The Lover From an Icy Sea (57 page)

He decided, rather than interrupt her, to sit down and read—if he could find a book worth reading. His eyes marched over the titles and authors’ names until he saw one he recognized:
The Painted Bird
, by Jerzy Kosinski. He pulled it off the shelf and opened it. The book creaked—suggesting to him once again that it, too, had likely never been read. But that was rather beside the point, he now realized as he saw a personalized inscription on the first page and read it: “To Daneka, my daring demoniac: Flying with you on your trapeze”—Kit noted that the writer of this particular inscription had underlined the word—“was the high-wire act of a lifetime, with all the thrills and spills of a season. Keep falling, darling; it becomes you.” Jerzy.

Why did this business about ‘fall—or falling—becomes you’ sound familiar? Kit racked his brain to find a context. Daneka’s mother came briefly into focus, but it was all too vague. There’d simply been too many other images in the meantime.

He sat down and started to read—or rather, to try to read. But the sound of Daneka’s tapping—not to mention the occasional word she said to herself as she tapped—was proving to be too much of a distraction. He decided to take a shower after having first put the book back on the shelf.

As he turned away from the bookcase, his eye caught sight of the lichen still sitting in the center of the coffee table. He’d have to remember to take it with him when he left. He’d rather eat it, he decided, than leave it behind.

Kit opened up one of his bags, took out his travel kit and a clean pair of boxer shorts, then walked back to Daneka’s bedroom. It wasn’t until he actually opened the bathroom door and turned on the light that she looked up from her screen.

“
Oh, hello, darling. I didn’t hear you come in.” Kit waited an instant to see whether there might be any additional words of endearment. There weren’t.

He closed the door, then ran the water as hot as he could stand it. He stood for twenty minutes with his face directly under the shower nozzle, got out, dried off, shaved and brushed his teeth. He’d do without dinner—not, however, without pajamas.

He put his shorts on; brushed his hair; opened the door. Daneka was still typing, typing, typing like a maniac midtown secretary. He turned off the lamp on the night table, slipped in under the covers and shut his eyes. Sleep, however, didn’t come. The sound of Daneka’s locomotive fingers, however, did—especially how she seemed to type the last bit of punctuation of every email with an audible flourish before sending it off.

Perhaps three-quarters of an hour—or maybe a full hour—later, he wasn’t sure, he heard her shut down the computer after having concluded her session with a little late-night surfing. On which beach or beaches and on what size or shape of wave, he didn’t know and didn’t really care to know. He heard her go into the bathroom, start up the shower, stay under the water five or ten minutes, get out and then brush her teeth. She emerged a moment later in a terrycloth bathrobe and with her hair up in a towel. Behind him, he could hear her briskly drying her hair, then brushing it. Finally, he heard her untie the terrycloth knot—feather-soft; heard her place it and the towel over the back of her chair; heard her turn off her night light; heard her finally settle down into darkness under the covers.

Under other circumstances, this would normally have been a moment of rapture for both of them. Kit had no idea what the direction of Daneka’s thoughts or intentions might be; he knew only his own—and it was on sleep. The thought of touching her—any part of her—filled him with almost as much revulsion as it did dread. As he was contemplating the apparent impasse at which they’d once again arrived, he felt Daneka move up behind him and drop her hand over his chest. He then felt it descend slowly. Apparently—he thought—she was in the mood to play. He wondered whether she’d also provide him with a courtesy set of blindfold and napkin ties.

He noticed he was now becoming erect—and hated his own body’s automatism. He turned over on his stomach and let her hand fall away, heard her sigh, felt the sheets stir as she turned her back to him.

Kit lay still for a long time. He heard the shudder of church bells down the street tell him just how long he’d lain in stillness; counted first two chimes, then one more an hour later. Shortly before three o’clock, he heard Daneka’s breathing become heavy and regular. As quietly as he could, he slipped out of bed; collected his clothes; walked to the living room; dressed, opened the front door; moved his bags into the hallway; took his shoes from the coat closet; stepped outside; and closed the door.

Clearly forgotten, the lichen continued its ten thousand-year-old struggle for existence, in silence, in the center of Daneka’s coffee table.

This might or might not be the last night—or just half-night—he would spend in her bed. In any case, he didn’t intend to spend it there when he could spend it just as sleeplessly in his own bed half a city—and about a million miles—away.

Chapter 70

The elevator arrived at lobby level, and Kit pushed the luggage carrier and his bags out through the door. As if this night were not already sufficiently dismal, the face he now saw was that of The Fitzgerald’s first and truest blackguard: Michael Kelly.
They deserve each other
, he thought.
They’re made of the same stuff.

The doorman watched Kit as he wheeled the carrier over to its prescribed location just behind his console. He was apparently quite busy with some personal transaction or other—too busy to lend Kit a hand, though he had no apparent problem lending commentary.

“
Out walking Mrs. Sorensen’s dog, son? Or still just trying to track her down by her scent?”

Kit had heard the ‘son’ very distinctly, but wasn’t about to fall for the ruse. “No, Mr. Kelly. I’m not doing either of those things. I don’t walk dogs. I’m not a dog-walker. And as for her scent, I believe I found that a long time ago.”

The doorman smirked. “Yes, t’would appear you did, son. T’would appear you did indeed.”

“
It’s actually quite easy to track when she gets a little excited.”

“
Well, now, son—.”

“
The name’s ‘Addison,’ Mr. Kelly. Charles Addison.”

“
Well then, Addison. You wouldn’t be suggestin’ now—”

“
I’m not suggesting anything at all, Mr. Kelly. I believe you’ll come to know Ms. Sorensen’s true scent for yourself just after sunrise. Much pleasure may it give you.” Kit next took his two bags off the carrier and walked to the front door—then paused and turned back. “Tell me, Mr. Kelly. Have you found your personal savior yet? Have you come to Jesus in your heart? ‘Cause if not, I’d really recommend it sometime between now and dawn.”

With that, Kit walked out the door; turned left; walked the hundred feet to Park Avenue; crossed it; continued on down towards Lexington; descended into the subway; pulled out his last two dollars and bought a Metrocard. The days of dallying for brass tokens, he knew, were done. He didn’t need to pretend otherwise—not to himself and not for anybody else.

*  *  *

He struggled through the turnstile with his bags, then turned left on the platform and walked to the end. He decided at this hour and carrying two pieces of luggage that he’d just as soon do most of his walking underground. No need to tempt the natives of the East Village with thoughts about what he might have stashed inside.

The Number Six local arrived just as he got to the end of the platform. He boarded the last car—empty—and put his bags down in front of the seat reserved for the elderly and disabled. He was feeling neither, but the competition for space was not particularly keen at that hour. He then opted to stand and look out the rear window of the car as the train released its brakes and began to move out of the station. Within seconds, they were at Eighty-sixth—the Hunter College stop. Her ninety-sixth street exit already looked like something on a distant and fast-deteriorating canvas. He wondered—as the doors opened, then closed, and the train again undertook its southerly journey towards Brooklyn—whether he’d ever again have a reason to travel up to this part of the island.

As his train pulled into the Astor Place station, Fourteenth Street/Union Square was as far north as he could see. Ninety-sixth street was already as good as gone.

He got out, walked to the exit and climbed the stairs to street-level. If there was still noise and activity about, Kit was unmindful of it. He walked south and east to his apartment building, climbed the stairs to the front door and opened it. He then climbed another five sets of stairs to his apartment, opened the door, entered and turned on a light. It was exactly as he’d left it—including the prints of Daneka still hanging from the clothesline.

He dropped his bags on the floor, went to the refrigerator and took out a beer, pulled a chair up in front of the clothesline and sat down. Over the course of the next few hours and until sunrise, he made occasional trips either to the refrigerator to replace an empty bottle with a full one, or to the bathroom to replace a full bladder with an empty one. Otherwise, he simply let his eyes roam back and forth along the clothesline.

*  *  *

When Daneka awakened, it was neither to an alarm clock nor to sun’s rays streaming in through the window. She awakened spontaneously, on her back, and stared at the ceiling. When the church bells began to ring, she counted them with her fingers in the air: “
en … to … tre … fire … fem … seks … syv … otte
. Eight o’clock,” she said out loud. She dropped her arms to her sides. Only then did she turn her head to see whether Kit’s was still present on the neighboring pillow. It wasn’t.

She promptly got out of bed; showered; brushed her teeth; dressed; made herself a cup of coffee; picked up the telephone and dialed a number she knew by heart. After a couple of rings, someone at the other end picked up. “I’ve been away. I’m coming down.” She didn’t identify herself. She didn’t need to.

*  *  *

Kit stood up as he heard the bells outside his window begin to chime. He counted to eight in his head as he slowly, deliberately, began to take down the photos of Daneka and put them all in a pile on his work desk. When he arrived at the last—the one he’d taken of her at the Boathouse just as she’d pushed her dress off her shoulder and was rubbing what appeared to be a bruise—he decided to study it more carefully. He hadn’t, until now, looked at it closely—thinking at the time that the bruise was probably some injury she’d received from falling luggage. With what he’d recently learned and now suspected, however, he had reason to doubt his original supposition.

He left the photo hanging and resolved to have the negative cropped and enlarged. He wanted to take a closer look at this bruise, and there was only one shop he knew of that could do it the way he needed it to be done.

Chapter 71

Kit arrived at Duggal’s on Twentieth Street and Fifth Avenue just as the doors were opening for business and after he’d stopped at a local ATM. His account was running on fumes or less, well into overdraft territory, and Kit knew he needed to get back to work. Fast. This might be an extravagant expenditure, but it was one he required—at whatever cost.

“
Morning, Yoon,” he said even before he’d reached the counter just inside the front door.

“
Morning, Kit” said the woman behind the counter over the rim of her coffee cup. She took a sip and then asked. “What can I do for you today, my prince?” She paused momentarily over the coffee cup and studied Kit’s face more carefully. “Or should I say my ‘knight of the mournful countenance'? What’s up, Kit? You look dreadful.”

The two knew each other well. The first time they’d met and Kit had learned her name, he’d announced: “You are my morning, Yoon and night!” From that point on, he’d been treated to a flat twenty-five percent off rate-card. From that point on, he’d also stopped shopping elsewhere.

Kit didn’t bother to address her last remark, and Yoon knew better than to persist. “Crop this to just below the tit and then feed it to the enlarger, will you? Make me a poster.”

“
Which tit, Kit?”

“
The one just below the black and blue road sign.”

“
You took this shot for some rough trade rag?”

“
Rough trade, yeah. But no rag.”

“
What’s a sweetie like you doing out in the rough stuff, Kit?”

“
Just playing on through, Yoon. Just putting to the moon.”

“
They don’t get any better than you, Kit, when it comes to putting.”

“
They do, Yoon. But they gotta be Tigers.”

“
Tigers—check that. By when do you need it?”

“
I’ll wait.”

“
It’s a rush job then?”

“
Rush? Like Christmas, Yoon.”

“
Not like you, Kit.”

“
I’m not myself, Yoon.”

“
Check. Give us thirty?”