Family? It's hard to think of this man as having a family. Sisters, brothers? Parents?
Gerald appears with a large plate in each hand. Salmon, pinkish-orange, surrounded by grilled vegetables--cauliflower, broccoli, carrots, green bean sprouts--and thick, lumpy mashed potatoes topped by a melting pat of butter.
I have yet to taste the wine, which is ruby in color, the shade of freshly spilled blood. I put the glass to my nose and inhale; the scent is earthy, ripe, pungent, powerful. I try a sip. I have to suppress the urge to cough, to spit it out. I swallow, school my features into the blank mask. I do not like this, not at all. Dry, rolling over my tongue with a dozen shades of decadent flavor.
"Don't like that wine as much, I take it?"
I shake my head. "It's . . . so different."
"Different good, or different bad?"
I am in dangerous and unfamiliar territory. I shrug. "Not like the Pinot Grigio."
A noise in the back of the throat. A laugh, perhaps. If I didn't know better. "You don't like it. You can say so, if that is the case."
I demurely slide the goblet away from me an inch or two. "I would prefer some ice water, I think."
"More of the Pinot, perhaps?" My goblet is tugged closer to the other side of the table.
I shrug, trying not to appear too eager. "That would be wonderful, Caleb. Thank you."
A single finger lifted off the tabletop, a turn of the head. Subtle gestures, made with the knowledge that they will be noticed. Gerald appears, bending close. "Sir?"
"The lady does not find the red suitable to her palate, I'm afraid. She'll have more of the Pinot Grigio. I'll finish this myself, I suppose. No sense wasting it."
"Immediately, sir." Gerald hustles into the shadows and is gone for only a few moments before returning with a single glass of the white wine.
I was expecting more of the uncorking ritual and find myself slightly disappointed that I wouldn't get to see it again. So strange, so lovely, like the waltz of a gourmand. No matter. I drink the wine and enjoy it. Feel it in my blood, buzzing warmly in my skull.
The salmon, of course, is very good. Light, flavorful, pleasurable.
Nothing is said during the course of the meal. The only sound is the quartet playing softly from the shadows, the clink of forks. At long last, both plates are pushed away, and I follow example by covering what I didn't finish with my napkin. Gerald removes the plates, vanishes, and reappears with two plates, each of which contains a single small bowl, in which is . . . I do not know what it is.
"Chef Jean-Luc offers Flan Almendra, a traditional Spanish dessert for sir and madam, to finish the evening."
"Thank you, Gerald. That will be all."
"Of course, sir. And may I just say what an extraordinary pleasure it was to serve you this evening." Gerald bows deeply and then departs.
Flan turns out to be somewhere between pudding and pie, with a crunchy almond crust. I eat it slowly, savoring it, forcing myself to be demure, a lady, and not devour it as I would wish to, were such barbaric behavior allowed.
Through it all, my brain is whirring. A single question, burning: Why? Why? Why?
I dare not ask.
At long, long last, there is nothing left to eat, and only the last inch of wine remains in my glass. My red was claimed long ago, and the bottle finished. I truly do not know how so much thick, pungent wine can be drunk so swiftly.
"X." The voice, buzzing in my head. In my bones. It's a little loose sounding. "You've been very patient this evening."
I can only shrug. "It has been an enjoyable evening, Caleb. Thank you."
"I've decided today is to be your birthday."
I have no thought in my head, no capacity for rational thought. The pronouncement has left me utterly unhinged. "Wh--what?"
"Since we know nothing of you prior to our . . . meeting, I decided--rather belatedly, I do admit--that you require a birthday." An easy shrug. "Today is July the second. The exact midpoint of the calendar year."
I try to breathe. Summon words. Thoughts. Emotions. "I--um. Today is my birthday?"
"It is now. Happy Birthday, X."
"How many years would it be?" I can't help asking.
"The doctors, on that day, presumed you--with a high degree of accuracy, they told me--to be nineteen or twenty. That was six years ago, so I'm going to say that today is your twenty-sixth birthday."
Six years. Twenty-six.
Puzzle pieces flit and float and flitter. Gazpacho Andaluz. Spanish red wine. Spanish cucumber salad. Spanish flan.
"Andaluz . . . Caleb, is that a place in Spain?"
An expression of curiosity. "Andalusia, yes."
"Did you find something out about me? Is that what this about?" I cannot stop the question.
Cannot phrase it any more respectfully or politely. Curiosity flares in me. Hope, too, but just a spark, a fragile, easily extinguished, guttering pinpoint of light.
A pause, a hesitation. Tongue sliding over lips, roll of a shoulder, shifting in the chair. "Yes. A little something, at least. I had your DNA analyzed."
"You did?" I blink, breathe in, wonder if it is normal to feel as if I have been somehow opened, pried apart, what little privacy I have invaded.
"Yes. When you were sleeping, the last time I visited you, I took a piece of your hair from your hairbrush, and swabbed the inside of your cheek. You sleep like the dead to begin with, and you were . . . very tired. You barely stirred." A self-satisfied glint of the eye, not quite a smirk. "My scientists were able to trace certain markers in your DNA and determine with a surprising degree of accuracy where your ethnic heritage originates."
I am breathless with anticipation--that phrase, it occurs in fiction quite frequently. But in reality, it is not an entirely pleasant sensation. "What--ahem." I have to start over. "What did your scientists discover?"
A hand, manicured fingernails, trimmed cuticles, large and powerful and graceful, waving at the table. "Can't you guess?"
"Spain?" I suggest.
"Precisely. They are clever fellows, those geneticists. They're still working, comparing markers and whatever else it is they do, trying to narrow it down, get more specific results. They tell me with time they might be able to tell me a specific region of Spain, things like that. But for now, all we know is . . . you, Madame X, are Spanish." Those eyes, dark, expressive, hard, hungry, raking over me. "You look it, too. I've long thought that might be it. My Spanish beauty."
Clever fellows. Geneticists on the payroll. My scientists. Who has scientists on retainer?
"I would have had Jean-Luc prepare a traditional Spanish main course for us, but I thought that might be laying it on a bit too thick. Spanish food is also very rich, and you are not accustomed to such fare. I wouldn't want to overburden your digestive system as well as your emotions all in one night, you know."
"Yes, I see." My brain supplied relevant-sounding words at the expected moment, but in truth I was numb, dizzy, spinning, and fending off what felt like an anxiety attack.
"Do you need a moment, X?"
I nod.
"Take a moment, then."
I stood up and moved with great relief away from the table, away from the ring of candles, away from the huge and overwhelming presence. Away from the music. Deep into the shadows, to the window. Night had long ago fallen over the city, so now light came from countless yellow and white squares in neat horizontal and vertical rows across the horizon, from streetlamps far below, from red departing taillights and white approaching headlights.
I am Spanish.
I had your DNA analyzed. Such an easy phrase, so easily spoken.
What does it mean to me, to know I am of Spanish origin?
Nothing; everything.
My eyes prick, sting. My lungs ache and I am dizzy, and I realize I have been holding my breath. I blink and breathe. Such wrenching emotion over what? Knowing where in the world my unnamed and unknown ancestors came from? Weakness.
I've decided today is to
be your birthday.
Another fact that feels both weighted with meaning and utterly devoid of it as well. A birthday?
A girl with dark hair walks by, dozens of stories below, on the opposite side of the street, holding her mother's hand. It is much too far to see much else. They know their origins. Their family. Their past. A mother's hand to cling to. A daughter to sing sweet songs to. Perhaps a daddy, a husband waiting for them.
"X?" A single letter, spoken in a murmur that would be a whisper for anyone with a smaller voice.
"Caleb." An acknowledgment is all I can manage.
"Are you all right?"
I shrug. "I suppose."
"Which means no, I think." Warm palm on my waist, just above the swell of my hip. "What's wrong?"
"Why?"
"Why what?" True confusion.
"Why have my DNA analyzed? Why tell me? Why give me an arbitrary birthday? Why bring me here for dinner? Why now?"
"It was meant to be--"
"Are you going to give me a Spanish name now, too?"
A fraught silence. I interrupted, spoke out of turn. In dark and gritty noir novels, someone would say, Men have died for less, and with the man behind me, it might just be true. It seems possible; I look down at the hand on my waist. It looks capable of violence, of delivering death.
"Your name is Madame X." A harsh rumble in my ear. "Don't you remember?"
"Of course I do." When one possesses only six years' worth of memories, each one is crystalline.
"I brought you to the MOMA, the day they released you from the hospital. All of the museum at your disposal, and you spent the whole time in front of two paintings."
"Van Gogh, Starry Night," I say.
"And John Singer Sargent's Portrait of Madame X." Another hand on me, this one lower, below my hip bone, where it becomes thigh. Pulling me backward, taut against a hard chest. "I didn't know what to call you. I tried every name I could think of, and you'd just shake your head. You wouldn't speak. Couldn't really, I guess. Had to roll you around in that wheelchair, remember? Hadn't relearned to walk yet. But you pointed at that painting, the Sargent. So I stopped, and you just stared at it and stared at it."
"It was the expression on her face. It looks blank, at first. She's in profile, so you'd think it might be hard to tell what she's thinking. But if you look closely, you can see something there. Beneath the surface, maybe. And the curve of her arm. It looked strong. She's so delicate, but . . . that arm, the one touching the table, it's . . . it looks strong. And I felt weak, so helpless. So to see such a delicate-looking woman with something like strength? It just . . . spoke to me, somehow. Reassured me. Told me that maybe I could be strong, too."
"And you are."
"Sometimes."
"When you need to be."
"Not now."
"Why?" Breath, wine-laced, from lips at my ear.
"It's all so much to process. I don't know what to think, Caleb."
"You'll figure it out." Teeth on my earlobe. I shiver, tilt head away, close my eyes and hate my weakness, my involuntary chemical reaction. "Come. One more surprise for you, back down in your room."
I was not at all sure I had room within me for more surprises, but I allowed myself to be led away from the window with its mesmerizing view of the city. To the elevator. A key, from a trouser pocket, inserted, twisted to the 13. Descent, moments of utter silence in which my heartbeat is surely audible.
As I am led into my living room, the first thing I notice is that my books have been replaced on my shelf. Heart leaping with hope, I turn and see that my library is open once more. I am allowed to leave the strong-armed embrace, wander into my library. Sweep my hands over the spines of my dear friends, these many books. My gaze falls on this title, that: The Forge of God; Wool; I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings; Lolita; Breath, Eyes, Memory; A Brief History of Time; Influence: Science and Practice; American Gods . . . everywhere my eyes look, a book that has taught me something invaluable. I could cry from joy at having my library back.
I turn, let a tear show: gratitude emoted. "Thank you, Caleb."
Somehow the distance between doorway and room center has been traversed invisibly, silently, and a thumb trails through the wetness on my cheek. "I think you've learned your lesson now, haven't you?"
"Yes, Caleb."
Deep, long, gusting breaths, swelling that great, powerful chest, eyes raking down my form, eager and hungry and admiring. "My Spanish beauty. My X." There is a note in those words, in the delivery of them . . . it must be the wine, the alcohol pushing aside some of the granite wall veiling whatever emotions roil behind those eyes, which have always seemed to me the ocular equivalent of Homer's "wine-dark seas."
"Caleb." What else do I say? There is nothing.
"Look in the display case." The words hold a thread of satisfaction. There is a new tome in the case: Tender Is the Night. F. Scott Fitzgerald. "It's a signed first edition, the original 1934 version with the flashbacks."
There are white gloves in the case, of course. I open the case, don the gloves, withdraw the book with shaky breath and steady hands. The inscription, in Fitzgerald's own hand: From one who wishes he could be at 1917s 20th, in that crabbed, looping script, the name below, the curlicue F, the double-bar downstrokes of the twin Ts in Scott, the crossbar looping and swooping to merge with the second F that begins Fitzgerald.
"Caleb, it's . . . it's incredible. Thank you, so much."
"It's your birthday, after all, and birthdays require gifts."
"It's a marvelous gift, Caleb. I shall treasure it." I look up and see that the time for admiring my gift is over with, for now.
Time to show my appreciation.
Some things cannot be rushed.
This night, insatiability comes in the form of my body being slowly unwrapped, inch by inch. The dress unzipped, lowered to bare my lingerie--nostrils flare and eyes go heavy-lidded and hands reach; evidence of my "Spanish beauty"--and then the lingerie is peeled off, tossed aside.
Naked, I wait.
"Undress me, X."
To reveal that body is like unveiling a sculpture by Michelangelo. A study of masculine perfection done in unforgiving marble. Each angle carved with a deeply piercing chisel. My hands work and my eyes devour. My heart resists, twists, beats like a hammer on an anvil. My body, though. God, my body. It knows something my metaphysical heart and cerebral understanding do not: Caleb Indigo was created by an artist for the express purpose of ravishing women.
Specifically, in this moment, this woman.
And I hate my body for it. I tell it to remember the way of things. That this is expected of me. Required. Demanded. I must; my will does not enter this equation.
And my body? It has a response: I do not care about requirements . . . all I know is a singular desire: TOUCH ME.
Touch me.
Touch me.
My body says that, as does the body I have now laid bare.
So I obey. I obey my body and the tacit command within the two words so recently spoken: "Undress me."
Touch me, that order implies.
So I touch.
Stroke into life the erection as large and perfect as the rest. Well, it was already fully alive and ready; I merely gave it the attention it was begging for by standing so tall and thick and straight.
Hands go to my shoulders, gently and implacably push me to my knees. I cast my eyes upward and obey. Mouth wide, taste flesh. Lips curled in to sheathe my teeth, hands plunging in a slow rhythm. Watch now. Quick breaths go ragged, hands clutch my hair, voice box utters guttural moans. Taste smokiness, essence leaking.
"Enough. Jesus, X." A curse, more rare still than a smile.
Suddenly, I'm airborne, carried into my room and tossed unceremoniously onto my bed. I scramble backward, knock aside pillows, but I'm too slow. Lip curled in a snarl, eyes feral, hands reaching and gripping my hips. Tugging me roughly, and my heart leaps a mile from chest to throat as hips wedge my thighs apart. Face-to-face?
I dare not think, dare not even hope. Breathe, cling to broad hard shoulders . . . exhale sharply as I am pierced.
Movement, face-to-face.
I can't breathe.
This is a night for firsts, it seems.
I dare to flutter my hips to the rhythm of our sex, dare to keep my eyes open and see. There is turmoil. Desire. Conflict. Heated need. Demand. Fire. Urgency.
And also in me?
I shy away from parsing and enumerating my own emotions. To do so would be to open Pandora's box, and I dare not.
Desperate movement now. Eyes on mine. Unwavering, piercing directness. There is a world in those dark orbs, a whole galaxy a mere mortal such as I cannot fathom.
Close.
So close.
Breath leaves me. Neither of us looks away.
Oh God.
Hands claw and clutch, grip and tug and bruise.
"Fuck. Fuck!" And then total absence. Everything ripped away, heat, presence, breath, body.
The moment is gutted.
"Caleb? Did I do something wrong?"
That huge body stands at the window, silhouetted, erotic male sexuality in shadow, shoulders bowed, head bent, hands wide and high on the frame, hips narrow and trim, buttocks firm and clenched and bubble-round and taut looking, legs like Grecian pillars. Shoulders heaving.
"Over here, X." A command, uttered so low as to be nearly inaudible.
I hear it, though, for I am painfully attuned to every whisper, every breath.
I rise, move tentatively to the window. Touch a shoulder with trembling fingers. "Are you okay? Was it me?"
"Shut up. Stand at the window." So unexpectedly harsh. Almost angry.
At me?
I dare not question again. That tone brooks no argument.
I stand at the window, shaking all over. Turn my head, look over my shoulder. Oh. That face, cast into shadow now, but not the shadows of absent light, rather the shadows of veiled emotion, features smoothed into unfeeling stone. Only the lips slightly pursed and tightened betray the tumult within.
I shake with cold, goose bumps pebbling on my skin.
A foot nudges mine apart, and then arms like boa constrictors snake around my chest, clutch my breast, another around my waist to clutch my hip. Behind me, bent at the knee, a moment to fit that hot thick erection to my opening, and then a hard upward, inward thrust. I gasp, a shrieking exhale of surprise and pain. So hard, so sudden, so rough.
No gentility here, no tenderness. None of the eroticism of only moments ago. This is what I've always known. Roughly thrusting, roughly using. Grunts in my ear.