The Black Isle (21 page)

With his stepmother gone and his father preoccupied with business, Daniel emboldened himself to pop into my new room constantly—the door always left wide open, in the proper etiquette—to discuss movies and music, even books. He liked Coleridge but found Baudelaire “too dark.” Ditto on Mozart versus Wagner. I made myself amenable by always being around in a state of casual undress, nothing too provocative, just a few loose buttons and no brassiere.

Sometimes I was invited into his large, airy room, where he would serenade me with his guitar, singing sultry Spanish songs he’d learned phonetically from records, his eyes burning with ardor. I kept giving him opportunities to kiss me, but he was a gentleman through and through. By night, I brought myself to ecstasy repeatedly, thinking about my Prince Charming on the other side of the wall—a charming boy who could certainly afford to act a little less princely.

I knew I had to make the first move, and two weeks into being neighbors, I did. “Danny Boy” was playing on the wireless in his room, and I used the jocular excuse of the song’s name to insist upon a dance.

I shuddered when I felt his hands upon my waist, and as we shuffled along, bumping into the furniture like two inseparable pinballs, the seducer became the seduced. I inhaled deeply to keep from flushing, or fainting and didn’t notice when the song ended, only that my beau’s handsome face was closing in on me.

He kissed me lightly, testing the waters. Instinctively, I threw my hands behind his neck and pulled myself up to him, parting my lips, inviting him deeper. He accepted with enthusiasm, and we edged toward his bed. His hands migrated down to my rump and squeezed me to him. His desire instantly hardened in his pants and I let out a moan.

He released me at once, blushing furiously as he pulled away.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I really didn’t mean to.”

“Didn’t mean to what?” I ran my fingers up his arm. “Don’t stop.”

He grabbed both my wrists, and I felt waves of lust shooting through me.

“If we go on, I won’t be able to control myself. I mean, my God, you’re a very attractive girl…” His voice softened. “I think about you all the time. You haunt my dreams. You drive me absolutely cr—”

A door slammed, followed by approaching footsteps. Daniel quickly dropped my hands and pretended to fiddle with the wireless. Seconds later, Violet sauntered by the open door deliberately, glaring in at us with the grimmest and most disapproving scowl.

“Daniel!” she growled, and then was gone.

One particularly hot and listless afternoon, I decided to go to Daniel’s room and play records while I awaited his return from swimming laps at the club. It was my first time there without an express invitation, but I knew he wouldn’t object to finding me in his bed—languid and liquid with perspiration, like another pool to dive into.

When I heard his footsteps approaching, I plucked the needle off the record of Chopin nocturnes and leapt onto his bed, where I then arrayed myself in a manner resembling great carelessness—long hair loose and skirt hem shimmying up my thigh.

But, alas, it wasn’t Daniel.

“What are you doing in my brother’s room?” Violet looked ready to explode.

I covered myself and sat up straight for the inquisitive schoolmarm. “I was just listening to music. He said it would be all right.”

She stomped over to inspect the record player. “Why did you shut it off?”

“Because I thought I heard him coming.”

“But you just said he said it’d be all right.”

“Yes, but he hates Chopin.”

“Nobody hates Chopin.”

“Well, then, maybe you don’t really know your brother, do you?” I smiled, to sweeten those words.

She held on to her scowl. “What are you doing in our house? I mean, really? What do you want? What’s your game?” Her expression darkened. “You and I both know you took those earrings.”

I kept my cool. “But Daniel said he saw—”

“My brother was lying to protect you! I wonder why.”

She took a few steps closer to me and studied my features. I saw on her the pillowy jowls of a joyless young girl who would mature into a joyless old spinster. God knows what
she
saw—worse, no doubt.

Narrowing her eyes, she hissed, “Who
are
you?”

Jaunty footsteps were followed by the appearance of Daniel’s carefree face in the doorway—just in the nick of time.

“You girls having a secret powwow?”

“Daniel!” I cried, my voice aching with relief.

Violet broke out of her inquisitor’s trance and retreated from me. “My dear brother,” she said, squeezing out a smile for him, though not a friendly one. “I didn’t know you hated Chopin.”

“I don’t hate Chopin. Who says I hate Chopin?”

Violet shot me a black look. “Stay away from this family! Everything was fine until you came!”

“Vi!” Daniel called after her, blushing with embarrassment as she stalked off. “Will you stop being so hysterical, please?”

Down the hallway, a door slammed.

Scratching his neck sheepishly, he walked over and sat down beside me on the bed. Underneath the fragrance of shampoo and soap, I could detect on him the medicinal whiff of chlorine from the pool, a scent I’d come to associate with him.

“Must be her time of the month,” he said, leaning over to plant a kiss on my temple. “I hope she didn’t upset you. You shouldn’t take anything she says personally.”

She had indeed upset me, but no matter. My consolation was here.

“Kiss me, Daniel.”

He obeyed me, the good boy, cupping my jaw in his palm like a chalice and plunging his mouth into mine. He tasted of Orange Crush, his favorite postswim drink. I led his other hand under my blouse, then realized I needn’t have guided him. Instantly he reached for my breast. We fell back across the bed and I rubbed my thigh against him, moving higher with each caress until I felt his urgent arousal pressing back at me.

“Close the door, Daniel.”

He obeyed me, the good boy, and made a move toward the door. Then something in him turned, like a flipped switch, and he lumbered back to the bed with a pained expression. “We better not.”

I led his fingers to the moisture between my thighs. He moaned softly.

“Daniel, we must close the door,” I whispered.

“We can’t.”

“Then you can’t have this.”

I extracted myself from his muscled swimmer’s arms and made for the hallway. He didn’t stop me. Glancing back, I saw a handsome young man sitting on the edge of his bed, head hung low.

He was crying.

The following days, we were careful, kissing lightly and only at safe intervals—or perhaps I should say
he
was careful. He kissed me lightly, safely, even while professing his continued attraction to me. I didn’t insist on more, not wanting to frighten him or confuse his pious little Catholic heart with my voluptuous desire.

I yearned for him to creep into my room and make love to me while the rest of the house slept, but of course this never happened. These days of frustration flew by, and suddenly we’d reached the last Sunday of the month. Thoughts of my new paramour gave way to memories of my old mentor. I had to see Odell. I had so much to ask him.

After a leisurely postchurch ham and omelet brunch, and a languid game of lawn croquet that Daniel had deliberately, irritatingly, tried to prolong with roundabout explanations of its rules, I excused myself quickly, trying not to betray my brimming excitement.

But it was Mr. Wee who seized my arm at the base of the stairs as I headed up to dress.

“I don’t mean to pry, but how is the work situation coming along? Any luck?”

The job search. He certainly caught me by surprise. Distracted with the pleasures of the main house, I hadn’t given my future employment any thought.

“I have a few leads.” I smiled widely to cover my surging anxiety. “In fact, I’m just about to head out…for an interview.”

“On a Sunday?”

“They’re very busy. It’s the only slot they had.”

“I see,” Mr. Wee muttered, just as the library phone began ringing. He abandoned me for it, already preoccupied. “Well, if you need any help in that area, don’t hesitate to ask. I can always make a few calls.”

“Thank you. I do appreciate it.”

I raced upstairs, realizing with a glance at the clock that the croquet game had stretched overlong. We might as well have used flamingo mallets and hedgehog balls. I was going to be late.

I weighed my miserable choices: a drab button-down, sensible cotton dress in blue that might have me mistaken for the cleaning staff or a silky, low-cut red flapper dress I’d bought on a whim but was now afraid would make me look too available.

A knock on the door, and Daniel slipped in without an invitation. Ordinarily I would have been exultant, but this time he proved a nuisance.

“Father says you’ve got an interview. Why didn’t you say something earlier?”

“It’s just a stupid interview.” I heard the defensiveness in my voice but couldn’t stop myself. “It’s no big deal. I probably won’t get it anyway.”

“What’s the position?”

“Some secretarial thing.”

“Where’s it being held?”

“Why, are you planning to follow me?”

His eyebrows twitched. I’d wounded him. “It’s just that it’s supposed to pour this afternoon. Why don’t you have Issa drop you off?”

The boy was genuinely concerned. There was no time to apologize for my short temper, so I gave him a quick peck.

In the end I chose the red flapper dress, and I did let Issa drive me. The afternoon had grown black as evening, with thick clusters of clouds huddled together like Mohammedans at Friday prayer. The commercial district was deserted. The few pedestrians on High Street were dashing toward shelter as the wind tore at their hats and skirts. I would have been one of these sad people had Daniel not offered the family car. The first drops of rain hit the windshield in startlingly loud clacks, prompting Issa to switch on his electric wipers and, to my astonishment, speak.

“Metropole.” His booming voice stunned me. “Meeting a friend for high tea?”

“Yes,” I said. “Sorry to trouble you like this on your day off.”

“No trouble. There’s no such thing as a day off for me. I’m on duty every day. Monday to Sunday. Nonstop.”

Was he airing a grievance? It was hard to tell. There was no self-pity in his voice.

 “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.

“No need to be sorry. Sorrow doesn’t help anyone. There are so many poor people, so many hungry people in this world. Do you think your sorrow helps them?”

I said nothing. I was already beginning to miss his silence.

“So, who is this friend you are going to meet?”

“Just an old friend.”

“An old
secret
friend.” In the rearview mirror, I saw him crack a smile. “All right, don’t worry. I won’t ask any more.”

“And don’t wait for me. I’ll find my way back.”

“I’m sure you will.”

It was my first time at the Metropole, and I instantly saw why Odell was drawn to the place. The lobby was done up in the style of a private club in 1920s Shanghai. Leather club chairs sat alongside rosewood benches. Birdcages in cinnabar red hung from the ceiling, each with its own carved canary. Scrolls of Chinese calligraphy flanked the black silk walls. This was an Englishman’s Sinophilia run amok! Even the live band of poker-faced Mandarins played Dixieland jazz with by-the-book stiffness, rendering the music charmingly mechanical, exactly as it might have sounded in Old Shanghai.

The colonial era was feted here as if it were a lost age that had died centuries ago and not still chugging along around us. This aura of glamorous fatigue intoxicated even me. Faced with this worldly circus, I was relieved I’d chosen the silk dress—the cotton one would have had me looking like a schoolmarm lost en route to the Christian Reading Room.

A Chinese maître d’ with a ridiculous pencil mustache and a practiced hollow stare met me at his podium. I watched his Adam’s apple do a little dance.

“Reservation under…?”

“Odell.” I peered past his shoulders at the room of wealthy European matrons biting into finger sandwiches and sipping black tea from bone china. The air smelled of Darjeeling and yeast, with an overlay of prickly heat talcum powder.

He looked at me quizzically. “Odell?”

“Is there not an Odell?”

“Of course there’s an Odell. There’s always an Odell. Once a month, as dependable as Big Ben.”

The blood pounded in my temples.
He’s here
.

“I’m probably not expected. I’ve come as a…surprise.”

“Well,
I’m
certainly surprised.” The maître d’ smiled secretively, as if his discretion was some kind of virtue.

His expression went dead again as he shepherded me along the edge of the crowded tea room. Peals of laughter broke through the endless buzz of gossip. Many of the ladies were also guzzling champagne. We came to the back of the room and stopped.

“What did you say your name was?”

“Pandora.”

“Memorable name.” He smiled perversely. “Wait here while I announce you.”

He knocked on a carved wooden door, then disappeared into its inner sanctum. Seconds later, he emerged with a different kind of smile—still wicked but now also cautious. He waved me through.

There was only one table in the windowless room. A gray-haired woman in a jade green cheongsam sat alone, though she was clearly expecting company. There were enough scones and strawberries on the tiered pedestal for two.

“Mrs. Odell!” I cried.

The woman looked up blankly from her teacup. I had expected her to be in her late thirties, but she looked fifty. The two strands of her pearl necklace hung off-kilter.

“You don’t know me but…” I fumbled. “Your husband has told me about you…Pei-Pei? Mr. Odell and I met twelve years ago on the boat, I mean, ship from Shanghai.”

The beginnings of a smile softened this still façade—of course she knew of the ship. The voice that emerged from her throat was filled with an aching nostalgia.

“The SS
Prosperity
?”

“Yes, exactly, that’s it!”

Mysteriously, her smile vanished. Her face reverted to a melancholy stillness. As if I were no longer in the room.