The Lover From an Icy Sea (3 page)

At precisely three-thirty, a tall brunette walked through the door of the studio. She knew she’d find the make-up girl ready and waiting, and stopped at the front desk only long enough to ask directions to the Green Room.

Kit finished his prep, set up his tripod and mounted his camera—all by five minutes to four. At two minutes to four, the brunette appeared on the set and promptly dropped her robe. She was wearing a pair of sky-blue teddies and a bra to match. Kit noted the perfect symmetry of her breasts; the expanse of flawless, bronzed skin between her breasts and the wings of her pelvis; her navel; the gentle musculature of her abdomen; the perfect pitch of her buttocks; legs that clearly understood the mandate of regular visits to a treadmill. He just as quickly noticed, as she lay down on the plastic tarp, that his lighting-scheme needed some adjustment—and so, turned his eyes from flesh to floodlights.

To get a good read on exposure, he’d have to position his meter at various focal points around and over his subject. He consequently took readings for foreground and background, then placed the same meter within half an inch of the model’s breasts, stomach and pubis. She didn’t flinch, and he didn’t register anything more exciting than the slight jump of the needle when the light reflecting off her body changed a point or two of candle power. It was all just routine—he knew as he adjusted the lights and moved back to his camera.

“
Okay, guys and dolls. Ready to rock ‘n’ roll when you are.”

Chapter 4

She was a pro, and the whole thing was over in an hour. Immediately following the shoot, Kit retired to his cubical where he noticed the message light blinking on his telephone.

The message was brief; to the point; clear. No whine, no rising inflection at the end of each sentence to suggest that this woman was anything less than absolutely certain of her ground, of herself, and of her right to invade some stranger’s electronic space with her voice in order to leave a message. He decided to call back immediately.

“
Daneka Sørensen’s office,” an unfamiliar voice greeted him at the end of two rings. That same voice gave the “r” in Sørensen the full glottal force of the Danish “r”—and the “ø,” its own peculiarly unEnglish sound. Kit suspected it might be to inform callers that Daneka was not just another executive.

“
Charles Addison returning Ms. Sorensen’s call.” Kit always used his proper first name if he didn’t already know the caller. At the same time, he wasn’t about to attempt awkward-sounding vowels or consonants even if he, too, was fairly certain he could manage both.

“
One moment, please,” the unfamiliar voice said—followed by a pause.

“
Daneka Sørensen,” a somewhat more familiar voice announced into the receiver an instant later.

Kit was surprised. She apparently hadn’t been given his identity. That, or she wasn’t letting on—wasn’t going to give him that comfort for nothing. “This is Charles Addison returning your call, Ms. Sorenson.”

Danka appreciated—whoever this person was—that he had the good sense not to take certain liberties too quickly and too easily. He was formal, brief, and to the point. He wasn’t trying to schmooze in preparation for a quick sale. Good thing, as she wasn’t yet in the mood to buy.

“
Mr. Addison, I saw your ad in the—” Daneka paused a split second and considered; to give away that she’d found his ad in
The Voice
might also give him the wrong impression—might make her sound like easy prey “—newspaper. I’m looking for a photographer.”

“
You’re a model? Looking for head-shots?”

Daneka laughed. To Kit’s ears, her laugh was like the tinkle of ice cubes against fine crystal. “Not exactly. But if you’ve got a miracle cure or maybe even a magic wand, we might talk.”

“
Nope. Sorry. ‘Can’t help you there. I wouldn’t know beauty from beast if they both came through the same door with instructions for dummies on how to distinguish.”

Daneka liked his light, self-effacing manner. He was clearly not one of those high-fashion photogs who wouldn’t risk his precious lens or reputation on anything or anyone less than a perfect princess. She also liked the tone of his voice and his pacing: economical without being stingy. He wasn’t holding anything back, but he wasn’t trying to drown her in words, either. On first impression, she liked him just fine.

“
Would you like to come by the studio one day this week?” Kit asked.

“
I’d love to,” she lied. “But this week is tough. Could we rendezvous at my place, say on Friday?”

Kit consulted his electronic calendar. As he did so, he asked as if to confirm: “Is your place in town?” He had a shoot scheduled for the morning, but was free from noon on. “What time did you have in mind?” he asked again before he’d received an answer to his first question.

“
Yes. East Side. Ninety-sixth street, between Madison and Park. Say, six o’clock? Evening, that is.”

“
Six works for me.” Kit logged the time into his calendar next to the date, Friday, May 24.

“
Let’s confirm the morning of, if that’s okay,” Daneka suggested.

That was the second time she’d used the first-person plural pronoun in the space of only a few sentences, Kit noted. In the first instance, the “we” clearly did not include a willingness to inconvenience herself by traveling to his place of work. Instead, he’d have to travel a considerable distance north while she’d stay put. In the second instance, Kit knew she wouldn’t have to remember or make the call. Rather, he was certain someone else would handle that obligation for her.

“
Very good. I look forward to it.” Kit waited a couple of beats before realizing that Daneka had already hung up. “Well,” he said to himself. “Guess we’re all business, aren’t we, Ms. Sorenson. Short, sweet and to the point.”

What Kit didn’t yet realize was that he was already beginning to mimic her speech.

Chapter 5

The following Friday afternoon, Kit came up out of the subway at Lexington and Ninety-sixth street and headed west towards Central Park. At the next pedestrian crossing, he looked south into the wide and untroubled expanse of four lanes divided by a well-manicured median strip—a Park Avenue punctilio of summer flowers. Both southbound and northbound lanes at that moment were a twilight blush of taxis. None rushed—no need: limousines and service cars stood patiently at attention. Some private residence, some psychiatrist’s office, some little love-nest would shortly flush out a passenger or two to some other less-idyllic, some other less-maniacally-manicured, some other decidedly-less-docile destination on the island where well-manicured could trounce even well-bred.

He glanced northward to see Park Avenue dip down into the bowels of Harlem. A block north of where he stood, the grassy median disappeared almost as if the city had simply run out of seasonal plants and an appropriate place to put them. He spotted a few taxis, most of them rushing southward, but no limousines or service cars—also, plenty of stragglers and loiterers, none of whom seemed to have specific appointments off to which they might be running.

He realized that he was standing at an unmarked border: no border police, no customs gate or officials, no need to produce a passport—but a border-crossing nonetheless. Those loitering above it knew as well as those bustling below that this border was as well-defined by rights, privileges and obligations as any Checkpoint Charlie between two opposing regimes; that any intent to cross in either direction would be immediate cause for suspicion.

When the pedestrian light turned green, Kit crossed the four lanes of Park Avenue and stepped up on the far curb. Only then did he first catch sight of the red awning and the liveried doorman. Lettering for “The Fitzgerald” stood out in bold gold against the Burgundy-colored cloth of the awning. As he approached the building, he noticed that “The Fitzgerald” stood over the breast pocket of the attendant whose coat, apparently, had been cut from the same color—if not precisely from the same cloth.

Kit ascended the few stairs to the lobby where he was met by a second gatekeeper—this one greeting him with a mixture of skepticism and deference. “13-A, please, to see Ms. Sorensen.”

“
She’s expecting you?”

“
She is.”

“
Name”?

“
I believe we just covered that.”

“
No. Your name.”

“
Addison.” Kit decided in that instant that he, too, could play this game of telegraph if that’s what the situation called for. It occurred to him that the closer one attempted to get to a private residence inside any given catacomb of private residences on the Upper East Side, the more truculent the gatekeeper. It came with the turf, pure and simple.

This second doorman appeared to be consulting some internal directory behind his console as he picked up a telephone handset and slowly dialed a number. He occasionally glanced up, though never above the level of Kit’s chin.

“
Hello? Yes, there’s a gentleman here—a Mister?”

“
Addison.”

“
A Mr. Addison to see Ms. Sorensen … Uh-huh … Yes, I will.” He hung up and looked Kit in the eye for the first time since Kit’s arrival. “Mrs. Sorensen is expecting you. 13-A.” Kit was grateful that one other human being in this woman’s world was not trying to assault him with odd-sounding vowels and consonants.

Kit looked back at the doorman; blinked; wondered what it might mean to a man to be reduced to a function like this and yet have to call it a profession. To have no other purpose in life than to repeat, filter, confirm or deny information. To create nothing in the process, but simply to stand in the way until a pretender could be politely removed, side-stepped or ordered to step aside.

Kit walked to the elevator; closed the doors; pressed the button marked “13.” The cabin was paneled, top to bottom, in a rich mahogany. A large, gilt-framed mirror hung on the back wall. The ascent was remarkably swift, he thought, for a pre-war building.

He stepped out on the thirteenth floor into low, incandescent light, then walked to the door marked 13-A. On the wall immediately to the right of the door hung a crystal sconce with a meticulously arranged display of fresh-cut flowers—recently misted. He rang the doorbell.

Thirty seconds later, he heard someone lift a chain and turn a knob. A short, squat woman subsequently greeted him from the other side of the open door.

“
Señor Addison?
”

“
Él mismo
,” Kit answered without hesitation. She smiled broadly, honestly, unguardedly—like a happy mix of papaya and mango, Kit thought, and he returned the smile in kind.

“
Please, come in.”

“
Thank you, I will.”

“
Señora Sorensen coming. One moment, please. You like coffee?”

“
Please. That would be lovely.”

“
How you take?”

“
With milk and sugar, please.”

She looked puzzled. Perhaps he’d spoken too quickly. He tried again—not wanting to offend, but also wanting to ease the communication. “Con leche y azucar.”

“
Coffee coming. With milk and sugar,” she said easily.

Kit could never quite understand this game with Hispanics in New York. If ever he asked for something in English, they might shake their heads or answer in Spanish. If he then asked again in Spanish, they’d answer back in English. It was never malicious or rude; it simply was what it was.

Kit stepped into the living room and began to study the interior with a photographer’s eye. Immediately to his left, a baby grand piano, with musical scores of Bach and Chopin sitting conspicuously to suggest either the presence of a classical pianist, or else the presence of someone who wanted visitors to believe that Bach and Chopin had a place in this household. He had no way of knowing which. At the far end of the room, two sofas and an armchair covered in damask bordered what looked to be a very serious rug. Kit was not an expert in rugs, and so he merely ventured that this one might actually be an Aubusson. Casually throwing an Aubusson on the living room floor for someone to warm his heels on was conspicuous spending beyond mere ostentation. Either money meant nothing, or the appearance that money meant nothing meant everything. He studied the floor-length curtains that matched the cover of one side table. Both were done in a tasteful print, meticulously coordinated with the rest of the interior. The ensemble suggested an obsession with studied refinement. In fact, everything about the living room—and the dining room adjoining it through French doors—suggested a carefully constructed refinement and an obsession with appearances.

Kit felt slightly nauseous—as if he were not in a home so much as in a salon. This was not a living room; it was a presentation room. He wondered about children and whether any lived here; tried to imagine how, if there were any, they, too, would’ve been treated like presentation pieces—allowed to sit in the living room only if their clothes coordinated suitably with the surroundings; would otherwise be restricted to their own bedrooms or to anywhere but this room.