Madame X

by Jasinda Wilder

  "X--"

  I back up. "Choose your giant, Jonathan."

  You follow me step for step. "I think maybe I'll start going by Jon." Your eyes, brown and richly textured in arcs of light and darker shades, fix on mine. You are not leering, or staring; worse, you are seeing.

  "Jon, then." I meet your gaze, and I must focus intently on keeping erect the wall of neutrality between us. "Choose your giant, Jon. Tilt wisely."

  A step. Not even a step, more of a slide of one Italian-leather pointy-toed loafer, and a single sheet of loose-leaf paper could not fit between my body and yours, and though we are not touching, this is illicit, a stolen moment. You do not--cannot--fathom the risk you take. The risk I take.

  "What if I choose to tilt at this windmill, X?" You ask this with your intention telegraphed in the whisper of your voice, in the way your hands twitch at your sides as if itching to take me by the waist or by the face.

  I keep my gaze and my voice calm, neutral; the direst threats are best delivered sotto voce. "There are giants, Jonathan, and then there are titans."

  Click . . . ding.

  I breathe a sigh of relief . . .

  or is it thinly veiled disappointment?

  SEVEN

  I do not expect the knock at the door. It comes at 7:30 P.M., Saturday. I have imagined dozens of fictional stories by now. It is all I have to do. When the knock comes--rap-rap-rap-rap, four firm but polite taps--I jump, blink, and stare at the door as if expecting it to burst into flames, or come to life. Regaining my composure, I smooth my skirt over my hips, school my features into a blank mask, and open the door.

  "Len. Good evening. Is anything the matter?"

  Len's broad, weather-worn face seems hewn from granite and expresses the same measure of emotion. "Good evening, Madame X." A black garment bag hangs over one arm. "This is for you."

  I take the bag. "Why? I mean, what is it for?"

  "You are to join Mr. Indigo for dinner this evening."

  I blink. Swallow. "Join him for dinner? Where?"

  "Upstairs. Rhapsody."

  "Rhapsody?"

  A shrug. "Restaurant, near the top of the building."

  "And I'm to join him there? For dinner?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "In public?"

  Another shrug. "Dunno, ma'am." Flick of a wrist, revealing a thick black rubber tactical chronograph. "Mr. Indigo expects you in one hour." Len steps through, closes the door, and puts his back to it. "I'll wait here, Madame X. Best go get ready."

  I shake all over. I do not know what this is, what is happening. I never join "Mr. Indigo" for dinner. I have dinner here. Alone. Always. This is not how things go. It is out of the norm, not part of the pattern. The warp and weft of my life is a careful dance, choreographed with precision. Aberrations leave me breathless, chest tight, eyes blinking too swiftly. Aberrations are unwelcome.

  Dinner at Rhapsody with Mr. Indigo. I don't know what this means; it is semantically null.

  I shower, even though I am already clean. I depilate, apply lotion. Lingerie, black lace, French bikini and demi-cups, Agent Provocateur. The dress is magnificent. Deep red, high neckline around my throat, both arms bare, slit up the left side nearly to my hip, open back, Vauthier's signature asymmetry. A runway haute couture piece, probably. Elegant, sexy, dramatic. The dress is enough of a statement on its own, so I opt for simple black high-heeled sandals. Light makeup, a touch around the eyes, stain on the lips, color on my cheeks.

  Heart hammering, I step out into the living room, ready in forty minutes. It would not do to keep Mr. Indigo waiting, something tells me.

  "Very lovely, Madame X," Len says, but it feels like a formality, part of the charade.

  "Thank you."

  A nod, an elbow proffered. My lungs are frozen and my heart is in my throat as I take Len's arm, follow him out into the foyer beyond my door: thick ivory carpet, slate walls, abstract paintings, a table with a vase of flowers. A short hallway leading to an emergency stairwell: Caution, emergency exit only, alarm will sound. The elevator doors are polished chrome, mirror-bright. A window near the emergency exit, showing the Manhattan skyline, summer evening sunlight coating gold on glass.

  The foyer beyond my condo is smaller than I thought it would be.

  A keyhole where the call button would be, a key on a ring from Len's pocket inserted and twisted, withdrawn, and the doors slide open immediately. There are no buttons, only another keyhole with four degrees one could turn it to: G, 13, Rhap., PH--Len inserts the key and twists it to the Rhapsody marker, and then we are in motion. Only there is no sensation of motion, no lift or dip of my stomach. A brief silence, no wait music, and then the doors slide open with a muted ding.

  My expectations are dashed. Shattered.

  No hushed chatter of a fine dining establishment in full evening swing. No clink of silverware on plates. No laughter.

  Not one person in sight.

  Not a server, not a patron, not a single chef.

  The entire restaurant is empty.

  I take a step forward, and immediately the doors slide closed between Len and me, leaving me alone. I feel my heart twist, hammer even faster. My heart rate is surely a medical risk, at this point. Table after table, empty. Two-tops, four-tops, six-tops, all round white-cloth-covered tables with chairs tucked in, napkins folded in elaborate origami shapes, silverware placed just so on either side of the flatware, wineglasses in the upper right corner. Not one light in the restaurant is lit, bathing me in golden shadows of falling dusk streaming in from the thirty-foot-tall panes of glass ringing the entire perimeter of the restaurant, which occupies the entire floor of the building. The kitchen sits at the center, open-plan, so the diners on three sides are able to see the chefs preparing the food, and the tables on the other side, a glimpse of the windows and the skyline. The elevator in front of which I am still standing is one of four forming the back wall of the kitchen, and there is a plaque above "my" elevator that proclaims it to be a private lift, with no public access--in place of a call button, there is a keyhole.

  A thousand questions are bubbling in my brain. Clearly, my condo is only one of many in this building. Yet the foyer beyond my condo provides access only to the elevator and the emergency stairwell. The square footage of the condo, however, is not sufficient to take up the entire thirteenth floor. Why a private elevator that only goes to four places, and requires a key to access? Does each of my clients get a key? Or is there an elevator attendant?

  Why is the restaurant empty?

  What am I supposed to do?

  A violin plays, soft high strains wavering quietly from off to my left. A cello joins it. Then a viola, and another violin.

  I follow the music around the kitchen and discover a breathtaking vision: a single two-person table draped in white, set for two, a bottle of white wine on ice in a marble bucket on a stand beside the table, and a half dozen or so tables have been removed to clear a wide space around it, with thick white candles on five-foot-tall black wrought-iron stands forming a perimeter. The string quartet is off in the shadows a few feet away, two young men and two young women, black tuxedos and modest black dresses.

  In the shadows just beyond the ring of candles stands a darker shadow. Tall, elegant, powerful. Hands stuffed casually in charcoal-gray trouser pockets. No tie, topmost button undone to reveal a sliver of flesh. Suit coat, middle button fastened. Crimson kerchief folded in a perfect triangle in the pocket of the coat. Thick black hair swept back and to one side, a single strand loose to drape across a temple. That ghost of amusement on thin lips.

  I watch the Adam's apple bob. "X. Thank you for joining me." That voice, like boulders crashing down a canyon wall.

  I didn't have a choice, did I? But of course, these words remain lodged in my throat, alongside my heart and my breath. Careful steps in high heels across the wide room. Come to a halt beside the table. I watch long legs take a few short strides, and I'm staring up at a strong, clean-shaven jawline, glittering dark e
yes.

  "Caleb," I breathe.

  "Welcome to Rhapsody."

  "You rented out the entire restaurant?" I questioned.

  "Not rented so much as ordered them to close it down for the evening."

  "You own it, then?"

  A rare full smile. "I own the building, and everything in it."

  "Oh."

  A twitch of a finger, gesturing at my chair. "Sit, please."

  I sit, fold my hands on my lap. "Caleb, if I may ask--"

  "You may not." Strong fingers lift a butter knife, tap on the wineglass gently, the crystal ringing loudly in the silence. "Let's have the food brought out and then we'll discuss things."

  "Very well." I duck my head. Focus on breathing, on slowing my heart rate.

  I feel rather than see or hear the presence of someone else. Look up, a man of indeterminate age stands beside the table. He could be thirty-five, he could be fifty. Wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth, young and intelligent eyes, light brown hair, receding hairline.

  "Sir, madam. Would you care to see a menu?"

  "No, Gerald, that's fine. We'll start with the soup du jour, followed by the house salad. No onions on mine. The filet mignon for me, medium rare. Tell Jean-Luc just this side of rare. Not quite bloody. For the lady, she'll have the salmon. Vegetables and mashed potatoes for the both of us."

  Apparently I'm having salmon. I'd have rather had the filet mignon as well, but I hadn't been given a preference and I didn't dare protest. This was abnormal in the extreme, and I wasn't about to have anything else taken away.

  "Very good, sir." Gerald lifts the bottle of white wine. "Shall I present this, sir?"

  "No, I did choose it myself, after all. Marcos should have set out a bottle of red for us as well. Have that opened to breathe, and serve it with the entrees."

  "Very good, sir. Will there be anything else I can do for you at this moment?"

  "Yes. Have the quartet play the suite in G major instead of the B minor."

  "Of course, sir. Thank you." Gerald bows at the waist, deeply.

  He then scurries and weaves between the tables, whispers to the viola player, who holds up a hand, and the other three players let their instruments quaver into silence. A brief meeting of heads, and then they strike up again, a different melody this time. Returning, Gerald uncorks the wine with elaborate ceremony and pours a measure in each of our glasses, hands me mine first.

  I shouldn't be nervous to take a drink, but I am. I drink tea and water, exclusively. I have no memory of drinking anything but tea and water.

  What will wine be like, I wonder?

  It's the little things; focus on the minor to keep one's self from hyperventilating about the major.

  I watch, mimic: forefinger, middle finger, and thumb on the middle of the stem, lift carefully. Take the tiniest of sips. Wet my lips with the cool liquid. Lick my lips. Shock ripples over me. The taste is . . . like nothing I've ever experienced. Not quite sweet, not quite sour, but a little of both of those things. An explosive flavor bursting on my tongue.

  Dark eyes watch me carefully, following every move, following my tongue as I run it along my lips once more. Watch me as I take another sip, an actual sip, this time. A small mouthful. Roll it around my mouth, coolness on my tongue, a starburst of flavor, tingling, sparkling. Light, fruity.

  It's so good I could cry. The best thing I've ever tasted.

  "Like it?" That deep, rumbling voice, following a long casual sip, the glass replaced on the table, adjusted precisely so.

  "Yes," I say, keeping eagerness from my voice. "It's very good."

  "I thought you might. It's a Pinot Grigio. Nothing overly fancy, but it will pair very well with the soup and salad."

  Obviously, I know nothing of this. Wine pairings, Pinot Grigio, string quartets . . . this is a foreign world into which I am being suddenly and inexplicably immersed.

  "Pinot Grigio." I nod. "It's delicious."

  A crinkle around the eyes, a lift of one lip corner. "Don't get too used to it, X; don't want you developing any expensive or unhealthy habits. This is a special occasion, after all."

  "It is?" I have no clue what occasion it could be.

  Gerald appears, then, bearing a round black tray. Two low, shallow, broad white china bowls, containing a red soup of some kind. "The soup du jour is a creamy gazpacho Andaluz, made using the traditional elements of cucumber, bell peppers, and onions. Fresh, house-baked bread was used to thicken the soup, and it is garnished with a diced medley of the aforementioned vegetables. Chef Jean-Luc is confident there is no gazpacho Andaluz so good this side of the Atlantic Ocean." Gerald rotates my bowl a quarter turn, presents my soup spoon with a grandiose flourish and a bow--not so deep a bow as the one offered to my companion . . . host . . . lover . . . warden. . . .

  "Very good, Gerald. Thank you." Some indefinable note in that chasmic voice contains a warning: Get lost, if you know what's good for you.

  Gerald is gone in a blink, vanishing into the shadows.

  I dip the spoon into the red liquid, lift it delicately to my mouth prepared for heat, unsure of the flavor about to meet my tongue.

  "Oh! It's cold," I say, surprised.

  "It's a gazpacho." This, amused, not quite condescending. "It's a cold soup. The Andaluz was originally served after the meal, but here in the States it is most frequently served prior, in the English and American tradition."

  "Cold soup. It seems . . . antithetical," I say, and then ladle another spoonful into my mouth.

  "Perhaps so, in theory," comes the response, between mouthfuls. "In practice, however, it is quite good. Prepared properly, at least, and Jean-Luc is one of the best chefs in the world."

  Despite the surprise of the soup being served cold, it is delicious, creamy and bursting with the ripe flavor of fresh vegetables. I wash it down with a sip of wine, and although I have a vague notion that white wine is supposed to be paired with similarly colored foods, the light, fruity flavor of the wine does indeed offset the cold vegetable soup in a delightful contrast. Neither of us speaks as we finish the soup, and Gerald appears as I am scraping the last smear of red from the bowl. He takes the bowl from me and replaces it with a salad, does the same on the other side of the table.

  "Continuing with the Spanish theme, this evening's salad is a simple affair of cucumbers, onions, and tomatoes, lightly flavored with red wine vinegar and olive oil." Once again, Gerald rotates the plate in front of me, bowing, presenting the brightly colorful salad, artfully arranged in geometric shapes.

  The wine goes even better with the salad, each bite feeling spritely on my tongue, the wine tingling and coruscating.

  More long moments of silence as we eat the salad. My wine goblet is empty for perhaps fifteen seconds in total when Gerald appears yet again from the shadows and refills it.

  "Dispense with the formality, Gerald, and pour the rest of the bottle." The command comes quietly and cannot be gainsaid, so firm and confident is the voice.

  Total authority. Absolute expectation of obedience, even in so simple a matter as pouring a larger glass of wine than is, apparently, formally acceptable.

  "As you wish, sir." Gerald pours the wine into my glass first, twisting the bottle to prevent glugging.

  Alternating between the two goblets, Gerald makes sure each of us has exactly the same amount, down to the last drops. Remarkable precision, performed with ritual familiarity.

  The salad is finished. The quartet lets a moment of silence pervade, and then they strike up again, in practiced unison. I sip at my wine, savoring each droplet. At last, however, I can contain myself no longer.

  "Caleb, you said this was a special occasion, but I must confess, I have no idea--"

  "Hush and enjoy the experience. I am aware of your ignorance, and I will enlighten you in my own time. For now, drink your wine. Listen to the music. I handpicked this quartet from among the most promising students at Juilliard. Each of the musicians is among the best in the world at his or her
respective instrument."

  I am not expected to reply. I lean back, pivot slightly, rest an arm across the back of my chair. Attempt to appear at ease, comfortable. How long passes, I cannot say. Minutes, perhaps. Ten or fifteen. I fight restlessness. Cross my legs, uncross them. Glance at the windows, wishing I could stand and stare down, watch the people, examine the city from each new angle, see new portions of the skyline. I know the view from each of my windows as well as I know the sight of my own hands. A new perspective would be something to enjoy.

  Eventually Gerald appears with an already-uncorked bottle of wine. The bottle is darkest red, nearly opaque, and has no label. He pours a thimbleful into a clean glass, too little to really drink. I watch with fascination a ritual clearly familiar to both men, the swirl of the tiny amount of liquid around the bottom of the goblet; inhale through the nose, goblet tipped at an angle, just so. A sip, then. A wetting of the lips, swish around the mouth. A nod. Yet instead of filling that glass, Gerald fills mine first. A strange ceremony, that. Present it to the man for testing and approval, but pour it for the woman first. Inexplicable to me.

  "This is from the estate at Mallorca, yes, Gerald?"

  Gerald nods, setting the bottle down with great care. "Correct, sir. Bottled and shipped here for your exclusive reserves. One of a thousand bottles available, I believe, although Marcos would be the better man to ask for precise numbers." A gesture at the shadows. "Shall I summon him, sir?"

  A minute shake of the head. "No, it's all right. It just has a slightly more pungent bouquet than the last bottle, is all."

  "I think, sir, that this bottle is the first of a new batch only recently arrived."

  "Ah. That explains it."

  Gerald nods, bows. "I believe the main course is ready, sir."

  A wave of the hand, a dismissal.

  I am puzzled. Overwhelmed. Estate in Mallorca? Exclusive reserves of a thousand, unlabeled bottles of wine? An entire building in the heart of Manhattan?

  "Where is Mallorca, Caleb?"

  "It's an island in the Mediterranean Sea owned by Spain. I--or rather my family--own a vineyard there, among other places."