The Deception Dance

by Rita Stradling

  There is an evil agent of Hell looking for you and if you leave the protections that are around you now, he will find you. Please cancel your trip, do not go to Europe. He will find you. I cannot say who, why or any more than that.

  Please, burn this letter and tell no one it existed.

  Your neighbor,

  Mrs. Trandle"

  I exhale a long breath, I didn't know I was holding, and then read the letter again. When I read the “he will find you” again, a shiver makes me almost drop the letter.

  I decide the "my lord" part is obviously God or Jesus. Mrs. Trandle is the most devout Christian I've ever met; heck, I wouldn't be surprised if she's the most devout Christian, after the Pope. But, who are the "enemies" of her lord? Is it this "he"? And for some reason this "he" is both looking to drag me to Hell and considering killing a mentally unstable ninety-four-year-old? And how does she know I’m a virgin? Seriously?

  Paranoia doesn’t even begin to provide an explanation.

  I suddenly feel embarrassed for trying to decipher the letter. True, some people might think a letter this dark and foreboding is reason enough to hop back on a plane straight home, but they wouldn't, if they knew the note’s writer, my ninety-four-year-old neighbor, Mrs. Trandle.

  Our elderly neighbor has been handing out crucifixes on Halloween since I was old enough to trick or treat. I hear she still gives statues of Christ’s mangled body to toddlers in Cinderella costumes.

  But, breaking into our house, giving me this letter, and creating this elaborate a delusion, proves that she really needs serious professional help.

  I fold the letter, replace it in its envelope and pinch its corners.

  Poor Mrs. Trandle. For me, going insane would be worse than dying. At least death is clear and final; but insanity, not knowing what is real, sure that evil people are plotting to murder me? No thanks.

  Curling up my legs, I stare out the small oval window, where the ground blinks back at me with thousands of twinkling little lights.

  Chauncey again snores beside me, but this time I don't bother to fix my glare on her. If I were a mature person, learning about something as tragic as Mrs. Trandle's insanity would put my petty issues into perspective. Still looking out of the little window, I sigh and whisper, “I’m not going to dislike you, Chauncey; I’m going to give you a chance, if it kills me.”

  I keep watching the lights spreading out, like an inverted sky, as we near and reach Rome. As the plane touches down, I grab my bag and slip the letter in. I decide against telling my dad about it, subtlety isn't exactly his strong suit; he might say something that could make her even more paranoid. But next time my dad calls, I somehow will tell him how far gone she is. Flashes of terrible scenes play in my mind: Mrs. Trandle, attacking people, eyes wild.

  A smiling flight attendant interrupts my thoughts by walking down the aisle, touching Chauncey's arm and whispering her awake. We wait, half-standing, for the airplane door to open and the passengers to clear out of the aisle. A brunette head bobs a few rows up; it's Linnie, probably quivering to fling herself at us. My sister always looks as if she's on the verge of flight; she reminds me of a little lovebird with clipped wings that can only hop around.

  Linnie leans out of the aisle, peering around the passengers who line up between us. If her smile emitted light, it would illuminate the whole plane. She calls down the aisle, "you will never believe how much I have to pee."

  A couple of the business class passengers between us turn to look at me.

  My own smile muscles, not exercised since I sat down this morning, pull the corners of my mouth up. I call back, "you look really happy about it."

  "Of course I'm happy; I had six cups of coffee." She flaps her hands. "Come on or I'll pee my pants.”

  Whether it's because I'm tired or entranced with being able to talk or, moreover, listen to my sister, the airport passes in a colorful, hectic blur of color, foreign words and narrowly missed elbows. Outside the baggage claim, a man waits, standing in front of a sleek black car, holding a sign with Chauncey's last name, Halverson, on it. Chauncey struts to him as if she expected this, so I hide my surprise.

  On the way to the hotel, Chauncey announces, “So girls, I have good news, my father took care of everything; we’re not staying in the Sheraton anymore, we’re staying in a double deluxe room at Hotel Paradiso, in the city center."

  Linnie squeals.

  Forcing the smile I can tell Chauncey expects, I ask, “we’re still staying in the youth hostels next week right?”

  Chauncey’s designer shades slide to her nose as she stares at me; she’s wearing sunglasses even though we are in a car and it’s dark outside. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No,” I say, “I was excited to stay in the hostels.”

  She giggles and pats me on the head. "Now, I know you’re joking.”

  "Don't look unhappy, Birdie, this will be more fun," Linnie says. And I know it’s a losing battle when Linnie gushes about how grateful she is, what an awesome trip this is turning out to be, and a bunch of other exclamations I can’t agree with.

  I watch busy restaurants and stores pass. At least I’m with my sister and we’re in Rome; I’m determined to be happy. “What’s the time?” I realize I interrupted Linnie and Chauncey’s conversation when they silence.

  Linnie turns on her phone. "A quarter past eleven.”

  “And people are still eating dinner and walking around.” I grin as I turn the dial on my watch to reset the time. “I like this city already.”

  “Me too!” Linnie says.

  “I know, look at all the shops!” Chauncey says.

  I’m too tired to appreciate the splendor of our hotel lobby. I practically sleepwalk up to our room. While unpacking my stuff, I pull out the letter and I'm about to toss it in the wastebasket when I stop myself. I shove the letter back into my bag and wait for Linnie and Chauncey to dress up and leave.

  When I'm alone, I pull Mrs. Trandle's letter out. When my fingers touch it, there is this feeling in my stomach: the exact same sensation I have when the killer jumps out in a horror movie-- an adrenaline rush that makes me feel as if my internal organs are stuck in a trash compactor. I cross to the wastebasket, wanting to fling the letter away, to be rid of it, but I stop.

  It's stupid, I know, but it feels deeply and fundamentally wrong to not follow her letter disposal instructions, since she was at that level of paranoia. I hesitate, then pivot and walk over to the fireplace instead.

  Setting Mrs. Trandle's letter down on the brick, I retrieve one of the matches provided above the hearth, set fire to the edge of the paper and watch it burn to ash.

  Satisfied that I not only fulfilled Mrs. Trandle’s wishes, but also got rid of the creepy letter, I cross the room and am asleep before I hit the pillow. I wake as Linnie crawls into bed with me, smelling tangy, like hard alcohol, and I fall back asleep.

  Both the girls are snoring when I wake for the morning. My watch reads nine-thirty; I’m already on the Italian schedule.

  “Linnie,” I whisper.

  She doesn’t wake.

  I shake her shoulders. "Linnie, come explore with me.”

  “No,” she whines, “Linnie’s dead, come back later or leave a message…”

  I wait, kneeling on the bed, thinking maybe she'll wake up, but when she snores, I roll out of bed.

  White and cream arches loop around several coffee drinkers and loungers in the soft-lit hotel lobby. I glance down at my torn jean skirt and worn white tanktop. Great, I stand out like a bum at the ballet; I didn't exactly pack for hobnobbing with the wealthy.

  When I ask for directions, a small woman at the front desk unfolds a map of the city and points out the major landmarks. Her accent is thick and her pronunciation so unusual and fluid, that I force a smile across my face and grab the maps she holds out.

  “Thanks,” I say, hoping I can read the little labels under the red blobs that signify landmarks. My shoes make a little tap, tapping sound as
I cross the marble floor.

  A man in a suit and top hat opens the door for me, slipping me an honest smile, not a perfunctory one. I return the grin, as I step out of the controlled temperature of the hotel and into the warm morning.

  Fountains catch echoes of the morning sunlight, as they spray flecks of water from the middle of most intersections. I look both ways and decide left is probably a good way to turn.

  As I stroll, my gaze follows the ridges, rough and smooth surfaces of columns, arches, steps and sculptures, spaced throughout the facades of each building I pass. My fingers want to trace all their lines, to run across each wall, to consume their symmetry.

  A lanky man cuts in front of me: “Hello, pretty lady.”

  My gaze snaps down from the second story row of archways I was examining to the man. Pulling up my lips in something that might resemble a smile, I duck my head and veer around him. I can hear the man, still calling after me, as I turn onto a smaller street. Unless I want to tattoo ‘tourist’ on my forehead, I have to stop walking and gawking at the same time. Keeping my staring to a minimum, I meander from avenue to alley. Many of the fountains and churches I pass are probably important enough to be red blobs on my map, but I decide to leave my “tourist evidence” in my purse.

  I order a shot of espresso in a small café, where no one else is drinking anything that resembles a latte or mocha. There are no seats, so I stand at the bar next to a pair of chatting Italian women, and sip from the small white porcelain cup. I’m usually a cream and lots of sugar kind of coffee drinker; actually, my beverage of choice has a whole lot of chocolate and milk. But when in Rome, guzzle down espresso, black and strong, as the Romans do. I snort into my espresso, and then . . . decide to leave the rest.

  Even though I spend only a couple of minutes in the café, when I exit, the day has changed from warm to hot. I finger comb my hair into a ponytail, before my neck gets all sweaty.

  Crossing the street, I wander into ruins. Lonely columns stand sentinel with nothing to support, and colossal structures jut into the sky in every direction; some connect at the top, others crumble to their roots. The expanse looks like a destroyed forest of stone or like a giant graveyard with temple-sized mausoleums. I drift from stone to stone; each has existed in this spot for centuries. Crouching over a carved boulder, I run my finger along the ridges on the surface.

  Glimpsed out of the corner of my eye, a flash of movement makes me look up.

  Across the way, a man peeks out from behind a column; the blaring sun casts his face in shadow and I can’t tell what he’s looking at.

  I glance around to find, I'm alone. So, he must be looking at me. I return my gaze to the man, but he’s gone.

  I walk back and lean into the shade. The day is heating up; I need some water. It’s time to head back to the hotel.

  There he is again. The man now peeks out from behind a stone structure.

  I step away from the column and towards him. "Hello?" I call.

  He doesn't respond, but remains motionless, staring at me. Yeah, that's not creepy.

  I stop short with a small gasp.

  Even though he’s a good distance away, his features are handsome enough to accelerate my heart rate from “Sunday drive” to autobahn speed. Realizing that I'm standing, staring, with my mouth ajar, I shake my head to jog my brain.

  He raises his hand and beckons with the international sign for ‘come here.' I step back into the shadow of the column.

  If this guy can make me stand, gaping like an idiot, from this distance, no way am I walking closer! I think… it is about time I head back. I look to where the guy peeked out a moment ago, a fractured doorway in a ruined stone building; he's vanished, again.

  This place is too hot to play hide-and-go-seek, even with a guy that cute. I cross to and walk up an ancient avenue, hopefully, in the direction I came from. There’s a crowd of tourists strolling up and down a larger walkway, which makes the atmosphere decidedly un-graveyard-like. I jump a little when my phone suddenly vibrates in my bag.

  “Where are you?” Linnie says, her voice full of mock severity, the moment I answer the phone.

  I glance around. “Um, I'm a little lost; I’ve just been wandering all morning.”

  “That’s smart,” Chauncey says. Obviously, I’m on speakerphone and Linnie neglected to mention it. Chauncey continues, “well, we’re driving around to find you for lunch, so find your cross street or ask someone where you are.”

  I look around: there are definitely no cross streets, anywhere. I saw no sign entering the ruins, but, from my research from before the trip, I can deduct that this is the Roman Forum and the Coliseum should be somewhere nearby. "Maybe near the Coliseum?"

  I hear some talking in the background; then, Chauncey says, “be at the large archway in front of the coliseum in fifteen minutes.”

  Scanning my surroundings, I spot the Coliseum up the hill. Just my luck, it’s probably two miles away. I'll have to run it, and I'm already sweaty and stinky. Well, lunch will definitely be interesting.

  I shut my phone and drop it into my bag, while starting to dash up the path. Then, I run directly into someone and lose my balance. My butt smacks the paving stones, sending pain shooting down my legs and heat shooting into my cheeks. I look up to see the damage caused by my clumsiness with, "I'm so sorry” on my lips, but instead I gape. My hot cheeks broil.

  It had to be him: the same absolutely gorgeous guy from the pillars. Great. I just smacked into him, in all my sweaty, stinky glory and sent myself sprawling across the paving stones. At least, he is still standing.

  He reaches down to offer his hand. The features of his face are easier to make out from this distance. His eyes are two bright green spheres, contrasting enough with his skin that I see them clearly. I’ve never seen eyes that bright— they must be contacts.

  Mr. Contacts could be Italian; he has that chiseled look that would make him pretty, if not for his strong masculine jaw. Unlike my pallor, his complexion is a deep olive, made even more obvious by his pastel blue shirt. His hair curls over his ears, not too long; it is like mine, jet black.

  I realize, I’ve been staring at Mr. Contacts for far longer than is, um, normal, and right myself into a more dignified position. I grab my purse, stand up, brush myself off, and then realize I should have taken his hand.

  He stands straight and drops his hand to his side. "Stai bene? Are you hurt?" Mr. Contacts has some sort of smooth accent.

  I intend to say something intelligent, or funny, or at the very least normal, maybe, “no, I’m fine, how are you?” What comes out is, "Bleah-...” Which isn't even a word. I stare at him for another panicked moment, like a crazy person, while his eyebrows hike higher and higher up his forehead, from questioning to real concern.

  Then, I just book it. I'm running up the hill, halfway to the Coliseum, before I register that my leg is half asleep, probably from the fall, and I slow down.

  I grab my face and start laughing; pretty sure a lobotomy is the only cure for my level of dorkiness. I can't wait to tell Linnie.

  Chapter Two

  Day Three

  “Do you like Italian men?” the Italian guy asks, with a thick accent.

  “Yes, they're great with chips,” I grumble; he doesn’t hear me. It was a weird comment, anyway.

  Chauncey giggles, as if this is the first time we have been asked this question; it is not. I can’t even count how many men have asked me if I ‘like Italian men,’ since Chauncey’s driver picked me up for lunch, yesterday.

  The car drove from the Coliseum to where we lunched, in a small restaurant near the ‘heart’ of Rome. After reading the menu, I ordered the only thing I could afford, water. Chauncey had insisted we sit outside and then, the men closed in.

  It’s almost as if all the sleazy men in this country attended the same seminar, where they learned that all American women go to Italy to sleep with them. The teacher at the seminar told them, “You don’t need to learn English to seduce an A
merican woman, you only need to learn one word: ‘bella.’ If you say it, their belts will snap and pants fall from their hips.

  If I ever find that seminar teacher, I’m going to kick him in the shin. If someone else calls me ‘bella,’ I’ll probably kick that man in the shin.

  Another group of men, four this time, approach, ignoring the three who already surround us. From the new party of prowlers, a tall man reaches forward, grabs my chin and says, “Bella.”

  He read my mind; I know it.

  I resist kicking him, slide my chin out of his grasp and back up another step on the pedestal where we sit. I chose the bottom steps of this statue tower pedestal to watch the sunset, thinking the spot was ideal. Several young people were already sitting and drinking beer on the steps, when we wandered into this piazza. The statue stands centrally in the large oval piazza, so we have a terrific view of the sun, disappearing behind the Roman cityscape.

  Surrounding us on all sides, restaurants and cafes bustle with waiters, and diners in their outdoor seating. White awnings stretch into the piazza, protecting their upper-class diners from the last rays of the sun and glaring light at everyone else. Just outside the nearest awning, a disheveled, bent-backed man and young boy play violins. I’ve never heard music played like this: their melody is unrestrained and wild like the flight of a bird caught in a windstorm.

  Watching the sky ignite with color from my perch, while listening to the furious melody of the duo, would be the perfect end to a wonderful day, if I didn’t have to keep shrugging off the arm of Ramiro, the man who has insisted on sitting too close beside me. And now, I have a new man in hot pursuit. I’m getting annoyed. They truly must believe we Americans are here only to slip between their covers.

  Sitting on the step below me, Chauncey is not doing the best job of overturning this rumor. While fixing her hair, her pinky flicks open another button from her silk blouse and she licks her lips, before smiling at the guy who just called me ‘bella’. Chauncey seems ready to flirt with all four of the approaching Italians and the one who has his arm wrapped around her waist. Please, take Ramiro too!