“Hmm. Well, you sound in good spirits. That's good. Just don't leave her alone too much.”
“Helen? She's fine, Janjic.”
“Yes, but it's still my house. We can't have a stranger just wandering around all alone.”
“She's not a stranger. Let go, Janjic.”
Let go?
He wasn't sure he'd heard right. “What?”
“You must relax, Janjic. Something is happening.”
“Of course something's happening. I'm getting married. We're making a movie.”
“Much more, I think.”
“And I have no idea what you're talking about.”
Silence settled between them for a few moments. She wasn't telling him everything, but he wasn't sure he wanted to hear everything right now.
“Has she seen a counselor?” Jan asked.
“She saw Father Stevens this afternoon. She liked him.”
“Good. That's good. Maybe he can find her new accommodations.”
“Perhaps.”
They left it at that, and Jan spent the next two hours shaking the conversation from his head.
Let go. Something is up, Janjic.
The dinner with Tom Jameson was a welcome distraction. The man's enthusiasm for the movie deal and its possibilities dwarfed this Helen business. By eleven that night, Jan had recovered himself sufficiently to whistle lightheartedly as he drove himself home. The madness had left him.
But that all changed on Wednesday.
He rose at five and showered, thinking about the conference call Nicki had arranged between him, Roald, and Karen at nine. Karen had some news she wanted to share with both of them.
Only when he left his room dressed and ready for the office did he once again think of Helen, sleeping in the suite below. Butterflies lifted his stomach. He rounded the corner for the kitchen and stopped mid-stride.
Suddenly those butterflies were huge and monstrous and doing backflips, because suddenly she was there, leaning over the coffeepot, dressed in an oversize white shirt that hung to her knees.
Jan took one step back on the chance she had not seen him.
“Morning, Jan.”
He swallowed, replaced his foot and walked in. “Morning, Helen.” She had not looked up at him yet. “Where's Ivena?”
“She's still in bed. Sleep well?” she asked, and now she turned her head, still fiddling with the coffee machine.
“Yes,” he thought he said, but he couldn't be sure with all the commotion streaming through his head. He said it again, just to be sure. “Yes.” She was looking at him with those blue eyes, smiling innocently. Nothing more; he could see that.
But he
did
see more. She was throwing her magic at him. His knees felt weak and his breathing stopped. Waves of heat washed down his back. He instinctively reached a hand to the refrigerator to steady himself.
You are in love with her.
“I can't seem to get the water . . . Do you know how this thing works?”
“Yes.”
She waited for him to say more. But he just stood there stupidly. He wasn't thinking so quickly. “Could you show me how?” she prompted.
“Yes.” He walked over to her and bent over the coffee maker, absolutely clueless as to what she wanted him to do. She moved over a foot maybe, certainly no more. Not beyond the reach of his elbow, which bumped up against her stomach. The touch sent a wave of hot air through his mind and he lost what little concentration he'd had.
You are in love with her, Jan.
He almost straightened and told the voice to shut up. But the thought of doing even that swam away with the rest of his reason. Instead he just fumbled cluelessly with the buttons and the pot and the plug, still wondering what he was supposed to do here.
She stood beside him, looking over his shoulder, her hot, sweet breath playing with the hairs on his neck. Or maybe not; maybe that was a breeze from the window. But it lifted the hairs on his neck just the same, and he was struck by a sudden panic that she might notice her effect on him.
Jan straightened, but too quickly and without aim; his head hit the cupboard above the counter.
Thump.
Helen giggled. “Are you okay? Actually, I just need it turned on.”
“On?” He bent over the machine. Maybe she hadn't noticed his stiffness. The power button was suddenly there, big and bold on the right and he wondered how she could have missed it. He pressed it, heard a soft hiss, and extracted himself from the workspace. “There.”
“Thank you, Jan.”
“Sure. No problem.” He backed away and took a banana from the fruit basket. “So everything's working for you downstairs?” he asked.
“Perfect. The television doesn't work but at least the coffee maker is a simple affair.” She smiled, and he laughed as if it were a truly humorous comment.
“Well, if there's anything you need, please let me know.”
“Jan?”
“Yes.” He took a bite from the banana.
“How long can I stay here?”
“Well, how long do you think you need to stay?”
“I think that depends on you.” Her eyes! Dear God, her eyes were drowning him!
Look away. Look away, Jan!
“You think?”
She nodded, not moving her eyes from his. “It
is
your house.”
“Yes, I guess it is that.” He took another bite from the banana. “Well, let's just say that you can stay until you need to go,” he said.
“Really?”
“How long are you thinking?” he asked.
“I don't know.” She smiled and he thought she might have winked, but he quickly decided she had not. “Like I said, that's up to you.”
“Okay.” For an impossible moment they held eye contact, and then he turned. “Well, I have to get to the office for a conference call.” Jan started for the front door, still gripping the banana in his right hand.
“Jan.”
He reached for the door with a sweaty palm and turned to face her.
“Maybe we could have dinner tonight,” she said.
His knees would not stay still. She stood there smiling at him, and every fiber in his body cried to run over there and fall to his knees and beg for her forgiveness for even considering that she was anything less than an angel.
You are in love with her, Jan. You are hopelessly in love with her.
He didn't bother putting up a defense this time.
“Yes. I would like that,” he said. His voice wavered but he didn't try to steady it. “I would like that very much.”
Jan opened the door and walked out into the fresh morning air, barely able to breathe. He'd already made the turn down the sidewalk that paralleled the street when he remembered the car and turned back. It occurred to him that he had a half-eaten banana in his hand when he tried to open the car door. He hated bananas with a passion. Ivena must have bought them. He grunted and laid it in the flower bed, thinking to throw it away when he returned.
When he returned to take Helen to dinner.
GLENN LUTZ sat at his desk at a quarter to four that same afternoon, sweating profusely. He'd taken the last five impossible days without Helen as well as any sane man could. But what sanity he still possessed was wearing unbearably thin.
She'd come last Friday night, snorted a fistful of his drugs and then teased him the way only Helen could tease. She'd played cat and mouse with him for an hour, running and laughing hysterically, before he could finally take it no longer and broke his promise not to hit her. It had been a blow with his fist, on top of her head, and it had dropped her like a sack of potatoes. When she'd come around fifteen minutes later, she proved much more cooperative.
He had let her go as promised, swearing the blow to her head had been a mistake. When would she be back? Soon, she'd said. The next day? Maybe. But only if he promised not to hit her.
But she hadn't come back the next day. Or the next, or the next, or the next. And now Glenn knew that he wouldn't be able to keep his promise to give her the freedom she demanded. He'd initially persuaded himself that going without would only elevate the pleasure when it did come. Like crossing a desert without water and then plunging into a pool at an oasis. Well, that was fine for a day or two, but now the desert was killing him and it was time to call in the marines. Either that or lie down and die.
Glenn glanced at the clock in his office. It was now 5:00 P.M. He hadn't been home in four days. It was a new vow he'd fallen into: He would only go home to shower on days after seeing Helen. The rest of the time he could conduct business on his terms, caking on the deodorants if a meeting necessitated, but otherwise staying pure until her return. It occurred to him in moments of clarity that he had become a demented man over time; that any man on the street who knew how Glenn Lutz lived his life would go white as a sheet. But they were not him, were they? They didn't possess the power he did, the self-control. They did not have his past with Helen. And so they could go drown themselves in their holy water, for all he cared. There was a time to conquer the world and there was a time to conquer a woman. He'd had his fill of conquering the world; it was a woman who begged to be conquered now. Truth be told, a far nobler task.
It was time to fetch Helen. He wouldn't break into the preacher's house, of course. Breaking and entering involved neighbors and alarms and physical evidence that proved risky. It was always better to snatch a person outside of their home.
Glenn stood, wiped the sweat from his face and flung his fingers out, dotting his desk with droplets of moisture. This time . . . this time he would have to deposit a greater reservoir of motivation in her. If she expected him to sit and wait in death, then she would have to give a little of her life to sustain him. He smiled at the thought. Clever. Very clever.
A knock sounded on the door and he started. That would be either Buck or Beatrice. No one else would dare, even if they could get to the top floor. “Come.”
Beatrice walked in. She'd stacked her hair a foot high and it looked absurd, exaggerating her sloping forehead. She was clearly a witch.
“What?” he asked.
“I have a surprise for you.” Her teeth seemed large for her mouth, but that too could've been an illusion cast by the hairdo.
“What?”
“She's in the Palace.”
“She . . .” The meaning of her words hit him then and he lost his voice.
“Helen's in the Palace,” she said.
“Helen?” His voice came out scratchy. Impossible! He spun to the door that led across to the West Tower. “She . . . Helen?”
The witch refused to smile. “She's waiting.”
The relief washed over him like a wave of warm water. Immediately his entire body began to tremble.
Helen!
His flower had returned!
Glenn was breathing heavily already. His face drained and his lips quivered. He broke from his stance and lumbered for the door that would lead him to her.
HELEN SAT on the edge of the dance floor in the Palace, fidgeting with her hands, terrified for having come. After nearly five days without him she'd come back, powerless to stop herself, it seemed. And powerless because her legs were trembling and her body was convulsing from withdrawals. It made her stomach float and her mouth salivate. If she wasn't physically addicted, then she was addicted in a worse way, from the soul up.
But she had to return by five-thirty. Yes, she had to get back to Jan, she couldn't go crazy hereâit would ruin her. She'd spent the day a nervous wreck, fighting desperately for control until she finally decided that one hit would not hurt. One dip back into the waters. She was, after all, still a fish, and fish could not stay up on the shore forever. One taste of . . . this.
That priest Ivena had sent her to had talked about stability in terms of loyalty and trust. But what could he possibly know of her?
This
was her loyalty and trust; the drugs. And Glenn. The beast. Beauty and the Beast.
The door to her right slammed open and she leaped to her feet. He stood there with his arms spread like a gunslinger, panting and sweating.
Helen stood. “Glenn.” She should go now, she thought. Or she should run to him and throw her arms around him. Helen smiled, partly with seduction, partly in amusement at herself. “I missed you, Glenn.”
He dropped to his knees and started to cry. “Oh, I missed you too, baby. I missed you so much.”
She felt an odd blend of empathy and disgust, but it did not stop her. She went for him, and when she reached him, knelt down and kissed his forehead. He smelled of sick flesh, but she was growing accustomed to his peculiarities.
Then Helen put her arms around his huge frame and together they toppled over backward.
“The love that I saw in the priest and in Nadia was a sentiment that destroyed desire for anything less than union with Christ. If you say you love Christ, but are not driven to throw away everything for that pearl of great price, you deceive yourself. This is what Christ said.”
The Dance of the Dead, 1959
JAN THREW safety to the wind and roared toward Ivena's house. Put a man who'd relied too heavily on a chauffeur for most of his driving career behind the wheel and stir his heart into panic and you'd better warn the public. A car blared its horn to his right, and Jan punched the accelerator. The Cadillac shot through the intersection safely. He'd just run a stop sign. He braked hard and heard a squeal; those were
his
tires!
Settle down, Janjic!
Ivena's was just around the corner.
It was jealousy that raged through his blood, he thought. And he really had no business courting jealousy. Especially over Helen. Not so soon. Not ever! Goodness, listen to him.
But there it was: jealousy. An irrational fear of loss that had sent him into this tailspin. Because Helen was missing. Helen was gone.
It had been a good day, too. The conference call with Karen could have been awkward, but Roald's ever-present booming voice had preempted any opportunity for private talk. Karen announced her news: In light of the movie deal, their publisher, Bracken and Holmes, had agreed to publish another edition of
The Dance of the Dead,
with updates that tied into the movie
.
And they were underwriting a twenty-city tour! What does this mean? Jan wanted to know. “It means, dear Jan, more money, I'd say,” Roald had boomed. Karen then told them that the publisher had arranged a dinner with Delmont Pictures Saturday evening. They wanted Jan there. Where? New York, of course. New York again? Yes, New York again. It would be huge, better than anything she could have wished for.