment I wished I wasn’t in New York at all, but back within my own four walls, in an environment controlled by me, as bland and safe as I chose to make it.
I caught Elly looking at me. I had forgotten how much she noticed. It used to be one of her specialities, leading me back out of exile. She picked up her drink and handed it to Lenny.
“Here, you finish this. I’m going to the washroom. Why don’t you find a table? We can’t talk at the bar.”
He chose a corner, framed by palm trees. Over on the other side of the room, a man in a gray velvet suit settled himself at a piano. I brought my gaze back to Lenny. He was sitting watching me, smiling. In the background, Mr. Music sent out a ripple of notes. Unforgettable, that’s what you are … Lenny took it as his cue.
“Well, who would have believed it? Of all the flights, in all the cities of the world, fate has to off-load me onto your plane. Obviously, Marla, you’re here to be my undoing.”
New England formality, coated in Casablanca charm. There was nothing to say.
“You know, of course, that I wasn’t meant to be in England at all. That Elly thought I was in Chicago, and if she were to find out the truth … Well, put it this way, my surprise would no longer be a surprise, would it?”
I was beginning to see how it worked. He made you assume there was a conversation in progress, even though he was the only one talking. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.” My voice sounded promisingly cool, Bette Davis faced with blackmail in a cocktail lounge.
“Of course you don’t. And as soon as I start explaining, El
ly will walk back in and we’ll have to change the subject. Still, that’s a risk I’m going to have to take.” He left another, apparently deliberate pause, during which I did nothing to reassure him. His left hand was cupped around the stem of his glass. I noticed veins running under brown skin, sculptured fingers that were strong and slender at the same time. Damn the man, even his hands were beautiful. Across the room a bridge of chords joined Irving Berlin to George Gershwin. The pianist began to build a stairway to Paradise while Lenny made his bid for entrance through the pearly gates.
“Elly and I have had some trouble. No doubt you know that. Both of our faults, I think, but the damage is done. Damage from which she is not yet recovered. Perhaps you know that also. I think part of the problem is New York. I think she’s homesick. Homesick for people, but also for England. But she’s scared to admit it because she thinks it would be admitting failure. So I figured I might help her along. Arrange a trip without telling her—a kind of magical mystery tour—and spring it on her at the last minute. Maybe then she’d agree. I went to Britain to fix it up. I even thought of calling you when I was in London, but I didn’t have your number. And I wasn’t sure you would want to become accessory to the fact … Well, I needn’t have worried. It seems you are anyway.” He paused. “Unless, of course, you’re planning to give me away.”
His eyes shone, blue-gray diamonds, the very stuff of romantic fiction. I blinked to cut out the glare. Elly had been a long time in the washroom. Obviously she wanted us to get acquainted. I considered his proposition. Should I believe him? What was there to disbelieve? Either it was the truth or it wasn’t. There was even, I had to admit, a kind of perverse logic to it. Maybe Elly was homesick. Certainly she was afraid to go home. She had left England on impulse; maybe that was also the way she would return. I had come to help her. Indeed I had come to take her home. Only he didn’t know that.