Madame X (Madame X #1) (10 page)

Total authority. Absolute expectation of obedience, even in so simple a matter as pouring a larger glass of wine than is, apparently, formally acceptable.

“As you wish, sir.” Gerald pours the wine into my glass first, twisting the bottle to prevent glugging.

Alternating between the two goblets, Gerald makes sure each of us has exactly the same amount, down to the last drops. Remarkable precision, performed with ritual familiarity.

The salad is finished. The quartet lets a moment of silence pervade, and then they strike up again, in practiced unison. I sip at my wine, savoring each droplet. At last, however, I can contain myself no longer.

“Caleb, you said this was a special occasion, but I must confess, I have no idea—”

“Hush and enjoy the experience. I am aware of your ignorance, and I will enlighten you in my own time. For now, drink your wine. Listen to the music. I handpicked this quartet from among the most promising students at Juilliard. Each of the musicians is among the best in the world at his or her respective instrument.”

I am not expected to reply. I lean back, pivot slightly, rest an arm
across the back of my chair. Attempt to appear at ease, comfortable. How long passes, I cannot say. Minutes, perhaps. Ten or fifteen. I fight restlessness. Cross my legs, uncross them. Glance at the windows, wishing I could stand and stare down, watch the people, examine the city from each new angle, see new portions of the skyline. I know the view from each of my windows as well as I know the sight of my own hands. A new perspective would be something to enjoy.

Eventually Gerald appears with an already-uncorked bottle of wine. The bottle is darkest red, nearly opaque, and has no label. He pours a thimbleful into a clean glass, too little to really drink. I watch with fascination a ritual clearly familiar to both men, the swirl of the tiny amount of liquid around the bottom of the goblet; inhale through the nose, goblet tipped at an angle, just so. A sip, then. A wetting of the lips, swish around the mouth. A nod. Yet instead of filling that glass, Gerald fills mine first. A strange ceremony, that. Present it to the man for testing and approval, but pour it for the woman first. Inexplicable to me.

“This is from the estate at Mallorca, yes, Gerald?”

Gerald nods, setting the bottle down with great care. “Correct, sir. Bottled and shipped here for your exclusive reserves. One of a thousand bottles available, I believe, although Marcos would be the better man to ask for precise numbers.” A gesture at the shadows. “Shall I summon him, sir?”

A minute shake of the head. “No, it’s all right. It just has a slightly more pungent bouquet than the last bottle, is all.”

“I think, sir, that this bottle is the first of a new batch only recently arrived.”

“Ah. That explains it.”

Gerald nods, bows. “I believe the main course is ready, sir.”

A wave of the hand, a dismissal.

I am puzzled. Overwhelmed. Estate in Mallorca? Exclusive
reserves of a thousand, unlabeled bottles of wine? An entire building in the heart of Manhattan?

“Where is Mallorca, Caleb?”

“It’s an island in the Mediterranean Sea owned by Spain. I—or rather my family—own a vineyard there, among other places.”

Family? It’s hard to think of this man as having a family. Sisters, brothers? Parents?

Gerald appears with a large plate in each hand. Salmon, pinkish-orange, surrounded by grilled vegetables—cauliflower, broccoli, carrots, green bean sprouts—and thick, lumpy mashed potatoes topped by a melting pat of butter.

I have yet to taste the wine, which is ruby in color, the shade of freshly spilled blood. I put the glass to my nose and inhale; the scent is earthy, ripe, pungent, powerful. I try a sip. I have to suppress the urge to cough, to spit it out. I swallow, school my features into the blank mask. I do not like this, not at all. Dry, rolling over my tongue with a dozen shades of decadent flavor.

“Don’t like that wine as much, I take it?”

I shake my head. “It’s . . . so different.”

“Different good, or different bad?”

I am in dangerous and unfamiliar territory. I shrug. “Not like the Pinot Grigio.”

A noise in the back of the throat. A laugh, perhaps. If I didn’t know better. “You don’t like it. You can say so, if that is the case.”

I demurely slide the goblet away from me an inch or two. “I would prefer some ice water, I think.”

“More of the Pinot, perhaps?” My goblet is tugged closer to the other side of the table.

I shrug, trying not to appear too eager. “That would be wonderful, Caleb. Thank you.”

A single finger lifted off the tabletop, a turn of the head. Subtle
gestures, made with the knowledge that they will be noticed. Gerald appears, bending close. “Sir?”

“The lady does not find the red suitable to her palate, I’m afraid. She’ll have more of the Pinot Grigio. I’ll finish this myself, I suppose. No sense wasting it.”

“Immediately, sir.” Gerald hustles into the shadows and is gone for only a few moments before returning with a single glass of the white wine.

I was expecting more of the uncorking ritual and find myself slightly disappointed that I wouldn’t get to see it again. So strange, so lovely, like the waltz of a gourmand. No matter. I drink the wine and enjoy it. Feel it in my blood, buzzing warmly in my skull.

The salmon, of course, is very good. Light, flavorful, pleasurable.

Nothing is said during the course of the meal. The only sound is the quartet playing softly from the shadows, the clink of forks. At long last, both plates are pushed away, and I follow example by covering what I didn’t finish with my napkin. Gerald removes the plates, vanishes, and reappears with two plates, each of which contains a single small bowl, in which is . . . I do not know what it is.

“Chef Jean-Luc offers Flan Almendra, a traditional Spanish dessert for sir and madam, to finish the evening.”

“Thank you, Gerald. That will be all.”

“Of course, sir. And may I just say what an extraordinary pleasure it was to serve you this evening.” Gerald bows deeply and then departs.

Flan turns out to be somewhere between pudding and pie, with a crunchy almond crust. I eat it slowly, savoring it, forcing myself to be demure, a lady, and not devour it as I would wish to, were such barbaric behavior allowed.

Through it all, my brain is whirring. A single question, burning: Why? Why? Why?

I dare not ask.

At long, long last, there is nothing left to eat, and only the last inch of wine remains in my glass. My red was claimed long ago, and the bottle finished. I truly do not know how so much thick, pungent wine can be drunk so swiftly.

“X.” The voice, buzzing in my head. In my bones. It’s a little loose sounding. “You’ve been very patient this evening.”

I can only shrug. “It has been an enjoyable evening, Caleb. Thank you.”

“I’ve decided today is to be your birthday.”

I have no thought in my head, no capacity for rational thought. The pronouncement has left me utterly unhinged. “Wh—what?”

“Since we know nothing of you prior to our . . . meeting, I decided—rather belatedly, I do admit—that you require a birthday.” An easy shrug. “Today is July the second. The exact midpoint of the calendar year.”

I try to breathe. Summon words. Thoughts. Emotions. “I—um. Today is my birthday?”

“It is now. Happy Birthday, X.”

“How many years would it be?” I can’t help asking.

“The doctors, on that day, presumed you—with a high degree of accuracy, they told me—to be nineteen or twenty. That was six years ago, so I’m going to say that today is your twenty-sixth birthday.”

Six years. Twenty-six.

Puzzle pieces flit and float and flitter. Gazpacho Andaluz. Spanish red wine. Spanish cucumber salad. Spanish flan.

“Andaluz . . . Caleb, is that a place in Spain?”

An expression of curiosity. “Andalusia, yes.”

“Did you find something out about me? Is that what this about?” I cannot stop the question.

Cannot phrase it any more respectfully or politely. Curiosity flares in me. Hope, too, but just a spark, a fragile, easily extinguished, guttering pinpoint of light.

A pause, a hesitation. Tongue sliding over lips, roll of a shoulder, shifting in the chair. “Yes. A little something, at least. I had your DNA analyzed.”

“You did?” I blink, breathe in, wonder if it is normal to feel as if I have been somehow opened, pried apart, what little privacy I have invaded.

“Yes. When you were sleeping, the last time I visited you, I took a piece of your hair from your hairbrush, and swabbed the inside of your cheek. You sleep like the dead to begin with, and you were . . .
very
tired. You barely stirred.” A self-satisfied glint of the eye, not quite a smirk. “My scientists were able to trace certain markers in your DNA and determine with a surprising degree of accuracy where your ethnic heritage originates.”

I am breathless with anticipation—that phrase, it occurs in fiction quite frequently. But in reality, it is not an entirely pleasant sensation. “What—
ahem
.” I have to start over. “What did your scientists discover?”

A hand, manicured fingernails, trimmed cuticles, large and powerful and graceful, waving at the table. “Can’t you guess?”

“Spain?” I suggest.

“Precisely. They are clever fellows, those geneticists. They’re still working, comparing markers and whatever else it is they do, trying to narrow it down, get more specific results. They tell me with time they might be able to tell me a specific region of Spain, things like that. But for now, all we know is . . . you, Madame X, are Spanish.” Those eyes, dark, expressive, hard, hungry, raking over me. “You look it, too. I’ve long thought that might be it. My Spanish beauty.”

Clever fellows. Geneticists on the payroll.
My scientists.
Who has scientists on retainer?

“I would have had Jean-Luc prepare a traditional Spanish main course for us, but I thought that might be laying it on a bit too thick. Spanish food is also very rich, and you are not accustomed to such fare. I wouldn’t want to overburden your digestive system as well as your emotions all in one night, you know.”

“Yes, I see.” My brain supplied relevant-sounding words at the expected moment, but in truth I was numb, dizzy, spinning, and fending off what felt like an anxiety attack.

“Do you need a moment, X?”

I nod.

“Take a moment, then.”

I stood up and moved with great relief away from the table, away from the ring of candles, away from the huge and overwhelming presence. Away from the music. Deep into the shadows, to the window. Night had long ago fallen over the city, so now light came from countless yellow and white squares in neat horizontal and vertical rows across the horizon, from streetlamps far below, from red departing taillights and white approaching headlights.

I am Spanish.

I had your DNA analyzed.
Such an easy phrase, so easily spoken.

What does it mean to me, to know I am of Spanish origin?

Nothing; everything.

My eyes prick, sting. My lungs ache and I am dizzy, and I realize I have been holding my breath. I blink and breathe. Such wrenching emotion over what? Knowing where in the world my unnamed and unknown ancestors came from? Weakness.

I’ve decided today is to be your birthday.

Another fact that feels both weighted with meaning and utterly devoid of it as well. A birthday?

A girl with dark hair walks by, dozens of stories below, on the opposite side of the street, holding her mother’s hand. It is much
too far to see much else. They know their origins. Their family. Their past. A mother’s hand to cling to. A daughter to sing sweet songs to. Perhaps a daddy, a husband waiting for them.

“X?” A single letter, spoken in a murmur that would be a whisper for anyone with a smaller voice.

“Caleb.” An acknowledgment is all I can manage.

“Are you all right?”

I shrug. “I suppose.”

“Which means no, I think.” Warm palm on my waist, just above the swell of my hip. “What’s wrong?”

“Why?”

“Why what?” True confusion.

“Why have my DNA analyzed? Why tell me? Why give me an arbitrary birthday? Why bring me here for dinner? Why now?”

“It was meant to be—”

“Are you going to give me a Spanish name now, too?”

A fraught silence. I interrupted, spoke out of turn. In dark and gritty noir novels, someone would say,
Men have died for less
, and with the man behind me, it might just be true. It seems possible; I look down at the hand on my waist. It looks capable of violence, of delivering death.

“Your name is Madame X.” A harsh rumble in my ear. “Don’t you remember?”

“Of course I do.” When one possesses only six years’ worth of memories, each one is crystalline.

“I brought you to the MOMA, the day they released you from the hospital. All of the museum at your disposal, and you spent the whole time in front of two paintings.”

“Van Gogh,
Starry Night
,” I say.

“And John Singer Sargent’s
Portrait of Madame X
.” Another hand on me, this one lower, below my hip bone, where it becomes thigh.
Pulling me backward, taut against a hard chest. “I didn’t know what to call you. I tried every name I could think of, and you’d just shake your head. You wouldn’t speak. Couldn’t really, I guess. Had to roll you around in that wheelchair, remember? Hadn’t relearned to walk yet. But you pointed at that painting, the Sargent. So I stopped, and you just stared at it and stared at it.”

“It was the expression on her face. It looks blank, at first. She’s in profile, so you’d think it might be hard to tell what she’s thinking. But if you look closely, you can see something there. Beneath the surface, maybe. And the curve of her arm. It looked strong. She’s so delicate, but . . . that arm, the one touching the table, it’s . . . it looks strong. And I felt weak, so helpless. So to see such a delicate-looking woman with something like strength? It just . . . spoke to me, somehow. Reassured me. Told me that maybe I could be strong, too.”

“And you are.”

“Sometimes.”