The Yellow Suitcase

by L. W. Clark

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’d rather not do this.”

  He got up and filled our glasses. He sat down in silence. It was awkward.

  “Let’s move in together,” he suddenly said. “Let’s rent a place together. We can both work and build a life together. I have a good job. I can afford a bigger apartment and you don’t have to stay on Long Island or with Silvia. You can find some other job nearby. We can get married and have a family. I’m serious about this.”

  He’s animated again, and speaking very fast.

  “I know we’d be a great couple,” he said. “I know I may be moving too fast but why wait? We both like being together. What do you think? Let’s start looking for a new place. Please say yes.”

  “I can’t do it,” I said. “I don’t plan to stay here. I’m going back home as soon as I reach my goals. I like it here but not enough to stay. I just want to work, save money, and go to school to improve my English.”

  “Is that some kind of girly answer?” he asked laughing. “You’re playing hard to get but will eventually say yes?”

  “No, I’m serious.”

  “You can’t be serious. Nobody wants to go back. You’re not going back. You’re just playing with me.”

  He was irritated. It was quiet for a while. He stood up.

  “Let’s have another one,” he said.

  He poured himself a drink and walked over to me.

  “I’m good,” I said. “I can’t have anymore. I’m pretty buzzed.”

  “Just one more. Come on, drink with me.”

  “I can’t, and let’s not have any more cognac. Let’s have some coffee. Do you have coffee? I can make it.”

  Look at his face. He’s drunk.

  “I don’t want any coffee,” he said. “I want another drink and I want you to have one with me. What’s the big deal? One more and that’s it.”

  He filled my glass.

  “Cheers,” he said. “Here’s to our future.”

  I put the drink on the table.

  “You’re not going to have a drink to our future? I don’t understand that. Have a drink.”

  He’s slurring his words. He’s a different person. His quiet and serious personality has turned loud and aggressive.

  “I mean it,” he said. “I love you. You’re not going back. You’re staying with me. I know you like me too. You’re just not saying it. We belong to each other.”

  He grabbed me and started kissing me aggressively. It was uncomfortable and I couldn’t take it anymore. I pushed him away and he pushed me back.

  “What’s wrong with you?” he asked. “I’m trying to kiss you and you’re pushing me away? I just want to kiss you. What’s wrong with that?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with that. I just don’t feel like doing it. I told you already.”

  “But why not? Maybe you don’t love me yet, but I know you like me.”

  “Who said that I liked you that way? I like you as a person and as a good friend. I really appreciate the attention and kindness you gave me but that’s all.”

  “I don’t understand you. What do you mean you don’t like me? You were so nice and warm to me. I thought the feelings were mutual.”

  “But they’re not. I never thought my being nice to you would make you think of that.”

  “I love you and want you. You can’t just ignore my feelings.”

  He stood up, went to the door, and locked it.

  “Now you can’t go anywhere,” he smiled darkly as he took another drink.

  “Zachary, please don’t drink anymore. This good cognac isn’t good anymore. It’s bad cognac,” I joked, smiling as I tried to soften him.

  “I’m fine,” he said. “I’m not drunk. I’m just trying to explain my feelings to you. I was so sure you liked me, and you would say yes to my offer.”

  He sounds calmer.

  “I know,” I said. “I’m sorry, but I told you all I want to do is focus on my plan. I’m not staying here. I can’t.

  “You’re just saying that,” he said. “What don’t you like about me? Or do you like Americans better? Do you like that American guy? Jeff?”

  He’s getting worked up again.

  “What?” I asked. “Who?”

  “You know. Jeff? Silvia mentioned him the other day? You’re dating him and hiding it aren’t you?”

  Enough of this.

  “I’m not answering your questions,” I said. “Let’s talk tomorrow. I’m tired and I want to go to sleep. You look tired too. You should try to get some sleep. You’re working tomorrow remember?”

  I smiled and gently took his hand.

  “You’re staying here,” he said. “You’re not leaving me. You’re going to sleep here, with me.”

  “Please let’s not fight, OK?” I asked. “We have nothing to fight about. We both left our country to come here so we can fight? I can’t fight with you. I can’t be mean to you. You’re a good person. You helped me so much when I was alone and sick. And on the plane coming here. You got me through a long flight. It meant so much to me, you have no idea. I’ll never forget that. And I’m not going to fight with someone who has a kind heart.”

  “Are you just saying that to make me feel good?”

  He poured himself another glass.

  “Yes, I am,” I said. “I want you to feel good.”

  I got up and went to the door.

  “I’m not a kind man,” he said. “I’m a bad man. And you’re staying here with me!”

  He grabbed me again, this time so firm that I felt pain in my arms.

  “Stop! You’re hurting me. Stop it!”

  I pushed him again as hard as I could. But he was stronger than me and didn’t let go. He pushed me onto the couch and held me. His face was all over mine. His senseless kissing sounded like a dog drinking water. I don’t think he even knew what he was doing. He was numb from the alcohol.

  Every time I tried to push him away and stand up, he’d get up and shove me back onto the coach. It went back and forth, back and forth, like we were in an ultimate fighting ring. Finally, I pushed him so hard he lost his balance and fell. He just lay there, exhausted from the alcohol and the fighting.

  Is this what he thinks I want? Really? I’ve escaped so many guys like him back home. I didn’t come here to be with someone like him. Someone who makes quick, irrational decisions. I’m so over this immature bullshit. These so-called men who can’t take responsibility for their behavior. Who treat women like crap because they have no self-esteem. If he really loves me, he sure has a bizarre way of showing it.

  We don’t even know each other that well. Fifteen hours on a plane and sitting together in an apartment doesn’t tell you all that much about a person. We never went out. We never took a walk. We never exchanged our thoughts about life, relationships or our personal experiences. We never talked about art or books. All we did was joke and talk about movies and stories about other people. I don’t know him well enough to even ask him any personal questions.

  And that’s fine, for a new friendship. But he doesn’t seem to think so. Why can’t a guy and a girl just be friends? Why can’t they have a friendship without any expectations? I guess that’s just the way it is. Maybe it’s hard for many of them to be around a woman without taking some kind of action. Women, too. Either the road leads to attraction or the road ends. There’s no pure friendship road. Being friendly to him doesn’t mean I have romantic or sexual feelings towards him. I just don’t feel that way. Even though I want sex, really bad, I just can’t do it. He’s got to be around my age, twenty-five. He’s young, but he’s supposed to be a man. He’s not a teenager anymore.

  There was knocking on the door. Zachary was still laying on the floor.

  “Hello?”

  It was Silvia. I had left her a note that I was at Zachery’s.

  “One minute,” I said to her through the closed door.

  It was a long, hard fight but the match was over. He got up from the floor and fell into the couch.
I went to the kitchen and got a glass of water. When I got back he was out. I put the water on the table next to him. I took his shoes off and covered him with a blanket. Then I set the alarm for 6 a.m., at maximum volume.

  There, that should scare the hell out of him when it goes off.

  I smiled as I opened the door.

  “What’s going on? Did I knock at the wrong time?” Silvia asked, smiling.

  “No,” I said. “It actually would’ve been better if you knocked earlier. Where have you been?”

  I closed the door behind me and we started walking towards her place.

  “Yeah right, I know,” she said. “I know you two like each other.”

  “By the way,” I said. “I left some champagne in the refrigerator last week. Do you know what happened to it?”

  She just looked at me and smiled.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The next day I stayed in Brooklyn. I wanted to go to the city, but I didn’t have any money for the subway. I didn’t hear from Zachary all day. I wasn’t happy about last night but I wasn’t mad either. What would be the point? It was just another experience, and there’s always something to learn in every experience. Good or bad. You just don’t want to have too many of the bad ones, and you certainly don’t want them to be repeated.

  I still believe Zachary’s a good person. Maybe he has issues he’s working through that I don’t know about, and the alcohol just amplified them. If I agreed to his offer, I wouldn’t have seen the anger. I wonder if you should see a person drunk before you start a relationship? And why do I seem to attract sexually aggressive people? Like Lora’s father Alex? Why on earth did Zachery think he could force himself on me? Just because I was friendly towards him? Or is it a guy thing? They just go for it when they’re horny, without permission? I don’t even have what I’d call an overly sexual look. I don’t have the big boobs, large hips or facial features that many men might get excited about. But I must be putting some vibe out there because they’re attracted to me. It’s nice to be desired. I just wish they weren’t so crude about it.

  I couldn’t find the necklace that Maximillian gave me. It was a thin gold chain with a small diamond. I wore it all the time. I didn’t even take it off in the shower. I think it came off in Zachary’s apartment when we were wrestling. I didn’t want to talk or see him, so I asked Silvia to leave him a note to ask if he had it. He told Silvia he found it, but it was broken so he was going to take it to the jeweler to get it fixed. I didn’t want him to do that. I wanted back my necklace right away, even if it was broken. Silvia asked him for the necklace, but it was already at the jewelers.

  I was excited about receiving the student visa. I was a little worried that I wouldn’t be approved but it all worked out. It was much easier getting this one than the first time, when I stood on line in the cold, brutal weather back home. It was a simple and efficient process. I filled out the papers, submitted them and within a few weeks I received the approved visa by mail. Just like that. Now I was going to take classes in Manhattan. How cool was it to go to school in Manhattan? It was exciting. I’d have to pay for school, but once Viktor was paid off, I’d be fine.

  After more than a year I finally had two days off in a row. It felt like I was going on vacation. I was leaving on Sunday night and I was free until Wednesday morning? That sounded fantastic. Gilles called me late Sunday.

  “Good evening, Alyssa,” he said. “How are you?”

  “I’m good thanks, and you?”

  “I’m well thanks. Are we still on to meet up tomorrow?’

  “Yes, tomorrow is still good.”

  “How about lunch?

  “Yes, sure,”

  “OK, let’s meet on the corner of 72nd and 5th. How about 1:00?”

  “1:00 is good. Could you please repeat the streets?” I grabbed a pen and paper.

  “72nd and 5th.”

  “OK, I’ll see you there. Goodnight Gilles.”

  “Goodnight. Talk to you later.”

  My face is on fire from blushing. This is ridiculous. Look at my face in the mirror. It looks like a monkey’s butt. I was proud that I understood him and I never had to say, “excuse me, what did you say?” It feels like when I passed the conversational exam for the English class I’m going to attend. He spoke slowly and clearly. Not like that guy Jeff. I had such a hard time understanding what the hell he was saying. Gilles is good. His words are clear, short and specific. But what’s up with that talk to you later thing? Is he going to talk to me again before we meet? Oh, this is torture. Now I’m confused. Wait a minute. Maybe it’s like that see you later he used in the grocery store? See you later, talk to you later. What other later things don’t I know about yet? I have to learn all these expressions. And quickly.

  I looked at a map to see where 72nd and 5th was. I had never been that far uptown. I made my way to meet Gilles. I left early just to make sure I’d have enough time to figure out where I was going. There were subway delays, but I had plenty of time. While I was on the subway, I felt calm and happy. I was independent, controlling my life and decisions. No one checking up on me or criticizing me. I was a free adult. It made me think of how different it would be back home.

  There, everybody had to know everything about everyone. Any time you left the house all the neighbors knew when you left and when you returned. Sometimes they even asked where I was going and why I looked so pretty. Or my friends would wait for me to get home and give me a call. It felt like being under control twenty-four/seven. Here, no one cared. I liked that free lifestyle. I liked that I didn’t have any time limits on my days off. I could take my time without anybody’s permission. Sure, it’s nice when people care about you and want to hear your stories. But you share when you feel like sharing, not because they want to know.

  My family used to say I was so stingy with my words and sharing stories. When I’d come home from some party or something, they all wanted to hear everything about it. They wanted to know who was at the party, who wore what, or all about the food. They wanted all the details. But I’d just respond with a few words. Yes, it was fine; the food was good. My family would get upset. You never like to share, they’d say. We want details!

  My siblings were energetic storytellers. They’d come home and as soon as they stepped into the hallway they’d start chatting away about their night, with all the specifics. All of them were like that. They’d even go on about it the next morning at breakfast, repeating the same stories from the night before. I never liked to chat that long, especially in the morning. I’d say “You guys already talked about that last night. We got it. How many times do we need to hear the same thing?” They’d look at me, frown and continue talking.

  I miss them. All the good memories, and the bad ones. The past. I never like thinking about it. Maybe because there aren’t that many good memories. But my love toward them is stronger than any unpleasant moments we ever had together. I love them and my freedom, at the same time.

  “Next stop, 77th Street.”

  Damn it. I missed the 68th Street stop. I don’t have much time. It’s a quarter to one already. I never like being late, but especially with this guy. I’m not sure why, but I respect him.

  I got off at the next station and started walking. I had heels on, but I walked fast. I was going to be late. I was hoping he would wait for me. It was only a few blocks, but the streets seemed to go on forever. I couldn’t wait to see him. My heart was racing, from the cardio and the excitement.

  It was a perfect day in May. The sun felt warm, but the air was cool. It was a day when the air smelled of spring, when everything feels new, like when you’re happy but you don’t know why. It was a feeling of great energy, the feeling of life. It was the feeling of existence, of being present. No past or future. It was at just this moment when I saw him. He was standing, leaning against a wall, with legs crossed, reading a magazine.

  He looks like he’s just hanging out. Enjoying his magazine without a care in the world. I wonder if he really
wants to meet me.

  As I approached him, I was hoping to catch his attention, but his head was buried so far into the magazine that you couldn’t see his face. I was standing right in front of him when I tapped his magazine cover. He lowered the magazine in slow motion and looked deeply into my eyes. His eyes got smaller as he smiled. He hugged me and kissed me on the cheek. He embraced me as if he knew me for a long time. It felt so warm and comfortable.

  “Sorry I made you wait,” I said. “I missed my subway stop and I had to walk from 77th Street.”

  “You did? You must’ve been lost in thought on the train.”

  “Yes,” I laughed. “That’s exactly what happened. How did you know?”

  “It’s happened to me many times. No big deal.”

  He looks so energized and upbeat. I can feel his energy and happiness. It’s contagious.

  “So, here’s the plan,” he said. “Let’s take a walk in Central Park for a while, and then we can go to lunch at the Boathouse.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Maybe I didn’t talk much back home, but with him I became the chattiest person ever. I told him every detail of my trip. How I missed the train stop and that I walked so fast, but the blocks were so long, and the weather was so nice, and on and on. I became so lively and animated. I had no issue with my English or thinking of something to talk about.

  We walked for more than an hour, but the time went super quick. Central Park with its beauty and open spaces made me dizzy. The richness of nature gave me goosebumps. It was pure joy.

  “I’ve never been in Central Park before,” I said.

  “Really? Well, I’m glad I could be the first person to take you here. I love this place. I come here as often as I can, and especially when I want to be by myself. I do come here with my friends, but I’m selective about who I come here with.”