Troika (20 page)

I
wake up with no idea what time of day or night it is. But it seems like it’s morning, ’cause there’s some natural light in the room and my body is telling me it’s morning. I spend a few seconds trying to get myself oriented, reminding myself what happened last night, why I’m here, how I ended up in this bed. Just like some hungover drunk trying to remember the night before, but of course, I don’t drink. I’m doing the same thing, though, trying to put all the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle together. There’s the birds on the wall and the vase with the flowers and there on the floor is my bra and jeans.

Turns out there’s a bathroom
in
my room, which I didn’t notice last night, and that’s a relief ’cause that way I don’t have to go out to the hall to get ready. I’m standing in front of the sink and looking at myself in the mirror, and something’s a little different about the way I look. I don’t know if it’s the nice lighting in this bathroom or the fact that I got a good night sleep for the first time in weeks or
maybe something else. But I look like I gained a few pounds, which of course I didn’t in just one night, and I look healthier and a bit more like a woman instead of a silly little girl.

I brush my teeth and straighten my hair and I’m just about to start with the makeup—rouge, lipstick, mascara—and then I think about Sophie and how beautiful she looked last night, and without even a speck of this stuff on her face. So I toss my little bag on to the counter, the pink bag with Hello Kitty on it, and I tie my hair in a ponytail and pull off my sweater. I’m standing there pretty much naked, except for my panties, and I look at myself in the mirror. And again, I don’t know if it’s the light or what, but my skin looks different to me, thicker and pinker. I put on my bra and my jeans and take one more look at myself in the mirror. From my travel bag, I take out a cute periwinkle V-neck that Rebekah got me for my birthday, and I pull it over my head, shimmy it down and now I’m ready to go.

I’m in front of the door, about to make my move, but I’m frozen in place and can’t seem to grab the doorknob. I’m real nervous ’cause who knows what’s happening on the other side of that bedroom door. Maybe everyone’s gone and I can just slip out real quiet and get back to Miami and see my mom and Rebekah, get back to Paris Nights and make a few bucks. Or maybe Sophie and Norma are out there having breakfast. And then what? Or maybe, and I think this would be the worst, maybe Julian’s there with them. The three of them having breakfast and me coming down the hallway all uncomfortable and feeling out of place.

I put my Hello Kitty case in my purse and toss my travel bag over my shoulder. I look around the room one more time and wonder if I’ll ever be in a room this pretty again. I’m still standing in front of the door and I’m dreading what’s gonna happen next, cursing myself for getting on that plane, for coming over here, cursing myself for letting Julian make me come that first time in the
Champagne Room. I stand up tall and get some good posture and remind myself that I’ve been in worse situations than this, ’cause at least no one here’s trying to hurt me—best I can tell. But I’m real frightened. And then I just think
fuck it
. And I reach for the doorknob.

I
was a drama major in college and not only do I love acting out a drama but I love
creating
a drama, too. I love knowing things that others don’t know and setting up players and scenes, triggering a series of events, a chain reaction among the unsuspecting, directing them without their knowledge. I do all of this not for some weird thrill, a perverse rush of omnipotence, but rather out of my affection for those who just need a gentle nudge in the right direction, for those who don’t know that the answer is right there on the other side of the curtain. There’s also something empowering about all of this scheming—especially when viewed in light of my otherwise disempowered state.

Julian and I sit at the table in the breakfast room, which is a sunny, high-windowed space off the kitchen that faces southeast and thus welcomes the morning light. The table is set for three, and Norma prepares breakfast in the adjacent kitchen. Because Norma
joins us for breakfast on occasion, the third place setting does not attract Julian’s attention.

“What time is your flight to D.C.?” I ask Julian.

Julian looks at his watch, a reflexive response that can in no way inform his answer. “Noon.”

“Private or commercial?”

“Private.”

“And back tomorrow morning?”

“Back in the morning,” Julian says. “I’ve got meetings today, then a black-tie dinner tonight. A breakfast tomorrow at one of those horrible clubs, then I’m on my way.”

“Any way you can get out of it?” I ask, knowing that Perla’s unexpected visit will create chaos around here.

“Sadly, none,” he says. “They have me meeting a bunch of government people. And the president of the bank. It’s a whole dog and pony show, took them months to get it arranged.”

I extend my left hand and reach for Julian. But midway through my extension, my strength wanes, and my arm drops to the table in a thud. Julian jumps up. He lifts my arm, cradles it in his palms and examines it for damage. “You okay?” he asks. “Do you need some ice?”

“Yes to the first question. And no to the second,” I respond. Julian kisses my sore hand and places it gently on my lap. He runs his hands through my hair, and when his fingertips inadvertently tickle the blade of my ear, I am sent into a state of heightened stimulation that is too much this early in the morning. I shiver and wait for the sensitivity to pass.

Norma emerges from the kitchen and places a plate in front of me—egg whites with parsley and specks of salmon, roasted potatoes dusted in rosemary and two links of spicy merguez. She then places a similarly adorned plate in front of Julian. Finally, she places the
third plate—with a metal cover—in front of the empty chair and returns to the kitchen. Julian looks over to the empty setting and waits for Norma to return, to join us for breakfast.

“Hurry, Norma,” he calls out. “It’s getting cold.”

Norma pokes her head out of the kitchen. “You get started. I already ate,” she says.

Julian looks at me. He is confused and shrugs his shoulders. And as I sit before my food, observing Julian in his gentlemanly restraint, I revel in the superiority of my prescience—for I know what is about to transpire. And so does Norma. I’m thrilled, superpowered, awash in my great advantage, for is there anything more exhilarating than knowing the future?

I don’t know exactly how things will unfold, of course, but I’m confident the following will occur. At any moment, the guest room door will open, and Perla will emerge. Julian will hear noise from down the hall, footsteps in the corridor. Rather than his being frightened that an intruder may be in our home, a look of curiosity will first cross his face. He will turn to me, seeking reassurance that I either did or did not hear the noise, the advancing footsteps.

Julian will watch the bend in the hall, wondering what, who, could be the cause of the creaking floorboards. Meanwhile, Norma will emerge from the kitchen, lean against the doorjamb and watch as the theater unfolds. Perla will turn the corner and see before her a table set for three. Whether she turns the corner with trepidation or stumbles eagerly into the trap, I do not know. But when she emerges, she will see Julian sitting before her. She will see me sitting in my wheelchair next to Julian, my excitement within masked by my deportment without. She will see Norma standing in the doorway with a look of motherly compassion on her face.

Everything happens as I expect. Perla turns the corner not with exuberance but with mouselike trepidation. She stops and takes in
the scene before her. This morning, she wears a sheer periwinkle shirt, jeans and sandals. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, so I get an even clearer view of her delicate face. She stops a few feet from the table and nervously pulls her tight-fitting shirt away from her breasts. She places her bag and her purse on the floor beside the empty chair.

“Good morning,” she says. “Sophie. Norma. Julian.”

I watch Julian as he watches Perla. What has crossed his face is something different than shock or horror; yes, there is some of that, but there is also wonder. And when he turns to me and sees that I am not surprised, when he sees that I am actually enjoying this moment, his wonder turns into awe. Unsure what happens next, Perla stands behind the empty chair and places her hands on its back. She swings her hips anxiously, while Julian remains seated, bolted to the chair.

“Well, don’t just sit there like a damn fool,” I say. “Get up and greet our guest. She’s come a long way to see us.”

Julian gives me a look that asks
you sure
? And I nod yes. He pushes his chair back, braces his hand on the table and stands before all of us—exposed and defenseless. He walks over to Perla so that he is just a foot away from her. Then, as if he is greeting a colleague at the office, he extends his hand. Perla stares at his hand. And so do I and Norma. And I know that we’re all thinking the same thing.
What the fuck is this guy doing
?

Well, Perla looks at me and at Norma, and we both chuckle. And that’s all Perla needs to break the tension—a good laugh—and she throws her arms around Julian and kicks her feet in the air like a little girl, and she rests her face in that little nook between his neck and his shoulder. And while I can’t see Julian’s face from this angle, I can see a part of hers. I see tears of relief, as if she has reached a fortified sanctuary after a long, difficult journey. I know this
sanctuary, too, for that is where
I
am with Julian, where I have always been with Julian. And that’s where Roger is, too. And Petrov and Volokh. And where Julian’s mother was for too brief a time. I know how it feels when someone will kill for you.

Julian guides his right hand up Perla’s back. He tugs gently on her ponytail, pulls her head away from him. He wipes the tears from her face, careful not to scrape her flawless skin. I turn to Norma, and she makes a pitter-patter motion on her chest—which has the effect of irritating me, evoking in me not only a jealousy of Julian’s affection for Perla but of Norma’s affection for
them
. I turn back to Julian and Perla. He guides her to the chair, pulls it back a foot so she can sit down and, once she is settled, slides it forward.

After removing the metal cover from Perla’s plate, Julian returns to his seat and reaches for my hand. I offer it without resistance, without bitterness. Norma returns to the kitchen while Julian, Perla and I eat in silence, verbal silence; there are the taps of sterling on china, the sipping of coffee, linen folded and unfolded, but no words. Unlike the austere, repressed meals of my youth, however, this silence is not uncomfortable. Rather, it is akin to the silence of the elderly couple sitting across the table from each other, enjoying—each in their own minds—the ambiance of the restaurant, the clatter of plates, the fusion of a hundred voices, the past, the shared memories, wondering how long they will both live, who gets the short straw and must outlive the other; it’s the silence of the elderly couple that chooses not to speak because they’ve either said it before, or if they haven’t already said it then there’s a damn good reason to keep it quiet.

I am at peace. I look to my right, to my left. And I know there’s only one way this whole thing can go, maybe two.

T
he gods smile upon me today.

After several minutes of peaceful quiet, I ask Perla about her life—careful not to touch upon those subjects, like stripping, that might cause her some discomfort.

“Julian tells me that you’re from Cuba?”

Perla folds her napkin in half, then in half again, and places it on the table. “That’s right. My family is from Matanzas, a town on the coast that’s east of Havana. We lived there for a hundred years. Not me and my parents for a hundred years, of course, but all of us, our ancestors, generation after generation.”

“Do you still have family there?” I ask with genuine interest.

Perla pushes the plate a few inches away so she has more room for her arms, more room to talk with her hands. “I do. My uncle lives there, my father’s brother. He’s a fisherman and has a little shop that sells what he catches. So it’s my uncle and also a couple of
cousins I haven’t seen in forever.” Julian listens, and the calm look on his face suggests that he has heard all of this before—and his deep knowledge of Perla’s life reveals an intimacy between them that is greater than I had realized.

“And your parents?”

“My parents? Me and my mom, we live together in Miami and we got a cute little place in Little Havana, which is filled with Cubans.” Perla smiles bashfully and hits her forehead with the palm of her hand as if to say
stupid me
. “Obviously, or why else would they call it Little Havana? It’s not like it’s filled with Swedes.” Julian and I both laugh and turn to each other; Julian’s wink says
I told you so
. “But she’s got a serious boyfriend now, Felipe, and he’s not half bad compared to the losers she usually dates. So I don’t see her as much, which is pretty crappy.” When the word
crappy
escapes, Perla reflexively covers her mouth. “Sorry,” she says, “that’s not too ladylike. Sometimes I forget where I am and I get a little dis-so . . . sometimes things just come out of my mouth, and sure enough . . .” Perla trails off, surrenders the rest of the sentence.

“Don’t worry about being ladylike around here, Perla. We can get pretty crude, right, Norma?” Norma pokes her head out of the kitchen, gives me the middle finger, and then returns to her work. “And your father?” I ask, forgetting for a moment that Julian told me he died and remembering only when it is too late, when my regret is sealed.

Perla looks down and crosses herself. Then she sits straight up, as if she is sitting on a church pew, and looks at me. “My father died when I was fourteen. He was a great man, humble and poor but real smart and filled with lots of love. And gratitude. He had lots of that, too. But he didn’t have much money or success in his job,” she says, and looks around the apartment, at the grand space, the artwork, the furniture. “But he had lots of faith in God, faith that we’d be taken
care of, me and him and my mother, and faith that I’d turn out good, too.”

I can see that Perla is getting emotional, shaky. “Well, then,” I say, “it looks to me like his faith has been rewarded.”

Perla shakes her head as if I have proposed something that is too painful to accept. “You think?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Maybe.”

I look over to Julian, who in turn looks at this watch and taps the glass face, indicating that he must leave soon for the airport. There are a few more moments of silence, but this time it is not so comfortable. “So, Perla, what would you like to do today?” I ask.

“Me? What would I like to do?” she responds, surprised, and turns to Julian for guidance—which is not forthcoming.

“Julian’s off to D.C. now, back tomorrow morning. He’s useless to us, at least for the time being. So what do you say?”

“I don’t . . . I don’t really know, to be honest, and I’m not sure what I’m doing here or what you want from me.” She eyes her bags on the floor. “Or what made me come up here in the first place, which is something I’m still trying to figure out. I’m just real uncomfortable, and that’s obvious, I guess.” Perla pulls her shirt away from her skin, now damp with perspiration, and then crosses her arms over her chest. “I got a return ticket that takes me back tonight, so maybe the best thing is for me to get my bags right here and go meet my girlfriends, they work downtown at the . . .” Perla catches herself, for she has realized that to continue would reveal something that causes her shame. “Just go meet my girlfriends and thank you, thank you for . . .” Flustered, she straightens the knife by her plate. “And just be on my way.”

I am disappointed, as I am beginning to experience a bit of affection for Perla. “How about you stay for a couple of hours?” I ask.
“Just a couple of hours. We can go for a quick walk in the park. It’s beautiful outside.” I slap the sides of my wheelchair. “Come on, you can walk and I can roll.”

Perla again eyes her bags. There is a flare of the nostrils, a scrape of the lower lip that reveals her conflict.

“I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe just a couple of hours. Get some fresh air and then I can head back tonight.”

Gleeful, I turn to Julian. “Honey, Perla and I are spending the day together. So I will see you back here in the morning.” I use my arms to rotate the wheels of my chair in such a way that I move back away from the table and then around to Julian’s side. I drape my arms around his neck and give him a kiss. After a quick, self-conscious glance in Perla’s direction, Julian hugs me tight and kisses me. He whispers
I love you
—and I know that he does.

But for Norma, whom I shall exile shortly, I’ve got Perla just where I want her—alone, on my turf, away from her support system.