Space For Breathing

by I. K. Velasco

  Looking out the tinted window, I examined the darkened cityscape. I watched the side streets as we passed, the view so different than what I was used to. Amidst the skyscrapers and modernity of city life, I could see rows and rows of cardboard houses, tightly pressed up against every crevice, the faint outlines of shantytowns. I wondered how many people lived there.

  "It's about an hour to the Estate, Mr. Slone," Tito said through the heavily tinted window separating us. "Please just make yourself comfortable, and if you choose to sleep, I'll wake you when we arrive."

  I nodded, seeing him looking at me through his rear-view mirror. I settled back into the wide seat, pondering where I was going and where I had been.

  * * *

  Two weeks earlier

  Los Angeles, California Chelsea's Pub 2:00 am

  The murky brown liquid burned against the soft tissues of my throat. Pain was strangely comforting in this environment.

  I gestured to the pretty bartender for another drink. She came over with a fresh glass and a bottle of Jack, offering a comforting smile as she poured.

  "I have an unspoken rule that 11 shots are usually the limit, but you look as though you need it," she said, pouring another shot.

  I chuckled wanly - laughter devoid of any joy. If I looked half as bad as I felt, I knew what she was talking about.

  She turned around to continue washing the glasses behind the bar, leaving me to wallow in my self-pity.

  The door to the bar dinged open. I didn't bother to look up to see who the new patron might be. The man sat down beside me and ordered a drink.

  "Jacob Slone, right?" he said. I rolled my eyes. Conversation, especially with a stranger, did not rank high on the list of desirables.

  "Do I know you?" I asked, not even attempting friendliness.

  He laughed. "No, but I was supposed to meet you last night. I'm Robert Owen, president of Worldwide Records."

  My eyes grew wide, and I sat up straighter. I wished the last two hours away. Then, I wouldn't have had a liter of Jack swirling around in my stomach and my head would've been clearer. "Oh. Listen, I apologize for not being there last night. I…"

  He laughed again, chuckles ringing with amusement. "Don't worry about it, son. I know you young rock stars have better things to do than schmoozing with the music execs. It was a damn boring party anyway. I'm sure you had way more fun doing whatever it was you were doing."

  I couldn't help but laugh madly at the irony. He looked at me a bit strangely, but didn't ask. He only smiled warmly. On his face, that smile was comforting.

  "I should have just gone to the party," I said, settling back to stoop on the barstool. I leaned my elbows on the bar and played with the ice in my drink.

  "And why's that?"

  His question was filled with genuine concern. I examined Owen carefully for the first time since he sat down. He didn't look like the typical record company suit. He was dressed in khaki cargo pants and a wool sweater. His blonde hair was graying at the temples, as was his thick mustache. He looked more like he belonged in an easy chair in front of a fireplace rather than in a corporate office or even in a pub in downtown Los Angeles.

  He had a face you could trust, but I was still suspicious.

  "Let's just say it would have been better for the girl, for my relationship with my brother and for my career," I murmured. I wondered if the liquor in my system was the cause of this open therapy session.

  "That bad, huh?"

  "Yeah," I reluctantly answered.

  "Tell me something," he said. “I know this life isn’t easy. There’s a lot of noise to distract you when you need quiet. What do you do for solace?"

  I pondered his question. What was the one thing that made me feel good? "It used to be music."

  "And now? No longer a source of solace?"

  I cringed when I realized that it really didn't. In fact, it had become a source of frustration--something that used to give me joy. "No, I guess not."

  He was quiet for a long time, and the silence unnerved me. I tried to break the stillness, clinking the ice in my glass - anything to stop me from thinking. I felt on the brink of something. And I wasn't ready to jump.

  "When was the last time you wrote a song, start to finish?"

  I met his concerned expression. "Oh, god," I said. "Two years."

  "Why is that?"

  "I don't know. Maybe I'm on my last legs. Maybe I'm supposed to retire from music now."

  He leaned his head back and laughed. "How old are you, son?"

  "23."

  "You have quite a few years ahead of you. I think you're just lost for a little while. You need to find yourself."

  "Find myself?" I had to laugh. It sounded ridiculous.

  "Yes. I know it sounds cliché, but it is cliché for a reason. A very common occurrence indeed."

  I looked up from my glass. He looked normal enough, but his cryptic words were disturbing. He was perfectly serious, looking right at me with a concerned, inquisitive gaze, mouth straight and steady.

  I reached into my back pocket for my wallet. It was time to leave.

  "Yeah, um…lost. Well, I think I'll be fine. I know where to find myself," I said uncomfortably, looking over the bar for the pretty bartender so I could close my tab.

  He placed a hand on my arm. "Wait a minute, young man. Hear me out." He smiled reassuringly and something in his eyes made me settle back onto my stool.

  He continued, his voice turning down a notch, deep and comforting. "You need to go somewhere different, somewhere so different from your normal surroundings that you end up looking for something familiar. And that something is inside you. That's how you find yourself."

  Some glimmer seemed to tug on my brain. What he said made sense, in some strange, intrinsic way.

  Owen interrupted my contemplation by standing up. He quickly paid for his drink, then pulled out a business card from his coat pocket.

  "Here," he said, grabbing my hand and pressing the card onto my palm. "If you want to go someplace different, just call. Anytime, twenty-four, seven."

  * * *

  Pangasinan, Philippines—Owen Estate 7:45 am

  "It's time to wake up, Mr. Jacob."

  The voice was lilting and pleasant. My sleep-hazed brain almost registered the voice as my mother's, but I opened my eyes to an unfamiliar Asian face, grinning warmly at me. I returned the smile. Waking me faster than any alarm could, the realization hit that I was half-naked, barely covered by the thin sheet across my torso.

  "Um, good morning," I said.

  "Good morning, Mr. Jacob. My name is Rosalita. Mr. Owen asked me to wake you. He would like you to join him for breakfast."

  The plump, little Filipina woman began moving around my bedroom, picking up the clothes I had strewn on the floor.

  "Oh, you don't have to do that!" I exclaimed, attempting to rise while simultaneously keeping myself covered with the sheet. "I can put away my own clothes." My thoughts strayed back to my mother, and her chagrin should she learn that someone else was picking up my clothes. I tried to pull my jeans from her hands, but she snatched them away, clicking her tongue at me.

  "Don't be silly, Mr. Jacob. I must do laundry this morning. Please just let me do my job," Rosalita urged, that friendly smile still gracing her lips.

  I acquiesced, defeated.

  Rosalita left my bedroom, closing the door softly behind her. I looked around for my suitcase and couldn't locate it in any conceivable place, even under the bed. I remembered Tito placing it in the corner of the room, but by then I was so fatigued from the trip, I had been barely coherent. I had undressed and fallen into bed, into a fitful, exhausted sleep. When I opened the closet door, I realized that Rosa had taken the liberty of unpacking for me as well.

  I dressed and left the bedroom, walking through long hallways and finally finding the stairs. I took my time wandering the house, admiring the Spanish-influenced décor. All the furniture was handmade and authentically Filipino. Carved chairs stain
ed darkly, hand-woven tapestries bearing island images and random rattan pieces to accent the tropical theme. Despite the Estate's breadth, the rooms were airy and inviting.

  I found Owen sitting at the dining room table, sipping coffee and reading the paper. Two servants were milling around him, setting the table for breakfast. I cleared my throat as I entered the room.

  "Ah!" he said, folding his paper and standing up to shake my hand. "Hello, Jacob. Have a seat. Did you sleep well?"

  "Not bad," I replied, sitting on Owen's right.

  "Eh, that's not the answer I want to hear. I want to hear that you slept like a baby!" he exclaimed, shaking his head.

  I chuckled.

  "I apologize for my appearance," he said, gesturing to his clothes. His pants and shirt were wrinkled and grimy with travel. "I just arrived this morning, about four hours after you."

  I nodded. "It's quite alright. I don't exactly look like I'm ready to go to a black-tie event." A glance at the mirror this morning had revealed ten-pound graying bags under my eyes.

  Owen smiled and winked. "We shall change that."

  Before I could ask what, he meant, a young woman entered the dining room. Owen's face lit up.

  "Jacob, I would like you to meet, Maeva Rinaldo. She is my adopted daughter. She is big boss around here when I'm in the US."

  Maeva was quite striking—small boned and delicate, like a ballerina. Her long, shiny black hair to her waist, cut perfectly straight with bangs hanging over her almond-shaped eyes. She was wearing a fitted white shirt, collared but sleeveless, showing off sloping, creamy shoulders and smooth arms. Her long denim skirt brushed the floor when she walked, bare feet gliding across the tile.

  The girl/woman approached Owen and kissed him on the cheek. When she crossed the room, her eyes fell on me. Not staring, really, merely observing, but her gazeI caught me off guard.

  I stood up, my hand held out. She looked at it for a moment, as if pondering if I was worthy of a

  handshake. I squirmed at her hesitation. "Very nice to meet you, Maeva." I squeaked. I seemed to have left any semblance of suave back in Los Angeles.

  She merely nodded, then sat down at the table across from me, folding her hands in front of her.

  Rosalita and two other servants appeared with breakfast. Eggs, bacon, pancakes. I suddenly realized that I had not eaten for 15 hours.

  Owen must have seen the ravenous look on my face because he said, laughing, "Hungry, Jacob?"

  I swiped my hand over my mouth. Owen laughed even harder. I stole a glance at Maeva. Her lips were curling at the corners, but she didn't laugh or even smile outwardly. I was pleased to see the slight sparkle in her eyes.

  We ate breakfast, listening to Owen talk fervently about a new act whose recording contract he was negotiating - a young, all girl punk band from Seattle. He was positive that they'd be the next big thing. He talked animatedly about their music, and his enthusiasm was infectious. Even though he had been in the business for 20 years, he still liked his job. I missed that feeling.

  Maeva was quiet throughout the meal, patiently listening and commenting insightfully, but never volunteering to start a topic.

  Rosa returned when we were finished to clear the table.

  "Well, kids, I'm off to make some phone calls," Owen declared, standing from the table. "Maeva, I trust you will keep Jacob entertained?"

  "Oh, you don't have to do that," I said. "If you have things to do…"

  "Nonsense," Owen interrupted. "We're here to make sure that you enjoy yourself here." He gave me a wink and left the room.

  Maeva and I were silent for what seemed like an eternity. She sat, sipping her coffee, still examining me. I began to feel like a piece of fresh meat.

  "You look tired," she said, breaking the moment. Her tone was flat, devoid of any emotion.

  "Well, I did just take a 14-hour plane ride plus an hour car ride, and I only got five hours of sleep. Yes, I am tired," I replied, not even trying to hide the sarcasm in my voice. I expected some sort of reaction, scathing or otherwise. But instead she regarded me, her head tilting to the side, scrutinizing, wanting to read my thoughts.

  "It's more than just physical," she said, saying the words like she was thinking out loud. I was a bit unnerved.

  She stood up. "Come with me," she said, heading briskly out of the dining room. I stared at her disappearing form for a moment, before returning to my senses enough to follow.

  Maeva

  I had Rosa draw a bath for Jacob. Dropping some scented oil into the tub, Rosa filed it with two steaming hot buckets of water. I laid out fresh towels, lit some candles and left him to relax. I felt ridiculous standing outside the curtained doorway, listening to him undress. But I couldn't will my body to move away. Something about the sounds of him removing his clothes, the small splash when he stepped into the water and the almost imperceptible sigh he released when he settled into the tub.

  I was disconcerted by my reaction to him when we had met. There was an inexplicable thudding in my chest when Mr. Owen had said his name. I had stared. I couldn't control myself. I had seen him before - in magazines and on television - but his stage charisma could not prepare me for real life. He was handsome, almost too beautiful—chiseled cheekbones, pouting lower lip, fistfuls of blonde curls and warm brown eyes. I had been reluctant to shake his hand, afraid that the dizzying feeling would be beyond my control.

  I waited a few moments, then stepped behind the curtain. My legs were moving without my command, as if my body was magnetically drawn to him.

  I sat at the head of the tub and observed him. He seemed completely at ease now, the rise and fall of his chest slow and steady.

  His soul was weary. I could see it behind his sad, puppy eyes. I wondered why. I wanted him to tell me why he was so tired, why he looked lonely. Or even if he just spoke, about anything he wanted, so I could hear that lilting twinge of America in his voice.

  The bubbly water covered most of his lower body, hiding his privates from view. However, what was visible was enough for that dizzy feeling to intensify. He was all smooth planes and angles—sinuous chords of muscle affixed to long bones. His body was firm and lithe, covered in golden silky skin and shimmering blond hair. I imagined what it would be like to capture that beauty on canvas. He could be my David, my Adonis, my Mona Lisa. My fingertips tingled to touch him.

  I slowly dipped my hands into the warm water. When they met his chest, he jumped, ripping the face cloth from his eyes.

  "Shhh," I murmured, pushing him gently back down. "I didn't mean to scare you. Just lie back and relax."

  He whipped around to look at me, staring for just a moment, and then leaned back on the side of the aluminum tub. I found the cloth floating in the water, folded it and placed it back over his eyes. Reaching for the bottle of scented oil, I tipped some of the lavender essence onto my hand. I rubbed it over his smooth chest, to his firm abdomen. Jacob had tensed again. He seemed to be holding his breath.

  "It's okay," I urged, softly in his ear. He let out a long, cleansing breath and soon his breathing steadied, in rhythm with my massaging fingers.

  I couldn't stand it. The sensation was too much, feeling him relaxing under my touch, soft running current from his skin to mine. I took my hands from the water, my fingers still tingling with the electricity in him.

  Jacob took the face cloth from his eyes again and peered at me, confusion etched on his face.

  My throat constricted, I willed my mouth to form words of explanation, but my brain would not cooperate. "Do you feel better?"

  A beat. His lips bent into a grin. "Yes, thank you."

  "Good," I replied, surprised at the strength in my voice. "We can go sight-seeing, if you'd like."

  "I would like that," he said, sitting up.

  I averted my eyes, searching for a towel. I snatched one from the counter and handed it to him. I heard the splashing water as it dripped onto the bathroom floor and quickly made my way to the door before I was tempted to lo
ok. "I'll meet you downstairs in twenty minutes.”

  I didn't wait for his reply.

  Four

  Maeva

  I found him waiting downstairs in Mr. Owen's study.

  I watched him from the doorway. He was wearing a tight, V-necked T-shirt, the kind that had cuffed around his biceps and hugged his chest just so. He wore loose, beige khakis above his sandaled feet. His toes peeked out of the leather straps. His hair was still wet, darker from the moisture, curly and shining lighter when the strands caught the early afternoon sun pouring past the gauzy curtains.