Dark Plums (26 page)

“Yes.”

While he was in the kitchen, she looked around and noticed with a shock a slashed canvas propped against the wall. She walked over to examine it. A man who looked like Alfredo, surrounded by a jeering crowd in the midst of barren land, had been slashed into several pieces. Beneath this she found an old portrait of herself which she always loved. It was ripped from her left temple through the bridge of her nose and down through her cheek and jaw. Other canvases had also been slashed.

“Who destroyed the paintings?” she asked when he returned with two glasses and a bottle of rum.

“I did.” A strange look flitted through his eyes.

“Why?”

“I was high on drugs.”

“Why did you do it?”

“I was angry,” he said. “I wondered what the fuck I'd been struggling for all my life. The paintings didn't seem good enough.”

“Oh, Alfredo, I'm sorry.”

“You don't give a shit.”

“I care about you.”

“You're full of shit!” he snorted. Then, more softly, “Tell me about yourself. Where have you been hiding for the last two years?”

“I married Max. Do you remember him?”

“That old creep!”

“He was wonderful!” she said, flushing, tears flooding her eyes. “I'll always love him. He bought me a piano. We lived out in the country and I played the piano for hours every day. I've become a musician.” Her voice trembled with emotion.

“Why did you leave him?”

“He died of a heart attack.”

“Hmm.” He finished off his glass then took her face between his hands. “I treated you badly,” he said. “I never realized how much I loved you until after you were gone.”

Her heart pounded. She swallowed.

“
Beware, meine liebchen
,” Max whispered.

Alfredo gazed into her eyes with his old magnetism then let her go. He stood up and began pacing back and forth, just as he used to. He had lost weight, and his jeans bunched around his waist, held up by a thin belt.

“This fucking city. Why did I treat you so badly? Why did I destroy my work? I don't know. I borrowed cash from Dominic, and he's been breathing down my ass.

“Harris just strung me along at the gallery. Do you know how many of my paintings he sold? Two! He told me at the beginning how much he believed in my work, but then he stuck my paintings in the basement. Six months ago I took them back. Shit!”

He ground out a cigarette on the floor.

“Can you fix the canvases?” she asked. The rum, poured straight, was going to her head. She hadn't eaten since this morning.

“Maybe a few,” he said. “But I'm splitting. Everything goes in storage. If you'd come three days later, you wouldn't have found me here. You must have sensed this because you're intuitive. In your bones you wanted to be with me, baby.”

He stood still and gazed at her. “Adrianne, this time we'll do things differently.”

“Where's Michelle?”

“She split a long time ago. When she left, she stole a lot of shit. Money I'd hidden. Grass. Some of your jewelry. You left a lot of stuff here.”

He sat down beside her and stroked her thigh. “You're like a Botticelli.”

“I've gained weight.”

“It doesn't matter. You're beautiful.”

Just then the phone rang and the dog barked.

Alfredo answered it in the kitchen. She could hear him talking in a low voice, but she couldn't make out the words. When he came back, he looked shaken. He lit another cigarette.

“Alfredo, what happened?”

“Nothing. Now tell me about you. Tell me about this marriage of yours.”

“Alfredo, who phoned you?”

“Shit, Adrianne, lay off! Tell me about your marriage.”

She talked about her life in Vermont with Max, although she could see he was preoccupied. Finally, she stammered, “Alfredo, for me, music has become what painting is for you.”

“Great, baby,” he said without conviction.

The phone rang again. “Fuck that phone.”

It rang and rang and finally stopped.

“You haven't changed underneath,” he said. His voice had turned hostile. “You still belong with me, and that's why you came back, because you're still my woman. That old man bored you silly when he was alive, right?”

“I loved him.”

“Did he ever fuck you like I did?”

He pressed himself against her, and she could feel the bulge underneath his jeans. Despite herself, she experienced a stirring of sexual excitement.

“Two years ago when I left, you threatened to hunt me down and kill me.”

“
Preciosa
, you know I didn't mean it. I was upset because I loved you.”

She felt like a traitor to Max because she could not prevent herself from responding to Alfredo. He had crouched so that his swollen cock was throbbing between her thighs. “I'm not a slave anymore,” she said while he pressed her even more tightly against him.

“You're my woman,” he murmured, caressing her until desire overwhelmed her. She let him take her into the bedroom. He tore off her clothes and removed his own. He had grown so thin that his ribs protruded.

“Max, forgive me,” Adrianne said inwardly.

“
Meine liebchen, this man is no good for you
.”

Alfredo was bony against her heavy breasts and belly. His penis felt huge as he thrust, filling her, and his angry, electric force swept through her. Long ago she had wanted him to submerge her with his force like this, but now she resisted. He labored over her for a long time before he finally came, but she held back. Afterwards, she stared at a light from the next building which shone in through the air shaft. She thought of how Max, even when his penis was soft, placed his
hand between her thighs and held her there until she had an orgasm. Most of all, she remembered the gentleness of his touch.

Alfredo lit a cigarette, passed it to her, and got out of bed. “Can you get me some water,” she asked.

“Sure, sweetheart.”

She heard him piss in the bathroom then go into the kitchen.

When he returned with a glass of water, he smelled more strongly of alcohol. He offered her the nearly empty bottle of rum. She shook her head, but he took a swig before he lay down again, putting an arm around her shoulders. God, why had she come here, she wondered.

“This time we'll do things right,” he murmured into her ear. “As soon as I can get my affairs straightened out, I'm leaving New York, and I want you with me because you and I belong together.”

Once she had longed for this more than anything else in the world.

“You've got to help me,” he continued. “Dominic's friends are after me for the money I owe him. If I don't get out of here soon, they'll hurt me real bad, or they'll kill me.

“I've been out of work now for a long time. I need you to hustle just for a few days for
us.
I need money for storage space, and we need money to live on for a while. We'll drive to Mexico City. Then we'll go on to Vera Cruz and take a freighter to Rio. I'd like to to go Cuba, but Castro's been doing some weird stuff down there.”

She lay rigid, her breath choked up in her throat.

“I can't do it.”

He got to his feet and stood over her, looking down with eyes that were glacial.

“I can't do it. I'm not a slave anymore.”

‘You're my woman. You'll always be my slave.

“I thought you'd changed,” she said, sitting up and wrapping his worn silk robe around her.

“No more than you have,” he said. “You're still a hooker.”

“Alfredo, that's not true!”

“I know you to the marrow of your bones.”

“You're talking about someone else, not about me.” she said. “You can never make up to me for what I've suffered with you. There's no
way you could make it up to me. Even if you were
my
slave for ten lifetimes, you could never pay me for the pain I've gone through.”

“Bullshit! You were bored out of your skull with that impotent old asshole.”

“He wasn't impotent, and I loved him!”

“You used to fuck twenty men a day. You miss being out there on the streets. That's why you came back.” He loomed closer.

“Get away from me! I love Max! He was so good to me.” She broke down into tears.

“So, you came back to tell me you're in love with a corpse? He's dead, baby. You and I belong together.”

“No,” she said.

He grabbed her wrists. “You're my slave!” he said. “I need you. Adrianne, I NEED you to help me out! Can you get that through your fucking dumb skull?”

“NO!” she shrieked, breaking away from him. “NO MORE!” Shaking all over, she began to dress. “Alfredo, I'm leaving,” she said. “You won't see me again.”

“Just give me a chance.”

“You still act like I'm something to be used, like I'm a piece of furniture.”

“Cut the crap.” He yanked her head back and looked down directly into her eyes. “In a few days you and I are going to drive south across the border. You'll just be working for a few days, bitch. You've got to help me out!”

“Let me go!”

His hands closed around her throat until she couldn't breathe. “I could choke you to death,” he said, staring at her with cold angry eyes. His grip tightened. She tried to pull his hands away, but she couldn't. He kept staring at her, as if in the grip of some outside force, and she prayed for him to let go. Finally, he blinked and took his hands away. “I'm going crazy here,” he muttered. “Got to get out.”

She sank onto the pillows, struggling for breath. Meanwhile, he had turned on the overhead light and was rifling the contents of her purse. “Money … money … ten … twenty … thirty … forty … two twenties … the old man's or did you turn a few tricks on your way
down here? Aha, a Vermont license!” Then he unfolded a sheet of paper on which she had jotted down notes of a melody.

“That's my music! I wrote it!”

“Fuck your music.”

“Alfredo, you're an artist!”

“And you're a whore, baby. I'm the only artist around here.”

He dangled her car keys. “What kind of car you got?”

“A Chrysler.”

“Let's take a ride.”

“It's over in a lot on Tenth Avenue,” she lied.

“He left you everything, right?”

“The will is in probate, and it probably won't be settled for a long time,” she said, lying again. (Privately Morris had told her that Max arranged things so that the will would skip probate. “How he loved and worried about you,” Morris had said, taking off his spectacles to wipe his forehead. “What a
mensch
.”)

Alfredo flung the contents of the purse on the floor.

“Pick up your shit.”

In shock, she bent over to gather her cosmetic case, the empty wallet, crumpled kleenex, a stick of cologne, and the folded sheet of music.

When she had put everything back into her purse, he pulled her by the haunches back onto the bed. He drew her up against him, moistened her with a little saliva, and forced his thick cock inside her anus. She cried out with the sensation of burning pain. He had never fucked her like this before. After he climaxed, he held her in his arms. His touch sent volts of fear through her. Finally, in the early morning he fell asleep. Gray light shone into the room. He was snoring when she got up. Quietly, she dressed then picked up her purse and her shoes and carried them into the studio. The dog growled in its sleep.

She noticed the dust on the floor. The windows were covered with grime. A bunch of purple chrysanthemums had withered in a vase. Petals had fallen and lay on the floor mingled with dust. On a small table, a watercolor had been spread out to dry. It was a somber self-portrait, which caught the essence of Alfredo. The expression in the eyes was haunting. She thought it was one of the best pictures he had ever done.

On top of a crate lay sheets of butcher paper filled with charcoal drawings of a nude—a long, slender girl with black hair and an Oriental slant to her eyes. She wondered who the girl was.

Then she tiptoed into the kitchen, nearly tripping over the dog's bowl. On the kitchen table lay a mass of papers. An overdue notice from Con Edison stating that unless the $32.40 past due was paid by the twentieth of the month, the electricity and gas would be turned off. A New York Telephone bill for $56.23. An overdue car payment notice from Chemical Bank for $79.00.

Want ads with jobs for bartenders were circled in red ink.

She glanced at an old photograph of a beautiful dark-haired woman, dressed in the style of the thirties, who held a small boy in her lap. An older boy of six or seven stood behind them. The woman gazed down with affection at the child in her arms. There was a lonely look in the older child's eyes. This must be Alfredo's mother and younger brother, she decided, and the lonely one looked like Alfredo. There was a photograph of a brick apartment building in Queens with a family standing in front, probably his relatives.

Finally, she studied a larger photograph of a pale man with dark hair and features that resembled Alfredo's. Written on the back in faded ink was “Havana, 1929.”

The dog growled again and stirred in its sleep. Adrianne held her breath. As she tiptoed past the bedroom, she took a last look at Alfredo. He was sleeping on his side with one arm flung over the pillow. Neither Alfredo nor the dog made a sound when she unbarred the front door.

She drove through the Holland Tunnel to get to the New Jersey Turnpike and didn't stop for gas until she reached Newark.

Adrianne filled the gas tank at a Shell station on the outskirts of Newark and ate breakfast at a coffee shop. In the restroom she surveyed her tired face in the mirror. Then she telephoned her mother. It was nine o'clock on a Saturday morning, and probably Elena would be home from work.