A Note From an Old Acquaintance (14 page)

14

BRIAN
SLIPPED
HIS
SILVER
’82 Celica into a space right behind Joanna’s black 500SL, his front tire nudging the curb. Her directions had been perfect.

Alighting from the car, he scanned the neighborhood with a wary eye. The Fort Point Channel area was typical outmoded industrial: blocks of seedy multi-story warehouses awaiting gentrification or the wrecking ball, fronted desolate streets laid bare by the unremitting glare of peach-colored crime lights. The air was damp and colder here; and the wind, reeking of rotting garbage and the diesel fumes from nearby I-93, blew tattered sections of that day’s
Boston Globe
past his feet. The already yellowed pages skittered away like frightened rats.

Across the way, jutting partway over the channel sat the Channel Club, its gargantuan parking lot nearly empty. Unusual for a Friday night. Either the bands on the bill were lousy that evening or the rumors he’d heard about the club being on its last legs were true.

He locked the Celica and walked into the building, a six-story pile of brick and limestone occupying half the block. It had a tired, shopworn appearance.

Inside was a long, narrow vestibule that smelled of mildew. His shoes echoed against cracked marble flooring coated with decades of grime, and he passed a wall full of tarnished mailboxes, some of them overstuffed with throw-aways and flyers, others empty and missing their doors. A bare sixty-watt bulb, hanging from the ceiling by a frayed cord, provided the only illumination. The elevator occupied the back wall. It was not what he’d expected. No sliding metal doors or articulated metal grate and no floor indicators. Just a single black Bakelite call button set into an ornate brass plate and a slatted wooden gate one needed to raise manually with a chain. Right now, it barred the way to a dark, empty shaft.

True to Joanna’s word, he discovered the elevator instructions typed on a sheet of desiccated onionskin thumbtacked to a battered bulletin board; the faded letters were barely visible in the jaundiced light. Squinting, he took a moment to read them over.

Apparently, the elevator was so old the call button that brought the car to each floor was the only automated component of the system. The rest would be up to him, if this contraption were anything like the ones he’d seen as a kid.

Shrugging, he reached out and jabbed the call button. Somewhere, up on the roof, an electric motor kicked on, its deep whirring reverberating down the shaft. He saw the cables moving and a moment later the cast-iron counterweights shot past. Seconds later the inside of the elevator came into view, slowing as it braked to a stop level with the floor. Now came the tricky part. Inside the car there were no buttons, just a lever. Pulling it one way made the elevator ascend, pushing it the other way made it descend. What made it tricky was in knowing how
far
to push or pull it, as that governed the speed, as well.

Reaching for the loop of chain at the side of the elevator, he yanked it down, surprised by how little force it took to open what had to be a heavy gate. He stepped inside reached up and pulled it closed then grasped the brass lever. It felt cool, and silken smooth from years of anonymous hands operating it.

All right, Weller, don’t kill yourself.

He gently pulled the lever toward him and was rewarded by the sound of the motor engaging with a loud clunk, followed by the whine of the rotors. The car began edging upward. Gaining confidence, he pulled back a little more and the car picked up speed.

That’s it, just right.

He passed the second floor, seeing that it was a vast open space, interrupted only by the thick concrete support pillars spaced every thirty feet. Dusty windows at the far end let in anemic moonlight mixed with the garish peach glow of the crime lights.

Next came the third floor, then the fourth.

More grimy emptiness.

A part of him began to wonder if he’d get all the way to the top only to find more smudged windows and deserted rooms. Other than cheap rent, he couldn’t fathom the attraction of a place like this.

He began to ease the lever back toward its neutral position when he approached the fifth floor. The car slowed, affording Brian a longer look. This level was not empty. Indeed, it seemed to hold all the furniture from all the other floors: oak desks and chairs, metal file cabinets and tables, all piled helter-skelter, no rhyme or reason, casting shadows that resembled deep-sea leviathans lying dead on a deserted beach.

He slowed the elevator further and gazed upward, seeing light from an interior source for the first time. Ah, he was in the right place. He brought the car to a stop level with the floor on the first try and raised the wooden gate. He gaped, amazed at what he saw.

From his vantage point, Joanna’s studio appeared to encompass the entire floor. The same support pillars divided up the space, but instead of bare concrete they were painted varying shades of earth tones that contrasted and complemented the varnished oak flooring stretching from wall to wall. Stainless steel halogen track lighting overhead created pools of white light separated by oases of shadow. It was dramatic, and it all served to draw the eyes to the most important aspect of the room: the art.

Brian eased into the studio, his eyes trying to take in everything they saw, his brain racing to make sense of it. Bright white partitions were set up at right angles on which hung sculptures made from some kind of diaphanous rainbow-colored material; they appeared to move, as if alive, resembling giant fabric jellyfish.

Another piece hung suspended from the ceiling: a large metallic sphere sprouting fiber-optic wires in precise swirling patterns. It was lit from within, each strand glowing with a different color. And the light pulsed in time to the hammer blows of his heart.

Moving further into the space he came upon another series of partitions supporting various diameters of ribbed ductwork and PVC piping, all painted a glossy black. The piece appeared both machinelike and organic. It was nothing less than a
tour de force
.

There were dozens more pieces of varying sizes and themes, and Brian felt as if he’d stumbled into a secret museum.

He rounded another corner and stopped short. Joanna, dressed in only a black bodysuit, sat cross-legged on a large white pillow in the middle of the floor in one of the pools of light, her auburn curls a flaming nimbus. Her arms rested on her knees palms up, middle fingers touching her thumbs. She appeared to be asleep, her breathing deep and regular. Somewhere in the back of his mind Brian knew this to be the Lotus position, a position used for meditation.

He studied her face, cataloging the features he found so enchanting, yet discovering new unseen nuances: the strong chin at odds with the soft contours of her face, the slightly off-center nose, the soft, moist lips that were neither thin nor overly full. All Brian could think about was this woman was as dazzling as her art.

He stared at her for what must have been a full five minutes before a tickle in his throat forced him to clear it. Joanna opened her eyes and smiled.

“Hi. I see you made it up the elevator in one piece,” she said, her grin widening.

“Yes, but I was beginning to believe I was living in a
Twilight Zone
episode.”

“Welcome to the dimension of imagination.”

She laughed, rose to her feet in one fluid motion and came to him, taking him in her arms. Brian returned her embrace, willing time to stop.

“I missed you,” she said.

“I missed you, too.”

They moved apart and Joanna held onto his hand.

“So, what do you think of my studio, so far?”

“It’s amazing, like a private museum. But the rest of the building’s more like a tomb.”

“You can blame Erik for that,” she said, her smile disappearing. “He owns it.”

She let go of Brian’s hand and walked toward a chair, where she picked up an embroidered green silk kimono and wrapped it around herself. Brian couldn’t help noticing her every sinuous curve and the way her hips swayed in that adorably provocative way. He’d been right about that cocktail dress she’d worn at the party; it had hidden every luscious contour of her body.

“He must do well for himself, if he can let a building like this lie fallow.”

He watched Joanna tie off the kimono and move closer to him, his nose filling with the same heady perfume he’d come to associate indelibly with her. She was close enough that he could see the topaz flecks in the irises of her eyes.

“So, how about a tour?” she said, retaking his hand and squeezing it. “If this is the
Twilight Zone
, the show’s just beginning.”

For the next ten minutes Joanna walked him through the rest of her studio. Aside from the area where she displayed her finished pieces, there was also a partitioned space housing a fully equipped workshop that would have been the envy of any serious weekend hobbyist and not a few professionals. He recognized many of the brand names of the power tools as the same ones his father sold in his hardware store, and all of which hung from specialized hooks. Aside from these, there was a freestanding Craftsman hand tool cabinet on casters, a Dayton drill press bolted to the floor, a Makita table-saw, a Craftsman Mini-lathe, and a tank of Acetylene gas for welding.

“You know how to use all these?” Brian asked.

“Every one.”

“I’m impressed. Rosie the Riveter’s got nothing on you.”

“Chauvinist,” she said, mock-punching him on the shoulder. He overreacted, drawing a laugh from her.

Beyond the workshop lay the living quarters. This was also partitioned, but these walls rose higher, nearly reaching the ceiling fifteen feet above their heads. Inside, were a spotless kitchen with stainless steel appliances and granite counters adjoining a living room containing a glass-fronted entertainment center surrounded by a leather couch and two leather armchairs.

From there, she led him through an archway into the bedroom, where a thick futon rested on a low platform covered by a down comforter and various throw pillows of Indian origin. An authentic Persian rug lay on the floor beneath the platform and a small jade statue of a seated Buddha occupied an ebony plinth against the wall opposite the futon. The track lighting here was softer, more indirect, adding to the tranquil atmosphere. Through a door at the far end he spotted an immaculate bathroom, the walls, floor and glassed-in multi-headed shower stall sheathed in the same charcoal-gray granite as the counters in the kitchen.

“So, what do you think, now?” she said, the pride evident in her voice. He also detected a hint of apprehension, as if his opinion really mattered to her. The thought of that pleased him.

“I’m speechless, Joanna. It’s wonderful.... It’s like—” He stopped himself, hunting for the right word. “It’s like a sanctuary....”

“You do understand,” she said, her voice a near whisper.

“Yes.”

She reached up and caressed his face, a questioning look in her eyes. He took her hand and kissed her palm. Her eyes closed and she inhaled sharply.

“You’re trembling again,” Brian said.

“You, too.”

He kissed her then, feeling her melt against him. She moaned low in her throat and kissed him harder, her fingers raking down his back. She broke the kiss suddenly and rested her head against his chest.

“Just hold me,” she said, breathless.

He encircled her with his arms, placing his chin on the top of her head. He breathed in the smell of her hair, recognizing the odor of lilacs. It felt so right like this, as if she’d always been a part of him.

“Are you okay?”

“No....”

“Do you want me to leave?” Brian asked.

Her arms tightened around him.

“No....”

He let out the breath he’d been holding and lifted her head by her chin. A lone tear traced a jagged course down her cheek.

“What is it, then? What’s wrong?” he murmured.

“I don’t know if I can do this, but I....” her lips quivered. “I don’t want to lose you....”

“And I don’t want to lose you, either. But I also don’t want to be the cause of anything.”

She shook her head. “You’re not.... Please stay.”

She kissed him again, first on his forehead, then the tip of his nose, and finally his lips, her mouth gentle and insistent—the sweetest of kisses. At that moment any lingering doubts left his mind forever.

He led her over to the futon and slipped the kimono off her shoulders. It fell to the floor, forgotten. Her eyes never left his while she peeled off the bodysuit like a second skin and tossed it aside, revealing a perfectly proportioned hourglass figure, her own skin like a smooth alabaster. A thick triangle of carrot-colored hair covered her pubic mound. She lay down on the futon, her eyes hungering for him.

Brian wasted no time shucking his clothes and joining her. She came to him, melding her body to his, her passion mounting as he kneaded her breasts in his soft, warm hands. He felt her nipples stiffen beneath his fingers, her breath a hot murmur in his ear.