The Deception Dance (7 page)

His hands hold up my hair, while I empty my innards. The metal rim of
the bowl digs into my cheek while I lose my drinks, appetizer dinner
and probably lunch, too.

I whisper, “It’s okay, you don’t need to help me, I
can manage.”

“I don't mind...”

“Please.” A new wave of nausea washes over me.

He calls something in a different language and feet scuffle across
the room. There’s a soft touch on the back of my neck; it
almost feels like a kiss.

Hands with long fingernails scrape through and lift my hair. A
woman’s voice lets out a steady stream of words in another
language, her tone sounds scolding, but the language flows like song
and I don’t mind.

When the man’s footsteps retreat, a sigh
escapes me. I perch over my bowl for longer than I care to admit.
When the last of the sickness dumps out of me, I place the bowl on
the floor and push up on the arms of my chair.

The woman who holds my hair promptly lets it fall and rounds the
couch to help me stand. I put weight on my bandaged foot and cringe.

The woman yells at me, but I have no idea what she's saying.

I reach for the bowl on the floor; she slaps my hand. Fine, she can
clean up my barf, if she cares that much. I concentrate on the floor,
as she leads me, hopping on one foot, from the room. She takes me
from a white marble floor with black diamond designs, through a door,
to white tiles.

I unglue my gaze from the floor and glance at a spacious bathroom.

She parks me in front of a chrome sink, dug into a marble slab,
jutting from the wall.

I gaze at my reflection in the mirror. Great. I'm disgusting. I have
smears of black around my eyes and dried blood on my chin and neck.

The woman leaves me, leaning on the sink, crosses to a cavernous
bath, sunken into the floor, and turns the nozzles for the water.
Steam billows into the air.

The woman's wrinkled face and sour expression reflect through the
mirror, staring at me. The steam frizzes her black hair out of the
sloppy bun, piled on her head. She slaps a pile of neatly folded
linens next to the sink. "For you.” There is a toothbrush
on top of the pile, white clothes, and a thick towel at the bottom.
In one fast motion she unzips my dress. "I have cleaned.”
she says with a thick accent.

Gently lifting the strap over my bandaged shoulder I slip off my
soiled dress and hand it to her. I wrap my arms around my chest.

“What hotel do you stay?”

“Hotel Paradiso.”

She points to me and then the bath. "I help.”

I shake my head. "No thanks, I've got it.”

She shakes her head back at me and grumbles something, as she stomps
from the room.

I exhale and, with a little difficulty, maneuver out of the rest of
my clothes. Settling into the bath, without submerging the bandages
on my foot and shoulder, is so difficult, I almost regret telling
that woman I didn't need her help . . . almost. The water lulls me
into a warm, soporific daze. When I blink and lose a couple of
seconds, I force myself to clamber out, also quite a feat.

I brush my teeth and slip a white, floor length, heavy cotton dress
up my body. Luckily, my bra still has the few Euros I shoved in there
and I replace them. After I've washed the night’s blood and
grime from my cheeks, I can see my face isn't grotesquely scarred or
even scratched.

Music slips through the cracks of the bathroom door. I turn the knob
and poke my head out; the unmistakable voice of a violin, sings in
the air.

My foot somehow throbs less after my bath and I manage to limp out of
the restroom. The room I step into, my barfing room, is large, with
antique, expensive (but not well-kept) furnishings. The floor
stretches out like a marble checkered board stopping at the only
stone wall. Wood makes up every other wall and the ceiling. The room
looks as if two builders, who couldn’t agree, designed the
space.

I limp through the cushioned chairs and couches, following the sound
of the song. Stepping up through the next doorway, I turn into a dark
walkway that leads to the wide bedroom where I woke. This room is
entirely made of wood, except one stone wall, covered with stained
glass windows, darkened by the night. The bed I woke in sits
centrally, its dark wood headboard carved into many twisting spires
that almost pierce the ceiling. Meshes of paintings consume the white
oak walls, each with the primary pallet and grisly German
expressionist imagery, framed in heavy, dark wood.

A black dog, bigger than any I have ever seen before, lies on the
floor near the end of the bed. His chest rises and falls with heavy
sleep breathing. I give him a wide berth.

The music, emanating from the violin that Mr. Contacts bows while
sitting on the bed, threatens to intoxicate me again. I hobble over
and sit beside him, letting my eyes close. The song is different from
the chaotic tune I listened to yesterday. Could that only have been
yesterday?

The music is soft and sad. The melody dances like a summer zephyr
trapped in a garden. The image of looking up into a tree, studded
with plums, surfaces in my mind. Branches heavy with ripe, purple
fruit shift above me, as small patches of light dance across the
fingers of my upheld hand. I turn to gem green eyes staring into mine
and see a crooked smile, before feeling soft lips trail down my neck.

My eyes snap open. I blink a few times and shake my head. Maybe I'm
still drugged.

Mr. contacts's tune speeds up; I don’t close my eyes again. I
roll back my head and let the music wash over me.

After he pulls his last note across the strings, Mr. Contacts sets
the violin in a case on a table beside the bed.

“I love the violin; it's my favorite instrument,” I say
with a little smile.

He turns and flops onto the bed, inches from me.

Focusing on inhaling and exhaling normally, I break our eye contact
to watch my hands smooth out the cotton dress over my knees. "I
feel as if I know that song. I think I've heard it before. Is it
famous?”

“No,” he says, “The song is old, long forgotten.”

“Oh, never mind then.” I bite my lip and return my gaze
to him. "I was thinking, should we call the police?”

He shakes his head. “I would rather not.”

I wrinkle up my forehead, saying nothing.

He strokes my hair by my face, in a gesture so natural, I don’t
shy away.

“I don't like to entangle myself with the police for any
reason. I'm sure you want your attacker caught, but he will not hurt
you again, I made sure of that.”

“Did you kill him?” Directly after the question slips
through my lips I feel like an idiot.

He shakes his head slowly.

Wow, I
am
an idiot
.
As if he would have killed him. My
cheeks heat and just for something to change the subject, I ask the
first question that comes to my mind, “Why do you avoid the
police?”

“Because they're nosy, they always ask so many questions,
questions I don’t want to answer.”

"How did you find me?"

He blinks, probably surprised by my abrupt change of subject. "I
saw a man dragging a woman, and I followed."

"You didn't, um, know I was going to be there?”

His eyebrows lift. "How could I possibly know that?”

Realizing I sound extraordinarily rude, almost as if I'm
interrogating him, I say, "Oh, yeah. I guess Rome is smaller
than I thought. Well, anyway, thank you. You might - you might have
saved my life and thanks. If you don't want to lie to the police, or
whatever, we don't have to have to call them."

The corner of his mouth turns up. "Lie? I never lie."

"Never lie?" I say with a smile, "Everyone lies, once
in a while."

"I don't.”

"Never even a white lie?"

He stretches out beside me on his side, his head resting on his
bicep. “No. Perhaps sometimes I will manipulate the truth, but
only if I have to, to get what I want.” Pinching a little of
the material of my dress he rubs it between his fingers.

I laugh; the sound comes out a little too high pitched.

“What is funny?”

“I don't, I don't know.” Afraid he
has a direct view up my nose I scrunch down on the bed. “I
guess, people don’t usually admit to being manipulative, but I
suppose everyone is, when they really want something.” I turn.

I bet his lips are as soft as they look. I blink and shake my head.
What is wrong with me?

His white teeth sparkle from a perfect smile. "Is there anything
you want?”

I can feel my cheeks heating again. "No." I shake my head
again. "Um, coffee.”

“Of course.” He jumps up. He’s not dressed so
casually now. I didn’t notice before: he’s wearing black
tailored suit pants and a silk collared shirt. He leans out the door
and calls something I can’t understand.

That woman gives a tart-sounding reply.

“Do you have any other maids?” I ask when he returns to
the bed.

“Not here,” he looks ceiling-ward, contemplative. "No
one else ever stays.”

Yeah, I wonder why, working alongside that hag. But I don’t say
anything.

He drops down next to me in the position he just got up from, but
this time, there is four- or maybe even three-inch distance between
us; he combs his fingers through my hair. "I'm glad I found you.
I was afraid that man would take you away and I would never get a
chance to speak to you." His lips are so close to mine I can
taste his cinnamon breath.

"Was there ...” I pause to swallow, "Is there
something you want to say to me?"

"Very many things," he says, lips almost brushing mine.

The maid clears her throat. She’s holding out a saucer with a
porcelain mug. She says something I can’t understand but from
her tone, it’s probably an insult.

I bounce up like the Easter Bunny and grab the saucer. “Thank...”
I change my mind about thanking her, so I just take a sip. Cream and
sugar. Yum. The coffee tastes delightful. I focus on my mug.

Mr. Contacts, whose real name I don't even know, doesn’t sit
up; he’s still lounging on the bed, watching me and grinning.

I say, “What’s your name?”

“Andras.” He props his head up on his hand, with his
elbow pressing into a pillow. "You are beautiful, Raven, but you
would be more beautiful to me if your hair were up. Here," he
sits up, "I will call my maid and have her bring you something
to put your hair up."

"No, um, that's okay." I say almost laughing. Is he
serious?

"It is no trouble," he says, turning to the door where the
maid left.

"No, I mean, I'm not putting my hair up, I like it down."

He smiles at me, this knowing smile, which is just a bit...
aggravating. "What if I asked you to cut your hair? It would
look best short. You would not do it?"

"Um, of course not." I wrinkle my forehead, not sure
whether or not to laugh.

The smile he gives makes me squirm. "Do you not wish to put your
hair up because I asked you to? Are you the defiant type, Raven?"

"No." I say, then quickly add, "I mean, I..." I
trail off, stumped for a response; looking up at his smug face, I
realize he's testing me. Yeah, I don't think so. I glance around for
somewhere to put my coffee. "I should probably go."

He crawls toward me, not smiling anymore. "Please, don't go.
There is something I much want to show you.”

"Here?” I almost drop my saucer.

Andras's eyes twinkle as he answers, "No.” He climbs off
the bed again and offers his hand.

"Yeah, okay." I pass him my coffee and accept his
assistance in maneuvering off the bed. Andras keeps hold of my hand
and sets down the coffee to pick up his violin, before leading me
from the room.

He directs me through his room, the short
hallway and into the sitting parlor, which no longer reeks from the
smell of my throw-up. My foot only twinges a little when I put my
weight on my heel, so I manage to match his pace. The marble feels
like ice on my bare foot and I utter a little gasp. He pauses and
glances down.

Without a word, he hands me his violin case, scoops me into his arms
and carries me across the room.

“You’re always carrying me,” I say, then giggle,
actually giggle, like a hyena. Oh, just shoot me now!

“I enjoy holding you," he says.

My face rests on his chest; I use all my concentration for breathing
regularly. I consider asking if I’m too heavy, but the question
will just make me sound more ditzy, if that's possible. He carries me
out of the sitting area, to a gothic stone foyer with tall, angular
and thin, pointed-arch lancet windows on the walls.

“Was this once a church?” I ask.

He smiles, as if at a private joke. "A long time ago, not
anymore.”

Now, this building makes a great deal more sense. The interior wood
walls must have been added after the exterior stone frame and marble
floor. I wonder why I didn't figure it out right away.

Andras carries me up a stone staircase with cracked marble steps.
Even though the stair has a line of mounted candles along the wall, a
single dangling lightbulb lights the space.

He steps into a room that, now that I know, was obviously the
churches balcony, now converted into an office and library. Without
even stepping in, we turn to a closet, where he sets me down.

“Do you think you can climb with your foot?” He asks me
while taking back the violin case.

I nod my assent.

He opens the closet door to reveal a ladder. “It is pitch black
in here; can you climb in the dark?”

I nod again.

He starts up the ladder.

I follow. It’s easy to just use the toes of my left foot to
climb; the bandage on my shoulder pinches, but my cut doesn’t
seem to open. It is the highest ladder I’ve ever climbed. After
the first couple of feet, I am completely submerged in darkness. The
act of climbing a ladder is so repetitive, I don't have any problems.