Madame X (Madame X #1) (9 page)

“I
know
who fucking Don Quixote is, X. I did go to fucking Yale, you know.”

I did know that, and I didn’t go to Yale, or anywhere else. I don’t say that, though. You don’t need my superiority right now. You need a nudge in the right direction.

“If you know who Don Quixote is, then what is it I’m trying to tell you, do you think?”

You frown at me, and I can see you thinking. “Stop tilting at windmills.”

“What did Don Quixote think the windmills were?” I ask.

“Giants.”

“Correct. But what do you think his greatest failing was?”

“Thinking the windmills were giants.”

“Wrong. Thinking he could slay them even if those windmills
had
been real giants. He’d have been squashed like a mosquito.”

“And you think I’m not only tilting at windmills, but at a giant I can’t slay in the first place.”

I remain silent. You must work some things out for yourself.

“What am I not doing right, though? What’s wrong with me that he can’t just—just—”

“Jonathan,” I scold.

“What?”

“Stop whining and
think
.”

You glare at me, but, to your credit, you don’t lash out at me. Instead, you rise and pace to the window. My window, the one at which I stand and watch the passersby so far beneath and imagine stories for them.

“When I was three,” you say, cutting a regal figure at the window, one hand in your pocket, the other propped on the glass, head ducked, voice quiet, “I drew a picture. I don’t remember of what. I was three, so it was probably a bunch of scribbles, right? But I was
three
, and I wanted to draw a picture and give it to my dad. So I gave it to him, and I remember being excited that he’d looked at me, that he’d looked at my drawing. And you know what he did? He took it, looked at it, at me, and he didn’t smile or tell me how good it was. He said, ‘Not bad, Jonathan, but you can do better. Try again.’” You let out a long breath. “I was fucking
three
. And that was . . . that was the first time. I went back to my little desk with my little crayons, and I remember drawing another picture. Being proud of it. Wanting to give it to him and have him tell me it was great, that he loved it. Only he’d left, gone back to work. And the first picture I’d drawn was in the garbage. Not wadded up or anything, I just . . . I remember seeing it shoved down in the trash can with ripped-up envelopes and a Kleenex and other trash. That was the first time I remember feeling not good enough. And I’ve spent every single fucking day since then trying to get him to look at my goddamned pictures and tell me how nice they are. Twenty-three years.”

I sit sideways on the chair, one leg crossed over the other, watching you at the window. I wait for you to speak again, and it is a long silent time before you do.

“He’s the giant. Not a windmill, but a real giant. And I have no hope of slaying him, do I? So why am I trying? That’s what you’re asking, isn’t it? Why bother?”

“No, not why bother. That’s the wrong question.”

I stand up, step carefully over to you, my nude Gucci Ursula high-heel sandals going
click-click-click-click
on the floor. I am within touching distance, close enough to smell your cologne, which is subdued, faint, and alluring. Close enough to realize how tall you really are, and that I may have done my job a little
too
well with you.

“Then what’s the right question, X?” You turn, a half pivot. I do not back away, and pretend not to notice your gaze flowing over me.

“What
should
you tilt at? That’s the question. We are all of us facing something, charging at something. Aren’t we? But we have to choose which giants we attempt to slay.”

Hypocrite, I. There is no choice for me. It has been made on my behalf, and that in itself is a giant I cannot slay. But this isn’t about me. And I must appear wise.

You nod, understanding. Your eyes are on me. I hold your gaze and wait. A glance at the clock would tell me the hour is up, but then I know that already, I can feel it. I can feel the passage of time. My life is measured in one-hour increments, and thus I am finely attuned to the sensation of an hour’s passage, used to the slow caress of each minute, the slippery tread of each quarter hour sliding over me. An hour has passed, yet you are still here. Staring down at me as if seeing me for the first time.

“X—”

I back up. “Choose your giant, Jonathan.”

You follow me step for step. “I think maybe I’ll start going by Jon.” Your eyes, brown and richly textured in arcs of light and darker shades, fix on mine. You are not leering, or staring; worse, you are
seeing
.

“Jon, then.” I meet your gaze, and I must focus intently on keeping erect the wall of neutrality between us. “Choose your giant, Jon. Tilt wisely.”

A step. Not even a step, more of a slide of one Italian-leather pointy-toed loafer, and a single sheet of loose-leaf paper could not fit between my body and yours, and though we are not touching, this is illicit, a stolen moment. You do not—cannot—fathom the risk you take. The risk
I
take.

“What if I choose to tilt at this windmill, X?” You ask this with your intention telegraphed in the whisper of your voice, in the way your hands twitch at your sides as if itching to take me by the waist or by the face.

I keep my gaze and my voice calm, neutral; the direst threats are best delivered sotto voce. “There are giants, Jonathan, and then there are titans.”

Click . . . ding.

I breathe a sigh of relief . . .

or is it thinly veiled disappointment?

I
do not expect the knock at the door. It comes at 7:30
P
.
M
.
, Saturday. I have imagined dozens of fictional stories by now. It is all I have to do. When the knock comes—
rap-rap-rap-rap
, four firm but polite taps—I jump, blink, and stare at the door as if expecting it to burst into flames, or come to life. Regaining my composure, I smooth my skirt over my hips, school my features into a blank mask, and open the door.

“Len. Good evening. Is anything the matter?”

Len’s broad, weather-worn face seems hewn from granite and expresses the same measure of emotion. “Good evening, Madame X.” A black garment bag hangs over one arm. “This is for you.”

I take the bag. “Why? I mean, what is it for?”

“You are to join Mr. Indigo for dinner this evening.”

I blink. Swallow. “Join him for dinner? Where?”

“Upstairs. Rhapsody.”

“Rhapsody?”

A shrug. “Restaurant, near the top of the building.”

“And I’m to join him there? For dinner?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“In public?”

Another shrug. “Dunno, ma’am.” Flick of a wrist, revealing a thick black rubber tactical chronograph. “Mr. Indigo expects you in one hour.” Len steps through, closes the door, and puts his back to it. “I’ll wait here, Madame X. Best go get ready.”

I shake all over. I do not know what this is, what is happening. I never join “Mr. Indigo” for dinner. I have dinner here. Alone. Always. This is not how things go. It is out of the norm, not part of the pattern. The warp and weft of my life is a careful dance, choreographed with precision. Aberrations leave me breathless, chest tight, eyes blinking too swiftly. Aberrations are unwelcome.

Dinner at Rhapsody with Mr. Indigo.
I don’t know what this means; it is semantically null.

I shower, even though I am already clean. I depilate, apply lotion. Lingerie, black lace, French bikini and demi-cups, Agent Provocateur. The dress is magnificent. Deep red, high neckline around my throat, both arms bare, slit up the left side nearly to my hip, open back, Vauthier’s signature asymmetry. A runway haute couture piece, probably. Elegant, sexy, dramatic. The dress is enough of a statement on its own, so I opt for simple black high-heeled sandals. Light makeup, a touch around the eyes, stain on the lips, color on my cheeks.

Heart hammering, I step out into the living room, ready in forty minutes. It would not do to keep Mr. Indigo waiting, something tells me.

“Very lovely, Madame X,” Len says, but it feels like a formality, part of the charade.

“Thank you.”

A nod, an elbow proffered. My lungs are frozen and my heart is in my throat as I take Len’s arm, follow him out into the foyer
beyond my door: thick ivory carpet, slate walls, abstract paintings, a table with a vase of flowers. A short hallway leading to an emergency stairwell:
Caution, emergency exit only, alarm will sound.
The elevator doors are polished chrome, mirror-bright. A window near the emergency exit, showing the Manhattan skyline, summer evening sunlight coating gold on glass.

The foyer beyond my condo is smaller than I thought it would be.

A keyhole where the call button would be, a key on a ring from Len’s pocket inserted and twisted, withdrawn, and the doors slide open immediately. There are no buttons, only another keyhole with four degrees one could turn it to:
G, 13, Rhap., PH
—Len inserts the key and twists it to the Rhapsody marker, and then we are in motion. Only there is no sensation of motion, no lift or dip of my stomach. A brief silence, no wait music, and then the doors slide open with a muted
ding
.

My expectations are dashed. Shattered.

No hushed chatter of a fine dining establishment in full evening swing. No clink of silverware on plates. No laughter.

Not one person in sight.

Not a server, not a patron, not a single chef.

The entire restaurant is empty.

I take a step forward, and immediately the doors slide closed between Len and me, leaving me alone. I feel my heart twist, hammer even faster. My heart rate is surely a medical risk, at this point. Table after table, empty. Two-tops, four-tops, six-tops, all round white-cloth-covered tables with chairs tucked in, napkins folded in elaborate origami shapes, silverware placed just so on either side of the flatware, wineglasses in the upper right corner. Not one light in the restaurant is lit, bathing me in golden shadows of falling dusk streaming in from the thirty-foot-tall panes of glass ringing the entire perimeter of the restaurant, which occupies the entire floor of the
building. The kitchen sits at the center, open-plan, so the diners on three sides are able to see the chefs preparing the food, and the tables on the other side, a glimpse of the windows and the skyline. The elevator in front of which I am still standing is one of four forming the back wall of the kitchen, and there is a plaque above “my” elevator that proclaims it to be a private lift, with no public access—in place of a call button, there is a keyhole.

A thousand questions are bubbling in my brain. Clearly, my condo is only one of many in this building. Yet the foyer beyond my condo provides access only to the elevator and the emergency stairwell. The square footage of the condo, however, is not sufficient to take up the entire thirteenth floor. Why a private elevator that only goes to four places, and requires a key to access? Does each of my clients get a key? Or is there an elevator attendant?

Why is the restaurant empty?

What am I supposed to do?

A violin plays, soft high strains wavering quietly from off to my left. A cello joins it. Then a viola, and another violin.

I follow the music around the kitchen and discover a breathtaking vision: a single two-person table draped in white, set for two, a bottle of white wine on ice in a marble bucket on a stand beside the table, and a half dozen or so tables have been removed to clear a wide space around it, with thick white candles on five-foot-tall black wrought-iron stands forming a perimeter. The string quartet is off in the shadows a few feet away, two young men and two young women, black tuxedos and modest black dresses.

In the shadows just beyond the ring of candles stands a darker shadow. Tall, elegant, powerful. Hands stuffed casually in charcoal-gray trouser pockets. No tie, topmost button undone to reveal a sliver of flesh. Suit coat, middle button fastened. Crimson kerchief folded in a perfect triangle in the pocket of the coat. Thick black
hair swept back and to one side, a single strand loose to drape across a temple. That ghost of amusement on thin lips.

I watch the Adam’s apple bob. “X. Thank you for joining me.” That voice, like boulders crashing down a canyon wall.

I didn’t have a choice, did I? But of course, these words remain lodged in my throat, alongside my heart and my breath. Careful steps in high heels across the wide room. Come to a halt beside the table. I watch long legs take a few short strides, and I’m staring up at a strong, clean-shaven jawline, glittering dark eyes.

“Caleb,” I breathe.

“Welcome to Rhapsody.”

“You rented out the entire restaurant?” I questioned.

“Not rented so much as ordered them to close it down for the evening.”

“You own it, then?”

A rare full smile. “I own the building, and everything in it.”

“Oh.”

A twitch of a finger, gesturing at my chair. “Sit, please.”

I sit, fold my hands on my lap. “Caleb, if I may ask—”

“You may not.” Strong fingers lift a butter knife, tap on the wineglass gently, the crystal ringing loudly in the silence. “Let’s have the food brought out and then we’ll discuss things.”

“Very well.” I duck my head. Focus on breathing, on slowing my heart rate.

I feel rather than see or hear the presence of someone else. Look up, a man of indeterminate age stands beside the table. He could be thirty-five, he could be fifty. Wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth, young and intelligent eyes, light brown hair, receding hairline.

“Sir, madam. Would you care to see a menu?”

“No, Gerald, that’s fine. We’ll start with the soup du jour, followed by the house salad. No onions on mine. The filet mignon for
me, medium rare. Tell Jean-Luc
just
this side of rare. Not quite bloody. For the lady, she’ll have the salmon. Vegetables and mashed potatoes for the both of us.”

Apparently I’m having salmon. I’d have rather had the filet mignon as well, but I hadn’t been given a preference and I didn’t dare protest. This was abnormal in the extreme, and I wasn’t about to have anything else taken away.

“Very good, sir.” Gerald lifts the bottle of white wine. “Shall I present this, sir?”

“No, I did choose it myself, after all. Marcos should have set out a bottle of red for us as well. Have that opened to breathe, and serve it with the entrées.”

“Very good, sir. Will there be anything else I can do for you at this moment?”

“Yes. Have the quartet play the suite in G major instead of the B minor.”

“Of course, sir. Thank you.” Gerald bows at the waist, deeply.

He then scurries and weaves between the tables, whispers to the viola player, who holds up a hand, and the other three players let their instruments quaver into silence. A brief meeting of heads, and then they strike up again, a different melody this time. Returning, Gerald uncorks the wine with elaborate ceremony and pours a measure in each of our glasses, hands me mine first.

I shouldn’t be nervous to take a drink, but I am. I drink tea and water, exclusively. I have no memory of drinking anything but tea and water.

What will wine be like, I wonder?

It’s the little things; focus on the minor to keep one’s self from hyperventilating about the major.

I watch, mimic: forefinger, middle finger, and thumb on the middle of the stem, lift carefully. Take the tiniest of sips. Wet my lips
with the cool liquid. Lick my lips. Shock ripples over me. The taste is . . . like nothing I’ve ever experienced. Not quite sweet, not quite sour, but a little of both of those things. An explosive flavor bursting on my tongue.

Dark eyes watch me carefully, following every move, following my tongue as I run it along my lips once more. Watch me as I take another sip, an actual sip, this time. A small mouthful. Roll it around my mouth, coolness on my tongue, a starburst of flavor, tingling, sparkling. Light, fruity.

It’s so good I could cry. The best thing I’ve ever tasted.

“Like it?” That deep, rumbling voice, following a long casual sip, the glass replaced on the table, adjusted precisely so.

“Yes,” I say, keeping eagerness from my voice. “It’s very good.”

“I thought you might. It’s a Pinot Grigio. Nothing overly fancy, but it will pair very well with the soup and salad.”

Obviously, I know nothing of this. Wine pairings, Pinot Grigio, string quartets . . . this is a foreign world into which I am being suddenly and inexplicably immersed.

“Pinot Grigio.” I nod. “It’s delicious.”

A crinkle around the eyes, a lift of one lip corner. “Don’t get too used to it, X; don’t want you developing any expensive or unhealthy habits. This is a special occasion, after all.”

“It is?” I have no clue what occasion it could be.

Gerald appears, then, bearing a round black tray. Two low, shallow, broad white china bowls, containing a red soup of some kind. “The soup du jour is a creamy gazpacho Andaluz, made using the traditional elements of cucumber, bell peppers, and onions. Fresh, house-baked bread was used to thicken the soup, and it is garnished with a diced medley of the aforementioned vegetables. Chef Jean-Luc is confident there is no gazpacho Andaluz so good this side of the Atlantic Ocean.” Gerald rotates my bowl a quarter turn, presents my
soup spoon with a grandiose flourish and a bow—not so deep a bow as the one offered to my companion . . . host . . . lover . . . warden. . . .

“Very good, Gerald. Thank you.” Some indefinable note in that chasmic voice contains a warning:
Get lost, if you know what’s good for you.

Gerald is gone in a blink, vanishing into the shadows.

I dip the spoon into the red liquid, lift it delicately to my mouth prepared for heat, unsure of the flavor about to meet my tongue.

“Oh! It’s cold,” I say, surprised.

“It’s a gazpacho.” This, amused, not quite condescending. “It’s a cold soup. The Andaluz was originally served after the meal, but here in the States it is most frequently served prior, in the English and American tradition.”

“Cold soup. It seems . . . antithetical,” I say, and then ladle another spoonful into my mouth.

“Perhaps so, in theory,” comes the response, between mouthfuls. “In practice, however, it is quite good. Prepared properly, at least, and Jean-Luc is one of the best chefs in the world.”

Despite the surprise of the soup being served cold, it is delicious, creamy and bursting with the ripe flavor of fresh vegetables. I wash it down with a sip of wine, and although I have a vague notion that white wine is supposed to be paired with similarly colored foods, the light, fruity flavor of the wine does indeed offset the cold vegetable soup in a delightful contrast. Neither of us speaks as we finish the soup, and Gerald appears as I am scraping the last smear of red from the bowl. He takes the bowl from me and replaces it with a salad, does the same on the other side of the table.

“Continuing with the Spanish theme, this evening’s salad is a simple affair of cucumbers, onions, and tomatoes, lightly flavored with red wine vinegar and olive oil.” Once again, Gerald rotates the
plate in front of me, bowing, presenting the brightly colorful salad, artfully arranged in geometric shapes.

The wine goes even better with the salad, each bite feeling spritely on my tongue, the wine tingling and coruscating.

More long moments of silence as we eat the salad. My wine goblet is empty for perhaps fifteen seconds in total when Gerald appears yet again from the shadows and refills it.

“Dispense with the formality, Gerald, and pour the rest of the bottle.” The command comes quietly and cannot be gainsaid, so firm and confident is the voice.