Carried Away Page 19

I didn’t see Gretchen at all for the first half of the week, and I didn’t ask where she went. I wasn’t feeling good about my track record for asking questions. My feet healed faster than my pride. Pride, of course, is a vice, the undoing of all tragic heroes. I tried to learn humility and to heal my dignity instead. It helped being in a place where every brick in every building had to be more than twice as old as me.

  Our ride to the airport was a quiet one. Henry and Gretchen sat next to each other, adorably holding hands. I sat opposite them in the rear-facing, fold-down seat. The trunks—the boots, as they’re called—of those cabs are enormous, big enough to fit my steamer trunk with their suitcases in it. I expected to be traveling steerage, but I wasn’t sure how. The trunk would be roomier, but it would be checked, which I thought might get uncomfortable. When the skycap wheeled it away without either of them taking a suitcase out, I got worried. Maybe I was supposed to stay in London, and they only brought me with them to see them off. Then the cab left.

  I followed them silently through Heathrow’s wide and busy halls. We got coffee after going through security and then headed for the gate. I stood in line with them while they waited to board. It was a big plane, separate jet way for first class, so the line was short. Gretchen handed their passports to the gate agent, who checked them in. That was the end of the line for me, so I stepped aside.

  My head had been in the clouds all morning, thinking about what Gretchen had said to me. She was right. I knew she was. I had been selfish, and I truly was sorry. As I silently watched them disappear down the jet way, I noticed once again that I had no money, no identification, nowhere to go. It seemed awfully cruel of them just to leave me standing in an airport at the end of everything. He did find me in an airport, so there was a certain balance to it.

  “Ma’am?” I turned to see who the gate agent was talking to, and he was looking at me, holding some papers out toward me. One was a ticket stub—either Henry’s or Gretchen’s, I presumed. The other was a little blue book, a passport. I opened it to see which of them had left it. Somehow, my own face was staring back at me from the page. The passport belonged to Eurydice Higgins, as did the ticket stub. It seemed that was me.

  Several more people had cleared the gate by the time I figured that out. I ran down the jet way, weaving through them, trying to catch up. I must have caused a bit of commotion. Henry paused and almost turned around to look as he boarded the airplane. Then he thought better of it.

  This time Orpheus didn’t look back. I drew up to a halt behind him, breathless but trying to act nonchalant. Even without seeing his face, I could tell he was smiling.

  --Eurydice--

  Tango is complicated. I’d been taking lessons. Henry only did a few of the patterns, so it was easy for me to keep up with him. He was also a strong lead. Still, I had to concentrate. The smooth warmth of his hand on my bare back distracted me easily, especially when he moved, which was all the time.

  I suppose I’m somewhat of an exhibitionist. Henry doesn’t mind. He seems not to notice when people stare at me. He stares at me sometimes, too. Most people look away when I catch them. He just smiles. That night I was only wearing matching black gloves and slippers.

  I’m joking of course…kind of. A woman can wear almost anything she wants to a black-tie dinner as long as she wears it well. I thought about leaving the gloves and slippers at home, but I do so enjoy gloves. There wasn’t much to them so they didn’t distract from my dress. I’m not sure whether to call it a dress or a hairstyle. My hair had recovered from the little incident so long ago in Dubai and then some. If I pulled it straight, it would almost touch the floor. Growing hair like that takes a lot of work and a lot of vitamins.

  My assistant and I had spent all day working on it. I wore it parted down the middle and hanging low in front of my shoulders. We put a few loose twists in it at the top, which kept it from falling in front of my face and held it together down to where it fanned out to cover my breasts and reached around my flanks.

  The hard part was the braid. We braided it around my entire body, hooking long locks against each other like a chain link fence. It turned out even better than I had hoped, covering me down to mid-thigh in a thin and tantalizing, almost indecent, mesh.

  Henry was leaving that night on a late flight to Dubai. He never took me back there after the first time, and I was glad enough he didn’t. I wanted to do something special, to really impress him since I wouldn’t see him for two weeks. The hairdo worked out well. His hands were all over me all night, not just while we were dancing.

  He pulled me close with his hand low on my bare back for a step that lifted me off my feet and pressed me into him with my head over his shoulder. I could feel every detail of his clothing against my skin. His bowtie brushed and tickled my neck; the silver studs in his shirt pressed coldly into my chest; his velvety shawl collar caressed me. I could even feel the tails of his suspenders against my hips through his jacket and cumber bun, teasing me to unzip his pants. There would be time for that after the party. No need to rush.

  My head rocked back as he dipped me, and I stretched my arms out over my head to touch the floor. Not needing to count beats, I took time to feel his hand behind me, his cuff, his coat sleeve, his hips leaning over me, one leg to my side, one following mine down to the floor. I pointed my toes and opened my stance to be tickled by his worsted wool trousers and my own woven hair. When I’m with him, I like being dressed in a way that makes me feel naked.

  When he swung me back upright, I nearly fainted from the long, low dip, but the dance was over. I draped my arms around him and kissed him, letting my toes drag the floor. Inside his embrace, with both of his hands moving freely around my back, I wanted him to throw me to the ground and take me right then and there. I kept calm, letting the evening continue to build slowly toward its crescendo. I slid out onto his arm and he walked me off the dance floor, all of my slightest movements dragging my hair lightly across my already-delighted skin.

  We had to leave the party in time to catch his flight. He hired a limousine instead of a town car, so I know he intends to do things to me on the way to the airport that even a spacious sedan cannot accommodate. My dress—my hair—has been teasing me all night just as much as I intended for it to tease him. I’m in his lap, facing him, kissing him, pulling apart his bowtie and his shirt to run my hands across his chest and up over his shoulders. His hands slide up my thighs and then move freely over my body.

  It reminds me of the first time, in the car in Hong Kong. That feels so long ago I can scarcely remember. I’m a different woman now, no longer the wide-eyed, hickish girl, pretending to be someone who belonged in the life I wanted. I’m not pretending anymore. I’m living the dream. I’m not just a carry-on anymore either. I help him manage his affairs, and he confides in me the things that worry him. He trusts me, and that makes me want him just as badly as his naughty fingers do.

  He opens the sunroof, and I can hear the sounds of the city rushing around us. It’s my city. It’s my home. He moves forward, laying me down on my back against the floorboards. The he stands up out of the sunroof like some drunken frat boy. I would much rather have him down on the floor with me, but I can’t help laughing at him, his shirt and jacket flapping hard behind him as the car cuts quickly through the night air. He holds my ankles crossed with one hand as he climbs out onto the roof. This man is insane!

  I only have a moment to worry that he might fall off into traffic before I’m turned and yanked backwards through the sunroof by my ankles. He only brings me halfway out, folding my legs down to lay on the roof of the car, pressing me firmly against it with one hand. I pull my arms free from my hair and try to find a place to put my hands to steady myself while the cold, night air rushes violently around my bottom half, but no hold feels solid. I dangle precariously into the limo, speeding through the darkness. I barely have enough time before he penetrates me to form an image in my mind of what he most look like, a crazy, perverted superhero, flying down th
e highway, humping a moving car. I laugh and scream and laugh.

  When we stop, he tosses me ungracefully back down to the floorboards, but I quickly turn around and prairie-dog my head up through the sunroof. We’re at the airport. He is climbing off the trunk, zipping up his pants, leaving his shirt open and untucked. I notice the suspenders. He planned this all along. I must be beaming, staring at him while he pulls his luggage out of the trunk. Before he walks away, I rise high enough to reach my naked arms out to him. I’m not quite enough of an exhibitionist to crawl out onto the roof and embrace him.

  He takes one of my hands and kisses it. He is playing with my fingers. He says, “We mustn’t let anyone get any ideas,” while he slips a diamond ring onto me. His other hand slaps the roof of the limousine hard twice, signaling the driver to pull away. I can’t speak. I can’t move. I can’t hold his fingers tightly enough to stop the car from dragging me away. He smiles, casually pushing back the fronts of his shirt and jacket to put his hands in his pockets. He is smiling like I’ve never seen him smile before when I lose sight of him.

  The passing city’s colored lights sparkle marvelously from every facet of the diamond while the cool, fast air thrashes the back of my head, dragging my meticulously tangled hair out in front of me. I’m dazzled. Those sparkles are all my eyes can see the whole ride home. He forgot to take his overcoat, as usual, because I forgot to hand it to him. It feels so strong and gentle wrapped around my naked body, like a cocoon, as I get out of the car. On second thought, he didn’t forget.

  --Gretchen--

  Dear Diary,

  We’re going to Paris! Je suis vraiment enthousiaste! Claudette va me répondre à la Tour Eiffel avec des billets d’ascenseur. Je ne peux pas attendre pour la voir à nouveau! Eurydice a été seulement une fois avant, donc cette fois, elle sera en mesure d’en profiter au lieu de simplement être étonné tout le temps. Nous ne faisons que passer une nuit, mais nous arriver tôt dans la journée. Nous prenons la Concorde! Il est tellement amusant. J’ai hâte!

  I just had to tell you. I know I haven’t written in months, but it’s because things have been good. Ever since that day I nearly drowned, Henry hasn’t been pushing me away anymore. I’m not sure why, but I don’t care. He always told me I could do everything, like he expected I would turn out to be a rockstar-princess-astronaut or something. I don’t need to do everything. He never did understand that it’s OK to be happy, to enjoy your life for its own sake. I think he is finally starting to believe that. Maybe that’s why he keeps both me and Eurydice around, that silly scoundrel!

  She’s nice, but she still doesn’t know what she wants, not really. That’s OK. She’s still a child in many ways. I’ve known since I was even younger than her that the only thing I wanted out of my life was to be with him, but he never accepted that. He never believed me. I don’t know what changed in him, but it doesn’t matter. I have what I want. I get to be happy. I’m enjoying being with him every bit as much as I dreamed I would!

  If you don’t hear from me for a while, don’t worry. It’s because I’ve won at life, and I’m busy running up the score. I’m not much of a friend, am I, only ever writing the bad news? Thanks for listening all these years.

  Adieu, mon chéri! Je dois prendre un avion!

  - gg

  She looked down at her watch, the pages she wrote, the empty fireplace, her watch again. Then she grabbed her suitcase and hurried out the door.

  Epilogue

  --Kosei--

  I love it when I fall asleep alone and wake up with Yumi in my arms. She doesn’t sleep enough. I always hate to wake her up, but I know she’ll kill me if I let her sleep in. Daylight is starting to come through my window, but we still have time, maybe a few more minutes.

  Sometimes I wonder what she sees in me. I’m just a regular guy, and she’s a shooting star. She knows everything, does everything. It must be exhausting for her. How does she ever keep it up?

  I don’t know if I can make her happy. That’s really the only thing I worry about. Forever is a long time. Won’t she get bored with me? I don’t know why she hasn’t yet.

  Yumi is a strong woman, but she is fragile too. She won’t admit it, but it’s there. Sometimes I lie awake to feel her breath moving in and out across my chest. She never talks in her sleep, but she breathes. Sometimes her breaths are terse and angular, sometimes fast and ragged. Every once in a while, not every night, but sometimes, she draws in a deep breath, holds it, then nuzzles into me while she lets it go. If I ever tell her about that, she’ll probably stop doing it.

  She’s wearing a new perfume this morning, and her hair tickles differently than it usually does. Every time I think I’ve seen all her tricks, she does something new as if she has been doing it all along. I hope she didn’t cut her hair short. I’ll find out soon enough. It’s time to get up.

  She isn’t Yumi. Where am I? I’m at home, but this isn’t her. She’s gone. “Now you know,” was the last thing she said to me. Now I know.

  --Kazaharu--

  Yumi-chan has come to visit me occasionally ever since her debut, but it has been a few years since the last time. Today she looks troubled, more than would be explained by her full-mourning attire. She has always been troubled, never still, never at rest. It made her a good student, but it will also undo her. How long has it been? Twenty years? She is still just as much a child as she was then—a gifted child no doubt, but still a child.

  I would make her wait to see me, but it wouldn’t do any good. She once waited silently for five hours, watching me practice a new piece of music, before I spoke with her. The lesson was lost on her and the time wasted. She cannot understand patience. She can do it, but she cannot understand it.

  “I am pleased that you have returned to us, Yumi-chan. Will you be rejoining the house?” She won’t of course, but I make her say it every time, and every time, I call her down for her answer, which is always different.

  “I am sorry, Onee-san, but I find myself afflicted by too many duties.”

  She usually has something better than that. She must be deeply troubled. “You are neither sorry, nor did these duties attach themselves to you of their own volition.”

  “Yes, Onee-san.”

  She is a life-long project, this one, but for some reason I cannot give up on her. “Yumi-chan, you are a grown woman. You do me no courtesy to address me as if I could grant you that which you must find within yourself.”

  “Yes, Onee-sa… Kazaharu-senpai, I understand.”

  And today she is actually listening? She must be very deeply troubled. “I hope that someday you will.” It saddens me to see this child in pain, but pain fuels growth. I will never give up on her. “Will you sit with me for tea, Yumi-chan?”

  “I would be honored to prepare it for you, Senpai.”

  “You will not have that honor today.” Perhaps she is ready to learn patience. It’s a delicate balance. If I stall with too much useless machination, she will stop listening. However, she cannot see what temperature I set on the stove.

  I can see her in my peripheral vision while I watch the kettle. It will boil despite being watched. Perhaps that is my lesson in patience. Yum-chan will learn. I may not be here to see it when she does, but she will learn. Her lesson is to wait for the fullness of things.

  The kettle sputters and squeaks, but it needs time to find a steady tone for its high and clear whistle. I’ve grown impatient in my old age. I usually pull it off at the first sputter and steep the leaves in water cool enough to drink. It’s a pity we will have to wait. Perhaps I too need this lesson.

  We hold our cups in silence, waiting for them to cool. I’ve set her against herself and I can see the war inside her. How long will she wait? When will the pain of waiting exceed the pain of drinking? I will allow her to choose her own pain.

  Instead she waits for me. The tea is cool enough to drink comfortably when I first taste it. Yes, she is listening. She is also here to ask me for something, but she knows well enough tha
t pretending to listen will not get her what she wants.

  “Senpai, I have come to request your help with a problem I cannot solve alone.”

  “We live as we dream, Yumi-chan.”

  “Yes, Senpai. I know. Still, I must ask.”

  I suppose I should have some mercy on the girl, at least until I find out who died. “Tell me of your problem before you tell me of your solution.”

  “There is a man, as with most problems, and two women, one of whom was killed.”

  Her face betrays her. She mourns as for family, but this woman is not her kin. Neither is the man. It is for him, truly, that she mourns.

  I might mourn for him too. I might pity him for his foolish selfishness, clinging to his affections for this woman because they belong not to her but to him, because he never gave his love to her outright. True love lost is undiminished, and yet so many of us choose to drown in floods of sorrow, sorrow for ourselves, instead of letting love flow freely from our hearts. Yumi-chan has drowned herself a hundred times over. That was why she couldn’t continue her practice despite being so talented. She would be a legend if she could learn to let go.

  “Tell me of the second woman.”

  “She is a child, Senpai. She is brave but naive. She learns quickly, but she knows nothing yet.”

  Yumi-chan doesn’t know that she describes herself. I would wish she might be kinder to this woman than she is to herself, but I’m too old to wish for things that cannot be. She also doesn’t know why this troubles her so deeply, but only because she refuses to see her own reflection.

  “So of these two women, three of them love; two of them live; only one of them remains.”

  “I… He is… Yes,” she admits haltingly. It has been a very short journey to her wit’s end. “Yes, Senpai.”

  She knows I’m right, and she knows the rest of what I will say. “That is your problem, Yumi-chan, and I cannot help you with it.” Why does she run from this truth? She wants my permission to do this to herself because she knows she is wrong. I am too kind to grant her request. Perhaps I shouldn’t be.