Even her eight-year-old self knew Spartan Channukah paled in comparison to the golden excesses of Christmas. Lighting a dinky menorah for eight days and getting some foil-covered chocolate money? Celebrating oil miraculously lasting for eight days while the Christians celebrated the birth of Christ, son of God? The Virgin Mary? Was that all there was?
Her thoughts travelled back to the Miami Beach kitchen of her childhood so many years ago. Once again, Sophia heard the powerful, insistent banging on the door as if she were there. It had startled all three of them. They crept out of the kitchen, smelling of cauliflower and onions, and walked silently to the back door. The wall clock was tick, tick, ticking ominously. Her wild-eyed mother eased the door open to reveal a smiling benign policeman in uniform soliciting for the policeman’s ball.
The naked terror in both her parents’ eyes told her they were not seeing what she was seeing. Their terror was so palpable, she began to fear uniforms instinctively. Years later, she understood the misplaced terror. The man in uniform resurrected memories of uniformed Nazis banging on doors to roust Jews out of their homes. Posttraumatic stress kept the Gestapo with them, resuscitated from the dust of history whenever a sound, a sight, a smell ushered in the horrors of the past and brought them living and breathing into the present.
The thick, honeyed tones of Nat King Cole poured out of the speakers, bringing her back to the here and now. “And now the purple dusk of twilight time steals across the meadows of my heart.” She stayed on the second floor for the remainder of the song. No Christmas music. What a treat. Barth had told her they would be playing jazz, including music from the twenties and thirties, the Jazz Age, as befitted the Art Deco ethos.
Just as the last of the melancholy lyrics died away, she spied Amanda and her son Keith down below. She hurried to the elevator. Amanda and Keith were engrossed in conversation as they hovered outside a room to the side of the great two-story hall. People milled in and out of the room.
“Amanda. Keith,” Sophia shouted over the music. They had gone into “Rhapsody in Blue.”
They turned around simultaneously, exuding elegance and style. Somehow they looked like a couple even though Keith was Amanda’s son.
“You both look amazing,” Sophia said. “That red sheath was made for you, Amanda. Perfect with your dark hair, alabaster skin, and slim figure. Mwaah.” She put her fingertips up to her mouth and smacked appreciatively while also craning her head, trying to peek into the crowd-attracting room.
“And Keith, you are no slouch either with that blue suit and lavender shirt. Hot, hot, hot, my man. Haven’t seen you in ages. Where have you been hiding out?” she asked, her attention still divided.
Keith, his small, not quite fully formed features keeping him looking much younger than his twenty-five years, tossed his blond curls as he answered. “I have been busy studying my ass off for your demanding husband. One course with him is like a full course load with someone else,” Keith said.
Barth taught one undergraduate art history course at the University of Miami. Whatever possessed Keith, who was a Starbucks barista, to seek enlightenment in the art world was beyond her. Maybe Amanda had pressured her son into becoming more culturally savvy.
Sophia roused herself from her thoughts. “Keith, I can’t picture Barth as a relentless task master. He’s a pussycat.”
“Well that pussycat is killing me. By the way, you look great too. Those colors and that style are very becoming.” Keith looked her over. “Mummy misses you. You haven’t visited in some time. I’m going back in there. She’ll fill you in.”
After they had embraced and kissed each other’s cheeks, Amanda held Sophia at arm’s length and proceeded to deliver her typical backhanded compliments.
“You look lovely in that gown. See, it’s not too tight. The curvy curves sing. They don’t shout. And the halter top is not too retro for you. You carry off old styles,” Amanda said.
“Thanks, Amanda,” Sophia answered, cringing.
“So when are we getting together? I so missed that dinner you cancelled. Why don’t we meet weekly again to discuss cases? I am suffering from compassion fatigue. All that empathy takes its toll.”
“Sure, sure,” Sophia said. “Let’s talk about it tomorrow. Meanwhile curiosity is getting the better of me. What is going on in that busy room?”
“Nasty things are going on in that room,” Amanda snapped. “There are two nude models being painted by two artists as we speak. Completely nude. Everything is hanging out for the world to see. One male and one female. Shocking and off-putting.” She shivered delicately.
Amanda hadn’t been with a man in at least half a dozen years, and Sophia thought she liked it that way. Sex wasn’t on her list of interests. Managing her son’s life and toddling around town with him on her arm suited her.
Sophia had often wondered if Amanda had Sapphic tendencies. The way she sometimes waggled her eyebrows and batted her eyelashes at her. How she used to shower her with gifts. Her apathy when it came to men. Her consuming involvement with her grown son.
Sophia, on the other hand, was interested. “Let’s take a look. I’m titillated,” Sophia said, moving toward the open doorway.
The room was crowded and with good reason. A young female was reclining on an orange fainting couch. She was nude, with tiny perky breasts and large, muscular thighs and legs. Her apple-shaped face with sharp cheekbones and a pouting mouth was framed by wispy ash-blond Nordic hair.
The artist, swift and confident, was painting her in all shades of yellow and orange and cream and brown, accentuating her cheeks and lips, lingering on the substantial thighs, giving them almost a tree-trunk quality, lovingly representing her breasts, adding thick, long umber nipples, and endowing her skin with an ethereal glow. Transformed, she lived and breathed on the canvas.
Sophia loved the painting and loved watching someone work with such single-minded assurance. She thought it would be odd but nice to have such small breasts. You could ignore them. They were in their proper place—not screaming for attention, a constant heavy presence.
She tore herself away from this activity. She spotted Amanda and Keith surveying the male nude. He was standing loose-limbed, his magnificent muscular body exuding an animal magnetism. He was unevenly proportioned with short, powerful legs supporting a long torso, narrow at the waist and widening out into broad shoulders. His thick circumcised penis hung like an afterthought between his imposing thighs. His cap of wavy auburn hair was styled in a Caesar cut, emphasizing his angular nose, large hooded eyes, and bold lips.
The artistry, the nudity, and the noise were all overstimulating to Sophia. She was tugging at her ear while collecting Amanda and Keith, heading for the relative peace of the hall.
“I’m going out on the terrace for air,” Sophia said. “That was lovely but a lot to handle. What a wonderful idea for a museum party. Do you want to join me?” she asked.
“No, no. We want to mingle, and I need a drink after that,” Amanda said, turning to take a champagne flute from a laden tray hoisted by a circulating waiter.
They parted ways, and Sophia headed for the terrace doors, which were closed in order to protect the well-dressed guests from the pervasive humidity.
The terrace was deserted. Only the mellifluous moody sounds of Chet Baker reached her out here. She was convinced Chet could lower blood pressure and slow time with his voice and trumpet. So quiet, like rats pissing on cotton.
A champagne waiter appeared. She took a glass. The terrace, situated at the back of the building, looked to the northeast where aggressive high-rises were packed together like too many teeth pushing against each other in an overcrowded mouth.
CHAPTER 6
Sophia was contemplating leaving the gala when she spied her friend Jack Ryan strolling toward her. Despite prematurely graying hair, Jack comfortably carried his forty-five years. An Irish Catholic upbringing with its attendant guilt, hypocrisy, and misogyny had not tainted him. Quite the reverse—his ado
lescent rebellions had stretched him, and he had grown into an open and honest man nurtured by his own freethinking, like a carefully watered plant flourishing in its soil.
“Jack,” she said, delight suffusing her face. “I was just thinking of leaving, but I can’t think of a better reason for staying longer than enjoying the pleasure of your company.”
“Sophia,” he replied as he bowed over her hand and mock-kissed it. “This affair seems to call for old-fashioned gallantry. You know it’s not my cup of tea. Give me that dive the Deuce just up the road any day.”
He was dressed in a simple black suit with a white shirt complemented by an emerald-green tie, his one concession to fashion. The green highlighted his hazel eyes and ginger hair generously peppered with gray. Standing at just about Sophia’s height, his stocky frame and coloring complemented Sophia’s. They could have been siblings, the age chasm notwithstanding.
Sophia felt sisterly love for Jack. She could tell him anything. His work on her husband Morton’s homicide many years ago and their collaboration due to what he called her ESP, which she saw as just sensitivity and intuition, had bonded them. Also, she had been married to Morton for twenty years and knew him well. He had always been secretive and sly though. Like a wily fox.
Sophia pushed Morton out of her head. She did not want to think about Morton or his demise. She wanted to enjoy the present. She did not want to relive the dual traumas of finding him and then discovering his murderer’s identity and motive and all the horrors associated with that.
“Yes, let’s plan a trip to the Deuce and of course to La Sandwicherie to get those bulging sandwiches to soak up the alcohol,” Sophia said. “Are you enjoying yourself despite the pretentious atmosphere?”
“Did you see the nudes? That was fun even though I could have done without a nude man,” Jack said. “I also was fascinated by the other dog-and-pony show. Did you see it?”
“No.”
“The Artist Is In, it’s called. A prepossessing woman sits, silent, while people sit opposite her and react. I think a lot of them overreact. There was a lot of crying. She reminded me of you,” Jack continued, sipping his champagne. “Not a physical resemblance but a sense of self-containment and self-possession. Sort of like an instant therapist. Tell me all your troubles telepathically or dump them all on me. I can take it. And here’s the really weird thing. Someone said she’s ripping off Marina Abramovic, the grandmother of performance artists, who did a similar thing at MOMA in 2010 for six weeks. It was called The Artist Is Present, and people who sat opposite her cried a lot and someone recorded them all. Wild,” Jack said.
“That sounds worth seeing. I guess there are no copyright laws for performing artists. I wanted to talk, but this is drawing me. Let’s meet soon. How about Thursday night? I don’t work Friday.”
“Thursday is good. Call me on Wednesday, and we’ll set it up. I need to get home and get some sleep. I have been working long hours on this homicide.
“I’ll call Wednesday,” she said, kissing him on the cheek and waving good-bye.
Jack watched her walk away, curves flowing.
“You know you look great in that dress. I was so preoccupied I forgot to mention it,” he shouted after her.
“Thanks, Jack.” She smiled over her shoulder before opening the door to the museum.
Sophia found her way to The Artist Is In. Therapist as blank slate. She wondered why crying seemed to be the stock response. What about laughing?
Just as she was opening the door to the performance artist’s space, she thought she glimpsed Dirk Salzburg’s leonine mane amid a small cluster of people near the stairway. She did a double take and didn’t see him. Now I’m imagining that obscure object of desire, she thought.
She forgot about Dirk and desire as the artist, dressed in a simple ivory shift with her thick black hair pulled back in a severe chignon, wearing no makeup or jewelry, captivated her. She had intense brown eyes, a sharp chin and nose, and thin lips. Her large, hypnotic eyes dominated her face.
Her name was posted at the door: Milli Babovic. There was nothing on the simple white table behind which she sat on a simple white chair. Perhaps Milli Babovic was an assumed name, a mnemonic for Marina Abramovic to further press the plagiarism home. Both Serbian names though. She had Googled Marina Abramovic on her iPhone on the way. Serbian, sixty-seven years old, and starting up a Marina Abramovic Institute in upstate New York.
The people Sophia had witnessed sitting opposite Milli did have a predilection for weeping. She witnessed three people—a young black woman, an elderly Latin gent, and a middle-aged white woman—leave the table in various stages of tearfulness. Sophia had had enough. She wanted to maintain her cheerful mood. This was not a time to surround herself with dolorous people. She did that for a living.
As Sophia hurried out of the room, she decided to return to the terrace for air. She found another glass of champagne on the way. Dr. Clyde would be semi proud of her. This was only her second glass. He wanted none, but two was moderate. She would enjoy her drink, and then head home. She had to get up early tomorrow for her appointment with Clyde.
As luck would have it, Chet Baker was performing his magic, singing “My Funny Valentine.”
“Don’t change a hair for me, not if you care for me.”
As Chet was replaced by Sinatra, she started reminiscing about her first meeting with Barth. It was at the Wolfsonian, one of her favorite local museums. She liked to view the World War II propaganda posters when they were on display. In a strange way, it made her feel closer to her parents. They never discussed the war when they were alive. Now that they were gone, she could view glimpses of the real thing from that troubled time. It was different from reading rehashings, regurgitations, and explanations of the past. Or seeing dramatized films reenacting and reinterpreting the past. These posters were an actual piece of that past, surviving to speak for themselves.
She was gazing at her favorite poster. In it, a Jew represented as a huge white-and-black rat dominated the poster. Sprawled on his stomach, the rat, dressed in human garb with a skullcap spelling out Jude next to a Jewish star, was being pierced by a huge swastika. Blood poured from his mouth, and next to the puddle of blood were two coins. The splashes of red blood were the only color in an otherwise stark poster.
As she was studying this surreal depiction of a Jew, which she knew by heart, she noticed beautiful Barth at the other end of the room. If there was an embodiment of her ideal type, here he stood—the golden hair, the lankiness, the natural elegance, the whisper of arrogance. They gravitated toward each other and met wordlessly in the middle of the room as if they both were puppets pulled toward each other by a puppeteer’s strings. They had been together ever since.
“Is this seat taken?” A distinct husky voice startled her. She knew it was Dirk without opening her eyes. She had spied him earlier after all.
Her heartbeat quickened, and her throat pulsed as she took in Dirk’s imposing frame, long and lean, perfectly draped in a navy blue silk suit. He bent toward her, his eyes mirthful and questioning.
“Oh, yes, I mean, no. The seat is not taken. Please sit down.” She was flustered. His pure piney scent floated to her nostrils as he rustled to his seat.
“Meeting again so soon has to be fortuitous,” he said, concentrating his gaze on her like a laser. “I think this is a sign that we were meant to dine together,” he continued, still searching her eyes with his midnight blues. “We don’t have much time because I split my time between SoBe, Basel, and Monte Carlo, and I will be leaving for Basel after the New Year.” A clear exhortation for her to say yes to dinner. The old “we don’t have much time” pressure.
“I think when we first encountered each other, I did mention that I’m a married woman,” she replied primly.
“Does marriage interfere with two people enjoying each other’s company over a meal?” he asked.
Sophia, feeling the chemistry between them, doubted it would just be a meal. “I
think I would be overstepping my bounds as a married woman if I had dinner with you. To me, it would be a date. And I am in no position to be dating,” she said.
“I admire your restraint and your principles. By the way, I also admire you in that dress. It shows off your attributes in the most charming way,” he said.
“Thank you,” she managed to stammer self-consciously. “Since we’re sitting here together, and there won’t be a dinner, we may as well chat for a bit. I must leave soon but I can spare a few minutes,” she said. Boy, she mused, I’m acting like I’m some prize. He brings that out in me.
“I’m an art dealer among other things,” he continued, “and I will be back for Art Basel of course next December. But I’m sure I’ll be back before then. SoBe is irresistible, and so are you. I would hate to wait a year to see you again.”
“You flatter me. All I can allow myself to do is enjoy the flattery. Although I must say you intrigue me. Quite the jet-setter. And you’re an art dealer. My husband is an artist as well as curator of this museum,” she said.
“I know,” he replied.
“You do?” She was caught off guard. “How did you connect me to my husband?”
“First of all, I make it my business to research curators and artists who cross my path. After I received the invitation for this event, I researched Bartholomew Royce. Some of his work is quite beautiful and accomplished. Atmospheric. I would like to see it.”
“He just showed me his latest painting, which is a departure. I was surprised but also impressed by it. I would like you to see his latest work,” she said, echoing his sentiment.
She surprised herself by uttering this invitation. Here she was getting drawn in one way or another. And also, she was sidetracked. She was still curious about how this man had connected her to Barth. How did he know who she was? Had he sought her out at Van Dyke’s?
Time's Hostage: The dangers of love, loss, and lus (Time Series Book 1) Page 3
