Poisonous Kiss (14 page)

     "If you think you have a split personality, forget it." He grinned. "You're no crazier than usual." He let go of my shoulder and walked over to his desk. His palm-top organizer made an irritating chirp as he opened it up and began hitting a few keys. Some people forgot there is such a thing as paper and pen. I suspected what he was going to say and wanted to protest.

     "And about those fits of illness, be in my office 10 a.m., day after tomorrow." He closed the organizer and added, "Don't be late."

I didn't look at Martin when I picked up the phone. I knew he was watching me anyway. He pretended to be reading, but I could feel his nervous energy, and I knew he was alert to my every move.

     I was pretending too. I acted like I was looking up the phone number in my address book, even though I knew it by heart. I had had the time to learn it. In just the last two hours I must have dialed it a dozen times.

     I was listening, helpless, to the unanswered ringing. I thought of the apartment, the books, the messy desk. I could picture the phone there—ringing, but heard by no one. I couldn't take it anymore. I hung up. I had to struggle to keep from sighing.

     Martin put the book down.

     "Are you worried?"

     Was I just imagining it, or was there really a mocking tone in his voice? I wasn't used to feeling guilty. I'd never cheated on my husband. I looked at my watch.

     "It's past midnight," I said, and knew my voice was trembling too much.

     "So what? He is a big boy."

     We looked at each other's eyes. Now I was sure. He was jealous.

     I couldn't stand his stare. I closed my eyes, stood up and walked over to the window. I looked out as if I was hoping to see John there. But he wasn't hiding in the bushes, waiting for some secret rendezvous. All I could see was the dark, murky oak tree.

     "Who knows what might have happened to him?" I pressed my forehead against the glass of the window, and tried to fight back my tears.

     Martin was silent. I didn't look back, but I could feel him watching me, his stare burning the back of my head. He spoke so softly that he almost sounded shy.

     "You like him a lot, don't you?"

     I couldn't make a sound. I didn't know what to say to him. I knew I should lie. There are situations when it just doesn't make sense to tell the truth, because all you end up doing is causing pain. But I couldn't lie. Since I had made love with John, this was the first time I felt guilty. Before this, I only felt the thrill—I hadn't cared how long it would last or what the consequences would be. I was just enjoying the miracle of possessing two men. These two men.

     "You like him", Martin concluded sadly. "He's ten years younger than you are."

     I spun around, angry. Few women approaching forty like to be reminded of their age.

     "And dear little Ellen is about thirty years younger than
you."

     He looked at me blankly. If I had had any doubts, they were gone now. He wasn't moved by Ellen's young charms. I calmed down a little.

     "You think I didn't notice how she looks at you?"

     I saw the confusion on his face, and also a satisfied little smile, which he oppressed quickly. If he hadn't noticed his assistant's interest before this, he will now. I could see he was flattered. Poor old Martin! So happy to be considered attractive by a woman like Ellen. was he going to go to bed with her? Why was this thought making me so upset when I don't have any right to be angry?

     I walked up to him and stroked his familiar, balding head. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. I knew what he wanted. I gently rubbed his temples and cheekbones with my fingers. He leaned back, satisfied. A little red spot on the bridge of his nose showed where his ill-fitting glasses pinched him.

     "If Arany dies …" I said, but I couldn't finish. My voice left me. My hands continued the massage automatically. My fingers knew every tiny bit of Martin's face, and they were familiar with the tissue of his skin. But he sensed that I was not thinking of him. He pushed my hands away and looked at me. What I saw in his eyes was close to hatred.

     "You'd be pretty broken up if he died, wouldn't you?" His voice and his eyes were like a stranger's. "You had sex with him, didn't you?"

     I knew I should lie. I should comfort him by saying that John's just a kid, and that I don't need another man because Martin is the best. I should tell him that I was only worried about John because if anything happens to him, the blame will fall on me. Me and those damned shots.

     I nodded. I didn't raise my head, I only heard his voice.

     "He's ten years younger than you are!" He sounded desperate. Maybe he was worried for me, or felt sorry for me thinking that I was making myself ridiculous. Or maybe he was sorry for himself: He could compete for a woman in a lot of ways, but he couldn't out-run time.

     I reached out and touched his shoulders. It felt like I was touching a stranger. Tense, hostile muscles resisted me.

     "I still love you."

     I was really afraid that he might ask whether I loved John, too. I didn't want to answer this question, not even for myself.

     "I love you," I said again, both because that was the truth and I felt he wanted to hear it.

     "And what's going to happen with him?"

     "I don't want him to die," I whispered. "Maybe I shouldn't have given him that shot. But I wanted to do good—for both of you. Maybe I should have told you before I gave it to him …now I just keep picturing him, getting sick somewhere, staggering around like your mice in the maze, and then collapsing.

     "He won't," Martin mumbled. His voice was calm, with some resignation. Maybe he was even a little sorry for being angry. "You didn't give him an overdose. You went up to the upper limit, but not too far."

     "I'm not sure." I shook my head. I couldn't suppress my imagination any longer. I could almost see John getting shot, or beaten by someone he confronted in the street. I could see him in a hospital bed, pale with tubes sticking out of his body, like when I first met him. Only this time he wouldn't recover.

     And I'd be to blame. Thanks to me, he had no sense of danger.

The girl is even more beautiful in reality than in the picture. This is a surprise, because professional photographs usually emphasize the most beautiful features, like the fine curve of the hips and the oval shape of the face. A good picture makes the legs seem longer, the breasts more pronounced, the face more charming. Sometimes a photo can even catch a movement that suggests erotic possibilities. Reality is usually a disappointment. At least one feature will always be different than it was in the picture. In that way, models are like seaside resorts, the beauty of which never even approaches the splendor shown on picture post cards. Reality always includes insects, noisy tourists, burning sunlight, floating garbage or parked trucks that block the magnificent view.

     But this woman is an exception. Arany can hardly catch his breath when he first sees her in that small and packed office. She's the one out of a hundred thousand who looks even more beautiful in reality than in the pictures. She's the sort whose movements have to be seen to be appreciated. Her face changes so often it could be made of rubber, but each expression is beautiful. Her body is like a tightly wound set of springs covered in velvet, moving in sexy ways without trying to.

     Her hair hangs down to just below her shoulders, shorter than it is in the picture. Her eyes shine mysteriously as she looks up on Arany. She's wearing a pair of colorful, baggy silk pants, the type that helps a woman look elegant but boring. Her loose T-shirt doesn't show the contour of her full breasts. But Arany can see beyond the clothes.

     And he thinks of Frost, the other perfect body with the scar on his dark skin. And he thinks of the dull thump of the knife, and of Gladys Ferrow's ageing softened body. His face turns into a wicked grin.

***

The three of them sit in the office. The woman, Arany and the agent, an aging dandy. He has the face of a kid, but you can see the wrinkles from close up. Some day, he'll just get old very suddenly, almost from one day to the next. Arany imagines the guy like a character in a horror movie, and the thought gives him a nasty sort of satisfaction.

     The girl sits in a low, uncomfortable armchair, upholstered with faded velvet, in the corner of the oblong office, as if she trying to find the best protected spot. The agent stands up from the other armchair and settles behind his desk.

     The air conditioner and the traffic in the street raise a buzzing, background noise, despite the closed windows. The compulsory posters of beautiful women with seductive smiles hang all over the walls. Seductive smiles everywhere.

     Except here, in the room. There are only hostile looks, silence and suspense here.

     The blonde girl, the baby-faced agent and even this narrow room seem hostile with those fake smiles shining from the walls. The girl doesn't know anyone named Frost, has never been to a bar called Rumball, and doesn't know any guy with a scar on his arm. She purses her thick lips and looks at Arany with hatred.

     Arany looks back at her sadly. She doesn't strike him as beautiful anymore. She's almost like a female Frost: Just like him, her perfect body is a weapon.

     He's started craving cigarettes more often lately. He takes out yesterday's pack, shakes out a cigarette, and after some hesitation decides not to offer one to the blonde. He doesn't have a lighter, so he reaches into his pocket for a flat box of matches with an ad on it that he got at the bank. He looks at it thoughtfully.

     "And if I tell you you were seen there, with that man?"

     "You can tell me whatever you want."

     Only the third match lights up. Arany lights his cigarette, and pulls the huge, tacky, colorful glass ashtray towards himself.

     "OK," he nods. "You were seen with him!"

     "So what?" The girl glances at the agent. Baby-face becomes morose, trying to act like a serious businessman.

     "Can you tell me exactly what you are accusing her of?"

     What is he, a lawyer? Arany thinks. But he decides not to get into that.

     "Where did you meet him?"

     "Does it matter?"

     "I'd like to know. I like to meet people."

     "In a dance club."

     "I see," Arany nods. "Of course. In which one?"

     A victorious smile shows up around her sumptuous lips.

     "I don't remember."

     She leans forward and Arany unconsciously glances at her cleavage. He looks up, slightly embarrassed.

     "Which dance clubs do you go to? Give me the names."

     There was a disrespectful shrug.

     "Sometimes here, sometimes there. You know how it is. No, how would you know?"

     "Where do you live?"

     He pulled out his little checkered notebook. The girl gave him an address, sneering. Arany scribbled down the address, while the kid-faced agent looked at him with a worried expression.

     "Give me a call, Pat, if this guy starts bothering you at home."

     "Sure."

     They looked at each other and smiled, but Arany saw from the side that the girl's lips twitched. Soon she'll leave the baby-faced agent for another one, with a bigger, fancier office.

     "How long did your relationship last?"

     A pair of bored eyes, filled with disgust, stare at Arany.

     "What relationship?"

     "Do you live alone?"

     The girl shakes her head, while the agent reached out for the phone.

     "Don't worry, Pat, I'm calling my lawyer. I'm fed up with this harassment."

     Arany becomes tense. He puts the cigarette out with a couple of quick jabs. No, he thinks, I can't do this! He stands up. The agent isn't dialing, he's just resting his fingers on the phone. Arany's stomach trembles, and the trembling spreads. His whole body would be shaking soon. Get the hell out of here, he thinks, before you do something stupid. He wanted to go towards the door, but some kind of stronger will pulled him towards the agent. He leaned on the hand that was resting on the phone. He feels the man's wrist giving. He hears the pained cry.

     He pulls himself together, moved away and looked at this well-dressed dandy massaging one hand with the other.

     "Bastard! You'll pay for this! You nearly broke my hand!"

     Arany's anger leaves, and is replaced by an empty, burnt-out sadness. He leaves the room silently.

     Before he steps out in to the street, he stops in the doorway and inhales, taking air into his belly, letting it out and then inhaling again, into his chest this time. He lets the air out slowly and gently.

     A split personality? One of his egos is a murderer and the other a law-abiding person? He wonders. A minute ago he was close to breaking the agent's hand. Would he be suffering from pangs of guilt now if he had broken it?

     He hears steps from behind. He rearranges his shirt and walks outside into the sunlight.

     The traffic was light, so it only took him twenty minutes to go over to the girl's apartment. He parks on top of the letters "No Parking! Loading Zone" which had been painted on the pavement, and gets of the car to look around. Nice buildings, fancy cars, a couple of well-kept housewives chat at the corner. A young girl, maybe thirteen, pushes a stroller towards the park. Angry looks at the butcher's shop window as he puts the police sign inside his windshield.