Emily Kimelman - Sydney Rye 03 - Insatiable (3 page)

A man in uniform waited for us. He opened my door and gave me a big friendly smile. “Welcome to Casa Vieja.” I smiled and accepted his hand. Blue followed me out. He stopped on the cobblestone drive to take a deep stretch. Peter took my arm leading us into the lobby. The floor was a complex mosaic made of small, smooth brown stones in a circular pattern. I could feel the rounded top of the stones through Melanie’s thin-soled shoes. The walls were a deep terra cotta. The desk, which a friendly woman with almost black eyes and matching hair that fell far past her shoulders stood behind, was carved wood. I ran my hand over the texture, letting my fingers linger in the deep grooves, as Peter made arrangements.

We walked up adobe steps open to the elements. I heard the flap of bird wings and a loud squawk which was answered by another. It was hard to believe that one of the largest cities in the world surrounded us. The same man who opened my car door opened our room. We walked into a living room with a curved ceiling painted turquoise. The couch, upholstered in a striped fabric of grey and blue, was deep and its cushions freshly puffed. The carpet was so soft it felt like what I imagine walking on clouds must be like. A full kitchen with traditional patterned tiles was open to the living room. Its windows faced the street.

Once the bell boy was gone and the door closed, Blue explored the room. His long snout and its perceptive nose grazed over the plush carpeting, investigating every corner. Blue’s ears twitched back and forth picking up sounds that not even the most complicated of human instruments can perceive.

I moved into the bedroom, dragging my suitcase with me. Melanie’s suitcase I should say; I travel light, Melanie could teach the circus a thing or two. I hefted it onto a luggage rack and unzipped. Blane leaned lazily in the doorway, his top button unhooked. “I’m going to call our clients and arrange a meeting for this evening. Most likely cocktails. Do you have anything to wear?” He was smiling.

“I’m sure I can find something,” I smiled back at him. The suitcase was delivered to my apartment along with my plane ticket and a file on the case within 12 hours after I’d hung up on Bobby Maxim. I’d thrown in a couple of personal belongings, taken a shower, napped and headed to the airport. Blane walked back into the living room and Blue joined me in the bedroom. Blue did a quick tour of the room, checking the perimeter and under the bed, then with a sigh he laid down, resting his face between his paws. I pulled out a gown so long that without heels I’d step on its hem. I admired the bold pattern of lavender, cream, black and yellow. It is not something I would ever wear but Melanie…

The pitter patter of a light rain began as I pulled out socks and underwear placing them into drawers. A flash of lightning filled the room with the deep rumble of thunder on its heels. The rain was coming down harder now. I walked over to the open window. A strong wind that carried the scent of wet cement, played with my hair.

“They want to meet at seven. They’ll send a car,” Peter said, walking into the room. “So we’ve got the whole day.” He took his jacket off and hung it next to my dress. “What will you do with it?” He turned to look at me.

“I think I’ll take a bath and then review the file.” He smiled. “Maybe take a run around the neighborhood if this storm passes.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Blane, holding a manila folder, laid on the bed. He grabbed the pillow off my side and propped himself up higher. Leaving him flipping through papers, I went into the bathroom. With the door closed, I turned on the tap to fill the bath. After finding just the right temperature, I faced the mirror.

Thunder clapped and my lips trembled at the intense sound. My lips give me away. I’ve learned to lie with my eyes: to smile with them when I feel disgust; to make them sparkle when I feel dread. My lips though, they curl at those I distrust and sneer at those who repulse me. They cling to an older version of me. They still think they belong to Joy Humbolt.

The rest of me is entirely Sydney Rye. Sydney’s arms are strengthened from endless hours of pushups and tricep presses, her stomach is hard from crunches and side bends. And my legs, I use my legs to run. I don’t know who Sydney Rye would be if she didn’t run.

I tested the water in the tub, and finding it almost unbearably hot, eased into it. Water lapped at my clavicles. I let my eyelids close til my lashes kissed.

They started as a buzzing, like the sound of bugs against a window screen at night. The noise grew louder and I could make out individual words in the din. Joy, joy, joy, joy, joy, joy it seemed to be twerping.

I sat up with a start in the cold bath. Water sloshed over the edge and I looked around wildly for a moment trying to recollect where I was. The honey and cream colored marble, the gold faucet, and my toenails painted sweet salmon pink. Mexico City, pretending to be Sydney Rye, pretending to be Melanie Franks.

I sat back in the tub but it was too cold so I climbed out. Wrapping myself in a big fluffy robe I walked back into the bedroom. Blane was where I left him, engrossed in paperwork. He glanced up at me and then back down at his notes. Blue lifted his head off the carpet and tracked me as I got underwear, socks and a sports bra out of a drawer and then walked to my suitcase to pull out jogging shorts, a tank top and my running shoes. Seeing the shoes Blue stood and came over to me. His tail wagging, he tried to follow me into the bathroom but I closed the door.

I changed quickly while preparing myself mentally for the physical challenge ahead. I loved to run but had trouble taking that first step. Blue was a great help with this as he had no problem getting out the door. Blue did not have half the problems I did. He woke up in the morning without an alarm, he ate perfectly balanced meals; Blue’s life was filled with easy discipline. Mine came at more of a price.

Out on the street the rain had stopped. I walked a couple of blocks just letting my body warm up to the idea of movement. It didn’t take long before I wanted to run. I started going a little faster, jogging gently past shop windows filled with pencil-thin, faceless mannequins posing in extraordinary fabrics. A woman teetering on stiletto heels while jabbering into her cell phone walked a small, white, curly-haired dog. The little dog strained against its pink halter, yapping at us. Blue’s head stayed straight and even with my hip. The little dog’s bark faded as we turned onto a side street filled with shade, the sticky sweet scent of flowers, and the soft whoosh of a breeze. My pace picked up as I tread on fallen bright purple petals. I felt my heart quickening as Chapultepec Park rose up ahead.

Crossing into the park, I began a sprint. A line of families waiting to enter the zoo watched us pass. Little arms shot out to point at Blue, whispers of “lobo” followed us.

I felt like I was flying. Not a thought entered my head only the joy of speed as I raced down an empty path. When my chest felt like it was on the verge of explosion and my legs were no longer communicating I slowed down. The path under my feet was a light sand. The trees around me bent and swayed in the gentle wind. I relished the shade and mild temperature, the occasional gust that helped cool me.

My body recovered quickly and I picked up my pace again. My first trainer, a man named Merl who Mulberry sent to me in Puerto Penasco, taught me not to, as he put it, “blow my load” at the beginning of a jog. I tried to keep my pace steady as Blue and I wandered down paths that wound past lakes, families picnicking on large green fields, and shrubs pruned into abstract shapes.

Coming off a shaded trail into an opening, I looked up against the sun and saw the back of six columns in a semi-circle. I raced up the steps, taking them two at a time (not thinking about Rocky, or at least trying to avoid the comparison). At the top I stopped to catch my breath. Turning away from the columns toward the city, I looked out over a large boulevard. It looked like it went on forever. I felt that the whole of the metropolis lay before me.

COCKTAILS

Juanita Vargas Llosa de Hernandez was a tall woman with tight skin and a strong jaw. She had a well-practiced smile and a firm hand shake. Her husband, Pedro Hernandez Gonzalez, was shorter than her. He was soft everywhere but his eyes. They were one of the most powerful couples in Mexico. She was a Senator and he owned hotels that dotted the capital, lined the Caribbean Sea, and hugged the Oaxacan coast. They had a daughter, Ana Maria Hernandez Vargas, who was missing.

Blane leaned back in his chair and smiled at the small group. He’d known Pedro for years. “No one does business in Mexico unless they know each other,” Blane told me on the drive over. Pedro stood next to the bar holding his glass. He filled it with ice and then poured tequila over it. His wife sat on the couch watching her husband with narrowed eyes and clenched fists. She did not have a drink. I wished she would.

The ice in my glass clinked against the sides as I swirled the tequila, cooling it. It was a smoky blend, almost like a cognac. Tequila, known to Americans as a drink to shoot or mix in a margarita, is a different animal in Mexico. It is aged as carefully as an Irish whiskey, its flavors as delicate as a French wine. I sipped my drink and smiled at the subtle layers of flavor and smoky overtone.

A crystal chandelier dangled from the towering ceiling. On the walls, painted a soft yellow, hung an array of paintings. One showed an Aztec city surrounded by never-ending corn fields. Another portrayed a family with an overloaded donkey walking along a road to somewhere. The one right above the couch that Juanita sat on depicted Jesus in the arms of his mother. Mary’s face was a passive gentle mask as she admired the child in her lap who wore a halo around his head. The mother on the couch under the painting was wound so tight I feared she might explode right there in front of us.

“My daughter,” she said with just a hint of accent, “is hiding, not missing.” Her husband looked over at her, anxiety written across his face. “She has money, she has friends. If someone took her they’d want something and no one has requested a thing. She is doing this because we had a fight and she wants to remind us that she is important.”

“She is important,” Pedro jumped in.

“Of course she is.” Juanita waved a hand of dismissal at him.

“Do you agree with your wife that your daughter is in no danger?” Blane asked Pedro.

The man looked into his tequila, his brow furrowed and he took his time when speaking. “I think she is safe right now, but I worry that out on her own our enemies may find her.”

“Who are those enemies, Pedro? Tell me about them,” Blane said.

Pedro crossed the room to look out one of the long narrow windows covering the south wall. His glass almost empty, he finished off the last sip before answering. “My wife and I make lots of people angry.” He turned to Juanita who was watching him, her face taut. “Juanita pushes for women’s rights and that is something that many in this nation resent.” Her face softened as her husband continued. “My wife is a very strong woman and she does not back down from those who aim to keep women without rights or protections.” He stopped speaking and looked into his empty glass.
 

“And I am a businessman who over the years,” he paused as if looking back over those long years. His eyes looked tired. “I have angered competition, former employees, local activist groups.” He waved his hand at each enemy on his list.

“What was the fight about?” I asked. All eyes in the room moved to me. I didn’t realize how invisible I was until I spoke. Juanita smiled at me and shook her head.

“I will let my husband explain that. I prefer not to be in the room.” She stood up and straightened her pencil skirt so that you’d never know she’d been sitting. With her head held high Juanita left the room, closing the large wooden door behind her.

Silence filled the space. A door somewhere else in the house closed with an audible thump. The honk of a car horn, dulled by the thick walls and shut windows, reached us as barely a toot. Ice clinked in Pedro’s empty glass. Facing the window he started to talk, “The fight was over a young lady I have been…” He faltered for a moment, not sure of which word to use. “A woman I’ve been seeing.”

He was quick to add, “In most Mexican families this would not be an issue but our family is different.” Pedro turned back into the room and crossed to the bar. “I am a man who was raised to be
the
man.” He filled his glass with more tequila, not bothering to add ice. He swigged from the glass and I saw a line of sweat forming on his brow. “I love my daughter very much. And my wife.” He paused, his words hanging in the air.

Blane and I didn’t speak. This guy had stuff to say and we didn’t want to interrupt.

“My wife is incredible, you know,” he continued, rushing through the sentence, pushing it out in almost a gasp. “She has done more to bring women’s issues to the forefront of this nation than any other figure in its history. But you cannot change a country overnight. It is not possible.” He slammed his drink onto the bar and looked over at the painting of Mother Mary and then quickly away.

“I think that Juanita’s work is very important. I want my daughter to live in a world where she has all the rights of her male counterparts but…” He was looking for an excuse, something reasonable to tell us about how fucking some other woman was really OK but he couldn’t think of one. He filled his glass again and took a seat near Blane. He lifted the glass to his forehead and held it there with his eyes closed. “I do not know what I have done.”

Blane looked over at me and with just the slightest movement of his head gestured that I should leave. I stood up, almost steady on my heels, and left the room. As I closed the door I heard Blane begin to speak in a steady voice.