The Deception Dance (8 page)

Above, a hatch opens and a couple of the
night’s stars blink down. I climb the rest of the ladder with
my gaze skyward.

When I climb out of the opening, Andras’s
extended hand helps me onto a tiny railing-less platform. The space
is only a few feet of flat surface on a severely sloping roof. Andras
has to hold my hand, as I balance on the edge of the platform, so he
can close the hatch. I feel a touch of vertigo and have to sit.

Visible only by their fluttering movement,
black birds perch on the roof on all sides of us.

“Are those ravens? I thought they avoided cities.”

Shifting feathers reflect moonlight like gleaming ripples in oily
water.

Andras shouts a word at the birds; it makes me shiver.

As if of one mind, the birds all fly from the roof. They scatter,
merging into the shadows that still cling to the early morning.

I stare at Andras; his toes hang off the end of the platform.

"Have you ever been to America?"

He looks down, "I want to, but sadly...” He shrugs,
"perhaps someday."

Um, he's not Andrew. What was I thinking? I quietly clear my throat,
then ask, “What did you just say to the birds?”

Andras sits down suddenly, inches from me, in the small space. His
nose almost touches mine. He says, "Shoo!”

From where we perch, I have a perfect view of the dark sea of
rooftops in the gray morning moonlight. In the distance, the sky
lightens with the first shades of sunrise. A gust of wind blows on my
bare arms and I scoot into Andras before I think.

"You know," he says grinning, "You might not be so
cold if your wet hair were up."

I huff out a "Ha!" and shake my head.

Andras traces the outline of my cheek with his thumb, then tangles
his fingers into my drying hair.

He lowers his face to mine, his mouth onto mine, parting my lips with
his tongue. I melt into him. Our lips and tongues play, and then
dance together. Kissing him feels right: this moment is supposed to
happen.

He grabs my arms and tugs me closer into him, closer and closer, as
if our kiss could merge us. His soft lips caress my cheek, before he
kisses my ear, neck and then, uninjured shoulder.

I sigh, closing my eyes, when a sudden burst of light shines through
my eyelids. I open my eyes to the sun, peeking over the furthest
rooftops on the horizon.

“Yes,” his words tickle my neck, “this is my
favorite way to see a sunrise.” And then, he keeps kissing me.
I comb my fingers through his black hair; the curls are as soft as I
imagined.

Our lips meet again. I’m dizzy; I yank back to make sure I’m
steady on my perch.

Andras’s hands grasp my shoulder. “I won’t let you
fall off the roof, Raven,” he whispers.

I lick my already wet lips.

He asks, “I want to play a song for you; do you feel safe?”

I nod and he lets go of me to retrieve his violin.

The song he plays to the sunrise is shadowy and cruel. I imagine many
people would sell their souls, just to hear a song that delves so
deep. I curl into a ball and rest my head on his knee. His body jerks
with the intensity of his bow. The sun ignites houses along with the
rhythm of his song. The melody is of the darkest cruelest love, of
the passion of loss, the ecstasy of hate and the thrill of pain. I
could fall in love to his music. The notes wrench out my heart and
hold me, until he suddenly and unceremoniously ceases.

The sun finishes its ascent in cold silence.

“I feel as if I’m meant to be here, as if I’m
supposed to be with you.” I add, “On the roof.”

“You are,” he says.

He slides melodies across his violin strings, until the sun is well
into the sky and the red gleams from the rooftops are too much for my
eyes. We carefully maneuver back onto the ladder and descend.

At the bottom, I step out of his way so he can descend the metal
rings.

He jumps down and, in one swift turn, he pins me to the wall. My eyes
widen, but I rest my head against the wall and laugh. He kisses my
chin. I lower my lips to his and we're interrupted by a phone,
ringing.

He glares at the old-fashioned phone, chiming from a large, dark wood
desk against the far wall, and growls.

The rumbling sound excites me; how embarrassing!

Andras pecks my lips, then releases my pinned arms.

I check the bandage on my shoulder: no blood leaks through; good, the
rapid movement didn’t reopen my cut.

Andras does not speak English on the phone; his words sound Italian.
He turns his back to me, blocking me from reading the expression on
his face. The phone clicks and he spins. “I’ll be right
back." He walks to me. “Will you wait for me?”

I stare up at his beautiful eyes… and nod.

"Five minutes," he says as he rushes from the room.

My legs don't want to support me, so I sink down the wall.

Day Five

I sit crumpled against the wall, a shiver traveling down my spine.

I cover my face and whisper, "What am I doing?" I’m
in a strange man’s house. And . . . no one knows where I am.
Nicholas and Chauncey probably came back into the club and found me
gone, missing, vanished. What must they think?

Did they call the police? Or worse, did they call my dad?

…and I didn’t bring my cell phone.

I cross the room to Andras’s desk; his clock reads seven thirty
in the morning. I reach for his phone, then pull back my hand. I
doubt he’s okay with my making an international call from his
landline; he doesn’t even know me.

He doesn't even know me and I don't know anything but his name; which
means I’ve been locking lips with a complete stranger!

I grab my cheek. I said I was meant to be here. I thought about
falling in love. "Way too much, way too fast," I say. I
need to get out of here, leave before Andras comes back.

Ignoring the consequences for my bandaged foot, I get up and run out
of the room, down the stairs, across the foyer and to the door. I
catch my breath and reach for the doorknob, which is turning.

I’m locked in one instant of sheer panic. Then, I spin on my
heel and dash from the foyer into the sitting room. I peer around for
some escape route. For a moment, I consider retreating into the
bedroom, then snap out of it by screaming, internally, "No!
Focus, Raven, escape!" A small door interrupts the nearest wall
and I sprint for it. I yank the door open to find a broom closet.

Footsteps rap behind me. I step into the closet and close the door.
What am I doing? I’m acting like a crazy person.

There’s a window. I weave through the brooms, mops and vacuums
and reach the window, right as there’s a knock on the door
behind me.

The metal window lock is old and I have to shove hard to unfasten the
latch. There’s another knock. I slam the pane up.

“Raven, are you in there?” Andras voice calls, but it
doesn’t matter because I’m out the window.

I scoot off the windowsill and dash down the alley. I’m six
blocks away before I pause to exhale a nervous cackle. I check my
heel; my bandage is so dirty and worn, I doubt the gauze protects my
cut from infection. No blood; the cut hasn’t opened. I enter a
busier street and hold up my hand.

A taxi stops: the driver’s smoking. Beggars can’t be
breathers. I climb in.

I say, “Hotel Paradiso, please.”

I should have left a note. No. What would I have written? ‘I
had the most amazing time with you; sorry I escaped out your window.’
He would think I’m insane. What am I thinking? He must believe
I’m crazy: I escaped from his house like a thief.

Oh god, what if he thinks I stole something? He probably does.

I taste blood and realize I’ve been chewing through my lip. I
cover my eyes with my hand and don’t look up until the chimney
in the driver’s seat pulls over and points to his meter. I give
him the Euros stuffed in my bra, not bothering to wait for change,
and step out in front of Hotel Paradiso.

Hyper-conscious of my bare feet, I smile at the doorman in his top
hat, and enter the hotel. My heart pumps so fast, I can’t
concentrate on anything but walking to the stairs and up to my room.
The suite’s door is propped open, so I walk in.

“Hello?” I call, as I stroll from room to room.

No one answers.

My cell phone is in on the bed. I snag it and hobble to the bathroom.
I climb into the tub and dial my sister’s phone number. As the
phone rings, I peel off the tape on my foot’s bandage.

There’s a click and a fiddling sound on the other end, “Hello?
Raven...” comes Linnie’s anxious voice.

I stammer for a second because I’m looking at my foot. Where I
expected an unhealed, dirty cut there is nothing but a little tape
residue.

Linnie cries, “Raven!”

“I’m here...”

“Oh…my...God!” Her sobs punctuate every word.
“Where are you?”

“In our room, I...” She hangs up before I finish.

I stand and place the phone on the sink counter. While examining
myself in the mirror, I rip off my shoulder bandage: nothing, not a
mark on me. Did I imagine the attack? Was I hallucinating? I feel as
if the floor is dropping out from under me. There had to have been a
cut. Why would they bandage me if there were no cut? I stare at my
shoulder, breathing hard, until I hear people crash into the room.

Five people rush in: Linnie, Nicholas and three policemen.

I exit the bathroom and am barreled over by Linnie; we land on one of
the beds. She might be saying something, but all I can hear is
feverish blubbering. After her crying dies down to quiet whimpers,
she curls into a ball on the pillows. I right myself to a more
dignified position and look up at Nicholas and the officers, who are
hanging back.

The way Nicholas looks, the dark circles under his blue eyes and mess
of blond hair on his head, makes me want to sink into the bed; I
should have come back, or at least called, hours ago. He takes a
small step toward me, “Do you need to go to a hospital?”

I glance at my shoulder, “No.”

One of the officers says something in a language that is not English
and doesn't sound like Italian. Nicholas responds in the same tongue.
“German,” he answers to my quizzical look. “I don’t
speak Italian and they don’t speak English.” He looks so
exhausted.

“I’m fine,” I smile to reassure him; “You can
go to sleep now.”

“I need to help interpret for your statement.”

Statement
? I didn’t see this coming; I stare at the bed,
breathing fast and having no idea what to say.

Nicholas misinterprets my panic saying, “They say you can wait
and give it at the station if you’re too traumatized.”

“No,” I shake my head, “I’ll give my
statement now. I just need a minute.”

“Of course, Raven. We already know, I mean, the bartender told
us that some man practically carried you from the bar.” He sits
on the edge of the other bed.

I explain what happened, slowly, choosing my words carefully, not
lying, but leaving out that someone drugged me. When I get to the
part where Horse-face attacked me with a knife, Linnie starts sobbing
and Nicholas drops his head into his hands.

Maybe I should have left that detail out, too.

Linnie’s arms wrap around me from the back and her head nuzzles
into my shoulder, her tears dripping down the back of my arm.

Nicholas relays my story from under his hands.

“I escaped him. And...” I glance around for how I can
tell this part. Slowly I say, “A lady helped me, she gave me a
change of clothes and let me stay in a church.” That’s
almost the truth, almost. “I didn’t realize how late it
was until I saw a clock; I forgot my watch.” I hold up my
wrist, “I needed to sleep.” Needed to, but drank coffee
instead.

The officer speaks to Nicholas; before he can interpret, Linnie
yells, “Enough. She’s had enough for one night!”
She’s so belligerent, the police back toward the door.
“Nicholas, you can take care of the police, right?”

He raises his head and looks at Linnie: “Yes, of course.”

“Okay.” She jumps off the bed and herds the men out. “I
need to be alone with my sister.” When Nicholas lingers at the
door, she says, “Fifteen minutes,” before slamming it in
his face.

I exhale and let my shoulders fall. It's impressive that Linnie has
the ability to read what I need, even when she’s so distressed.
She returns to the bed, sinks in and gazes at me. “Now, what
really happened?” Her face is tearstained and splotchy, her
expression, intent.

“I don’t know, Linnie, I was all screwed up. I think some
things happened, but I’m not sure what actually did. I’m
all confused.”

“What didn’t you tell the police?” It never ceases
to amaze me that someone like my sister, who seems as if she might
start a cheer routine at any given moment, is perceptive enough to
know whenever I'm hiding something.

I concentrate on my lap. “A man saved me from the, uh, mugger.
He fought the mugger and I don’t know how badly he hurt him.”
I force myself to meet her gaze. “I thought turning him over to
the police would be poor repayment for saving my life.”

“Yeah,” she huffs in half-amusement, “It would be.
What else?”

“I was...” The word drugged perches on my lips, but I
bite it back and finish with, “shaken up. Sorry I didn’t
find a phone, I was out of it.” Then I remember why Nicholas
left me alone in the first place, “Where’s Chauncey?”

“Hell, if I care!” Linnie says glaring at the wall. “She
takes my baby sister to a club, feeds her hard-alcohol then ditches
her to get a tattoo with some random men.”

“So that’s what she left to do?” Strange, didn't
Chauncey say just last night that she'd never get a tattoo? She's a
walking contradiction.

Linnie harrumphs. “Chauncey told me that you told her to leave
you alone with Nicholas, but I can tell she's lying. What really
happened is she met some guys at the bar who convinced her to go get
a tattoo."