The Lover From An Icy Sea Page 41

  Just before they landed, she decided to celebrate the trip with a split of Veuve Cliquot. Kit was still asleep; she hated to drink alone—and so, she didn’t. She also took advantage of this last run to the lavatory to check that her clothes were presentable; her make-up fresh and precise; her hair combed. If extended playtime had cost her a button or two along the way, that was the cost of doing business with a rough-play Hansel or Gretel. If one or the other wanted to share a little nightcap before retiring to more mundane matters, and if Kit was still asleep—well, then, she certainly had nothing against a post-prandial romp. As she inspected her face in the mirror, she couldn’t remember when her cheeks had looked more naturally flushed and youthful—which reflected just how she felt—youthful.

  Kit was jarred out of his deep sleep as soon as tires hit the tarmac.

  “Where are we?” he mumbled.

  “We’re home, darling! Home at last. I think I’ve read every magazine on this plane since you fell asleep. So many stories. I’m all read out!”

  Kit looked at her. Some people certainly travel better than others. I probably look like fucking death warmed over. She, on the other hand, looks absolutely stunning. My God, how does she do it?

  The captain’s voice came over the public address system once again to thank the passengers and welcome them all—officially this time—to New York. He wanted to add his special thanks to the flight attendants from Air France who’d gone above and beyond. He’d been led to understand that one of the passengers had been air-sick during the flight and had had to make a number of trips to the lavatory. While the crew had been particularly solicitous of this passenger’s comfort, the flight attendants from Air France had also made a significant contribution.

  Kit noticed that Daneka had been listening intently and trying hard to suppress a smirk throughout the captain’s speech. He wondered what it all meant—whether she’d been aware of any of it, or had simply been concentrating so hard on her reading she’d been ignorant of the predicament of a sick passenger.

  “Did you get any new names?” he asked. The question seemed to startle her.

  “New names? What do you mean ‘new names?’” she asked.

  “You know—authors’ names, for future publications. From the articles you read.”

  “Oh,” she laughed. A bit too hard, he thought. “A few, yes. But of course I’ll first have to run them by the fiction department to see if any of these names have a history of publications. We’re not really in the habit of discovering new writers, you know. We leave that to the likes of Granta.”

  Kit wondered at the emphasis on ‘discovering.’ He already had an answer to the question of the additional emphasis on Granta. She apparently hadn’t forgotten—nor would she be willing to forget—his earlier faux pas.

  “Kit, darling, you must be famished. Why don’t we grab a cab back to town, drop our bags off at my place, then find some bistro in the neighborhood. I believe there’s one just a couple of blocks south of Ninety-sixth Street on Madison Avenue. What do you say?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Not in the least! I’m starving!”

  “But didn’t you eat anything on the flight—while I was sleeping, I mean?”

  “Oh, no. I never touch airline food. You never know what the kitchen staff has been up to.” She lowered her voice to almost a whisper. “I frankly don’t know whether these attendants ever wash their hands after they’ve used the facilities. They’re just in and out—like a revolving door. You’d think they’d be a little more hygienic—at least with their hands.”

  Kit had no idea what she was getting at. It sounded to him like some bizarre personal rant—but what prompted it was a complete mystery to him. No matter, he thought to himself. We’re going to dinner—and that’s a hopeful sign.

  Their plane pulled up to the gate, and passengers patiently disembarked. Kit and Daneka went through Passport Control, then downstairs to the baggage claims area. As bags began to roll out, he saw the French flight attendant arrive at the other side of their carousel. She seemed, thankfully, to be completely oblivious of both him and Daneka. He turned his attention once again to the carousel, eager to collect their bags and be underway, and saw their first bag as it came out on the conveyer belt.

  “There, Daneka.” he said, pointing. “That one, I believe, is ours.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind, darling, I’m just going to make a quick run to the Ladies’ Room, okay? I’ll be back in a jiff.”

  “Sure, no problem.” He was still watching for their bags, half of which had already arrived, when he looked again across the carousel. The flight attendant was nowhere to be seen, although her traveling companion, still standing there collecting bags just as he was, now looked up and directly at him. If ever he’d seen a Mona Lisa smile in his life, this was it. ‘Enigmatic’ was the word that came to mind. He smiled back, but his smile didn’t feel quite right to him. It was an odd sensation—as if someone else were forcing a smile onto his face that he just didn’t feel. The woman looked away quickly, as if embarrassed, and he went back to watching out for their bags.

  As the last of their luggage made its way to him on the carousel, he caught sight of Daneka standing just behind him. She was opening one of her bags, slipping something into it that she held tightly in one hand while she fumbled with the zipper with the other. A hint of whatever it was peeked out from between her fingers. It looked powder blue, shiny—like silk. In any case, Daneka’s hand slipped inside the bag and whatever she was holding disappeared from sight. She withdrew her hand and once again pulled the zipper to.

  Kit grabbed the last bag and loaded it onto their luggage cart. As he wheeled the cart around to start off in the direction of Customs, he looked across one last time at the Air France flight attendant’s traveling companion with whom he’d stumbled into a smile moments earlier—and saw not only her, but also once again the attendant.

  They got through Customs easily and were welcomed home by the official—Kit always found this little detail somehow endearing—then made their way out to a taxi stand where they were already next in line for a cab. They loaded their luggage, then climbed into the back seat as Daneka gave directions to the driver. Within seconds, they were off in the direction of Manhattan. Whatever had moved her to resume conversation with him at one point in the airport had now, once again, removed itself—and so they rode in silence.

  Chapter 69

  As their taxi pulled up in front of The Fitzgerald, a doorman rushed to the curb to open Daneka’s door. To Kit’s chagrin, however, he noted that it wasn’t Michael Kelly: He’d been hoping to see Daneka aim some of her heavy artillery at another target for a change.

  This other doorman greeted her warmly, nodded in Kit’s direction, then went immediately to the trunk of the taxi to retrieve their luggage, which he dutifully carried up the stairs and into the lobby. Daneka slipped out of the back seat and went straight to the elevator.

  Kit realized this fare was going to be his. Luckily, he’d kept some bills in reserve—just enough, with two singles left over, to cover the fare and tip. He paid and got out.

  There were a couple of bags still in the trunk—both his. He pulled them out and slammed the trunk shut, then walked into the lobby where the doorman was busy moving Daneka’s bags to a luggage carrier. She was nowhere in sight, and Kit concluded she’d already gone up. He thanked the doorman, added his own bags, wheeled the carrier to the elevator and called for it. Within seconds, the elevator arrived and the doors opened. He pushed the carrier in and squeezed in after it, then hit the button for the thirteenth floor.

  As Kit and the carrier began to ascend, he was struck by a disquieting thought. It was not in his nature to snoop, but he suddenly had an irrepressible urge. He stopped the elevator in mid-ascent, unzipped one of Daneka’s bags and reached inside for something baby blue with a shine to it. He found it first with his fingers. Silk, for fingers, had a language of its own that rendered eyes redundant.r />
  If, at this moment, he could’ve ordered a mass arrest of moths for conspiracy, he still would’ve considered the task only half done. The other half waited for a house-arrest just a few floors above him.

  Kit took the panties out of her bag. He didn’t know whether Daneka owned a pair of baby blues, but he somehow doubted it: they wouldn’t have coordinated very well with her eye color. He looked at the tag on the inside. Nettoyer à sec, it said. No English translation, but he didn’t need one. He wouldn’t be going to the cleaners anytime soon; nor, he concluded, would he allow himself to be taken there again anytime soon—not by anyone.

  He put the French panties back inside Daneka’s bag and started to withdraw his hand when he suddenly felt something else, small and plastic. As he pulled it out, he heard a rattle inside. His eyes then fell upon a prescription label made out to Daneka Soerensen. Take as needed for sleeplessness. Do not exceed two tablets in any 24-hour period.

  What the fuck was this all about? She’d never mentioned problems with sleeping. And then a second thought hit him. He opened the plastic container and looked more closely at the tablets. The blue Roche signature was on all of them. These were the ‘aspirin’ she’d given him on the plane. No wonder he’d slept like a dog and then felt disoriented upon waking. She’d fucking well drugged him to sleep.

  Kit was about to put the container back in her bag when his eye caught sight of something else. He took the lid off again and emptied the contents into his hand. All but two tablets said ‘Roche,’ and those two said ‘Bayer.’ Sure, he thought: Bayer—as in aspirin. So she’d gotten them after all, but had then changed her mind and given him sleeping pills. She’d obviously wanted him to sleep—and sleep hard. The question was why? The answer now suggesting itself to him was not a particularly palatable one. It smacked of Mr. H. C. Andersen’s fairytale—but of the alternative version.

  He dropped the plastic container back into her bag and zipped it up tight, then re-started the elevator. When he arrived at the thirteenth floor and stepped out, he saw that her door stood slightly ajar. Fresh flowers in the crystal sconce at the right side of the door suggested that Estrella had been taking good care of things in Daneka’s absence—even if a certain bouquet of fresh flowers hadn’t been recently misted.

  With one of his bags, he prodded the door open. At the same moment, he heard Daneka flush the toilet in the bathroom off her bedroom and realized that she in all likelihood hadn’t heard his entrance. He put the first bag down quietly and used it to prop open the door, then held his breath as he heard her walk across the room, open a drawer, close it, then walk a few more steps. He next heard the sound of her computer booting up and decided the moment was opportune to take off his shoes—which he did before placing them noiselessly in the coat closet. Finally, he heard Daneka activate her tape machine. The robotic voice gave back date- and time-stamp as she listened to her phone messages.

  She’d apparently forgotten him completely and didn’t once come out to the living room to see whether he might be around or need any help. The taped messages were difficult to decipher from his vantage point. Only one—the last—resonated clearly male.

  As he continued bringing their bags in through the door, he heard her footsteps cross the bedroom floor once again, then heard her pull out a chair. He couldn’t know which one it was until he heard the sound of fingers—her fingers—on a computer keyboard.

  So much for dinner! So much for ‘famished.’ Is it really so important to her to check her email and phone messages?

  He decided, rather than interrupt her, to sit down and read—if he could find a book worth reading. His eyes marched over the titles and authors’ names until he saw one he recognized: The Painted Bird, by Jerzy Kosinski. He pulled it off the shelf and opened it. The book creaked—suggesting to him once again that it, too, had likely never been read. But that was rather beside the point, he now realized as he saw a personalized inscription on the first page and read it: “To Daneka, my daring demoniac: Flying with you on your trapeze”—Kit noted that the writer of this particular inscription had underlined the word—“was the high-wire act of a lifetime, with all the thrills and spills of a season. Keep falling, darling; it becomes you.” Jerzy.

  Why did this business about ‘fall—or falling—becomes you’ sound familiar? Kit racked his brain to find a context. Daneka’s mother came briefly into focus, but it was all too vague. There’d simply been too many other images in the meantime.

  He sat down and started to read—or rather, to try to read. But the sound of Daneka’s tapping—not to mention the occasional word she said to herself as she tapped—was proving to be too much of a distraction. He decided to take a shower after having first put the book back on the shelf.

  As he turned away from the bookcase, his eye caught sight of the lichen still sitting in the center of the coffee table. He’d have to remember to take it with him when he left. He’d rather eat it, he decided, than leave it behind.

  Kit opened up one of his bags, took out his travel kit and a clean pair of boxer shorts, then walked back to Daneka’s bedroom. It wasn’t until he actually opened the bathroom door and turned on the light that she looked up from her screen.

  “Oh, hello, darling. I didn’t hear you come in.” Kit waited an instant to see whether there might be any additional words of endearment. There weren’t.

  He closed the door, then ran the water as hot as he could stand it. He stood for twenty minutes with his face directly under the shower nozzle, got out, dried off, shaved and brushed his teeth. He’d do without dinner—not, however, without pajamas.

  He put his shorts on; brushed his hair; opened the door. Daneka was still typing, typing, typing like a maniac midtown secretary. He turned off the lamp on the night table, slipped in under the covers and shut his eyes. Sleep, however, didn’t come. The sound of Daneka’s locomotive fingers, however, did—especially how she seemed to type the last bit of punctuation of every email with an audible flourish before sending it off.

  Perhaps three-quarters of an hour—or maybe a full hour—later, he wasn’t sure, he heard her shut down the computer after having concluded her session with a little late-night surfing. On which beach or beaches and on what size or shape of wave, he didn’t know and didn’t really care to know. He heard her go into the bathroom, start up the shower, stay under the water five or ten minutes, get out and then brush her teeth. She emerged a moment later in a terrycloth bathrobe and with her hair up in a towel. Behind him, he could hear her briskly drying her hair, then brushing it. Finally, he heard her untie the terrycloth knot—feather-soft; heard her place it and the towel over the back of her chair; heard her turn off her night light; heard her finally settle down into darkness under the covers.

  Under other circumstances, this would normally have been a moment of rapture for both of them. Kit had no idea what the direction of Daneka’s thoughts or intentions might be; he knew only his own—and it was on sleep. The thought of touching her—any part of her—filled him with almost as much revulsion as it did dread. As he was contemplating the apparent impasse at which they’d once again arrived, he felt Daneka move up behind him and drop her hand over his chest. He then felt it descend slowly. Apparently—he thought—she was in the mood to play. He wondered whether she’d also provide him with a courtesy set of blindfold and napkin ties.

  He noticed he was now becoming erect—and hated his own body’s automatism. He turned over on his stomach and let her hand fall away, heard her sigh, felt the sheets stir as she turned her back to him.

  Kit lay still for a long time. He heard the shudder of church bells down the street tell him just how long he’d lain in stillness; counted first two chimes, then one more an hour later. Shortly before three o’clock, he heard Daneka’s breathing become heavy and regular. As quietly as he could, he slipped out of bed; collected his clothes; walked to the living room; dressed, opened the front door; moved his bags into the hallway; took his shoes from the coat closet; stepped
outside; and closed the door.

  Clearly forgotten, the lichen continued its ten thousand-year-old struggle for existence, in silence, in the center of Daneka’s coffee table.

  This might or might not be the last night—or just half-night—he would spend in her bed. In any case, he didn’t intend to spend it there when he could spend it just as sleeplessly in his own bed half a city—and about a million miles—away.

  Chapter 70

  The elevator arrived at lobby level, and Kit pushed the luggage carrier and his bags out through the door. As if this night were not already sufficiently dismal, the face he now saw was that of The Fitzgerald’s first and truest blackguard: Michael Kelly. They deserve each other, he thought. They’re made of the same stuff.

  The doorman watched Kit as he wheeled the carrier over to its prescribed location just behind his console. He was apparently quite busy with some personal transaction or other—too busy to lend Kit a hand, though he had no apparent problem lending commentary.

  “Out walking Mrs. Sorensen’s dog, son? Or still just trying to track her down by her scent?”

  Kit had heard the ‘son’ very distinctly, but wasn’t about to fall for the ruse. “No, Mr. Kelly. I’m not doing either of those things. I don’t walk dogs. I’m not a dog-walker. And as for her scent, I believe I found that a long time ago.”

  The doorman smirked. “Yes, t’would appear you did, son. T’would appear you did indeed.”

  “It’s actually quite easy to track when she gets a little excited.”

  “Well, now, son—.”

  “The name’s ‘Addison,’ Mr. Kelly. Charles Addison.”

  “Well then, Addison. You wouldn’t be suggestin’ now—”

  “I’m not suggesting anything at all, Mr. Kelly. I believe you’ll come to know Ms. Sorensen’s true scent for yourself just after sunrise. Much pleasure may it give you.” Kit next took his two bags off the carrier and walked to the front door—then paused and turned back. “Tell me, Mr. Kelly. Have you found your personal savior yet? Have you come to Jesus in your heart? ‘Cause if not, I’d really recommend it sometime between now and dawn.”