Buy Me Love

by Martha Cooley

  Rolling onto her stomach, she pounded her fists on the floor.

  Balcony

  1

  Was it possible, the Balcony completely deserted on a Friday night?

  Must be the late hour, nine-thirty. Closing time a little over an hour from now, which meant everyone had already left. Gone home, or out on the town. The eagle flies on Friday . . . well, solitude was even more pleasurable when it wasn’t supposed to be available. Like, at the gym on a Friday evening.

  Where’d this past week fled to? At the museum there’d been three new brochures to edit, which left little time for browsing the websites of wealth-management firms. The sites boasted pictures of pine forests in Switzerland, yachts off the coast of Sardinia, women in pearls and handsome silver-haired men (everybody white, of course). And the language, so opaque—optimal individualized tax-favored investment strategies with intensive analyses of risk profiles—with some pseudo-reassuring stuff thrown in for good measure: absolute trust, full transparency, utter dedication, total confidentiality.

  Midweek, there’d been a problem with Girl-Cat, an infected tooth. Boy-Cat was skittish with his sister overnight at the vet’s. And then there’d been a three-hour shift to do at the food co-op on Thursday. Hence no gym workout til now. No sight or sound of Roy, either.

  The nook nearest the door had the most room. She lay on her back on the mat, eyes closed, knees drawn up to her chest.

  A lovely sensation, that release in the lower back. Pull each knee to the chest, left then right—forehead touching knee. Now onto the stomach for a cobra stretch. Always that stiffness in the lower back. Tightness in the chest, too. The body on guard, its radar picking up distress signals even when the mind said no problem, everything hunky-dory, you’re a multi-millionaire-to-be.

  The mind a liar, the body honest.

  How come her willingness to open up with Roy, to have dinner with him, talk with him, sleep with him? How come it’d all felt right? It wasn’t a question of sexual touch, skillful as Roy’s had been. It was his tone and gaze: with those he’d kept things calm enough, relaxed enough, for her to respond.

  How long had it been since their tryst? Five days.

  Full fathom five thy father lies.

  On her back now, the space around her spinning a little, the overhead lights kaleidoscoping—did all multimillionaires have daily bouts of vertigo? In any case, another encounter with Roy wouldn’t happen soon. The next evening she’d be on a plane to Milan, then a train to Cremona. Then another train back to Milan, and a plane home. Forty-eight hours of travel, like the troupe in Kiss Me, Kate doing a whistle-stop tour of Italy, from Venice to Verona to Cremona . . .

  For a few hours, she’d walk the streets of the city where Walter’d spent the past forty-odd years.

  2

  Rolling onto her stomach, she dozed for a few minutes, face turned toward the wall.

  A slight pressure on her lower back. A foot, was it?—bearing gently down.

  Rise ’n shine, sleepyhead . . .

  The foot jiggling her now.

  Naptime’s over. Up, girl!

  Now a hand, warm, midback. As he crouched at her side, she could hear his steady breathing.

  Hey, Roy, a male voice called from the door. Almost closing time. Make sure the Balcony’s cleared out, okay? Don’t forget the lights.

  Sure, I’ll take care of things.

  Do I need to leave now? Ellen murmured.

  Nope. They’re closing the exercise rooms, but we can stay here. I can, that is. You, on the other hand, are supposed to go home. But you can stay, if you’re quiet and behave yourself. Think you can do that?

  Maybe.

  Good answer.

  One hand still on her back, he slid the other beneath her stomach.

  Now, on a count of three, I’m gonna flip you over. Actually, you’re gonna flip yourself over. Ready?

  At three she rolled a half-turn, not away from but toward him, pinning his hand and forearm beneath her side. Her eyes still closed.

  Now what, she said.

  Hm. Some people just don’t like to follow orders, do they?

  Stiffening his forearm under her ribs, he began levering her upward. A quick shove of his shoulder rocked him backward; he toppled, laughing as he fell. She sat up and shoved his shoulders with both hands; still laughing, he clamped her elbows at her sides, using his weight to put her on her back once more.

  Chest to chest now. His mouth on her neck, tongue tracing circles there. Hands still holding her elbows tight.

  She tilted her head sideways; he licked the length of her neck.

  Hold on, he murmured. Ready?

  Rolling off her, he pulled her back on top of him, gripping her waist.

  Okay, wrap your arms around me and shut your eyes. Hang on—we’re gonna do a roll now. Key words here are fast and light. All set?

  Grasping her, he put his head next to hers so they were ear to ear.

  Go!

  He pulled sideways, rolling back onto her. Then off, quickly. Then, still rolling, back on then off, on, off—fast, light, as if down a snow-padded hill.

  3

  Tired? he said.

  They’d halted at the edge of the nook, side by side.

  No, but I’m panting—I mean, I thought you’d squish me to death . . .

  Nah. It’s safe if you go fast. Bet you haven’t done that before!

  Nope.

  One time, with a kid in my seventh-grade class, we rolled like that down the steep bank near the Tennis House, in the park. You know that hill where kids go sledding in winter? It was rockier than we realized. We got pretty bruised . . .

  She poked at her side. This part here right here took a bit of a hit, she said.

  He walked his fingers lightly up the steps of her ribs.

  I predict a speedy recovery, he said. But I should assess the situation more carefully . . . wait a sec.

  Propping himself on one elbow, he scanned the Balcony.

  Nobody’ll come here til the final check, he said. All the trainers have left, so it’s just the janitors and the guy at the front desk. The janitors are cleaning downstairs, so we’re basically on our own for the next forty-five minutes.

  An overhead light hummed tinnily.

  Too bright, she said, waving a hand upward.

  Still on his elbow, he gazed down at her, smiling.

  We’ll have to act fast if the game’s interrupted.

  It might be tricky. Depends what inning we’re in.

  We’ll take a rain check if the game’s cancelled.

  Inclement weather?

  He slid a hand under her T-shirt, palming her belly. Hand on her breast now, fingertips teasing its nipple.

  I really hadn’t pictured this, she said.

  Me neither. I mean, not here, for sure . . . But I was hoping you’d show up tonight. You’ve been AWOL all week.

  He got up and turned off the lights; the Balcony went dark.

  It’s a moonless night. Wish I could see you more clearly, he said as he lay beside her. It was broad daylight that first time, I can still remember the sweatpants you were wearing . . .

  Actually, it was Ennio who found me.

  Now it’s just us. Which make me even more glad.

  His hands traveling the length of each arm, then reversing direction at her fingertips. Ascending again, knuckles grazing the undersides. Then his warm palms on her ribcage, moving upward to cup each breast.

  You’ve been on my mind a lot . . . I keep getting distracted while teaching. One of these days I’m gonna fall off the beam because I’m thinking about you. I tell the kids to stay alert, the beam’s dangerous, yet there I am, daydreaming. And if I fall off, how’m I gonna explain it?

  The kids will be, like, what’s up with Roy today?

  Yeah. There, touch me there, yes . . .

  Somewhere outside, a car horn. Roy’s fingers wandering over her collarbones. Silence, peaceful. A knee gently roving, now on her inner thigh. A light, hap
py-making pressure.

  She closed her eyes and opened her legs.

  4

  Stay quiet, dove, he whispered. Don’t make a peep.

  Okay . . .

  The guy at the front desk knows me, but he won’t like seeing a gym member on site at this hour. So you gotta stay invisible, okay?

  At the door of the main staircase, he put one hand on the doorknob and the other on her hip.

  I’ll go down first, he whispered. I’ll tell the guy I was working on some routines, and I need him to help me adjust the balance beam in the main studio. That’ll use up a minute or so. When you hear the studio door slam, you take off, okay? Go down the back stairs. Just don’t bang the front door as you leave. Let it close softly behind you.

  Okay. But wait, I meant to tell you something . . . I’ll be away for a bit. You won’t see me here for the next few days.

  What’re you up to?

  A short work trip—I’ll be back by Tuesday night.

  Travel safe, then. While you’re gone, I’ll go to the Balcony and lie down on our mat, and have the most excellent fantasies.

  He gave her hip a little shake, then leaned in and sucked softly on her lower lip.

  Let’s go, she said. Because if we keep doing this . . .

  Yeah, we can’t stay here all night! Ready? On your mark, get set—

  He pushed open the door and descended. She went to the stairwell and heard his voice, then another man’s. When the studio door slammed, she slipped downstairs and out the front of the building.

  If we keep doing this . . .

  The cats were at the door as she entered, chiming in unison. They followed her to the kitchen.

  If we keep doing this . . . long-short-short, long-short-short: dactylic. IF we keep DO-ing this, I might be HAP-py and ROY might be TOO.

  That’s just doggerel.

  Happy, as in full of hap. Chance, it meant. Any kind of luck, good or bad. Hap was random.

  Boy-Cat yawned, tail in air, front paws extending languidly. Sliding alongside him, Girl-Cat leaned in and nipped his ear. Boy bit the tip of her tail, then both cats tore down the hall and vanished, who knew where? Whatever they’d be getting up to, a hundred million bucks wouldn’t affect it in the least.

  Not for Sale

  1

  On a bench on the platform of the F train, a flyer for a new gallery in the Slope: Zero Kilometer Art. Local work only. Support your neighborhood art-making community. Come to our latest exhibit.

  Inked in: Closing reception 5:00 p.m. today!

  Blair checked her watch: half past six. The gallery was around the corner from the station. It’d probably be near-empty, maybe even shut by now.

  She climbed the stairs to the street.

  Viewed from outside, the gallery was well lit. Good track lighting, well angled, not too bright.

  Perhaps a half-dozen people were still inside, drinking wine, talking. And the work on the walls? Hard to tell from outside. Some of it looked obviously amateurish, though there seemed to be a decent litho in the far corner. Abstract, not garish. A bit derivative but well executed.

  She stepped inside and moved toward one wall, avoiding eye contact. Most of one side of the room was boring—three inept sketches of horses, a weird collage involving snails. Was this an animal show of some kind?

  As she moved to the opposite wall, someone handed her a glass of wine—a woman in her thirties. Dressed in the usual black. The gallery manager, presumably.

  Thanks, Blair murmured.

  If you have any questions, the woman said brightly, just come find me, okay?

  2

  On the far wall was a composition of wood and feathers, quite ugly. Then a photo, retouched, of an old cargo plane from World War Two. Three airmen stood under one of its wings; their heads had been replaced by hand-drawn soccer balls with anti-war slogans scribbled on them.

  Heavy-handed. Tedious.

  Next to it, a piece called Buy Me Love. Familiar . . . she’d seen it someplace. She peered at the lower right corner of the canvas. Nadine somebody, the last name an illegible scrawl.

  Interesting, isn’t it, said the woman in black, now at her side. We were lucky to get this for the show. The owner lent it to us; it’s not for sale.

  Owner?

  Yeah. The artist herself died a few years ago. Had a heart attack out of the blue, right in the middle of the day. She wasn’t even fifty, isn’t that sad? There were other paintings, but something happened to them—the owner wouldn’t say. All gone. A mystery . . .

  Do you know what the rest of the work was like?

  I’ve no idea. The owner said something about a series having to do with money. He mentioned there were birds in each one. All I know is the bird in the center of this painting is a diamond dove.

  The gallery would close soon. Its manager was saying goodbye to the last few guests.

  Sorry to interrupt, said Blair. Do you have any written information on the painting called Buy Me Love?

  Oh, yeah, hang on . . .

  The woman pulled a piece of paper from a drawer and handed it over.

  Have a look at this, then leave it on the table, okay?

  She returned to her guests.

  Blair scanned the descriptive information. At the bottom, Return to Owner and an address in Bay Ridge was scribbled in pencil. Certain numbers weren’t hard to recall, especially if they came in clusters. Three-four-five Eighty-Sixth Street was easy—almost a straight sequence, with a little twist. And the apartment number? Seven, the numeral that wasn’t part of the sequence.

  She lay the paper on the desk and left.

  Cremona

  1

  Bruno had turned out to be easy to find.

  In some tucked-away vicolo, or so she’d imagined—a charming alley, unnoted on the city map in her hotel room. The apartment he and Walter had shared for decades would be bright, serene. Several of Bruno’s stringed instruments would be lying around; there’d be CDs on a shelf, mostly Walter’s recordings. Books and paintings and old ceramics.

  Wouldn’t it be great to simply run into Bruno in some public place, recognize his face, and greet him as if by chance?

  Which was how it happened, in fact. Though not where expected.

  The journey was uneventful but long: an eight-hour flight to Milan, then another hour-plus on a train to Cremona. A taxi to a hotel.

  Midmorning on Monday, she’d walked to the Piazza del Duomo. The space was dominated by a tall medieval campanile. She’d stood for a while, listening. A pigeon cooed. The piazza was tranquil, lovely, tourist-free. What might Win have heard if he’d come with her, what music within the silence?

  Walking toward a café beneath the Palazzo’s portico, she’d tensed at the sight of an elderly man seated alone, reading a newspaper. No, not Bruno, though it might’ve been—brushed-back hair, aquiline nose . . . Drawing closer, she’d seen no scar anywhere on the man’s face. Bruno had a noticeable one along his left jaw, from a riding accident. Walter had pointed it out on the back of a photo that had arrived in time for her eighth birthday, in an envelope with no return address. This is my friend Bruno, he’d written. He makes violins here in Cremona, and he likes horses. He fell off a horse once. See the scar? Maybe someday you’ll meet him.

  The photo had been mailed along with a birthday card. Nola’d seen the card with its bland greeting—have a special day—but not the photo. The envelope had arrived while she was out on an errand; Win had opened it and insisted on hiding the photo, leaving only the card. Over the next several months, Walter had continued sending postcards from Italy, Germany, and France, none with a return address, each bearing the same banal sign-off: Hope all goes well. After a year or so, the cards ceased. Paternal duty fulfilled, over and done with.

  Taking a table next to the pale man in the khaki jacket, she’d ordered an espresso and a brioche. The man was reading the Guardian. Noticing her, he gave a short smile, his teeth nicotine-stained.

  Would you like a section
, he asked, holding out the paper.

  His accent was British.

  No thanks, she said. You’ve figured me for a tourist. I didn’t think I stood out.

  His smile grew imperious.

  Easy to spot, he said, though I wasn’t sure if you were British or American. The Duomo here is impressive, but do go see San Sigismondo. The Campi frescoes there are marvelous, and the church itself is more congenial. It has remarkable light. Take the number two bus down there at the corner. The ride’s short. Here’s a couple of extra biglietti, I don’t need them.

  He handed her two tickets.

  2

  Bruno had been sitting in the empty church. In a pew, by himself.

  Brought there by what—a need to pray? Inconceivable that Walter had lived for decades with a religious man. Once, after the death of a neighborhood cat, he’d scoffed at the mere mention of heaven. When it’s your turn, you’ll suddenly be dead and not even know it. You don’t go anywhere but into the ground.

  As it turned out, Bruno lived just down the road from San Sigismondo, in a tiny hamlet on the eastern side of the city. He’d walked to the church that afternoon as he did on most others, to be alone for an hour or so, and to sing.

  She’d heard his singing as she approached. The great wooden front doors of the church were open wide, and a voice—tenor, not baritone—emanated from within. The light inside was as the Englishman had described; buttery yellow rays coated the stone floor. She’d walked a few paces down the central aisle. The singing had continued softly, then ceased. Her footsteps made the only sound. Partway down the aisle, she saw the singer on the right, a few seats in. His face was in profile, but there was no mistaking him; a scar ran along his left jaw.

  Still handsome at eighty-something.

  He’d been singing the love duet in Act Two of Tristan. In that moment, she hadn’t recognized it. Slipping into the pew, she’d sidled toward him. When he noticed her presence, he’d frowned and stopping singing, then stared.