The Gilda Stories (8 page)

Gilda had picked up the thoughts of the patrons around her in a desultory way. They revealed disapproval of both her well-traveled clothes and her dark skin. But Anthony's words, all delivered in such a soft and soothing tone, made Gilda forget the people gawking at her. His attentions became all encompassing. She gazed into his immense deep, blue eyes and was taken by the very slight smile that lurked behind them. His hair was a forgettable brown color and his build was slight. His hands, however, were quite large, imposing and solid with stout veins running their length. Gilda let him comfort her with his mild words about the city.

Before she could speak, Sorel's voice boomed out from halfway across the room. “The champagne, of course, Anthony. What else do we serve when family returns home?”

“Of course,” Anthony said with only the hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth, as if he found smiling ostentatious. He bowed almost imperceptibly in Gilda's direction and turned toward the door. As he receded from the room, the space was filled to overflowing with Sorel. He appeared even larger tonight in the salon among these genteel people than Gilda remembered from their first brief meeting in the morning when she'd arrived at his back door. He wore a finely tailored blue suit and brightly embroidered shoes made from some soft material; at his neck was a flurry of silk.

There was a light scent of Arabian musk about him that was enticing. As with Anthony, when Sorel spoke it felt as if they were absolutely alone rather than standing in the middle of the patrons of a busy salon. The people behind them shifted in their seats almost as one body, rising slightly to actually see who Gilda was and to be certain that Sorel noticed they were smiling. Gilda let her senses take in the entire room again to better understand the full influence Sorel had. He moved lightly for a large man, delicately fitting himself into the curve of the settee so that he was both beside her and also able to look her in the eye. Gilda noted that of the perhaps thirty people in the room, only about five were absolutely unable to accept her presence. And even they—each separately, with almost no real conscious knowledge of their strategy—resolved to sit for a while longer so there would be no chance that Sorel would interpret their departure as an insult to one he had named as his family.

Gilda, who'd been gazing without focus at Sorel's thick mustache, looked up into his dark eyes and heard him.
But we shall know. Will we not?

She smiled. Sorel laughed so loudly that the drapes at the window rippled. Gilda matched his mirth with her own. He reached across the table and took her hands in his, leaning forward to kiss them, but was unable to contain his laughter. They both continued to laugh until Anthony appeared with the bottle of champagne.

“As usual, Anthony, you have quite a sobering effect on me. He serves each meal as if it were the last supper,” Sorel said with a smile, barely restraining another outburst.

Anthony was unmoved as he opened the bottle with just the appropriate pop of the cork. As he was about to pour he stopped and said to Gilda, “I believe that in the homeland of your mother's people the first libation is poured into the ground in honor of the ancestors.”

Sorel's gleeful smile turned to one of pride as he looked at the small, tightly muscled arm that held the large bottle effortlessly. Anthony continued holding the bottle away from the table above the shining wood floor.

“I honor your ancestors. I honor our ancestors.” Anthony solemnly poured sparkling wine onto the floor. The conversation in the room around them continued, but in a distracted way, with everyone keeping one ear on the activity at Sorel's table.

“You welcome me with great humanity,” she said as Anthony poured the champagne into delicate crystal. “And with great honor,” she added, raising her glass in Sorel's direction when his was filled.

“Let us just hope it is great wine,” Sorel said softly. Anthony left the bottle in a bucket of ice and moved away from the table.

Sorel's salon was noted for its wine cellar, and the pride of that reputation shone on his face as they sipped in silence. He spoke in a supple voice, slightly accented by the knowledge of many languages. “I know much about you. Your face has been in my mind for some time now. It is difficult to believe that finally having you here with me would exceed the pleasure of anticipating your arrival. But it does.”

“You continue to be gracious to me, Sorel, even though I arrive unannounced, muddy, and—”

Sorel cut her off. “Please, as I've said, we're family here. Your arrival could never be unannounced. Wherever we are we must expect each other. This is a family lesson we've learned well. You, too, have learned it or you would not have come to me.”

“I came to…” Here Gilda stopped, uncertain what she thought would be the result of her coming. She could ask about Bird, but once her whereabouts were known what would Gilda do? What then did she need to know from this man who'd been like a myth to the women at Woodard's? What had she come here for?

“I need to know much. Where the questions begin though is a question itself. I would ask where Bird has gone, but I know that that is something I will learn if I wait for her to tell me herself.

“I would ask where I go now that I've given over ownership of Woodard's to Bernice's daughter and come to this hill city full of light. Or I could ask what I might need to ask.”

“And to the last I would answer there is nothing to ask. You'll stay here with me to continue your lessons as it was meant to be. Bird will answer the questions you have for her in her own time.”

Gilda started at the sound of Bird's name spoken aloud by another, as if she had been afraid all along that Bird was only a dream.

“She's been here and prepared us for your arrival. She needs to spend time apart. Listening to the people who gave her first life. Listening to the missteps she has taken. Reuniting with herself.”

“Reuniting?”

“Yes.”

Anthony returned and filled their glasses silently, then leaned down and whispered in Sorel's ear so softly that even Gilda could not hear what was said.

“I'm afraid we shall be joined shortly by another. We'll continue our talk later,” Sorel said, looking directly into Gilda's eyes. She heard the deliberate use of Bird's own tone, one she had often used when they studied in the twilight of her room so long ago.

“If you were to succinctly sum up what you've learned,” Sorel continued, “what few words would you employ? Now, without the benefit of philosophizing?” Sorel's deep-set dark eyes no longer twinkled as they did most of the time when he spoke. They were unwavering at this moment, much as Bird's had been when she taught history or languages to Gilda.

“Betraying our shared life, our shared humanity makes one unworthy of sharing, unworthy of life.” Gilda spoke easily. She had not known how deeply she felt the lessons she had learned.

“You are a most accomplished student, my dear. We're proud of you beyond our greatest dream. The second lesson, which will become equally as important, is that there are many who do not share this belief. In fact, they thrive on commitment to the abject converse of that lesson. You will come to recognize them with ease. In the meantime there are several people I should like to introduce you to—Ina and Joseph, Juan Jose de Ayala, Esther—none of whom seem to be about this evening. But we shall see to your introduction into society posthaste.”

Sorel sat back on the settee with a look of satisfaction on his face. Soon, however, a slight shadow settled on his forehead. He sipped from his wine, not glancing up at Gilda for several minutes. His gaze then began to slowly scan the room. When it stopped at the door the shadow descended over the rest of his face. His brow tightened as the woman who stood poised in the doorway made her way toward their table.

The red of her hair was a beacon superior to the electric candles lining the walls. Gilda turned away quickly to watch Sorel's reaction. She was puzzled. He was both annoyed and pleased to see this striking figure in the doorway of his salon. If this was the visitor who'd been expected, Sorel was not prepared to speak of her.

Gilda absorbed Sorel's feelings of pleasure and anxiety as fully as she could before turning her attentions to the woman herself. As did much of the clientele in the salon. Her russet curls cascaded onto her shoulders, which were draped in deep blue satin. Although her dress covered her from neck to toe, it managed to be more provocative than anything Gilda had ever seen.

She strode toward their table with a lanky walk as if she were strolling in breeches on a country road, yet the lift of her chin and the deliberateness of each step were elegant. Beneath unfashionably full brows were deep-green eyes sparkling in unnatural competition with the champagne on their table. Her full, wide mouth was painted a shade of red that perfectly matched her hair.

Sorel rose nimbly from the settee and took her hand, pressing it gently to his lips. Anthony appeared behind them both, his mouth set grimly and the knuckles of his large hands almost white as they gripped the new champagne glass. Gilda stifled the impulse to rise next to Sorel.

“Gilda, may I present Eleanor. Eleanor, I hope you'll join us?” He spoke to her almost shyly.

“Of course,” Eleanor said in a deep but breathy voice as she slipped in beside Gilda. She seemed to consume Gilda in one glance, her evaluation evinced in a thin smile that was both remote and enticing. Sorel sat down at the other end of the curved settee facing them, and Anthony poured wine in each of the three glasses.

“Eleanor has the distinction of being homegrown royalty. Her family has lived here by the bay longer than perhaps any other. Since before the ships, before the gold, before the traders. Alas, they have all died out except Eleanor and her uncle, Alfred.”

“And he is probably seeing his last year even as we speak,” Eleanor said with no trace of sorrow. “But let's not talk of the old and dying, rather the fresh and vital. You, my dear, are new to our jeweled bay. What news do you have to bring us from the uncivilized hinterlands?” The lights sparkled off the lustrous material of her dress, making her seem synonymous with the bay.

Gilda felt an unfamiliar discomfort, her words stumbling over each other inside her. She almost shook her head in an effort to sort them out and avoid sounding like a stammering child. She was further unnerved by the certain knowledge that this woman knew exactly what was going on inside of her. Her words finally came together when she turned her gaze away from Eleanor and back toward Sorel. He was much like Bird in his capacity for clarity, and Gilda relaxed under his steadying influence.

“I'm afraid what you say about the hinterlands may be true although I'd hesitate to refer to them as uncivilized. I've spent the better part of two years journeying by horse and by foot from Louisiana to the east, then north and west, seeing the most wondrous sights. Trees and deserts of such magnitude I might never have believed they really existed, except that my eyes have always been quite healthy. And there is almost no pleasure greater than lying down in the warmth of benevolent wolves listening to their thoughts.”

Eleanor hid her surprise under a question. “And do they have thoughts?”

“All living things have something we can consider thoughts.”

“And did they never have thoughts of devouring you?” Eleanor asked with a wickedly brilliant smile.

“Of course. But as I've said, the trip was civilized and we know those thoughts are everywhere, not just the in the woodlands.” Gilda responded, surprised that she had spoken so freely with this woman.

Eleanor's voice was low and solemn as she spoke. “Then that explains your outerwear. I was afraid for a moment some new fashion was sweeping out from the east and I was frightfully outmoded.” Her eyes twinkled impishly, softening the words. She reached for Gilda's hand across the table. “You must let me dress you.”

Gilda felt her face flush with the heat of embarrassment and again was plunged into speechlessness. This time she feared it was permanent. Sorel came to her rescue.

“What a splendid idea. How better for two people to come to know each other than from the outer garments in.” His laughter edged out uncertainly as he looked around for Anthony, who was on hand with a second bottle of champagne before Sorel could speak. A glow of girlish innocence suffused Eleanor's face. She dimmed the dazzling light surrounding her by closing her eyes, as if turning the damper on a stove. This left her face more accessible, youthful. Gilda wanted to wander the streets with this woman, looking at fabrics, learning her city. She still felt a bit of the awe that had almost crushed her earlier, but now her body rang with a sense of adventure.

Eleanor refocused her eyes on Gilda. “Then I shall call for you here in the salon, perhaps about 3:00
P.M.
We can take tea together and shop until the merchants have run out of time and cloth.” The embers of her smile flared as she turned to look directly at Gilda. Faint orange flecks mixed with the malachite green of her eyes. Gilda had the surprising desire to go on the hunt with this new woman. Instead, she rose from her seat before Sorel could do so himself to let Eleanor move from behind the table.

Eleanor and her dress sparkled as she stood; Gilda lifted the woman's hand to her lips before she thought about it. She stopped midway, realizing how odd she must look to all the others in the room, then continued planting a lingering kiss on Eleanor's hand in a move more casual than she felt.

“Till then,” Eleanor said, then bent to kiss Sorel lightly on the forehead. She swept from the room with a curt nod toward Anthony, who stood watching them from across the room near the end of the bar.

Gilda sat down, feeling slightly chilled by the loss of Eleanor for the rest of the evening. It took a moment to realize that she again felt in need of the blood. She was surprised that the desire rose so soon, but it was unmistakable.