Varian Krylov (10 page)

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Chapter Three

Her ring tone had taken on the importance of a portent. Vanka knew. The high-pitched melody would sound, she would take the ounce of plastic in her hand, look at the lit rectangle, and see letters spelling out Dr. Greel, or the unfamiliar nine-digit combination of some hospital extension, and she would be told what it was they'd cut from her breast. She resisted the urge to turn the phone off for a few days, then listen to her messages all in one quick torture session rather than endure the recurring periods when she'd feel sure the first note was about to sound, or the several times each day when the doot doot jarred her from some state of forgetfulness, filling her with dread until she looked at the display and saw that it was Brods or Nikki or the PA from the documentary she was DP-ing for. But then the call came, and of course it was cancer.

Dr. Greel reminded her in a practiced, soothing voice that the tumor they'd extracted had been less than two centimeters, reminded Vanka that it was encouraging, the demure stature of her little tumor, but said gravely—though still with practiced calm or bored indifference—that Vanka would have to come in for more tests to see if the cancer had spread.

* * * *

Sometimes, most of the time, she felt so dry inside she thought it was like being dead already. Except for a melancholy fatigue and a kind of detached irritability, she felt nothing. Except when she was with him. With him, her need, her fear, her incredible arousal and the utter sating of it made her feel alive. More alive than when she'd imagined she was well.

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For days she hadn't let herself look at the small rectangle of white paper on which he'd penned his number in black ink, knowing the sight of it would only aggravate her already-recurring, insistent impulse to call him. To invite him over to her pathetic little hotel room, or to invite herself over to his home in the Hills. And she was certain that the next time they were together, he'd test her limits. And she was scared that he'd already stretched those limits as far as they'd go. The next encounter would rupture them.

Before the last time—“the toy incident,” as she referred to it in her head—she'd thought she knew how he'd do it. Cross her line, burn her bridges. It would be like the first night, when he'd bent her over the table, pinned her down under the immobilizing weight of his large body, palmed her ass, spread her open. The next time, she'd been sure, wouldn't be a terrifying tease. He'd do it. But now, after the playful way he'd teased her through arousing embarrassment, at the store, in his living room, she was almost curious to put herself in his hands, just to find out how he'd do it.

Finally, she decided to call. She didn't reason about it too much, except to dismiss her fear with an irritated “What do I have to lose?” After all, her life—at least her sex life—was soon to be over. In a way, there was really nothing he could do to her.

There was nothing left to her for him to hurt.

Even before she looked she felt a moment of panic, afraid she'd have lost the little piece of paper, that she wouldn't be able to call him, that if she ever wanted to see him again, fuck him again, she'd have to endure the humiliation of turning up at his front door unannounced, yet again, possibly facing real irritation, even anger, if she happened to interrupt some other . . . social engagement he might have. But as one 89

ugly possible future after another blossomed and withered in her mind, her fingers and her eyes simultaneously caught the slip of white paper bearing Galen's number: seven digits in heavy black ink from a felt tip arching and curving in bold, graceful strokes.

When she'd called, Galen had proposed something totally unexpected: a date.

Three nights later, he picked her up at the hotel, and, after flirting and chatting and laughing their way through chana masala, palak paneer, and tandoori tofu on Vermont, they walked a few doors down for martinis at the Dresden.

They slid into a booth with their drinks. After their jovial dinner, Galen was gazing at her almost sullenly.

"How are things going, Vanka? Did you get the results of your biopsy?"

"Even after the wining and dining, Galen, a line like that doesn't really put a girl in the mood."

He arched an eyebrow.

"Don't fret, love. I'll have you in the mood, soon enough."

His caddish expression faded then, and for a moment, it seemed to her that he looked hurt.

"I didn't mean to pry. You're probably tired of talking about it."

"I haven't told anyone." It was an accidental confession. "Only you."

Galen stared down at the table for a moment in a momentary, uncharacteristic evasion of eye contact. Then he looked back up to her once again with his penetrating gaze.

"Why haven't you told anyone?"

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Ready to be defensive, angry, she made a valiant effort at detecting some note of accusation or judgment in his voice. But, after all, it seemed like an innocent question.

"I like to tell myself that I don't want them worrying until I know there's really something to worry about. But, when I'm feeling brave enough to face the truth, the real reason is that I don't think I could endure all the concern and sympathy. It's going to change everything. All my relationships. With my dad. My brother. My friends. I want things to stay the same. While they can. But I'm a bitch for not telling them, huh?"

"Honestly?"

"Yeah."

"I think this is about you. You should do things the way you want."

"It is cancer." She watched her words burrow into his skin. "They're going to do a PET scan on Thursday to see if it's anywhere else."

"Can I drive you? Keep you company?"

His offer whipped up the veil of martini-induced apathy and stunned her.

"Since I'm the only one you've told," he added.

"Thanks. I appreciate you offering. But I think I'd rather go on my own."

"You don't have to pretend to be okay all of the time, you know. It's all right to be afraid. To be weak. It's okay to freak out."

She was afraid she was going to cry—alcohol did that to her, made her overly emotional—so she smiled.

"I'll let you know if I change my mind."

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He smiled. They were quiet for a while, sipping their martinis, watching the musicians on the little stage doing their lounge routine.

"So," he grinned at her, rolling the toothpick between his thumb and forefinger, making the olive spin in the inverted cone of his glass, "you didn't mention you're in the business."

"The business?"

He laughed.

"Yeah, you know. The business. My business. Your business. The film business."

"Oh, I'm not in your film business. I'm in a different film business, altogether."

"Yeah? What's your alien and entirely unrelated film business about, then?"

"Well, for near-subsistence-level pay, I DP and do camera for documentaries.

And when I want to dispense with any cash I might otherwise use to buy groceries or pay the mortgage, I do conceptual installations for exhibition."

"So, you're one of those starving artists I've heard so much about."

"Yeah. I've been sitting here, trying to think of how I could get your olives away from you and ferret them away with mine for tomorrow's lunch without you noticing."

"Don't worry, I'll be excusing myself to the gent's room at any moment, and you'll get your chance. And don't forget to stash away a napkinful of these protein-rich mixed nuts while you're at it."

"Thanks. Good of you to look out for me like that."

"Of course."

The mirth faded somewhat from his face; he gave her a rather melancholy grin and tenderly kissed the corner of her mouth.

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"Now," he seemed to be livening back up with a concerted effort. "Seriously. Tell me about your work."

"I don't talk about my work. If you're really curious, remind me when we get back to the hotel, and I'll show you a couple things I've done."

"You tease."

"A little delayed gratification will do you good. I've been entirely too easy."

"Oh, I don't know," he retorted, his eyes suddenly intense and probing. "I think you've still got a treasure or two I can look forward to plundering."

She left herself naked to him and that X-ray stare of his, not allowing herself to lift her glass to her lips to give herself something to do other than meet his eyes. And she didn't laugh, as if he were joking. She just let him see that she knew his jest referred to something real, and that it scared her. And that she liked that fear.

"Hmmm, now you're really being a wicked girl," he said, looking a tad flushed as he took in her proffered vulnerability. "I was trying to have a serious conversation."

He smoothed his hungry look into an expression of bemused tenderness and kissed her cheek.

"Well, without undermining any mysteries to be revealed later, would you say you like your work?"

She felt her face contort under the irresistible influence of an involuntary smile.

"I love my work."

"I'm glad," he replied as a smile appeared to answer hers.

"And how about you?"

"Me?"

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"Do you like what you do?'

His smile faded.

"No. I don't."

He dumped the remaining clear liquid from his glass into his mouth.

"I worry that I sound . . . ungrateful, whenever I admit that. So I don't admit it very often."

"Ungrateful?"

"I get paid a lot. Doing something lots of people dream of doing. Kids, even people who aren't so young give up their lives, move to L.A., work as bartenders, baristas, and waiters, hoping for stardom, eventually hoping even for bit parts, for commercials, anything to prolong their belief that they're going to make it as a paid actor, be able to quit the jobs they took to get by in the meantime."

"Maybe some of those people wanted to give up their lives anyway. Maybe becoming an actor is an excuse for cutting ties and going somewhere else."

"Maybe."

"So, why don't you like it?"

"I did. For a long time, I loved it. I loved the fantasy of it. Becoming other people, with other lives. Creating this whole other existence. Taking on different personalities, imagining having different jobs, living in different places, other eras. I remember playing Mercutio in high school. I went to a small school; it wasn't a choice. Everyone in my year had to be in the play. But I . . . sort of fell in love with this character I was playing. He was such a smart-ass, really clever. Witty. In a way that I'd never seen before, in the 94

people around me. And for all the weeks of rehearsal and the final performance, I got to embody that." He laughed. "And wield a sword, of course."

"When I went to college, I took drama every semester. I never cared that much how big a part I got in the little productions we did. Whatever role I was given, I'd immerse myself in. If it was a period thing, I'd get history books on that time. Imagine being a reverend in seventeenth-century Salem."

"There's a mental image."

"What, you don't think I'd make a good Puritan?"

He put on a stern look and held forth, "Let you not mistake your duty as I mistook my own. I came into this village like a bridegroom to his beloved, bearing gifts of high religion; the very crowns of holy law I brought, and what I touched with my bright confidence, it died; and where I turned the eye of my great faith, blood flowed up.”

"Very convincing."

"My first part in a movie, it was a total fluke, me getting it. I wasn't out, auditioning. It was just handed to me. And suddenly, I was in the woods every day, riding horses, fording streams. I'd been physically transplanted into an alien world. It was amazing. That's what I loved about acting, for so long. Getting to live different lives, like a fantasy. But after a while, it feels kind of pathetic. Empty. I've started to wonder who I actually am. I've spent so much time pretending, developing all these personas that have nothing to do with my real life. Creating facsimiles of lives, of relationships. I'm a little sick of pretending."

"Yeah. I get it."

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He smiled. Caressed the sensitive skin inside her forearm with the back of his index finger.

"I know you do," he whispered.

She hadn't expected this. As they sat there, cuddled together in the curve of their vinyl booth, his forehead tipped to the crown of her head, his finger tickling over her skin, she felt . . . connected to him. Close. Warm. Safe. She was beginning to feel that he was more than a one-, or rather a two-night stand. She was starting to feel he was her friend.

* * * *

"So," he sighed as he pressed himself against her, pressing her against the passenger door of his car, "will you be coming home with me?"

He sealed his invitation with a surprisingly sweet, tender kiss. She said “yes,” and as they rolled over the streets of Los Feliz and Hollywood and up into the Hills, she wondered at the tender little feeling of affection that was mingling with her aroused anticipation. After Galen pulled the car into the garage and the door levered shut behind them, he leaned over and they shared a deep, lingering kiss. This kiss, like the one they'd shared on the street by the Dresden, was different from all the kisses between them before this night. Now, suddenly, it wasn't an erotic kiss between strangers, an oral prelude to sex. Just one touch among many designed to get oneself and one another off. It felt, now, like a tender moment between two people learning one another.

It was the expression of some nascent feeling.

It was dark. She was aware of his body ahead of her, and the keys in his hand clanged and jangled as he found the right one and worked the lock. When he pushed 96

the door open, light slashed into the garage, over their bodies as they moved into the house. She stepped aside as the counterweighted door pulled itself closed and latched.

The next second his body was pressed against hers, sudden and hard, and already her breath was coming fast, too shallow to satisfy. He pushed himself away, held her shoulders at arms' length.

"Vanka," he said, almost panting, "before we get too carried away, I should introduce you to my . . . guest."