III - THE EMPRESS
There were only a few minutes of daylight left on a Thursday night as I lay on the terrace of the roof of my building, drinking a good bottle of red wine from the Ribera del Duero and reading Stendhal. To my right the Empire state building was glowing in dark green and in front of me and to the south flickered the lights of the Manhattan Bridge. I was the only one on the roof, a long way from my small terrace in the Bay Area that looked out over a duck pond. The peace I felt was a striking contrast to the frantic movement below on 2nd Ave. New York, from that vantage point, was a wondrous, megalithic beauty.
The next morning I awoke energized and with a peaceful calm in my body. My small apartment on the 28th floor had an unobstructed view south. It was a very new rental- all white, with a modern kitchen and bath, and two big windows, one in the bedroom and one in the main room. Inspired by Emese’s apartment, I had bought three deco pieces, a bar and a small dining room table, and a bookcase which had glass doors for each shelf. I had a few original prints from my time in Europe, all from contemporary Spanish abstract painters.
I was filled with a sensual need to dress well. I put on an Armani shirt with a John Varvatos black sport coat, Hugo Boss shoes and summer rain coat. The Ferragamo wallet slipped into my back pocket and the matching keychain into the raincoat. I dropped my Blackberry into my sport coat, buckled my Patek and put a new pack of cigarettes and an old Dupont lighter I rarely used into the side jacket pocket. Once downstairs the uniformed doorman opened the door and I stood and contemplated the drizzle under the cover of the canopied entrance. My walk to the agency was about fifteen minutes, but I dreaded umbrellas and gladly accepted the doorman’s offer to hail me a taxi.
I looked at the two big screens on my desk, one showing reports on campaigns, the other at my brokerage account. I had bought some very cheap, very out of the money S&P calls six months before after learning something about options. Call it beginners luck, but my three grand was now eighteen; it was the first trade I’d ever made and I sold the calls and enjoyed the feeling of having almost twenty grand in my account. That done, I began to read the paper and saw an advertisement for The Met- Karl Bohm was going to direct Bach’s St. Mathew’s passion that night. A few clicks and a little typing and I had myself a ticket. Friday was being kind to me.
Irina came in with a big smile and leaned up against the wall next to my desk and told me about how our campaigns were working. She was enjoying the metrics, the power of creating lots of money with well placed advertising. She was wearing jeans, black boots and a blue blouse with a sweater over her shoulders. As she spoke I looked into her eyes and told her everything I felt for her while she told me about click-to-lead ratios.
“Irina, let’s go have a coffee.” She agreed and we went to one of the public mini-squares that dot midtown and sat under an umbrella and drank iced cappuccinos and smoked. I felt good, handsome, together. “What are your plans for the weekend?” Just as I said it, I wished I hadn’t.
“My boyfriend and I are going to Cape May.”
“Sounds like fun. So, is this the guy?” I looked her directly in the eyes and tried to transmit to her that if he wasn’t the guy, I was ready for the picket fence, the dog and the swing.
“What do you mean?” I was sure she knew exactly what I meant.
“I mean, is this the guy you are going to settle down with, marry?” It came out straight. No pause in my voice.
“Well, he’s very serious, he has good job.” I just looked at her and waited. “I asked to see his paycheck, just to make sure he was making enough.”
“Very romantic.”
“My mother worries about me having stable boyfriend. But he’s very boring.”
“I see.” That did it; I was in. If it wasn’t clear it should have been. “I have a meeting with Saperstein now. It’s up to you, if you want I can spare you the pain.”
“Please do.” The rain fell gently and I smoked and watched her and wondered why her.
Saperstein was wearing a low cut shirt that exposed her formidable cleavage and she was caked up in makeup. I had the unsettling feeling that she liked me and imagining a life with her sent a shiver through me. “Arthur, do you drink every day?”
“Yes, without fail. Don’t you?” She sat across the table in the conference room looking through the numbers. The scary thing about her was she had a powerful intuition; it was impossible to lie to her.
“Who is this source of leads, LeadCom, what are they, where do they generate their leads?” That was our internal source of leads that Ryan, Rudy and I were using stealing Bernstein leads. Our plan was starting to work out nicely, but she smelled a rat.
“I guy I used from my old job who has some really good databases he collected from trading seminars; it’s all email, very Kosher, double opt-in. Stuff converted well for me, very good long-term. But if they have a problem with them, we can kill them. He isn’t so big, I don’t think it shouldn’t make too much of a difference.” They really weren’t double opt-in, meaning the user had to click on a link in an email to confirm they really wanted to receive offers in their inbox, but I throw it in for extra effect and it seemed to work.
“No, they’re happy with them, just seems like a strange name. I know you like Irina. Are you sleeping with her yet? I saw you having coffee together in the rain, very romantic.” I grinned at her.
“Of course not, that would be unethical and unprofessional. And of course, she’s happily involved with another young man.” I smiled as I said it and she saw right through me.
“Your lying, but we will let it go for now. You should find someone your own age. Why are you so dressed up today, you know that it’s it casual Friday? You have a date with Irina tonight?”
“Of course, I am giving her a class in biometrics at my place, you can come along if you like.” I left a pause.
“I knew it. You can’t lie to me.”
“Saperstein, that was a joke, and a bad one at that. I’m going to a concert. Anyway, it’s Friday, people should dress up on Friday, not dress down. It’s disgraceful. We should celebrate the coming of our weekend with elegance and not dress like we are going to paint someone’s house.”
“I look like I am going to paint someone’s house? Do you know how much these jeans cost?”
“No my dear, you look marvelous as always. I was referring to the riff raff over there.” I pointed towards the main sales room.
“Get Ryan in here, I need to talk to him about creatives.” She barked demanding that Ryan show her the first mockups of the advertisements we would use. She had no say in the creative process, but we let her think she did.
“If you don’t mind, I’m leaving a bit early today. You’re okay being alone with Ryan? I hope you two can control yourselves, the chemistry between you two is palpable.” I smiled at her as Ryan came in and I left. “I wish you both a good weekend.”
I snuck out of the office and headed to my favorite barber shop which was run by three very attractive, buxom Bulgarian girls who wore very low cut tee shirts and mini-skirts. For sixty dollars you could get a haircut and shave, with straight razor: by appointment only. There was no hanky panky, but it was extremely pleasurable. Shampoo, head massage, hair cut and then a true shave, with all the creams and wet towels. A brilliant kind of business that pops up in New York from time to time. They would play this very strange Bulgarian pop music and they only talked in yes’s and no’s. I sat in the chair as she carefully scraped my beard with the razor and I wondered how my life had become so full of Eastern Europeans.
I’d had a South American stage that lead to a Spanish stage, with an Indian and French period thrown in between. I wondered what strange cosmic magnet sent me from one group of women to another and if it meant anything. Whatever the reason, it was clear to me that the only type of woman that I was attracted at that point was from the East.
The rain had stopped so
I took a pleasant stroll up 5th Ave to the MOMA. As always, I enjoyed the encounter with the Les Demoiselles d'Avignon. Then went and paid my respects to De Kooning’s Woman,1, who seemed to be every woman in one.
I sat in the Met feeling absolutely relaxed, rich, well dressed and ready for a few hours of Bach to massage my soul. The old master Karl Bohm came out transmitting incredible energy as he worked through his salutary protocols and took the podium. I fell almost immediately in love with the soprano and one of the violinists. The music was profound, bringing tears on more than one occasion.
At the first intermission I went out on the deck with quite a few others and stood at the rail to smoke. I turned to my right and there was a very handsome couple about ten feet down. She was a striking brunette with shoulder length hair, a knee length black skirt, fabulous legs, heels and a red blouse. I stared at her for a moment and she immediately smiled and began to walk toward me. “Do you have an extra cigarette?” Again the accent; the Gods of the Steppe were relentlessly stalking me.
“Of course, how are you enjoying the concert?” I wanted to get in a few words in before she went back to her partner but she seemed in no rush to leave, so I lit her cigarette with the Dupont.
“I’m in shock, this is fantastic. I’ve never heard such wonderful music.” Her eyes were big and very dark, her smile magical with perfect teeth. Never in my life had I met so many fabulous women in such a short time. She appeared otherworldly, radiant, and as enchanting as the music. We introduced each other and discussed music until that strange noise announced the end of the intermission and we walked back inside together. I looked back and saw her partner finishing his cigarette, and in parting I told her I hoped to be able to offer her another cigarette at the second intermission. She smiled and said she was looking forward to it and I floated to my seat, very aware of how ephemeral such fortune and beauty were and determined to enjoy it unreservedly while it lasted.
Once the second intermission arrived I nervously made my way back out onto the balcony to the same spot that I’d had been before. Only once before had I been able to steal away with another man’s woman under his nose, but this time it would be more difficult since I only had about five minutes. I’d written my cell phone number on the back of a business card, with a note that said it was a great pleasure meeting and I really hoped to hear from her. She had a small bag, one that if I put the card into her hand she could slip into unnoticed. That was the plan. I looked toward the door as she entered the balcony with her partner and they both walked toward me.
“We’ve both come for cigarette. Arthur, this is my cousin Yosef.” I got them smoking and did some small talk, then popped the question.
“What are your plans for tonight? Maybe we can all go and have a drink afterwards?” She immediately agreed and Yosef politely declined, mentioning he had a previous engagement.
“I’m afraid my cousin is in love.” His big grin made it clear she was correct and we giddily agreed to meet in the lobby after the concert.
I sat back and watched the octogenarian Bohm make his way to the podium, as dignified and profound as the music. It seemed the crowd, Bohm and the orchestra all felt the same magic, each feeding on Bach’s music which carried us all to the depths of Christ’s despair. Never had I experienced art so profoundly and so spiritually. Mine weren’t the only tears, and the crowd erupted at the finish- the immense respect the musicians demonstrated in their applause for Bohm was moving. Wave upon wave of applause splashed up to the podium and he took a deep bow, much more limber than when he had begun, then rose and slowly raised the book of music as a tribute to Johan Sebastian, which brought on the collective climax.
The magic was vibrating when we saw each other as the rain began to fall quite hard. We smoked a cigarette and I asked her if she was hungry; she very sweetly told me she was starving. There was a small French place on East 23rd street that served late dinners. I called and the owner assured me that he would have a table and keep the kitchen open until we arrived. Traditional and quite cozy, I was afraid it would be empty but fortunately the owner, Vincent, was sitting at a table with five friends and had been drinking a bit by the time we got there. He gave me the big welcome and put us three tables away from him so the buzz of French was enchanting without being overwhelming.
I carefully watched her face as he, without wavering, made an offer. “Arthur, a plate of foie, filet mignon and they we will figure something out for desert.” Her eyes lit up. “And a good Bordeaux. We have tried this one tonight, very nice.”
“Perfect.” She was so wonderful to look at, such a sensuous body, her clothes complimenting without exaggerating. She told me she had studied in London at a design school and was in New York for a week as a tourist. I gathered she came from a very wealthy Azerbaijani family from Baku but she had none of the pretentiousness that a European girl from that kind of money would have had. She told me she had a daughter and that her husband was involved with the oil business along with her father. It seemed the Gods wanted to tease me but were averse to sending me anything, except maybe Irina, that I could lock my horns into. She was exceptionally sweet and her movements were delicate without being studied. Her being married came and went without throwing the slightest damper on things.
As I spoke about San Francisco she looked at me in the eyes with sensual intensity. “Your are so beautiful, really, I can’t stop looking at you,” I told her. She reached over and squeezed my hand. Such wonderful hands so perfectly proportioned and with a simple manicure. I could hear the rain falling behind the sounds of the French banter and felt a wild vibration run through my body. She got up to go the restroom and watching her body move from behind was hypnotically erotic. Vincent looked over at me with astonishment. I had brought a few girls in there before, but nothing close to her level. He came over to clear the plates and told me for desert- crème brulee. “Arthur, do you mind if we smoke, I remember you smoked, right?”
“Of course, please, I would love a cigarette with my coffee.” He brought over an ashtray, poured the remaining wine in our glasses as I watched her return, fighting off the flames of my imagination. When we finished we walked out into the pouring rain without umbrellas, running from one overhang to another and holding hands. Finally we began to kiss, running, and kissing and holding each until we got to my building. The doorman held the door.
“Good evening Mr. Edwards.”
“Good evening Pat.” Once we got to my apartment I grabbed a bottle of very good Scotch and two glasses while she dried off. We went up to the roof of the building and drank under an the cover of the a large table umbrella and watched the mist climb up the Empire State building, still in green and I could feel the music still vibrating through her body.
“For Bohm, and Bach.” We touched glasses and enjoyed the eighteen year old single malt that had been a gift from a fairly large newspaper that I placed a lot of ads in.
“I am not Christian, of course, we are a Muslim country. But the power of that music, I think I felt something about your religion that I had never understood.”
“You know, I read before the concert that he had waited till he was in his fifties to conduct this piece for the first time. You could see the respect the orchestra had for him, he played them like one instrument. And of course, Bach. What can you say? How much contemporary music, or film, or literature for the matter will people still pay attention to in two-hundred and fifty years? Hard to imagine that there’s any.” I ran my finger across her face and down her arm; it was like touching the essence of desire.
The night did not disappoint and since we had drunk quite a bit, I let her sleep after I woke up and told her I was going out to get us some breakfast and would be back soon. It was still overcast and wet but I was riding the emotion of the night before, full of energy and creativity. I had a coffee under an umbrella and read the paper, then got to a good fish monger on 2nd Ave and bought som
e scallops, shrimp and two dozen baby necks. More alcohol would certainly help recapture some of the magic of the previous night, so I found a few bottles of a good Cava and nine roses.
When I got back she was sitting up in bed smiling. “I’m going to make you a very decadent breakfast, but first you.” I explained. The sheet was just covering her breasts and I placed the roses beside her and uncorked the Cava.
“Oh my God, you want to kill me.”
“But it will be a sweet death for a beautiful woman.” The cork flew off and we sipped cava and I admired her lips as they caressed the glass. The soft light glistened off her olive skin and reflected in her dark eyes and jet black hair. She giggled and smiled and we kissed.
I made the scallops with garlic and parsley and they were ready in a few minutes. I set the table with the baby necks over some crushed ice, both of us sitting together facing the city. Neither of us spoke about the future or her family; that part of her life was suspended somewhere as was my developing obsession with Irina. We finished the scallops and the first bottle of champagne, then made love again. The second bottle of Cava helped washed back the baby necks and then we slept that good long sleep of a rainy, sensual, drunken afternoon.
When I woke up she had made coffee- it was early evening, still some light fading left. She sat on the bed while I slowly woke up, she wanted to talk.
“I want you to know that this is not something I do, really. I’m a married woman, this is the first time I have ever cheated on my husband. It’s just, I don’t know, something happened last night; it was very special. I come from a very strict country and being here, seeing my cousin who is very opened minded and doesn’t like my husband, and then meeting you.” She paused. “I just felt free, very free, and you were so nice, so charming. I know this is a strange question, but, I mean, do you do this often? Is this how people live here?”
“No, really. Like you said, it was something very special. I want you to stay, can you stay one more night. It is like magic with you, I’m enthralled.”
“I called while you were sleeping. I was a bit sneaky, I didn’t tell him where I was. I told him we had a drink and that I went home and I was going out with a girlfriend of mine from London who lives here. We have one more day, but Sunday I must leave.” It was as if she could do no wrong. We didn’t just connect; we vibrated each other’s desires. I reached for her and held like I hadn’t held a woman in years. I felt reborn. We laughed and played and told each other funny stories from our childhood, unburdened by plans or time.
And that is how we spent the next twenty four hours, like a dream. In bed, out of bed, in restaurants, bars and just walking around like a pair of sixteen year olds in love. On Sunday afternoon I put her in a taxi and never saw or heard from her again. We didn’t even bother exchanging emails or phone numbers and I never knew her last name. I think she preferred it that way and maybe I did, too. Why try and recapture something that could never be so good again? Some angel whispered in our ears that this was a once in a lifetime weekend that should only reverberate in our memories and no place else.