White Apples (16 page)

She never knew how Anjo would appear to her next. Several times it had been as the ugly little boy she saw that first time. Once he appeared as a tall plain-looking woman who wore too many clashing colors and never stopped speaking bad English in a heavy German accent. Once it was even the waiter who called himself Herr Karl. Once in a while whoever it was would already be sitting there. Other times Isabelle would have to wait until they chose to appear. On the table in front of her would be a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, her favorite drink there. There would always be other people in the café but not many. Just enough to make it feel normal and not like a movie set. Thirsty from the night's sleep, she took a long drink of juice. Glass raised to her mouth, she looked at the ceiling as she swallowed. When she lowered it again, Abraham Lincoln was standing next to the table holding a top hat in both hands. "Hi, Mom." He smiled sadly and sat down.

Coco was going through Ettrich's closet when she heard Isabelle's weird burst of laughter. Why was she laughing? Coco wondered if she should go into the living room and see if anything was wrong. But maybe that laugh was a good sign. Maybe something Anjo said to Isabelle had loosened her up.

She took down another of his sport jackets and went through all the pockets. If Isabelle was right, now they had to find some kind of convincing concrete proof to show Vincent that they
were
part of his life. It was essential. Wiping his memory clean of both women had been a clever trick. Yet Coco could fix that with the right tools. She only needed to find them here, among his posses•sions.

Ettrich was odd about his clothes. He bought only Girbaud— jackets, shirts, jeans... the works. But Vincent was odd about many things. He didn't like to use a knife when he ate, if he could help it. But he never left the house without a pocketknife—which he never used. He talked to himself a lot when he drove, as if there were two of him behind the wheel who needed to chat about what to do next. His car was constantly filthy both inside and out although he was Mr. Clean, often showering morning and night. He collected beautiful knapsacks and briefcases but almost never carried them. So the pockets of his chic clothes were forever lumpy and deformed with cell phone, Palm Pilot, miniature sketchbook, paperback novel, and a ubiquitous pocketknife that he never used.

These quirks and others made him both weird and interesting. Coco would not like to have known that fifteen minutes before, Isabelle had had essentially the same thoughts about Vincent while she'd been doing exactly the same thing—poking around in his be•longings. While going through the pockets of each of his jackets and trousers, Coco thought about Isabelle until she realized she wasn't concentrating on the job at hand. She wanted to talk to this woman to discover what she was like. The only things she knew were based on Vincent's infrequent comments, and those were invariably biased in her favor.

Unfortunately at that moment she touched a piece of paper in one of his pockets and pulled it out to look. Written on it in Vincent's gorgeous script was the name Lucy Wallace and a tele•phone number beneath it.

"Asshole!" Coco crumpled the paper tightly in her hand and started to drop it on the floor. Then she thought better of it and put this paper ball into her pocket. Who knows? Maybe Lucy Wal•lace would turn out to be worth knowing about. But Coco didn't believe that, not for a second. She assumed Miss Lucy was just another one of Vincent's pipkeys. Ettrich and his women. Another thing that so intrigued her about Isabelle—how had she managed to wrestle that man's wandering heart to the ground and get it to willingly submit to her? What was the Neukor magic? All Coco had seen so far was a good-looking woman sitting in a car eating a sandwich, hurrying out of a diner wearing a backpack, and the one this morning who only looked washed out and distraught. Not that she shouldn't be if what she said was true. If Vincent's memory of the two women really had been wiped, then they had a difficult job ahead of them. She went back to rifling through his clothes.

When Isabelle returned to the bedroom ten minutes later, the first thing she saw was Coco's ass sticking out of Vincent's closet. She cleared her throat to catch the other's attention but it didn't work. She tried again but no luck. "Hello?"

From inside the closet came a muffled voice. "I know you're there. Wait a minute because I've got something to show you. Can you find a flashlight? It'll make things easier."

Glad for something to do, Isabelle went hunting. She knew Vincent loved gadgets, but in these monklike quarters she wondered if he would own a pack of matches, much less a flashlight. What was he going to shine it on

anyway—his empty living room? She remembered once when they were in her car in Vienna, he picked up a flashlight on the dashboard. Turning it on, he put it against one of his nostrils. He said, "Check this out." She looked and gasped. The inside of his left nostril glowed an eerie dark orange. The light was only on one side of his nose, which made the picture even stranger. But she was used to this kind of nonsense. Vincent did things like it all the time. He wasn't childish as much as a card, a joker, a man who still derived great pleasure from clever pranks and interesting pratfalls.

In his small kitchen she opened several cabinets and was touched to see only two of everything—plates, forks, cups, surrounded by so much empty space. How easily objects can strike us down with sadness. One glance at them can tell us everything about a person's life. She winced at the thought of him alone in a store buying these few things after having left his family and home. Two spoons. Two table mats. All because of Isabelle. Who ran away the minute he had freed himself to start a new life with her.

One drawer near the sink was even worse. It contained many little single-serving plastic bottles of soy sauce and at least twenty pairs of chopsticks, still in their paper wrap. She knew the meaning of this immediately. Both of them liked Oriental food. But Vincent always used a fork to eat it because he was so clumsy with chop•sticks. In contrast, she was terrific with them and he admired her dexterity. What the contents of this drawer said was far too much Chinese take-out food and save the chopsticks because one day she'll come back and use them. What other reason could there be for him saving the useless things? Without thinking, she put a hand in among them and stirred the sticks around, touching all those sad single meals, the rustle of stiff paper loud in that quiet room. She started to shove the drawer closed when she realized she'd seen something else in there. Sliding the drawer back open she looked carefully. Below the chopsticks was a sheet of paper half-covered with Vin•cent's handwriting. She pulled it out and began to read what was on it. Three or four lines through, she realized what was there and put a hand over her mouth.

Vincent was a terrific artist. He had studied painting in college and kept at it over the years, although few people outside his family were allowed to see the results. Isabelle took it as a great compli•ment the first time he shyly showed her slides of his work. Several months before her birthday in their first year together, he asked what she wanted for a present. She asked if he would make a paint•ing for her. He was genuinely taken aback by the request and said he'd have to think about it. She knew that was because if he did the painting, he'd want it to be wonderful and was afraid he might fail. So she wrote him a letter:

I asked for a painting because I wanted to see another piece of your soul but in a different light. I wanted you to paint something you thought would go well "on" me so I could see how you perceived that. It could be any•thing—a horse or a vase of flowers sitting on a window ledge under the stars. Maybe they're there talking to those stars about the beauty of distance and the music of color. People can't share in that conversation because flowers and stars are infinite things and we aren't yet. But they will give us their beauty and perfume. Because flowers and stars smell of the same thing—they smell of hope.

His birthday painting hung on her living room wall but she had forgotten this letter. She wrote him so many. She never thought about what he did with them. Seeing her letter copied in his hand•writing, she imagined him sitting alone at this kitchen table copying it out, rain on the window, a mug of tea in front of him. She knew exactly why he had done it—at that moment, it was his only way of being close to her. The thought cracked her in half. She put it on the counter where she could see it while she started searching again for that flashlight.

When she walked back into the bedroom she had the letter in hand but nothing else. "I couldn't find a flashlight."

Coco was in the bathroom washing her hands. "I've got some matches. That closet is too small for two of us. Get down on your knees and go in. I'll be out in a minute."

What crossed Isabelle's mind was Coco might lock her in the closet and leave her there. She knew it was a ridiculous thought but she couldn't shake it. How nice for Vincent: he would come home and find this strange woman he'd spent the night with screaming to be let out of his closet. Then blaming another unknown woman for trapping her in there.

Coco came into the bedroom wiping her hands on a towel. "Go in and take a close look at the left wall down by his shoes. You can't miss it." She reached into her pocket and with two fingers slid out a silver pack of matches with the word "Acumar" spelled across it in thick red letters. "Give those back to me when you're done, please. They're my lucky matches. Have you ever eaten there? It's very nice."

Isabelle looked at the matches again and said no. Coco had to hold back a smirk. She wanted to stick her tongue out and go nyah nyah—Vincent takes
me
to expensive restaurants. Instead she saw something in Isabelle's eyes that made her even happier: distrust. "You don't want to go in that closet, do you?"

Isabelle shrugged fast, like a ten-year-old.

"You think I'm going to do something to you, huh?"

"Look, I don't know one thing about you except you're— Isabelle bit off the end of her sentence like a cigar. Dropping the towel on the floor, Coco put her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes. "Except I'm
what?"
"Forget it."

Coco took a step forward. "No, I don't want to forget it. You were going to say the only thing you knew about me was I'm one of Vincent's pipkeys, right?"

"Pipkey?"

"Girlfriends. Sweetie pies. Fucks."

Isabelle said nothing, which said everything.

"Well, if I'm just another Ettrich orifice, how do I know about Anjo?"

There was nothing Isabelle could say to that because she'd been asking herself the same question. Anjo had told her that Coco was not human but was there to help all of them. Fine, but he had also told her that Coco had been one of Vincent's lovers.

"Come here. I want to show you something." Coco turned around and went back into the bathroom. "You can see it here too— you don't have to go into the closet."

"See what?"

"Just come in here and look, willya? Don't be annoying."

Isabelle entered the bathroom as if it were a minefield. "All right, I'm here. What is it?"

Without any warning, Coco reached over and grabbed her by the nose. "This is not third grade. I am not here to
convince
you to drink your milk. When I say come here I don't give a shit whether you want to come or not. Just do it."

What Coco didn't know was Isabelle Neukor's nose was off limits to the universe. No one was allowed to touch it—not her family, lovers, or infants in their touchy curiosity. Even she did not know why this was so, but there you are—people are strange. Vincent discovered this eccentricity early in their relationship and was merciless with her about it. Sexually they were crazy for each other; giving and taking anything that came to mind. But often after some mad, chandelier-dangling session when they were both sated and happily exhausted, he would whisper, "If you really love me, you'll let me touch your nose now."

To which she invariably replied, "Forget it."

Coco's gesture was so unexpected and outrageous that Isabelle's mind went blank. Holding on, Coco moved closer, so close Isabelle could smell her breath when she spoke. It was pleasantly minty. But it was also cold. Not until much later did Isabelle remember this detail and it troubled her.

"Anjo's in danger. You're in danger and you can't hide from this one,
Iz
."

Isabelle snapped an uppercut straight into Coco's stomach. It was a great punch, full of rage and power, straight out of nowhere, a bell ringer deluxe. And the only effect it had on Coco was to make her grin and squeeze Isabelle's nose harder.

"Very good, Iz, but that doesn't work on me. Can I please show you something now?"

Isabelle considered nodding but that would have made the hurt worse. She managed to say "Yet" because her nostrils were pinched closed.

Coco let go of her and put up both hands as if surrendering to the police. "Nose hard feelings, okay?" Touching her nose to make sure it was still in one piece, Isabelle said, "What am I supposed to see in here?" "Open his medicine cabinet and look closely."

Isabelle spent a good long time doing exactly that. But she saw nothing. Eventually she closed the cabinet door and, looking at Coco in the mirror's reflection, shook her head.

"You didn't see anything?" "No."

"Then come with me." Unfazed, Coco led the way back into the bedroom.

When they were almost to the closet, Isabelle stopped and looked at the floor as if trying to remember something. "Wait a minute. Wait a minute." She did an about-face, went back to the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet door again. She reached in and took down a small transparent vial of prescription pills. Un•screwing the top she shook several of them into her hand. They were white and large. A word or two was written in black ink on what appeared to be every one of them. Isabelle saw this before when she examined the cabinet. Black squiggles on the white pills. It had just taken time for the understanding to register in her mind and bring her back for another look.