Love under contract (25 page)

Zara turned in his direction, and pulled her legs toward her. He opened his eyes and their eyes met. Her mouth was open and he would have loved to have kissed her, but he didn’t want to be rejected again, so he only traced her mouth with a finger, which she allowed.

She was so tired, she could hardly keep her eyes open; she reached for the blanket and pulled it over herself and him. Gregor smiled and smoothed her hair. Her eyes were closed, and she immediately fell asleep. He stroked her cheek tenderly and whispered how much he loved her.

Was he now at the end of his wishes, he asked himself. He had to say no, not until this proud woman admitted her love for him, then he would be. He hoped it would happen and he would fight to make it so, no matter how difficult it was and how stubborn she could be.

When Gregor awakened and opened his eyes, the sun first blinded him, but then he turned his head and saw that the bed next to him was empty. He could still smell her perfume and had a déjà-vu experience. The last time that he awakened from a night they spent together, she was gone, and she had abandoned him. Gregor had the momentary feeling that his heart would stop.

“Zara?” He was alone. No one answered, so he got up, naked as he was, and went into the living room. Her clothes were gone, her bags lay empty in the room. “Zara, what are you doing to me?” he murmured. He went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. He was white as a sheet, but there he discovered a note, stuck on the mirror at eye-height, in her rounded script. “I’ve flown to Paris, you don’t need to send ANY police after me. Z.” He smiled, at least she had thought of leaving a note this time. He looked at the shelf below and discovered her wedding ring next to a few keys and a magnetic card, used for some apartment entrances. On one of the keys a yellow Post-it contained Zara’s Paris address and the entry code for her building.

He sighed. She was so inconsistent. On the one hand, she left the ring and on the other hand, she left him her address and key – so typical of Zara. She didn’t know herself what she wanted. He leaned his forehead on the cool surface of the mirror and sighed. He would need a lot of strength with this woman and for the first time he thought that maybe it would be better if he believed that there was a God. His father would have a laughing fit.

She didn’t seem to have noticed him, in her pink, skin-tight outfit and the dance shoes, dancing to the music that was coming through the speakers, interrupted constantly by the comments from the dance teacher, an old woman with a cane.

Gregor was neither a great fan of music, nor did he find dancing gripping. He was glad that he had mastered the standard ballroom dances half-way. Nonetheless, watching his wife, how her slender muscles moved with each movement, had its appeal. Her dance partner lifted her high, and tossed her bodily into the air, and caught her handily. It wasn’t classical ballet, that much he could see.

Gregor smiled and could now understand why she was so crazy about her body weight.

He knew the teacher; years ago she had also done choreography for fashion shows. Her name was Madame Wyhna, and she was half Russian. She had not spotted him yet since she was standing with her back to him and periodically struck the floor with her cane in anger when a movement didn’t measure up to what she expected.

He was also lost in wonder that Zara accepted every criticism without a word of objection. She did the same movement a hundred times, sweat ran down her face, the pink bodysuit was wet, as was the case with her partner, a young dark-haired dancer.

“That’s enough for today,” Madame Wyhna called out, and turned off the music. “Practice, practice, even if you’re doing it all for fun!” she said loudly, with her strong Russian accent.

Both of them nodded wordlessly, and Zara looked up and discovered Gregor, who was leaning against the glass door of the dance studio. Madam Wyhna turned around and smiled. “What a surprise!” she cried out.

She recognized him immediately. It had been many years since she had last seen him. How could it be that he had changed so little. Perhaps a wrinkle or two around the eyes, and his hair was a little shorter, but as he stood before her in the tight black jeans and white shirt . . .Gregor Levy. The only model that she had ever met who always carried books in his pockets and appeared to be studying everywhere, literally everywhere -- even before the big fashion shows -- sitting on the floor, lost in his studies.

Gregor went to her and embraced her. “Madame,” he greeted her. She stroked his cheek. “My God, you haven’t changed a bit.” Gregor grinned and kissed her hand. “But I have; your eyesight isn’t as good as it once was. How are you?” She sighed. Her hip joints hurt, her fingers ached... where should she begin?

Zara came over to them with a towel around her neck and wiped the sweat from her forehead.

“I assume, my dear, you’re not here because of me, but rather because of the young lady,” Madame Wyhna smiled and looked at Zara.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Zara said quickly and looked at him. Does this man know everybody? she asked herself. Gregor smiled at her. “I won’t take you with me if you’re stinky.” “Charming as ever,” she countered and showed him her back.

“Then I can have a cup of tea with Gregor,” the dance teacher called after her, linked arms with him and motioned toward the adjoining salon where a gold-colored samovar was set up.

Gregor watched Zara disappear into the dressing rooms.

The two sat down on old, red chairs with worn seats and Wyhna poured him a cup of black tea.

“Well, I’ve heard that you became an investment banker and have made a lot of money, just as you always wanted.” All the women used to be after him. And why not?  He was one of the few beautiful men in the fashion business who wasn’t gay. Gregor nodded. “Yes, one could say that. And you, Madame, still a dance teacher?” She laughed. “Yes, until death, no doubt. I have few students now. My nerves can’t stand these little ballet-rats any longer – and I haven’t choreographed for many years. This, today, was for the bored wealthy would-be dancers.” She looked down at his hands and saw the gold wedding band on his left hand. “I see that you are married. The fact that at last someone has caught you now is not surprising.” Gregor laughed. “Madame!”  “What are you doing here with my little princess?” she asked pointedly and nudged him in the ribs. Handsome and rich men never stayed with one woman; he probably married a nice Jewish girl, but adventure beckons, and Zara had her reputation in Paris.

“I’ve only come by to pick up my wife,” Gregor said, not without some pride in his voice, and grinned. My God, he was really proud to have this girl as his wife. His blue eyes shone and Wyhna looked at him, caught up short, as if she had misheard. “Zara?!” she asked, as if there were someone else present. “Yes, Zara, your little princess.” Wyhna wrinkled her brow. “Hmm..” She took a sip of tea. “What?” Gregor asked, disconcerted; how should one interpret her furrowed brow? “Well, you’ll have beautiful children,” she said, lost in thought, but hardly had she said it, she flinched. She had forgotten that Zara.. “I don’t think so,” Gregor mumbled, a little out of sorts. “Oh, I’m sorry.” She reached for his arm. “I forgot that Zara can’t have children. I’m sorry for you.”  It was so embarrassing for her that she had said that, especially since she knew Zara’s story. Gregor shook his head. “You don’t have to be sorry, but you seem to know her well.” Wyhna smiled. “Yes, yes I know it because .. .at that time . . .my God, that was a drama. There she was, pregnant, yes, and her father a Minister. The mother arrived here and pulled her away by the hair, and this quack of a doctor almost killed the child … ” She shook her head, disgusted. She could remember it all so well, and she sighed. She was still holding Gregor’s hand tightly.

Gregor was silent. Zara was so secretive, she had never told him about this. How could she become pregnant at fourteen? Or, more importantly, by whom, without her parents knowing. What kind of family was this? No wonder that she’s so crazy.

“How long have you known her?” she asked him then, after a short pause. “Not so very long,” Gregor admitted. “Hopefully, she won’t make you unhappy.” Gregor sighed. To whom is she saying this? “She can also be different,” he defended Zara. The dance teacher laughed. “Yes, yes. Don’t misunderstand me . . . everyone loves her, but she?” She shrugged her shoulders dramatically. “It’s as if it were yesterday, as her mother brought her to dance classes, she was always different, crazy, always a hair away . . .” “From insanity?” Gregor asked, smiling.  “Ah, you do know her . . .” She broke off the conversation as Zara approached, her sport bag bouncing from her shoulder, wearing flat sandals and a thin red and blue striped summer dress. Her foot was bandaged with white gauze. Her hair was pulled straight back, close to her head, and she looked like a little girl, as she did so often.

“So Madame, what kinds of horror stories are you telling Doctor Levy about me?” she asked and looked at Gregor curiously. Wyhna laughed. “You didn’t tell me that you’re married . . .” “Well something like that travels rather quite quickly, and so it’s still a secret. You understand, Madame.” Gregor stood up and gave Wyhna a kiss on the cheek. “Good-by, Madame, thank you for the tea.”

“Good-by, Gregor . . .” She smiled. As they both left, Madame Wyhna watched them and thought that Zara did not seem happy. He, however, beamed mightily. He reminded her of a hunter who had bagged the bounty of his life.

Gregor silently took Zara’s sport bag from her, and as they left the dance teacher’s rooms, Gregor asked, “What’s up with the foot?” “I fell.” she answered briefly. Zara’s apartment was a short walk away. “Why are you here?” she asked him.

“Don’t always hang up when I call,” he said sharply. Zara laughed aloud. “I was at a lecture and it wasn’t on purpose!” Naturally, it was, but should she be straight with him, now that she had her driver’s license again?

But Gregor saw through her, although he said nothing to her. “I’m here for my work, and I can certainly see my wife,” he said placatingly.

They had arrived at the old Parisian house where Zara lived – it was, as Gregor realized with amusement, in the middle of the Jewish quarter, not far from the old synagogue. There was also a beautiful old café on the ground floor.

Zara opened the door and they ran up the stairs. There was no elevator in the beautiful art nouveau house.

Gregor had been in the apartment earlier. He had been surprised that it wasn’t at all like her grandmother’s; perhaps that was why she had sold it without any argument.

At first he thought that he was in the home of an Arab. The beauty of the colors astounded him, and it had everything – from the waterpipe to the dark wood furniture in Oriental style, and the colorful gaslamps.

In the bedroom, a pink mosquito net was stretched across the bed, and it was decorated with dark sheets and blankets. A Moroccan lamp stood in the corner. Here, to his amazement, he had even found a Sabbath candelabra. It seemed as if she had become infatuated with the Orient. He would have to take her to Israel; perhaps she would like it there. She had to be enthusiastic about something, he hoped.

Zara tossed her sport bag into the corner and wanted to listen to her messages on the answering machine, which was blinking. “Don’t you have any appointments?” she asked and looked at him. “Yes, with you..” He pulled her to him and embraced her. “With me?”... she smiled. It was the first time that she had smiled at him. She pulled away. “I still have to finish a paper!” Actually, she also wanted to go to this new club with her friends.

Gregor smiled. “We’re going to dinner with some of my business partners; with your intelligence, these business dinners shouldn’t be a problem, should they?” Did he mean the question in earnest, or was he mocking her? Sometimes she wasn’t sure. Earlier she had been, but since London, unfortunately not any longer.

Zara shook her head. “But I don’t want to!” Gregor sighed. Zara went into the kitchen and looked for an apple in the fridge. Gregor took the opportunity to press the button on the answering machine. It was full of news, where and when the parties were beginning today, and who would be going where.

Zara returned to living room while the answering machine was still running. “What are you doing, listening to my messages?” She turned it off. He reached for her hand and held it fast. “You’re going to dinner with me; you can go to the parties tomorrow.” “No, the club opening is today,” she said petulantly and wanted to pull away from him. “No, you’re going to dinner with me,” he repeated emphatically. “Let go of me, you can . . .” she cursed him and reached for a beautiful large red decorative bowl standing on an old commode. She raised her hand. Gregor was speechless. What had happened to the woman with the perfect manners?  The one he had in front of him was authentic! No play-acting, but also no princess; this one could swear worse than any fishwife!

He ducked a little, otherwise the bowl would certainly have hit him in the head. It flew in an arc to the wooden floor, where it shattered into countless pieces. He finally did let her go, but said, “You’re nonetheless still going to dinner with me, even if you throw all your dishes at me!” She looked at him, wide-eyed. “No, I’m not!” she cried out defiantly. “Yes, you are ...”

He pulled her to him and kissed her on the nose; she squirmed, but couldn’t get out of his embrace – and it was fun for her, although she couldn’t explain why she felt that way.

“Let me go!” she repeated, but suddenly had to laugh, God knows why. The situation was a little strange, and Gregor couldn’t do anything but laugh along with her, resoundingly. He held on to her, fiddled with the zipper of her thin dress until he got it open, and stroked her bare skin. She didn’t have a bra on. Somehow they made it to the sofa and lay there, tightly wrapped around each other, while Zara tried to get his jeans off, which, with his help, she was able to do.

They were half naked, when someone begin to hammer on the door. Gregor looked toward the hammering sound, irritated, and asked, “Are you expecting someone?” Zara was just in the process of kissing him from the neck down, and said nothing. She was still reluctant to kiss him on the mouth – this hesitation was her personal protest, and she simply shook her head. “That’s probably Marc, my neighbor; he always comes over to borrow something.” The knocking didn’t stop. Gregor sighed, pushed Zara aside, and got up. “Let’s take a look at who your neighbors are!” He went to the door – alone, and wearing only tight underpants – and opened it.