Poisonous Kiss (9 page)

     Arany lets out a laugh and shakes his head.

     "I am not from the IRS, ma'am. I am a police officer and I am really looking for a girl."

     "Why did you come to my place?"

     "Because the girl I'm looking for is really beautiful."

     Madame Stephanie smiles at him.

     "Thank you. Would you like another drink?"

     Arany nods. The blond woman walks in, their eyes connect again.

     "And this girl …what did she do?"

     "She was seen with a man …a bad man." Arany gulps the whole whiskey down and feels it burning his insides. "He's the one I'm after. The typical macho type, all muscle, a tight shirt to show it. You could see half a dozen like him outside your window right now. Only this guy is more dangerous than most of them. He's killed several men. Including my partner. I couldn't picture him in a place like this. But I wouldn't picture him with this kind of woman either. The two of them were seen together in some dive, over near 16th Avenue. She is young, maybe twenty or less, with long, natural blonde hair. Slim, big breasts …" he closes his eyes and tries to imagine her as Gladys Ferrow had described her.

     "Do you know how many girls are like this?"

     "But real beautiful …" Arany begins. She holds up one hand to stop him.

     "There are plenty of really beautiful girls. Girls with a perfect face and a good body. But I need a girl with something more. A girl who has a charm, subtle sensuality, a special kind of personality radiating from her."

     "The girl I am looking for …"

     "What did she wear?"

     "A tight red dress that showed a lot. Short with a low-cut top."

     "No class." She grinds her cigar out in the ashtray with fast, nervous movements, then stands up. She walks over to the bar and pours herself a thick, dark colored drink. "Care for a taste?" She glances at Arany questioningly. "Or maybe coffee? I think you need a coffee more."

     Arany didn't know what to expect coming here. He imagined some things of course, but this maternal care was not among them.

     "Yes, I think I need it." He agrees meekly.

     The young beauty didn't appear this time, the madam prepares the coffee herself. She moves with the practiced, economical grace of a Japanese geisha performing a tea ceremony.

     "I still don't see why you came to me," she says. "My girls are beautiful, that's true, but they're classy, too. I can introduce you to all of them, but you won't find your blonde here."

     She looks into his eyes and Arany feels confused. Maybe he was driven here by instinct. Or by the ancient axiom: If you don't know the way, choose the easiest route.

     "I just figured you were in the market for beautiful young women. They come to you, and if a girl is really beautiful …"

     "She wants to be a model or an actress," she finishes. Madame Stephanie puts cream and sugar on the silver tray beside the blue, Chinese coffee cup. "She doesn't need not to go to the street. There are a lot of agencies who hire good-looking young things, for video clips, advertising, as hostesses in better nightclubs." She sits back behind her desk. "What makes you think this woman is a pro, anyway?"

     It's strong, delicious Italian coffee. Arany feels his hand trembling. Why did he always need a woman to put him on the right path? For some reason he made himself believe that the fat man in the staircase was working with Frost. Gladys Ferrow opened his eyes. When he was convinced he had to resign, that he couldn't work as a police officer, he needed Celia to give him back his self-confidence. And now here is this strange, clever woman.

     What made him think she was a hooker? Because she was seen with Frost? Because it is Gladys who told him? Or maybe because she was in the Rumball, where everyone seems so low and seedy.

     "The man she was seen with, is he a pimp?"

     "As far as we know, he isn't."

     "And you saw them in some dive?"

     "Yes." Arany begins to suspect where she is going, and wonders why hadn't he thought of it before. "The girl was hugging and kissing him, being very affectionate."

     "And do you think that was paid for?"

     Arany bows his head silently.

     "That nice blonde of yours probably works in an office, or she is a dancer, or a model—one who likes tough guys in muscle shirts."

     Arany stands up while Madame Stephanie takes out another little cigar, and the big table lighter flashes.

     "How much do I owe for your time?"

     "Nothing. We're a respectful business here, and we're glad to help the police, any time," she says, then adds slyly: "Pity it's all official. The girls like you."

     Arany swallows painfully. "I like them, too."

     The dark-haired woman escorts him out, walking ahead of him. She is more slender than Celia, the lines of her hips not so perfect. But those curves! He stops at the door a moment, hoping she'll smile at him. Yes, that's it, a chaste but impish smile. That's what really reminds him of Celia. Maybe he ought to go back to Madame Stephanie's office, to the room filled with sweet-smelling smoke, and tell her that he wants to be with this girl.

     The door closes behind him and Arany slowly walks toward the elevator. You'll never get Celia, you fool. Go find somebody else. Just get it out of your system. He reaches the first floor, then steps out into the noisy crowded street. Everything looks the same as before, when he entered the house about a half hour ago. It's still early, he thinks. He could try to pick up the thread of Frost's trail, or he could pick up a woman …a nice younger one, who doesn't remind him of Celia. He starts hesitantly toward the corner, eyeing the display of miniskirts. Slim, but soft looking, already sagging bodies. Hard faces, and from time to time a younger one with a pretty face, but bored eyes.

     "Do you want it?" It's the woman with the bad skin again.

     "Another time." Arany walks round her again and waves down a cab. On the way home he's thinking about women. One with short blond hair and small breasts. Another impish, with dark eyes. Beautiful young bodies, ready and waiting.

     The car stops and the cabbie turns around. He coughs softly.

     "This is it," he says, but Arany doesn't even hear his voice. He's looking in stunned amazement at the woman who stands in front of his house, looking lost. Dark jeans, a short sleeved shirt, her hair in a bun. How had Madame Stephanie put it? Charm, subtle sensuality, a special kind of personality. It's Celia. Her mouth curves into a big smile as she sees Arany in the cab and he slowly begins to believe he isn't daydreaming.

He was like a child, a big, frightened child. I wanted to open my arms wide, invite him to run to me, and then give him a big hug.

     Maybe I shouldn't have to come here. But Martin insisted that I had to. Arany needs help now; without guidance he'll be lost. I wondered if Martin would have sent me here if he had known what I felt. Maybe he would. Martin is honest, a little too honest for this world. And he is vain, too. He would never believe that another man could give me as much pleasure as he. Maybe he was right.

     The cab drove away, leaving an odor of exhaust in his wake. Arany stood unmoving at the edge of the sidewalk. He was unusually well-dressed, in a dark suit, a light blue shirt and a colorful tie. His dark hair was ruffled, as if he'd been smoothing it back in the cab. He must have been with a woman. The jealousy hit me hard.

     He walked over to me. He was at least a foot taller and I had to look up, an unusual experience after ten years with Martin. I looked into his eyes and forgot the naive little pretext I had invented for coming here. Semi-professional gobbledygook; maybe I'm better off without it. He smiled down at me.

     "You just happened to be passing by?"

     I nodded wordlessly.

     "Wouldn't you …would you like to come in for a drink?"

     He hurried ahead to open the door. I was curious to see what his place would look like. They say a man's home tells a lot about him. I don't think that was the case with John Arany. What should I conclude from the worn, plain furniture? That he has no taste? Has no money? There were books along the wall, novels and all kinds of reference volumes. Discarded papers littered the floor. Here and there a shirt or sock lay in the spot where he took it off. A mess on the desk, I wondered if he works at home. A worn, ancient armchair with a small coffee table beside it. A week's worth of empty bottles were lined up on the table, next to a book. My stomach fluttered. I knew this volume, I knew it too well. I was still a student when I first read it. The author was my hero and I never would have dreamed that some day he would be my husband.

     The husband that I was about to cheat on. I felt more and more sure of this as I looked around his small apartment. I discreetly turned away while he picked up the things to be washed, and hastily tidied up. I looked over his books instead and got the impression that he's an omnivore, interested in a wide range of topics.

     I didn't decide I would go to bed with him, I just had the feeling that I would be too weak to resist—or I wouldn't want to resist. This of course was on the assumption that he'd want to give me some kind of invitation.

     He was ten years my junior. What could I offer him? The experience of an older woman? More like disillusionment after the first few times, when he begins to realize that my body is not as firm, my skin is not as immaculate and my soul not as naive as it was a decade ago.

     He didn't try anything. He poured a drink with shaking hands and the glass rang softly as the bottle touched it. He sat in front of me. Did I have to wait long? Am I comfortable? Would I like something to eat? He could make a sandwich.

     I wasn't experienced in the art of seduction. In the oblique hints and innocentlooking smiles that would convey to him that I'm willing. How could I make him conquer me, panting into my ears that he loves me, and believing all the time that it was his decision?

     I drank a little, hoping it would give me some courage. He drank too, maybe for the same reason. We put down our glasses at the same time. We looked into each other's eyes. There was no seduction, no conquering. We stood up. The small table with the dirty glasses and my husband's book stood between us. Ten years and five shots stood between us.

     Then there was nothing between us. I don't remember how it happened, I ran to him or he moved to my side. I really don't know. And I didn't care. We kissed each other wildly, as I never experienced with Martin—or maybe one time, fifteen years ago after that dance at the university. His fingers went through my hair, and I felt the barrette snapping open, the bun going loose, my hair falling onto my back like a thick mane. I am a mare, I thought. A wild mare. I tossed about, moaning in his arms.

     He didn't strip me slowly, with the kind of skill Martin uses, always leaving one small piece of clothing on to enhance my nakedness, make it more indecent. Instead he fumbled, fingers shaking, with the buttons of my blouse, like a young, inexperienced boy. Impossible! He was almost thirty, good-looking. He can get anybody he wants. Still, his hands were shaking so badly I had to help him, but my hands were shaking too. We tore off the button but I didn't care. I unfastened my bra and John sighed loudly in appreciation. I closed my eyes, because I didn't feel strong enough to see him looking at me. I felt I couldn't survive his disappointment. My body was still firm, my belly still flat, but I knew I was not like I used to be. Then I felt his hand as he caressed my breast with his rough palm, I felt my nipple stiffen. It was not like Martin's touch. He squeezed my shoulders until it hurt, and I knew from this grip that he wanted to possess me. I opened my eyes. His eyes were dark blue, impenetrable.

     He was not a good lover, or maybe Martin was too good, spoiling me. But I had no reason to complain. He was young, strong, full of stamina and desire. I have never experienced such an insatiable desire, overpowering enough to sweep away every other feeling or thought—even at the beginning of our marriage when Martin had been younger. No question I was far from being the first woman in John's life, he knew what to do and why, but he wasn't an expert in the gentle ways, in the subtle, small secrets of giving pleasure. He didn't understand how to pick up on my rhythm, how to caress me in the perfect way. What to say, when to be a romantic lover and when to be raunchy and pornographic.

     I had to teach him. And I, the perfect instrument, enjoyed the role of the teacher. Like I was reborn. True, John was clumsy compared to my husband, but he acted as if every minute he spent with me had been a miracle, the greatest in his life. I didn't close my eyes anymore. I knew I had no need to fear. I wouldn't see anything but admiration in his eyes.

     It was dawn when we finished. He didn't control himself, but achieved orgasm over and over again, as if he wanted to compete with me. I began to worry about him in the end. No grown man can have this kind of stamina. He's no a teenager. But he kept starting again, as if he was giving free course to his passion after years of self-control. And I excited him with my fingers and my mouth, with soft kisses and a caressing tongue. I was more shameless than I have never been.

     At dawn I bowed my head onto his shoulder. I was tired but I wasn't sleepy as I looked at the outlines of the roofs through the window.

     "Don't you have to leave?"

     I didn't move but he could feel all my muscles growing rigid. He started caressing me again but he only annoyed me this time. I felt like he was a stranger.