During his internment, he was possessed by one thing only: the beautiful face of the woman. Perhaps she has forgotten my looks and I could walk in again, an unknown. The chances are too slim to risk it, but I must see her again. And so there in his moist mattress, where Nicolai could do nothing but twitch his legs to some inaudible, erratic rhythm, he hatched a plot. On a blank area in his brain he sketched the dialogue he would use. He practiced focusing his eyes to produce an effect his mother used to call alluring. Bedroom eyes, the girls in school used to call them; or was it bathroom? Yes, bedroom was his term. All of these ploys, his beautiful verse would be presented to his darling from behind an ingenious facade. There would be, surely, a slight sense of recognition for her. Those eyes, she would think, alluring, but unfamiliar. A man she once knew, once loved? In New York it could be any one: a face across from her in the park, some old patron returned from the homeland, a trip, incarceration. But what disguise? A silly, shaped nose? Graying hair (or not, do mean to dye it)? Then he remembered something Rooka told him once. His first visit to the man’s land: they were in a carriage, silent driver maneuvering the muddy, rock born road. Rooka suddenly grabbed his head, twisted it to him and examined with searing detail every pore, every corpuscle. “A mustache, dear child, a mustache marks the man ov distinction.” Yes, Nicolai thought, that is it. I must obtain a false, but very high quality (yes), anatomically correct (precisely), properly colored (a must), perfectly styled (subtle, but distinct), mustache. That will be the perfect disguise.
The minutes from the time he made that decision to the time he once again joined the ranks of the bipedal crawled. For that brief period, Nicolai existed in the awkward universe of the clock-watchers, where seconds truly are longer and hours interminable. It is, to the dwellers of that world, as if the bridge created between their eyes and the face on the clock were a tension rod, pulling tightly on the gears in their head and slowing down the works. It was Friday morning and Nicolai’s first view of the day shocked him. What he saw was entirely unexpected; true, he was still in his room, but the calm, homogeneous, white, ceiling he anticipated was not there. He was floating approximately (spatial measurements made in the head are rarely exact) six feet above the ground and he was not supine, but vertical, and now he realized, was not floating, but standing in the center of the room. He quickly checked to ensure that he had not abandoned a more physical, more chemical, body on the bed connected tautly to his current consciousness by a strand of ethereal tension; no, he had not. He took a hesitant step (OK) then another (tiny stumble). One lazy lap later he sat on the edge of the bed, slipped off his slippers, taking no notice of their inconsequent appearance on his feet, lay down in bed, “Hello, white wall (ceiling). Good to see you again.” and smoked. I’ll need a cane or walking stick of some sort, he thought, only after he’d decided, I must find a disguise shop. The pipes in the shower again courted himtwo of them would be perfectbut the idea of having to abide those abysmal workers saved him from that mistake.
The first order of business was a shower and shave. Must have a clean face for a new mustache. That done, he located a water damaged telephone book and for the time being let his fingers do the strutting. There was no category devoted to disguises, but there was a small listing of costume shops; three of them to be exact, including a large, half-page advertisement. That one gave the impression of being an historic, multinational costume conglomerate. “Established 1899,” it read. “Once owned by Bertrand, The Man of 999 Disguises,” they boasted. “We speak seventeen major languages to accommodate the needs of everybody.” Nicolai hoped one was English and dialed the number. He was informed by three tones with no legitimate excuse for existence of its disconnection. The other suppliers of fun and frolic had seemingly suffered the same fate. Nicolai checked the date on the phone book and was glad time had treated him better than it. No luck there, perhaps there’s another chance. He flipped through to the listings for magic shops, which were extensive, filling one whole page and the better part of another column. Surely one of these must have survived the serious decline illusion has obviously suffered. He found this Darwinian protégé in a modestly named Gordons Novelty. No grandiose claims, no famous founding father, only a phone number that worked.
His left leg still troubled him, but with nothing suitable for support in-house, he was forced to limp out into the sun unaided. Gordons was below Madison Square on Broadway, much too far to walk in his present condition. There were now only twenty dollars left from the money Nicolai brought with him to America. Twenty-five days is a long time to live on only five-hundred dollars. The landlord had amazingly accepted a personal check, or Nicolai would have been in exceedingly bad shape. Certain things could be put on a credit card and were whenever possible. He kept his cash reserves for items like taxis, beers, food, mustaches, &c. Good old (he was beginning to doubt this) Culinari better come through with the will. So the question was whether or not to spring for a cab, an easy decision in his present condition. Nicolai walked uptown along First avenue attempting to hail one. As he approached Sixteenth St., sans success in the transportation category, a piercing siren knocked him off balance. The bearers of this noise whizzed past him and screeched around the corner and as they did the back doors of the ambulance flapped open, leaving something of its cargo behind. The drivers drove on without notice and Nicolai hesitated before the new arrivals. Is that a man? Nicolai pondered. The white thing (for lack of a proper identification) squirmed in the middle of the road. It was about the size of a man, a short one, except where arms should be were nothing. There now, two eyes he glimpsed beneath bushy eyebrows. Could be a mouth, perhaps not. The figure’s squirming continued and then presently ceased. Yes, it is, there are some lobes. The man froze, observably in deep concentration, gaze focused on the red traffic light above. He was in great pain, that much at least was obvious, but some inner power finally gave him its domination. His movements became more planned, more determinate. First this arm, then that and then the man sat and lifted above his head a white jacket, only with sleeves far too long. He stood, looked at Nicolai, looked after the ambulance, and then raised his arm. Immediately a taxi stopped for him and was just as quickly gone. In his wake, on the road, lay a perfectly good crutch. Nicolai snatched it and hobbled away and decided to walk the rest of the way.
Gordons was tremendous. Three of the four entrances, however, were closed off and marked with signs which read “Wholesale only”. The area available to the general public was small and cluttered. A security guard stood outside that portal to party gags and just beyond the door a chain blocked admittance. Nicolai looked at the guard, received no recognition in return, opened the door, and entered. There was still the chain to circumvent; he simply lifted it, stepped through, and re-attached it. To avoid a lengthy search for his booty, Nicolai approached a sour-faced older man behind a desk and queried after the facial hair. “Mustaches. Do you have any? I desperately need a mustache.” The proprietor smiled at him with his nose, lifting the nostrils to expose a row of yellowed (aren’t they always) teeth. He nodded over Nicolai’s left shoulder and rose. Nicolai turned to look where he’d indicated and observed the burly guard locking the door. The lights dimmed.
“Mustaches you say?” The old man sat again. “I have mustaches.” He presented a small wooden box, clasped and sealed with a tiny padlock. Before opening it, he spoke, “How much are you willing to spend, my friend?”
“Whatever it takes.”
“I see, and may I perchance ask to what use you will put this divine little instrument of disguise?”
“May I speak openly?” He looked around; the store was empty. “I wish to woo a woman.”
“Always the same. You know I sell more of these to suitors than actors? Shall I?”
Nicolai shook in his seat, “Please.” The box was opened and he was sure a small luminance issued forth. Beauty, unadulterated beauty lay in that box, row upon row of it.
“I think for your face, if I may, th
is one.”
“Yes, yes!” He tried it on and examined himself in a proffered mirror. It was perfect. In that looking glass a face looked back different from the one Nicolai had placed there. The mustache was a thin one, resting assuredly upon his upper lip. It offered Nicolai a look of distinction not inherent in his genes.
“I wouldn’t recognize you if you were my own mother.” The man’s nose tired of supporting his smile and he sneezed. “It’s very rare that the color matches so perfectly and you’ve got unique coloring believe me. Shall I wrap it up or will you wear it out? Wrapped, OK. You’ll need some spirit gum with that. Used to keep it on, you can’t have your finger holding it up the whole time. She’ll think you’ve got something.
Gordon (Nicolai just now noticed a pin labeling the man as such. Couldn’t be the Gordon, no, just Gordon) closed the box and turned up the lights. The door was unlocked and he announced that he would return, exiting the room through a door in the back. Nicolai fondled some rubber rats while he waited. One fell from its perch to the floor, but did not bounce. Nicolai replaced it.
“Here we are. Let’s see with tax that will be forty sixty-nine.” And worth every cent, Nicolai thought. “What’s this? Cash only. What do I know you from a whole in the wall? For crying out loud, for that much [little] I got what’s on the wall over there. Jesus Christ.”
Nicolai flipped through the hinged panes. Beards, eyelashes, nails, mustaches. A limp assortment indeed. All of them were misshapen, ill-colored, and worse, the mesh showed through; on the plus side they were self-adhesive. “Waste of my good time,” he heard mumbled in the distance. These won’t do at all, not at all. I should forget this whole business, but...I am here and if I do not proceed according to plan all might be lost. He chose a not too bad one (horrible, really) paid the paltry sum and retreated.
“Good luck with that one buddy. You’re lucky if you woo a water tick!” He hobbled home, unhappy.
Rooka would not need to falsify testosterone levels to make this woman submit to him. Nicolai was distraught. I cannot go through with it, he thought, then peeled away the plastic coating from the sticky back of the mustache, saving it for later use, and attached the prosthesis to his upper lip. The particular look he achieved was somewhat closer to Poncho Villa than amoria. The bushy, black tailed squirrel squirmed below his nose as he tried to adjust it in the mirror. He trimmed it and bobbed it and twisted it and turned it, to absolutely no avail. It looked false. He took a step back (better), dimmed the lights, listed his head (eyes front, debonair) and knew that he was surely sunk. But, he thought, really who would doubt it? Would she say, “that mustache is not real”? For who, who (and this was his advantage) would wear a false mustache?
“Everything will be fine. Now we must practice what to say. Name: Nicolai, Ni-colai, Nic-o-lai. Hello darling. Should I affect a Russian accent? No she might expect me to speak it. British is romantic. In America on a business matter. Hello darling, shall we mosey (good American word) on back to my place. No. No. The quiet one is who I must be. I will be the mysterious man for whom she has been yearning so many years. She will look at me as I enter and say, ‘I have never married for the knowledge of you.’ Shall I then rip off this mustache, revealing to her my true identity, she saying, ‘I should have loved you from the first moment’ or no, no she might react sourly to that. I think, if I can, I will slowly grow, underneath this mock-stache, a true-stache secretly making the transition on some dark street. It improves with age, as do you, my lovely. We shall have a marvelous life together. Another bowl of melon, my dearest? ‘Nyet. Wouldn’t you prefer a younger woman?’ A younger woman offers me only her youth, I value your life-experience. It takes time to learn how to do certain things correctly and to have such education and beauty in a single incarnation, which love, is what you are, is my special fate. I wrote a small poem for you, may I? You may call it silly and even these words do you great injustice, but so I must preface all of my feelings toward you; the frog to the princess, only warts shall be my only growth.
What use have I for slender thighs
When you possess such tender eyes.
I deeply long to swim there-in
Upon my back, nose for a fin.
Breast-stroking through your optic nerve
Toward the source of youthful verve.
Implanting love for me in you;
Impossible. These words must do.
Do not cry. ‘They are beautiful.’ Before we may be together you must realize one thing: I am heir to a significant fortune. ‘How significant.’ Significant. You will never have to work in this shanty again. ‘Take me!’ I shall. I shall. Oh how I shall!”
That is how Nicolai convinced himself that while wearing an obviously fake, ridiculous looking mustache he could win the heart of an older, wiser Russian (makes a difference, you know) woman and that afternoon, it was the fifth of November, a Fridaythe date was significant; why, he could not rememberas the last of his gimp faded away down his tendons and out his toes, he dressed in his most exquisite suit, two red eyes peering out from his pelvis, walked to the (“what was it, Homestead? No, Inn”) Inn Stead and looked through the window prepared to attack. She was there, behind the bar. He looked for Alexia, not there, good. The bar was empty, except for the perpetual pinochlers in the corner, and the door was closed. Nicolai opened it and stepped through. Sun flooded the room causing the group in the corner to cringe. Everyone stared at his looming silhouette, including his lovely, and he froze, entranced by his moment of power in which she, blinded by the light, could not see him watching her and he perused her face: delicious brows, sloping nose, perched lips, then up again, squinting eyes, hand saluting him as should be. Someone in the sun yelled, “Shut the door! Shut it!” He watched her tongue slowly separate lips as she said, “The light. Please, close the door.” He did and felt secure behind his clever disguise.
He ordered a Vodka with “just a bit of water, please” and his left leg began to shake. “Not now. Control it.”
“Excuse, please?” she asked.
“Sorry, nothing.” I am safe. He sniffed the drink in front of him, sacrifices must be made, and sipped it with only the slightest grimace. She leaned at the far end of the bar, to his right, opposite the others, thumbing through a paper. Nothing ostensibly seductive today: simple knit sweater, polyester slacks, tiny wide-heeled shoes; but they were excruciatingly so to Nicolai. To keep from losing control he looked down at her feet. They were crossed to support her, left one flat, forward, right one bent, big toe grounded, heel slipping into and out of a thoughtlessly loose shoe. Under her slacks, and visible at ankle level, she wore nylons. Nicolai imagined them clasped thigh-high by a garter, old-world style, but decided that even full pantyhose bunched at the top would suit this woman properly. “Another, please.” Oh, disturbing your sweet reverie pains me. She took his glass. “What is your name?”
“Vodka?”
“Yes.” And as she returned it, filled, “What is your name?”
“Me?” so coy, so coy, temptress of the gods, “Elizabeth.”
“Hello, Elizabeth.”
“Hello, Two-fifty.” He handed a folded sheet of paper to her. “What is it?” she asked.
“It is for you. Read it.” She unfolded it slowly as if it were printed on tissue and looked closely at it. She smiled and patted her sides, hips, breasts; Nicolai swooned, but the delay drove him mad. “Read it.”
“Glasses.”
“Let me.” He stretched over the bar, spilling his drink onto the poem, splashing her in the process. He panicked. “I will get some tissues. I’m terribly” He went into the bathroom. Tissues, towels, where are they? There was no roll of toilet paper. Nothing. Re-entering the room, he saw that the mess had been cleared, the poem tossed. He sat down again and profusely apologized.
“Don’t worry, It’s all cleaned now. Would you like to run a bill?”
“Where are you from?” he asked her and she smiled at him, straining to be pleasant it seem
ed, but Nicolai was resolved to not pay her until she had earned it. “I had written you a poem. On that paper.”
“Poem. For me?”
“Where are you from?” He placed a stray hand on top of the fingers she had resting on the bar top and she did not pull away, but blushed, points of red lighting her cheeks, enlightening Nicolai to her disposition. “Ukraine, but America since I was a little girl.” He released her. “And you? You have very pretty accent.”
“Thank you, you have a very pretty face. London.”
She ignored his compliment. “You are just visiting?”
“No, I live here, for the time being in any case. Just over on Tenth. Do you own this place?”
“Husband.” Husband, good Lord! He scanned the fingers on her left hand and surely there it was, a golden wedding band. How could I have missed it? His breathing became uneven, his left leg resumed its prior panic. If I might only place those horns on that lucky, no doubt drunken, no doubt slothful, no doubt wicked husband of hers. Might she be willing? “It is very lonely now because husband is back home to visit family in Ukraine.”
I Thought My Uncle Was A Vampire, But He Was Just A Creep Page 5
