Time's Hostage: The dangers of love, loss, and lus (Time Series Book 1)

by Brenda Kuchinsky

  And then she witnessed within barbed-wire confines hundreds of cadaverous men, stooped in their striped prisoner suits with hopeless hollow eyes sunk inward, for there was no succor from without, hot-pink triangles sewn to their shirts. Some wore pink and yellow triangles intertwined. Theirs was a double transgression—yellow for being a Jew and pink for being a homosexual. Splashes of condemnatory color in a world gone dark with dread and death.

  CHAPTER 10

  Sophia, head wooly and heart aching, had awoken with a start into her own predawn. She slumped back heavily onto her pillows as the horrors of the vivid Röhm hallucination vied for first place in her memory with the horrors of the sexual betrayal she had witnessed.

  All the wine in the world would not summon Lethe, the god of oblivion.

  She could not wallow in misery in bed all day, although that was a tempting thought. She needed to soldier on for her patients coming to her for help and kindness. She needed to soldier on for herself. She could not allow these imbroglios to undermine her. She was a survivor. She inherited that from her parents. Her problems paled in comparison to their unthinkable history. She was like Alice, drinking the shrinking potion, dwindling down to insignificance, facing the great behemoth, the Holocaust, the last signifier.

  It was a tough act to follow. Once your parents had walked into the maws of that efficient death machine and come out the other end alive, you and your miseries were always just petty pufferies. Sophia could never figure out if this was a good thing or a bad thing.

  Meanwhile, it was a good idea to go to her six-thirty yoga class. She had plenty of time to make it and plenty of time to get ready for her workday on the other end.

  Shored up by her decision to get up and moving, she pulled back the silky green, gold, and midnight-blue striped coverlet and bounded out of her comfortable brass bed. She suddenly thought of that old Dylan song. “Lay, lady, lay, lay across my big brass bed.” She and Barth weren’t going to do any “laying” any time soon. If ever again. She was impaled by this grievous thought, coming to a standstill for a moment.

  Shaking off the sadness, she showered, dressed in her yoga clothes and flip-flops, and headed for the kitchen to make coffee. She shuddered at the thought of running into Barth. But unless he had pulled an all-nighter, there was no way in hell he would be up now.

  And he was not up. The kitchen was all hers. She brewed her invigorating dark roast, poured it, sweetened and creamed, into a travel mug, and inhaled the bracing aroma. Then she grabbed her bag, yoga mat, and towel, and left her own private hellhole behind.

  How had her charming home, her sanctuary, transformed into such a dark menacing fortress? Despondent, she pondered her present circumstances. As she walked the twenty blocks to her beloved yoga studio, sipping her aromatic coffee, her spirits rose.

  She had come to yoga later in life, about fifteen years ago, but had been hooked from the start. The whole mind-body-spirit approach appealed to her. She sweated, stretched, and contorted her limbs, breathed deeply and strongly with her mouth closed, and rested fully at the end. Meditation in motion. This was the distraction she needed.

  The studio was located on Espanola Way, where Don Johnson had cavorted in his signature white suit when Miami Vice had been filmed there in the eighties. She entered the yellow L-shaped room festooned with Buddhas (in all shapes, sizes, colors, and materials) and various Hindu gods as well as dream catchers, candlesticks, incense holders, and fresh flowers. She signed in, unfurled her yoga mat, assumed the cross-legged position, rested her hands on her knees, and with eyes closed, basked in the yogic glow, listening to the soothing Hindu chants playing in the background.

  She ignored the bubble and squeak of the chatty yoginis and consigned it to background noise. Even at this hour, people would talk, talk, and talk.

  Sophia emitted a deep, releasing sigh, removed the flesh from her sit bones, and settled in, eagerly anticipating the hour and a half of vigorous exercise, moving meditation, and deep breathing. She threw herself into it, body and soul, glad that one of her favorite teachers, Sonya—a former ballerina who had been injured in that fiercely competitive dance world—was leading the class.

  Sophia was distracted, but she enjoyed herself as she assumed one posture after another interspersed with vinyasas, energetic flows that involved push-ups and down dogs, followed by the bendy, twisty floor work. The final posture, shavasana, or corpse pose, letting go of the yoga nasal breath and making like a corpse, was often called the most difficult pose of all, requiring utter stillness. This was the one that brought her to her knees. Instead of letting thoughts go and drifting mindlessly, Sophia became fixated on her plight.

  When Sonya came around to her to administer a brief massage to forehead, temples, and shoulders, she whispered, “Relax.” Sophia realized then she was no longer in the moment.

  When they stretched and sat up for a final chant of “Ohm,” Sophia joined in, but she knew the spell was broken. She was back in the mire. It was her long day’s journey into night. She flashed on the back of Keith’s head, curls bouncing along to his rhythm and scar-faced Röhm being shot point-blank in cold blood.

  However, the afterglow was there, and her body felt good, exercised inside and out, sweat flowing, and skin flushed. Sonya, with her delicate features and short dark-brown hair, looking very much like a reincarnated Audrey Hepburn, approached her, her kind eyes questioning. “You were definitely not yourself today. I’ve never seen you so tense. Although you were in great form, your corpse pose left a lot to be desired.”

  “What can I say? Troubles at home and with my health. I came to class for salvation and found some comfort. Especially since you were teaching. You know I love your classes. Just the right this and that. Your classes have that je ne sais quoi, that extra something something,” Sophia complimented Sonya. “Do you have time for breakfast? I’m going to A La Folie Café for savory crepes. I’m always ravenous after class.”

  “I wish,” Sonya said. “I’m teaching the nine o’clock, and it’s almost eight thirty. I’m having health problems too. Let’s have lunch next week at Maoz, that great vegetarian place around the corner. I’m teaching your ten o’clock Monday class. We can go afterward.”

  “Great. I understand they make a mean eggplant, hummus, and falafel pita.” Sonya weighed about ten pounds and couldn’t or wouldn’t put away what she could and would, Sophia thought.

  “See you on Monday,” Sonya said as she cheek-kissed her.

  Sophia left the studio, glancing at the small leafy side garden graced with a few large statues in the tiny recessed courtyard. She particularly liked the Ganesha statue, with the head of an elephant and the body of a Siddha, a guru with a trusty rat at his feet, known as the remover of all obstacles. Oh how Ma loved that figure once she introduced her to it.

  When Sophia had entered the yoga studio, it was still dark. While she was sweating away within, it had turned into a glorious golden Miami Beach morning, the air perfumed with mango and jasmine and spiced with sea salt, the pandemonium of red-crowned squawking parrots flashing their bright green and red colors, befitting a South Florida Christmas, proclaiming their feral freedom, the December sun hotly brilliant, bestowing its own lemon good cheer, many locals still snoring, leaving the tourists to enjoy the promise of a perfect morning.

  As she strolled down to A La Folie Café, located on the same street, but the less touristy end, hearing the school kids from the nearby elementary school, she realized she was early.

  She took out her Holocaust novel, dropped at the scene of the crime. She had found it on her night table the next day. Barth must have picked it up after the debacle and placed it by her bed. She was going to miss him if they split up. But she couldn’t think about that now. She was too angry.

  Sitting on a street bench opposite the café, she immersed herself in the book, pondering on who presumed to write about the Holocaust. You were either there and it was unspeakable, or you weren’t and it was incomprehensible. It co
uld come off as soap opera. How do you avoid trivializing such a phenomenon? How do you put it in context?

  The café was opening its doors and Sophia entered the cozy, rundown space. The smells of garlic and butter and strong coffee had her salivating. The simple white walls, slightly buckling here and there, were plastered with film posters, capitalizing on the proximity of the Cinematheque next door.

  Sophia remembered that Lili had planned on going to this cafe after her film at the Cinematheque. It seemed like ages since they had lunch. She had not thought about what to tell her. Not as bad as spilling to Amanda, but she also didn’t want to disillusion Lili about Barth, whom she idealized.

  She recalled what her favorite psychoanalytic professor, the Argentinean, had always said. If you put someone up on a pedestal, eventually that person will come crashing down. Idealized people end up being devalued. The pitfalls of black-and-white thinking. From one extreme to the other. Had she idealized Barth?

  The waifish young waiter with unruly black hair falling over one gold-flecked brown eye looked down at Sophia, grinning his arrogant French grin and leaning forward with a subtle laughing leer. To her surprise, he asked for her order in English. She ordered the buckwheat crepes with mushrooms and a cappuccino.

  As the shabby-chic young man went off with her order, she returned to her novel, only to find herself unable to concentrate. Her world had turned upside down. Bouleversement was the perfect word to describe it. An overturning, a tumult, an uproar, a reversal. What to do when everything is out of whack, she wondered. Play it by ear, she guessed. Food was still appealing. She had a feeling food was going to take center stage as an anodyne.

  Just as she bit into the delectable mushroom, sage, butter, and buckwheat concoction, she watched Amanda, pencil thin in her peachy sweats, head held high, flushed from exercise but without a hair out of place, march coolly into the café.

  Sometimes Sophia felt sorry for Amanda but never when she had to interact with her. Then she only felt sorry for herself.

  “Sophia, what a wonderful surprise to find you here,” Amanda cooed, sliding into the seat opposite Sophia. “This is the only way I get to see you these days. By accident.”

  “Great to see you,” Sophia said.

  Panic had set in, and her appetite had gone. Sophia felt she had to restrain herself from spilling to Amanda.

  “I need some sustenance after my workout. What you’re having looks amazing, but I have to think of the calories. I’m going for an egg-white omelet and dry whole-grain toast with black coffee. Maybe no toast. I can’t indulge. I just gained two pounds,” she said, gazing down at her bony wrists resting on the table.

  “Ooh, two pounds. Must be horrifying! I’m sure it’ll melt away before you know it. You are so disciplined,” Sophia encouraged the gloating posturing.

  “You must be coming from your yoga studio. I know it’s great stuff, but it’s hard for me to wade through all the spiritual mumbo jumbo and Indian tchotchkes that come with it. I need my exercise militant with someone barking commands at me. Workout sadism gets me burning up the calories pronto. You look great though. That spiritual glow. The black is very flattering. Covers up a multitude of sins. Where is that scruffy boy?”

  Sophia let her run on as she obsessed about whether to blab about Keith and Barth. This was not the time or place, she decided.

  Amanda waved down the waiter and placed her order. Sophia, admiring his healthy buttocks, watched him saunter away.

  “Keith is just loving Barth’s class,” Amanda said, as if she had read Sophia’s mind. “He thinks Barth’s a great teacher even though he gripes about the degree of difficulty and the work. He is planning on taking another course with him next semester. Whatever he teaches, Keith said, he’s there,” Amanda said, causing Sophia to flash on an image of Keith on his knees. “You’re looking a little green around the gills, Sophia. Did you overdo it in class? Is it the food?”

  “I’m fine. Just a lot of stress lately. I had a crazy Nazi hallucination. I guess I need to go back to Dr. Clyde.”

  “That sounds terribly fascinating. Leave it to you to hallucinate Nazis. They were nightmare enough. Why call them back? Although film directors and writers seem to like nothing better than to do just that. You’re in good company.”

  “I’m going to have to go soon, Amanda. I have patients this afternoon,” Sophia said, finishing the last of the crepe and drinking the coffee down to the dregs. She had regained her appetite. After all, living well is the best revenge, she thought.

  “Not so fast, Sophia dear. I’m not letting you slip through my fingers again without a firm date for our next meeting. If I didn’t know any better, I would think you were avoiding me.”

  “What a silly idea. You’re delusional. Let’s have dinner on Saturday night and talk. Call me on Friday, and we’ll set it up. Unless you have a date?”

  “A date?” Amanda snorted, almost spitting out her calorie-free coffee. “No such luck.”

  “Luck has nothing to do with it,” Sophia said rising and with one swooping motion gathering together book, bag, and mat, cheek-kissing Amanda, and flouncing out to freedom.

  CHAPTER 11

  Sophia and Barth avoided each other for the next two days. Sophia had been preoccupied with work and exercise and was looking forward to her meeting with Jack at the Deuce while not looking forward to talking to Barth. They had to talk soon because they had been planning to spend Christmas week in Key West with Barth’s friends Jessica and Gunther.

  Jessie was a sculptress, and Gunther was a painter, and as two artists, they had made a go of it as a couple in Key West. They owned a small shop with representations of their art for tourist fare. Somehow it had all worked out. Sophia was definitely not going, and they had planned to leave on Sunday, which was fast approaching. She hoped Barth would go on his own and leave her in peace for a week. No patients to see. She could regroup and think things through.

  As she was puttering around in her capacious walk-in closet, she was drawn to her secret stash. She had three shoe boxes filled with memorabilia, jewelry, and junk left behind by her parents. And a fourth box held her closely guarded secret. She took down the old Stride Rite box that had originally held her childhood sandals and now concealed the death book, which her parents had been so fond of casually displaying. She had stolen it when she was twelve for some strange, obscure reason she could not fathom to this day. She had snatched it, hiding it in this shoebox where it waited for her eyes only.

  Her parents had always left it out, and one day she had made it hers and hers alone, hiding it in this box. The other boxes joined it after her father’s death. Whenever she felt especially troubled, she would retreat to her death book for morbid solace. Her parents had never mentioned that it was missing. Typical reaction. They were both ostriches.

  She would pore over the worn glossy pages, looking death in the face, feeling insignificant, contemplating how easy it was to hate and be hated, to kill and be killed. Almost a fetish now.

  When she had her fill, she replaced the box in the farthest reaches of her top shelf. Shaking the images off, dislodging the familiar dark place she had visited, Sophia began searching for an outfit for the Deuce. Something to suit the dark, dingy, and smoky place. Of course smoking was permitted in the Deuce.

  She settled on all white—skinny pants and a semi sheer white Eastern-style shirt with a deep V-neck. She completed the ensemble with white, kitten-heeled sandals, and a triple strand of long red coral beads for a splash of color. Blood, she thought.

  Emerging from the closet, Sophia heard a faint tap at the door. Barth entered, still managing to look sheepish two days later.

  “Have you forgiven me yet?”

  “Are you kidding me? Have I forgiven you yet? I’m still reeling from that scene. I haven’t sorted it out in my own head. I’m nowhere near even thinking about forgiving you. I don’t know what to make of you. I don’t know what to make of us. You aren’t who I thought you were, and so w
e aren’t who I thought we were,” she said, her barely suppressed anger beginning to overtake her as she began pulling hard on her left ear.

  “Whoa, okay, okay, okay. I get it. You’re angry, confused, and disappointed. I accept all that. Can’t we move on?” he asked running his fingers through his angelic locks while avoiding eye contact.

  “I don’t know. I need time,” she said, realizing she was pulling on her ear and abruptly letting go of it.

  “The Key West trip is two days away. Are you coming with me?”

  “No, Barth. You go. Enjoy yourself. Your friends are wonderful and give them warmest regards from me. Tell them whatever you want. Actually this works out, considering the circumstances. I’ll get the time I need,” she said. “Oh, by the way, I had breakfast with Amanda. Don’t look so stricken. I didn’t tattle. I didn’t plan the breakfast, if that’s what you are thinking. She just happened to walk into A La Folie where I was eating after yoga.”

  “Well, thanks for not saying anything. It could turn into a worse mess if Amanda knew. She treats Keith like a child. It would be all my fault. I would be a pedophile even though he’s twenty-five. That harpy would be after me. And believe me, it was the other way around. He pursued and pressured me. No use going round and round. I told you what happened,” he said, becoming self-righteous.

  “Enough of the innocent routine, Barth. Spare me. You are no innocent. More like a licentious Baudelarian pleasure-seeker.”

  “All right. Enough. You are flogging me to within an inch of my life. I’ll go alone and give them your love. I’ll think of some excuse.”

  “Be a drama queen. It becomes you,” she said, spite peppering her speech. “And,” she continued, “Amanda mentioned that Keith loves your class so much, he plans on taking whatever you offer next semester. Isn’t that cozy? Perhaps you can continue your gay romp.”

  “I won’t even grace that with a response. I’m going to start packing,” he said, turning on his heel and hurrying out of the room.