Troika

by Adam Pelzman

  So I’m crying, and where so much feeling comes from I’m only just starting to get a better clue. I’m thinking that maybe I disappointed all the people who ever cared about me. And maybe it’s from the pain of disappointing the people I love, ’cause is there anything that feels worse than that? Anything worse than disappointing the people we love? I’m one of those fools who believes in the afterlife, and I don’t make any apologies for thinking there’s something beyond this earth. And I’m thinking that wherever he is—heaven, I’m sure—my dad sees how I’m living my life, the cheapness, the lies, the bad men, and he’s sad it turned out like this. And Old Pepe, too. How this is not what he wanted when he taught me how to feed Chico and Chica and said to find a man who feeds me first and gives me the firewood, whatever that means. And I’m sad that my mom’s still waiting tables, which I guess is better than dancing on them, and I’m happy she finally found a man who’s good to her. But it also means I’m going to see a whole lot less of her and that makes me feel so alone and hopeless.

  I put my head on Sophie’s shoulder and she lets me cry right there, without pushing me away or making me feel even worse. I’m getting her silk robe all wet and I feel bad about that. The shrink I once saw would have called that projection. Or was it transference? I forget. But she would’ve said that it was something else I was feeling bad about, not messing up her robe. I think it can be both. I think I can feel bad about her robe and also feel bad about a bunch of other things.

  I’m tired, drained and wondering why I’m here. Why I’m really here. I’m wondering about serendipity. I love that word, ’cause it sounds exactly how it means. There’s a word for that, too, when a word sounds like it means. But I can’t pronounce that one. So I’m wondering about serendipity, wondering how it is that certain people get drawn to each other, how they cross paths and build relationships, make real deep connections. I’m wondering why I’m really here.

  I lift my head off Sophie’s shoulder and take a good look at her. She’s a beautiful woman, Sophie, and she looks like an actress from one of those old French films, the kind who doesn’t wear makeup but just looks so simple and elegant that you think she could roll out of bed, tie her hair in a ponytail, jump on a bicycle with a basket on the handlebars and ride into town for bread and cheese. And then later on you see her at a dinner party and the only thing that’s different is now her hair’s down and she’s got a pair of earrings on and every guy at the party wants her.

  I look at Sophie’s face and she’s got a beauty mark on her right cheekbone, a little dot that’s in the perfect place and makes her look so cosmopolitan, and ooh, I wish I had something just like that. Sophie wears a short pearl necklace. And when I see her pearls, real, beautiful ones, I panic and reach for my ears to remind myself what I’m wearing. Little gold hoops, so thank God I didn’t put on my fake pearls today, ’cause that would’ve been embarrassing. I look down to Sophie’s chest, just a quick glance ’cause I don’t want her to think I’m staring, and it turns out she’s got small boobs just like me. And something about that, me and Sophie both having small boobs, something about that makes me smile.

  Sophie asks if I’m hungry or thirsty, and I say no. She asks me if I’m tired. And when I don’t answer, when I can’t answer, when I’m feeling so drained it’s near impossible to speak, she says Perla, I think you need some sleep. And then she turns to Norma, who’s standing a few feet away and nods, and it occurs to me that these two women spend so much time together that they communicate like porpoises. Norma motions me to follow and I do, ’cause I don’t have the energy to resist. And just before we turn a corner down a long hall, I look back to Sophie and she tries to lift her left hand to wave, but it’s too hard for her, so she waves good night with her right. I ask her if Julian’s here, wondering what’s happening, what’s really going on. He’s out, Sophie says, won’t be back until late. So best to get some rest and see him in the morning.

  Norma leads me to a room that’s bigger than any bedroom I’ve ever seen and it’s decorated with pretty things, glass paperweights and an Oriental vase with fresh-cut birds-of-paradise and a silver tray with ruby-red glasses all lined up in a row. There’s beige wallpaper with branches of flowered trees and red, blue and pink birds. I close my eyes, and I think of Pepe and his parrots. I picture the mango tree behind his house and the birds bouncing from branch to branch.

  I take off my bra, pull it out through the sleeve of my sweater, and toss my jeans to the floor. I get under the sheets, which are made of the smoothest, most luxurious fabric to ever touch my body. I get on my side, rest my face on the pillow—and the next thing I know, it’s morning.

  SOMETHING AMISS

  Julian arrived home from a late dinner with his friends. At the restaurant, Julian ate too many slices of Clancy’s famous chocolate pie; Roger consumed far too much Chablis and tried, despite his drunkenness and bad foot, to dance with the curvy hostess from County Cork; Volokh and Petrov, as always, enjoyed their expatriation, telling bawdy Russian jokes and eating with a ferocity intended to obliterate their childhood privations.

  Val, an avuncular Montenegrin who had worked in the building for close to forty years, stood under the awning and greeted Julian. “Evening, Mr. Pravdin,” he said, opening the lobby door, unaware that the doorman working the earlier shift had sent a female guest up to the apartment.

  Before opening the front door, Julian looked at his watch and was surprised to see that it was half past midnight. Inside, the apartment was dark and quiet. He turned on a wall sconce that created just enough light to illuminate the main parlor, but not so much that Sophie would be awakened if her door were open. Julian looked around the grand room. There was something different about the place, but he did not know what. The sofas, the chairs, the tables were all in the same place. The artwork was exactly where it had been that morning when he left for work. The vase of white roses sat, as always, on the credenza along the far wall.

  Hanging over the arm of the wingback was the silk sash from Sophie’s robe. Julian walked over to the chair and lifted the sash. He wondered why it was there, why Sophie had left it behind, whether it had slipped from her robe. He feared that she was not feeling well and that Norma had rushed her to the bedroom. Or maybe it was nothing so dramatic; maybe it fell off while Norma was transferring Sophie into the wheelchair and neither of them noticed. Julian put the sash in his jacket pocket.

  Walking down the long hallway, Julian passed Norma’s room on the right—the door slightly ajar as usual so she could hear if Sophie called out for help. The door to the guest room was closed, which was not atypical. Julian slowly opened the door to the master bedroom, careful not to push past forty-five degrees, at which point the hinges barked and might startle Sophie from her sleep. The bedroom was dark, but washed in a wan, ambient light from the street that had managed to slip under, around, through the thick curtains.

  Julian listened. There was the pneumatic hissing of the compression machine on Sophie’s legs; there was her raspy breathing; there was the insectile buzz of the night-light by the floorboard. Julian removed his clothes and stood naked. As he had done every day in the orphanage, he carefully folded each piece of clothing, including his socks, and placed them on the dresser—and he did so despite the fact that they would be gathered in the morning by the housekeeper and cleaned. He lifted Sophie’s robe from the reading chair in the corner of the room and threaded the sash through the loops.

  Julian inhaled, taking in the residue of the candles, the tart orange blossom to which he had become accustomed. But on this night, another smell lingered and mixed congruously, logically, with the candles’ scent. It was a smell that to Julian was familiar but elusive: sweet and playful. Julian slid under the covers next to Sophie. He lay on his back and, with his right arm, reached over to her. Gently, he placed his hand on her left breast, delivering a warm shiver that penetrated her sleep but did not withdraw her from it.

  S
ophie blinked, a recognition, a relief that Julian had returned. She felt his lips on her cheek. In the other room, Perla slept soundly.

  A wrinkling in the corner of Sophie’s mouth—not a full smile but something close—further indicated that at this moment in time, swaddled in a diaper, her legs compressed by some weird machine, Perla in her crosshairs, she had everything she needed.

  ESCAPE ARTIST

  I wake up with no idea what time of day or night it is. But it seems like it’s morning, ’cause there’s some natural light in the room and my body is telling me it’s morning. I spend a few seconds trying to get myself oriented, reminding myself what happened last night, why I’m here, how I ended up in this bed. Just like some hungover drunk trying to remember the night before, but of course, I don’t drink. I’m doing the same thing, though, trying to put all the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle together. There’s the birds on the wall and the vase with the flowers and there on the floor is my bra and jeans.

  Turns out there’s a bathroom in my room, which I didn’t notice last night, and that’s a relief ’cause that way I don’t have to go out to the hall to get ready. I’m standing in front of the sink and looking at myself in the mirror, and something’s a little different about the way I look. I don’t know if it’s the nice lighting in this bathroom or the fact that I got a good night sleep for the first time in weeks or maybe something else. But I look like I gained a few pounds, which of course I didn’t in just one night, and I look healthier and a bit more like a woman instead of a silly little girl.

  I brush my teeth and straighten my hair and I’m just about to start with the makeup—rouge, lipstick, mascara—and then I think about Sophie and how beautiful she looked last night, and without even a speck of this stuff on her face. So I toss my little bag on to the counter, the pink bag with Hello Kitty on it, and I tie my hair in a ponytail and pull off my sweater. I’m standing there pretty much naked, except for my panties, and I look at myself in the mirror. And again, I don’t know if it’s the light or what, but my skin looks different to me, thicker and pinker. I put on my bra and my jeans and take one more look at myself in the mirror. From my travel bag, I take out a cute periwinkle V-neck that Rebekah got me for my birthday, and I pull it over my head, shimmy it down and now I’m ready to go.

  I’m in front of the door, about to make my move, but I’m frozen in place and can’t seem to grab the doorknob. I’m real nervous ’cause who knows what’s happening on the other side of that bedroom door. Maybe everyone’s gone and I can just slip out real quiet and get back to Miami and see my mom and Rebekah, get back to Paris Nights and make a few bucks. Or maybe Sophie and Norma are out there having breakfast. And then what? Or maybe, and I think this would be the worst, maybe Julian’s there with them. The three of them having breakfast and me coming down the hallway all uncomfortable and feeling out of place.

  I put my Hello Kitty case in my purse and toss my travel bag over my shoulder. I look around the room one more time and wonder if I’ll ever be in a room this pretty again. I’m still standing in front of the door and I’m dreading what’s gonna happen next, cursing myself for getting on that plane, for coming over here, cursing myself for letting Julian make me come that first time in the Champagne Room. I stand up tall and get some good posture and remind myself that I’ve been in worse situations than this, ’cause at least no one here’s trying to hurt me—best I can tell. But I’m real frightened. And then I just think fuck it. And I reach for the doorknob.

  BREAKFAST FOR THREE

  I was a drama major in college and not only do I love acting out a drama but I love creating a drama, too. I love knowing things that others don’t know and setting up players and scenes, triggering a series of events, a chain reaction among the unsuspecting, directing them without their knowledge. I do all of this not for some weird thrill, a perverse rush of omnipotence, but rather out of my affection for those who just need a gentle nudge in the right direction, for those who don’t know that the answer is right there on the other side of the curtain. There’s also something empowering about all of this scheming—especially when viewed in light of my otherwise disempowered state.

  Julian and I sit at the table in the breakfast room, which is a sunny, high-windowed space off the kitchen that faces southeast and thus welcomes the morning light. The table is set for three, and Norma prepares breakfast in the adjacent kitchen. Because Norma joins us for breakfast on occasion, the third place setting does not attract Julian’s attention.

  “What time is your flight to D.C.?” I ask Julian.

  Julian looks at his watch, a reflexive response that can in no way inform his answer. “Noon.”

  “Private or commercial?”

  “Private.”

  “And back tomorrow morning?”

  “Back in the morning,” Julian says. “I’ve got meetings today, then a black-tie dinner tonight. A breakfast tomorrow at one of those horrible clubs, then I’m on my way.”

  “Any way you can get out of it?” I ask, knowing that Perla’s unexpected visit will create chaos around here.

  “Sadly, none,” he says. “They have me meeting a bunch of government people. And the president of the bank. It’s a whole dog and pony show, took them months to get it arranged.”

  I extend my left hand and reach for Julian. But midway through my extension, my strength wanes, and my arm drops to the table in a thud. Julian jumps up. He lifts my arm, cradles it in his palms and examines it for damage. “You okay?” he asks. “Do you need some ice?”

  “Yes to the first question. And no to the second,” I respond. Julian kisses my sore hand and places it gently on my lap. He runs his hands through my hair, and when his fingertips inadvertently tickle the blade of my ear, I am sent into a state of heightened stimulation that is too much this early in the morning. I shiver and wait for the sensitivity to pass.

  Norma emerges from the kitchen and places a plate in front of me—egg whites with parsley and specks of salmon, roasted potatoes dusted in rosemary and two links of spicy merguez. She then places a similarly adorned plate in front of Julian. Finally, she places the third plate—with a metal cover—in front of the empty chair and returns to the kitchen. Julian looks over to the empty setting and waits for Norma to return, to join us for breakfast.

  “Hurry, Norma,” he calls out. “It’s getting cold.”

  Norma pokes her head out of the kitchen. “You get started. I already ate,” she says.

  Julian looks at me. He is confused and shrugs his shoulders. And as I sit before my food, observing Julian in his gentlemanly restraint, I revel in the superiority of my prescience—for I know what is about to transpire. And so does Norma. I’m thrilled, superpowered, awash in my great advantage, for is there anything more exhilarating than knowing the future?

  I don’t know exactly how things will unfold, of course, but I’m confident the following will occur. At any moment, the guest room door will open, and Perla will emerge. Julian will hear noise from down the hall, footsteps in the corridor. Rather than his being frightened that an intruder may be in our home, a look of curiosity will first cross his face. He will turn to me, seeking reassurance that I either did or did not hear the noise, the advancing footsteps.

  Julian will watch the bend in the hall, wondering what, who, could be the cause of the creaking floorboards. Meanwhile, Norma will emerge from the kitchen, lean against the doorjamb and watch as the theater unfolds. Perla will turn the corner and see before her a table set for three. Whether she turns the corner with trepidation or stumbles eagerly into the trap, I do not know. But when she emerges, she will see Julian sitting before her. She will see me sitting in my wheelchair next to Julian, my excitement within masked by my deportment without. She will see Norma standing in the doorway with a look of motherly compassion on her face.

  Everything happens as I expect. Perla turns the corner not with exuberance but with mouselike trepidation. Sh
e stops and takes in the scene before her. This morning, she wears a sheer periwinkle shirt, jeans and sandals. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, so I get an even clearer view of her delicate face. She stops a few feet from the table and nervously pulls her tight-fitting shirt away from her breasts. She places her bag and her purse on the floor beside the empty chair.

  “Good morning,” she says. “Sophie. Norma. Julian.”

  I watch Julian as he watches Perla. What has crossed his face is something different than shock or horror; yes, there is some of that, but there is also wonder. And when he turns to me and sees that I am not surprised, when he sees that I am actually enjoying this moment, his wonder turns into awe. Unsure what happens next, Perla stands behind the empty chair and places her hands on its back. She swings her hips anxiously, while Julian remains seated, bolted to the chair.

  “Well, don’t just sit there like a damn fool,” I say. “Get up and greet our guest. She’s come a long way to see us.”

  Julian gives me a look that asks you sure? And I nod yes. He pushes his chair back, braces his hand on the table and stands before all of us—exposed and defenseless. He walks over to Perla so that he is just a foot away from her. Then, as if he is greeting a colleague at the office, he extends his hand. Perla stares at his hand. And so do I and Norma. And I know that we’re all thinking the same thing. What the fuck is this guy doing?