The Lover From An Icy Sea Read online

  Chapter 6

  Until today, Kit hadn’t been in the least self-conscious about the condition of his apartment, the scarcity of material comforts he had to offer, or the condition of the neighborhood. He’d always quite liked the dirt, the garbage and the noise. But he’d also never entertained anyone quite like Daneka before.

  For the first time in months, he dedicated an entire Sunday morning to cleaning. He pulled the bed sheets from his bed, bundled them together with everything else that could possibly be machine-washed, and took it all down to Louie’s Laundromat. He next decided to put his apartment in order, first vacuuming, then concluding with a mop and bucket of soapy water. He even took Windex and paper towels to the windows, which he hadn’t touched in years since the skylight provided him with all the natural light he needed.

  With only his laundry left to pick up at noon, he stripped and took a shower.

  Fifteen minutes later, he put on a clean pair of jeans, sandals, and a long-sleeved black T-shirt, brushed his hair, picked up his wallet, and prepared to set out to retrieve his laundry—although not before grabbing a bottle of white wine from beneath his worktable and putting it on ice. He didn’t know exactly where any of this was going, but he wanted to be ready.

  At ten minutes to one, Daneka’s taxi pulled up at the corner of Third Avenue and St. Marks Place, where she told the driver to stop, then paid him and slipped out. She’d already decided she wanted to walk the last few blocks in this neighborhood she hadn’t visited in well over a decade.

  She found, to her amazement, that much of what she remembered of the East Village had remained unchanged. Sure, there were already signs of Starbucks-creep in excess. But otherwise, the Orpheum and all of the old landmarks were still there, as nonchalant and constant as the heat and smells of summer that would soon settle in like swamp muck and remain until late September.

  A gentle but persistent breeze blew on this particular late-spring afternoon. Perhaps too eager in her anticipation of warmer days, Daneka had dressed for summer. A cotton dress, cut low in the front, hugged her waist and stopped just above the knee. Black high heels, topaz earrings and—slightly out of sight—matching panties completed the ensemble. Otherwise, nothing. No stockings, no bra, no other jewelry. Both men and women stopped whatever they were engaged in to admire her as she passed, which she did with the ease and elegance of a mid-size leisure craft at full sail. Her dress billowed out occasionally as the wind took hold along the vertical seam, secured at her waist by an invisible tie. The material, practically weightless and no match for whimsical breezes, at times hugged and caressed the rounded flesh of her breasts, thighs and buttocks, only to spring loose and flap open, as if in answer to the unspoken wishes of this ad hoc crowd of gawkers. For the few minutes she needed to cover the distance to Kit’s front door from where the taxi had dropped her off, Daneka owned the street. Walkers, strollers, gawkers, runners, bikers, roller-bladers—even those just hanging out on the stoop and caught up in the act of bartering stories or drawing pictures in the air—she owned them all. And she commanded their attention as if by magic wand, but without even once having to wave it.

  When she finally crossed over First Avenue and arrived at number 111 just short of Thompson Square, she saw that he lived in a brownstone quite common to the skylines of both Manhattan and Brooklyn. To one side, Jenny’s Café; to the other, Tatiana’s—a consignment café, of all things. She giggled soundlessly as she wondered whether Kit was in any way consigned to this Tatiana. She looked across the street: St. Dymphnas. Apostrophes, she noted, were decidedly an afterthought in this neighborhood. Though “EAT ME!”—just two doors down, was anything but.

  She noted the entablature, which, from street-level, appeared to be of genuine oak—unusual for this part of town—and counted the stories: five. An accommodating stone stoop, and generously-proportioned windows, if not exactly floor-to-ceiling. She couldn’t yet know whether Kit’s apartment looked out onto the street, or back onto a courtyard, but she guessed that a photographer would’ve demanded something with plenty of natural light.

  Daneka mounted the six steps of the stoop and looked for Kit’s name on the tenant registry. She found it—as well as a pushbutton located adjacent to the number twelve—which suggested the top floor and a good view of both the street and the space behind the building. Here, where nothing rose over five stories, his apartment wouldn’t be lost in the shadows of taller tenement or office buildings. Instead, he’d have a clear shot at the stars at night—and, at dawn, a panorama of dark, rain-soaked, and age-stained water towers standing like blackened scabs against the sky.

  It was just past one o’clock when she pressed the button next to his name. After a couple of seconds, she heard a buzzer in response to her own original signal, also the electronic release of the bolt on the front door, leaving it open for her to walk through. She ignored the double signal, waited a few seconds, then pressed the button a second time. Again, an answering buzzer—which she again ignored as she crossed her arms and turned towards the street. A buzzer sounded a third time. She ignored it. Like birds calling to each other, one buzzer might respond in length and tone to the other in carefully choreographed timing and syncopation—until one or the other simply didn’t. And then the other might try another or a third time, hoping for an answer. But if no answer came, the first caller always had a couple or three options: desist; call another candidate; or fly over and join the second caller on the same branch for a little avian tête-à-tête.

  Kit was no bird, but he got the idea. He opened the door to his apartment and bounded down the five sets of stairs to ground level. When he reached the front door, he threw it open and greeted Daneka like a happy puppy.

  “Why didn’t you come on up?” he asked ingenuously, never thinking for a moment that on his Lower East Side turf, Daneka might still be operating according to her own Upper East Side protocol. She ignored his question, forced a smile and extended a hand.

  “I just love it here. It’s so…campus-like!” she said.

  Kit’s smile collapsed as if the puppy in him had just been slapped for a too-eager puddle in the middle of the floor. “Nice to see you here at last,” was the best wool sock he could now drop at her feet. The tremors of anticipation he’d allowed himself to enjoy since their meeting Friday afternoon suddenly faded into foolishness. The cleaning? The wine in the fridge? What had he been thinking, anyway? She wasn’t a fucking client; she was merely a prospect—and he, to her, a random vendor with a service to offer. Which she could take or leave at will, from him or from anybody else with a camera and enough spare change to place an ad in the paper. Goddamn it! Kit thought and inhaled deeply. He needed to keep in mind who he was, who she was, and what this was really all about.

  “It’s a few flights up. Sorry, no elevator,” he mumbled as he held the door open for her to pass through—which she did, though without any word of acknowledgement.

  “Yes, I figured that twelve would be on the top floor. Nor did I really expect to find an elevator.” They were stuck in a conversational cul-de-sac. Kit tried to maneuver out with a gesture, indicating that she should precede him up the stairs.

  As she climbed just a few feet ahead of him, Kit registered the clickety-clack of her heels on the tin planks of the staircase. At the same time, he noticed how the muscles in her calves flexed and rose each time the tip of her shoe touched down upon a plank and pushed off again. The tautness of those muscles continued right up her leg and then disappeared beneath her skirt. Yes, she was a client—or, more to the point—she might become a client. But that fact didn’t keep her from being gorgeous.

  When they reached the fifth floor where Kit had left the door to his apartment slightly ajar, Daneka walked straight through. Once inside, she glanced around in a businesslike manner and noted the skylight. The fact didn’t surprise her. She offered no comment, but simply seemed to take it all in in one cursory inspection. She then got right down to business.

  “Where’s
your set?”

  “I make it. ‘Depends on the subject—or the product, really. What you want to do with it. What you want to project. How you want to position the product against what your competition is offering.”

  “There’s no competition. It’s not a question of product positioning.”

  Kit’s eyebrows arched as the next word out of his mouth trailed off into a long ellipsis. “O-k-a-y.”

  “We’re not talking product. We’re talking person. She’s not pushing anything. As I’m not. What I have in mind is more in the way of portraiture.” Daneka swiveled on one heel and looked Kit straight in the eye. “Do you do portraits, Kit?”

  The walls of Kit’s apartment were fairly covered with his work, much of it award-winning material. Most of the work was portraiture—in some cases, just a headshot; in others, full-body. He chose to ignore that she didn’t care to comment on his work, or simply didn’t see it. In either case, her lack of acknowledgement confirmed what he’d suspected when he’d first seen the artwork on the walls of her own apartment: for her, art was ornament.

  “Head and shoulders only, Ms. Sorenson?” he asked in a deadpan tone of voice.

  “No. Full-body.”

  “I might have to practise,” he answered, with just the hint of a smirk in his voice.

  “Can I use your little boy’s room?” she asked, as if this request somehow followed naturally from her previous declaration.

  “Of course,” Kit answered as he gestured in the direction of his bathroom. “Right behind you.”

  Daneka looked over her shoulder and visually located the bathroom door. She walked to it, opened it, stepped inside and closed it, all in one fluid motion. Kit went to the kitchenette to get a glass of water. As he passed the counter, his eyes fell upon an open pack of cigarettes. He took one out and put it between his lips. He then opened the freezer door and extracted a handful of ice cubes while he reached, with the other hand, for a water glass. He dumped the ice cubes into the glass and turned on the tap water. He was about to fill his glass when he remembered his host’s duties, then reached for a second glass and a second handful of ice cubes. He was filling both when Daneka stepped out of the bathroom. Although he had his back to her in that instant, he heard the bathroom door close.

  “A glass of water?” he asked.

  “Sure. Why not.” It wasn’t really a question.

  Kit filled both glasses, set them down next to the sink, wiped his hands on a dishrag, and lit his cigarette. Only then did he turn around—blowing the smoke out in one, long, dumfounded stream.

  Daneka was standing in front of him, unencumbered except by the topaz—earrings, that is.

  “Let’s practise, shall we?” It was neither request nor command. But no matter, as Kit needed neither to be cajoled nor prompted. Still less did he need to be told or shown what to do. He simply needed to revise this visual image enough in his mind to decide for himself what she might consider an appropriate course of action. He stood with the cigarette hanging out of his mouth. In the fifteen steps she needed to get from where she’d been standing to the kitchenette, her eyes never left his.

  Kit handed Daneka the glass of water; stepped around her; went to his worktable; picked up his camera. He removed the lens guard and inserted a roll of black and white film. He put the camera back down on the workbench and went for his light kit, which he then set up at one end of the sofa-bed—the only piece of furniture he owned that he felt might be suitable for this job. He plugged in the light, experimented with several filters until he’d found the right one, closed the automatic door on the skylight, pulled the curtains on all of the windows in the apartment, and took out his light meter. Only then did he turn back to Daneka to indicate that he was ready for her.

  “Your casting couch, Kit?”

  Kit ignored the comment. No rose without thorns, he thought. “Something to drink before we get started?” he asked.

  “But you just gave me this,” she said, holding up the glass of water.

  “I know. What I meant was—.”

  “I know what you meant. And the answer is ‘sure.’ Why not? It’s Sunday.”

  Kit went to the refrigerator, took out the bottle of wine, put it on the counter, and rummaged around in the drawer for his corkscrew—a little mermaid with the tail leading off into the coils of the screw.

  “Den lille havfrue,” Daneka murmured as she peered down at the corkscrew. “How cute.”

  He cut off the top of the metallic cap, inserted the corkscrew into the cork, worked the screw down into it. The little mermaid’s arm provided him with the necessary leverage to pull the cork, the mermaid’s hand fitting snugly onto the glass lip of the bottle. He pulled slowly and carefully. The cork came out in one, smooth motion. He opened the cabinet over the sink and took down a wine glass—a single glass—which he filled to three-quarters.

  “Not joining me, Kit?” she asked as he handed her the wine glass.

  “Never when I’m working,” he answered, letting only the corners of his mouth suggest that he might be just a tad amused.

  “Then I suppose we should get to work,” Daneka answered in a tone like stiff parchment as she walked over to his sofa-bed. She lay down on it as if this is what she did for a living. He moved his light meter over her with his full concentration fixed on the work. He took three readings over her body, one behind the sofa, then adjusted the light accordingly. It was perfect—as was she.

  Kit could not remember when he had last felt more moved by a human subject than by a landscape. Normally indifferent—or at least immune—to any sexual thoughts about his professional subjects for as long as he was working a gig, something was happening to him he couldn’t account for—and so he allowed himself to look at her as a woman rather than as a subject or a client.

  “Give me a couple of seconds, will you. to think about positions?” he lied.

  “Oh, so that’s what this is all about. I thought maybe you liked what you were looking at,” she said, letting her declaration sound like a pout.

  “Never when I’m working,” Kit answered dryly.

  He started at the top of her head. Auburn hair, thick, cut short. He suspected her hair would smell of lilacs, even on a bad day. The forehead high, one particularly prominent tributary of the superficial temporal veins pulsing from hairline to eyebrow along the right temple. Eyebrows sparse, same color as her hair. Eyes like tiny almonds, but the color of olives. Nose slightly pinched, but straight, with a fine pair of nostrils for flaring, he imagined. Lips rich, not too abundant, not in the least puffed. An unusually square chin for a woman. In any case, the architecture of it was consistent with that of her cheekbones. One ear was visible as Daneka’s hair fell to either side—large and a bit out of proportion with her other facial characteristics, he thought. Still, he would gratefully spend an hour at each, nibbling like a nervous squirrel over sunflower seeds.

  Her neck was nothing less than a pedestal, and with muscles and tendons as voluptuously phrased as anything Rodin might have cared to carve in marble.

  Kit followed the lines in her neck down along her clavicle, out to her shoulder, all the way down her arm to the backside of her palm and out to the ends of her fingers. He noted that she had visible biceps, even with her arm in a relaxed position. The fingers at the ends of those arms were long, narrow, prematurely lined and wrinkled. Perhaps too much paperwork over the years, or too much exposure to the sun—both leading to dry and chapped skin. He looked especially at her ring finger and wondered whether it had ever supported the weight of a wedding band.

  His eyes crawled back up the underside of her arms—delicately veined, the pale blue lines visible through taught skin—to her armpit, not visible.

  Daneka, perhaps bored with his apparent passivity, had closed her eyes. Her breathing was low and regular. Kit thought she might actually have fallen asleep, which he was thankful for: it would allow him to slow down.

  He looked at her face once again. Good, solid lines around
the eyes and mouth. A woman who slept soundly and laughed a great deal. He liked her. He liked her laugh. He imagined he would like sleeping next to her.

  He next looked at both of her breasts. Large, he thought, for such a petite woman. She couldn’t possibly weigh more than one hundred thirty pounds, and was probably no more than five-foot-seven even in heels. Yes, her breasts were large, but well proportioned—and for a woman of her age, unusually youthful. Clearly, she’d never nursed. He wondered whether she’d already succumbed to science—they were that perfect. A pity, he thought, if she had.

  He let his eyes for a moment study her aureoles and nipples: a bit darker than the skin surrounding them, but not by much—and small, tight, compact. His glance sank slowly to her breastplate and abdomen. No paunch. A few lines, perhaps, and skin not quite so taught as it might be on a younger woman. But otherwise gently curving, like dunes surrounding the slight cavity of her navel.

  From there, his eyes danced back and forth lightly across the wings of her pelvis as if dusting for fingerprints. It was pronounced, perhaps because her stomach was flat, and it stood out in bold relief against the shallow cave of her abdomen. His eyes entered that cave and found her pubis. The hair on it was the same texture, color and delicacy as the hair on her head. The pubic bone itself was quite pronounced, her lips invisible. He moved his head to within inches of her pubis in order to find her animal smell. It was—as he discovered when he next moved his head the length of her torso up to her armpit and neck—consistent, warm and feminine. His own nostrils flared as he turned off all other senses and absorbed her smell.

  After a moment, he opened his eyes again and continued his survey. The curve of her thigh, long and gentle, like that of a clam shell, terminated in the abrupt knot of a knee-cap, then continued on down in a slightly less dramatic parenthesis that was her calf. Hers were long legs, Kit decided: a gymnast’s legs—long and well-proportioned to hold the weight of a moderately petite woman. The curve descended from her calf muscle in a quick dip at her anklebone. Her feet were small, the toes like little marshmallows on skewers. He wondered whether he would ever suck those toes….