The Deception Dance

by Rita Stradling

  “Lovely,” his breath tickles my ear.

  I turn toward Nicholas; he’s so tall, so I’m looking right at his stomach.

  He glances behind. "Do you want anything else to drink?”

  “Water, please,” My words come out blubbery. Funny word, ‘blubbery.’

  He stands. "Hold on, I’ll be right back.”

  I sink into the leather and let my hand graze over the seat. Lifting my head is hard because each time I do, the room spins. I laugh and let my head fall to the side, resting on my shoulder. I’m glad I’m sitting alone; I feel like a rag doll, as if I have no bones. When Nicholas returns, I’ll tell him that I have no bones. I slump over and let my face rest on the red leather.

  No, I have to sit up. I press my hand down into the leather and push myself to a sitting position. I can act normal. I nod to myself. I am sober. I giggle.

  “Raven,” Nicholas says popping into view, “Chauncey left with a group of men.”

  I’m perfectly sober; I can sit straight and nod.

  “Don’t go anywhere, I’m coming right back.” He leaves. Where’s he going?

  I’ll just close my eyes for one second.

  My eyes blink open. A man’s arm wraps around my shoulders. His jaw juts forward, making his face horse-like.

  “Bella,” he says.

  “Bella, my ass,” I say, then slap my hand over my mouth and blow a raspberry, laughing. I stand up, almost knock a table over, laugh, "Oops!” I yank off one shoe, then the other, singing, “One, two, buckle my shoe. Three, four, shut the door.” Leaving my shoes, I squeeze between the bodies all the way to the bar and yell, “Excuse me...”

  The bartender doesn't pay any attention to me.

  I shout, “Excuse me. I’m looking for this guy and this girl. Will you help me find them?”

  He doesn't even look over. I’ll just lay down my head for one second.

  "What?" I say, my lips pressed to the bar, "Who’s shaking me? Why are you yelling? I don’t understand Italian.” The bartender’s yelling; I have no idea what he’s saying.

  Someone lifts me from the bar; I look back and see horse-face. He has his hands on my shoulder. He says something I can't understand to the bartender. The bartender, a tall blurry man, yells something. Horse-face laughs and pulls me away from the bar.

  “But, I don’t know you.” I squirm as his arm wraps around my shoulder and squeezes. I’m having trouble walking.

  “I don’t know him,” I tell a young woman in a short dress.

  The woman just shakes her head.

  “Let me go, he’s not letting me go.” No one listens to me; they all just walk by. I can barely walk.

  He shoves me out a large metal door. I fall onto the cement. A man helps me up, a different dark-haired man.

  “Help, please help me,” I whisper.

  He passes me to horse-face. He lights up a cigarette and says something in Italian. Horse-face laughs again.

  I beg over my shoulder, “help.”

  The smoking man smiles and gives me a thumbs-up.

  Horse-face drags me into another alley, and another alley, and another alley. I don't even know which way we came from.

  I fight and yell, but he doesn't have any problem dragging me, and my words come out blurry, slurry. I whimper as glass cuts into my foot.

  Maybe if I fall down and go to sleep, I can forget about all of this.

  "Stop, leth me go," I yell, my words are slurred. I push him, but he doesn't flinch.

  Horse-face stops and shoves me into the wall.

  My head smacks so hard, I think I pass out for a second.

  When I open my eyes, Horse-face's face stretches, looking more and more like a horse's. His chin, mouth and nose grow long, long, longer, like a snout. But, his hands aren't turning into hooves, no, their growing into claws, talons, like an eagle.

  "Get off me!" I scream, but it comes out, "Get'sha off'a me!" I kick but my feet are stuck, tangled under me.

  He raises one sharp finger-spear of his claw and stabs it into my shoulder. Warm liquid splashes my neck and runs down my arm.

  I punch his claw, or I think I do; he bats my hand aside and pins it to the wall with another claw. With a snort and a big-toothed, horsey smile he claws into my shoulder.

  I think I scream, but everything is so fuzzy under the pain.

  I blink and he's moved; he holds his bloody claw up, and it drips onto my face. He turns his snout sideward to look at me from his bulging horse eye.

  I raise my hands up, as his claw slashes down, this time for my cheek, but something flies into him.

  I collapse as, suddenly, Horse-face is far away from me, with something else in the alley. There are strange noises, as if there’s fighting but I can’t see what’s going on.

  I try to stand, to run, but my foot sears with pain and I crumple.

  There's a screeching, a loud cry, then silence. Someone sighs loudly, before clomping footsteps head my way.

  I crawl away, dragging myself over trash and grimy paving stones. My chin bumps the stones as I drag myself forward. The smell of old garbage and pee (and worse things) burns my nose.

  Somebody grabs me. I kick, but arms lift and scoop me up. A man holds me like a baby. I look into his face to find it’s not Horse-face. I recognize him and lay my head on his chest.

  My words are a slurry mess of syllables; I try to ask, "Missssster… Mister Contacts?" Then I close my eyes and pass out.

  Chapter Five

  Day Four (cont'd again)

  Cool water drips down my cheeks. There’s some sopping material on my forehead; it pulls away. I wipe the back of my hand across my eyes before opening them. The first thing I see is my hand, smeared with dirt, black dirt and blood.

  “Good, you're awake, Raven,” says a male voice, with a hint of an accent. “Drink this.”

  I stretch my neck to look at the man, sitting beside me on the bed. His features are familiar, as if I’ve been running over them in my mind since I first saw him in the Forum. Mr. Contacts.

  I grab my head, to check if there's a vice tightening around my cranium, but don't find one. I rub my temples.

  “Drink this,” he insists.

  “Huh? What? What is that?” My voice comes out rusty.

  “Something to make you feel better.”

  My stomach muscles clench, as I sit up and turn to the man.

  He leans against an ornate dark wood headboard. His gem eyes twinkle, as the corners of his mouth turn up.

  “What happened? That guy had...he had claws...”

  “You we’re drugged, Raven. Someone you were with tonight drugged you.” He caresses my face, as if he knows me.

  “He stabbed me with a talon.” I touch my shoulder; there’s a bandage taped over it.

  “Perhaps he had a knife?” he says. “Could you have seen a knife?”

  I squint. "Drugged?”

  “Drink this.” He offers the cup again. I think I can trust him; no that’s stupid, I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to trust the man whose bed you wake up in after you’re drugged.

  He holds out a clear glass, filled halfway with a brown-tinged liquid. He looks earnest when he says, “Please, you're not out of danger yet. That drink will make you better.”

  I grasp the glass with both hands, shaking, and take a cautious sip. The drink tastes like gasoline smells; I cringe. Plugging my nose, I swallow down a giant gulp of the sulfurous liquid.

  He doesn’t touch the glass, but cups his hand under it, gesturing for me to drink the whole thing. I hesitate, fingers still pinching my nose, and then gulp down the rest.

  He takes my empty glass and places it on the floor.

  I keep my nose pinched, delaying when I’ll experience the full taste of what I just ingested. "How do you know my name?”

  “You told me, a couple of times. But, you did not tell me where you're staying, so I carried you here.” His accent doesn't sound Italian; it's really faint, Spanish maybe.

  Aft
er I release my nose, I shake my head. I peer around his room, but don’t even take in the details of the nearest painting before that sulfurous drink burns its way back up my throat. My hand flies to my mouth.

  “Here,” he says, again scooping me into his arms.

  I close my eyes and absorb his every movement, as he stands up and carries me some distance, turns, carries me some more and places me on a soft seat. He hands me a large metal bowl.

  His hands hold up my hair, while I empty my innards. The metal rim of the bowl digs into my cheek while I lose my drinks, appetizer dinner and probably lunch, too.

  I whisper, “It’s okay, you don’t need to help me, I can manage.”

  “I don't mind...”

  “Please.” A new wave of nausea washes over me.

  He calls something in a different language and feet scuffle across the room. There’s a soft touch on the back of my neck; it almost feels like a kiss.

  Hands with long fingernails scrape through and lift my hair. A woman’s voice lets out a steady stream of words in another language, her tone sounds scolding, but the language flows like song and I don’t mind.

  When the man’s footsteps retreat, a sigh escapes me. I perch over my bowl for longer than I care to admit. When the last of the sickness dumps out of me, I place the bowl on the floor and push up on the arms of my chair.

  The woman who holds my hair promptly lets it fall and rounds the couch to help me stand. I put weight on my bandaged foot and cringe.

  The woman yells at me, but I have no idea what she's saying.

  I reach for the bowl on the floor; she slaps my hand. Fine, she can clean up my barf, if she cares that much. I concentrate on the floor, as she leads me, hopping on one foot, from the room. She takes me from a white marble floor with black diamond designs, through a door, to white tiles.

  I unglue my gaze from the floor and glance at a spacious bathroom.

  She parks me in front of a chrome sink, dug into a marble slab, jutting from the wall.

  I gaze at my reflection in the mirror. Great. I'm disgusting. I have smears of black around my eyes and dried blood on my chin and neck.

  The woman leaves me, leaning on the sink, crosses to a cavernous bath, sunken into the floor, and turns the nozzles for the water. Steam billows into the air.

  The woman's wrinkled face and sour expression reflect through the mirror, staring at me. The steam frizzes her black hair out of the sloppy bun, piled on her head. She slaps a pile of neatly folded linens next to the sink. "For you.” There is a toothbrush on top of the pile, white clothes, and a thick towel at the bottom. In one fast motion she unzips my dress. "I have cleaned.” she says with a thick accent.

  Gently lifting the strap over my bandaged shoulder I slip off my soiled dress and hand it to her. I wrap my arms around my chest.

  “What hotel do you stay?”

  “Hotel Paradiso.”

  She points to me and then the bath. "I help.”

  I shake my head. "No thanks, I've got it.”

  She shakes her head back at me and grumbles something, as she stomps from the room.

  I exhale and, with a little difficulty, maneuver out of the rest of my clothes. Settling into the bath, without submerging the bandages on my foot and shoulder, is so difficult, I almost regret telling that woman I didn't need her help . . . almost. The water lulls me into a warm, soporific daze. When I blink and lose a couple of seconds, I force myself to clamber out, also quite a feat.

  I brush my teeth and slip a white, floor length, heavy cotton dress up my body. Luckily, my bra still has the few Euros I shoved in there and I replace them. After I've washed the night’s blood and grime from my cheeks, I can see my face isn't grotesquely scarred or even scratched.

  Music slips through the cracks of the bathroom door. I turn the knob and poke my head out; the unmistakable voice of a violin, sings in the air.

  My foot somehow throbs less after my bath and I manage to limp out of the restroom. The room I step into, my barfing room, is large, with antique, expensive (but not well-kept) furnishings. The floor stretches out like a marble checkered board stopping at the only stone wall. Wood makes up every other wall and the ceiling. The room looks as if two builders, who couldn’t agree, designed the space.

  I limp through the cushioned chairs and couches, following the sound of the song. Stepping up through the next doorway, I turn into a dark walkway that leads to the wide bedroom where I woke. This room is entirely made of wood, except one stone wall, covered with stained glass windows, darkened by the night. The bed I woke in sits centrally, its dark wood headboard carved into many twisting spires that almost pierce the ceiling. Meshes of paintings consume the white oak walls, each with the primary pallet and grisly German expressionist imagery, framed in heavy, dark wood.

  A black dog, bigger than any I have ever seen before, lies on the floor near the end of the bed. His chest rises and falls with heavy sleep breathing. I give him a wide berth.

  The music, emanating from the violin that Mr. Contacts bows while sitting on the bed, threatens to intoxicate me again. I hobble over and sit beside him, letting my eyes close. The song is different from the chaotic tune I listened to yesterday. Could that only have been yesterday?

  The music is soft and sad. The melody dances like a summer zephyr trapped in a garden. The image of looking up into a tree, studded with plums, surfaces in my mind. Branches heavy with ripe, purple fruit shift above me, as small patches of light dance across the fingers of my upheld hand. I turn to gem green eyes staring into mine and see a crooked smile, before feeling soft lips trail down my neck.

  My eyes snap open. I blink a few times and shake my head. Maybe I'm still drugged.

  Mr. contacts's tune speeds up; I don’t close my eyes again. I roll back my head and let the music wash over me.

  After he pulls his last note across the strings, Mr. Contacts sets the violin in a case on a table beside the bed.

  “I love the violin; it's my favorite instrument,” I say with a little smile.

  He turns and flops onto the bed, inches from me.

  Focusing on inhaling and exhaling normally, I break our eye contact to watch my hands smooth out the cotton dress over my knees. "I feel as if I know that song. I think I've heard it before. Is it famous?”

  “No,” he says, “The song is old, long forgotten.”

  “Oh, never mind then.” I bite my lip and return my gaze to him. "I was thinking, should we call the police?”

  He shakes his head. “I would rather not.”

  I wrinkle up my forehead, saying nothing.

  He strokes my hair by my face, in a gesture so natural, I don’t shy away.

  “I don't like to entangle myself with the police for any reason. I'm sure you want your attacker caught, but he will not hurt you again, I made sure of that.”

  “Did you kill him?” Directly after the question slips through my lips I feel like an idiot.

  He shakes his head slowly.

  Wow, I am an idiot. As if he would have killed him. My cheeks heat and just for something to change the subject, I ask the first question that comes to my mind, “Why do you avoid the police?”

  “Because they're nosy, they always ask so many questions, questions I don’t want to answer.”

  "How did you find me?"

  He blinks, probably surprised by my abrupt change of subject. "I saw a man dragging a woman, and I followed."

  "You didn't, um, know I was going to be there?”

  His eyebrows lift. "How could I possibly know that?”

  Realizing I sound extraordinarily rude, almost as if I'm interrogating him, I say, "Oh, yeah. I guess Rome is smaller than I thought. Well, anyway, thank you. You might - you might have saved my life and thanks. If you don't want to lie to the police, or whatever, we don't have to have to call them."

  The corner of his mouth turns up. "Lie? I never lie."

  "Never lie?" I say with a smile, "Everyone lies, once in a while."

  "I
don't.”

  "Never even a white lie?"

  He stretches out beside me on his side, his head resting on his bicep. “No. Perhaps sometimes I will manipulate the truth, but only if I have to, to get what I want.” Pinching a little of the material of my dress he rubs it between his fingers.

  I laugh; the sound comes out a little too high pitched.

  “What is funny?”

  “I don't, I don't know.” Afraid he has a direct view up my nose I scrunch down on the bed. “I guess, people don’t usually admit to being manipulative, but I suppose everyone is, when they really want something.” I turn.

  I bet his lips are as soft as they look. I blink and shake my head. What is wrong with me?

  His white teeth sparkle from a perfect smile. "Is there anything you want?”

  I can feel my cheeks heating again. "No." I shake my head again. "Um, coffee.”

  “Of course.” He jumps up. He’s not dressed so casually now. I didn’t notice before: he’s wearing black tailored suit pants and a silk collared shirt. He leans out the door and calls something I can’t understand.

  That woman gives a tart-sounding reply.

  “Do you have any other maids?” I ask when he returns to the bed.

  “Not here,” he looks ceiling-ward, contemplative. "No one else ever stays.”

  Yeah, I wonder why, working alongside that hag. But I don’t say anything.

  He drops down next to me in the position he just got up from, but this time, there is four- or maybe even three-inch distance between us; he combs his fingers through my hair. "I'm glad I found you. I was afraid that man would take you away and I would never get a chance to speak to you." His lips are so close to mine I can taste his cinnamon breath.

  "Was there ...” I pause to swallow, "Is there something you want to say to me?"

  "Very many things," he says, lips almost brushing mine.

  The maid clears her throat. She’s holding out a saucer with a porcelain mug. She says something I can’t understand but from her tone, it’s probably an insult.

  I bounce up like the Easter Bunny and grab the saucer. “Thank...” I change my mind about thanking her, so I just take a sip. Cream and sugar. Yum. The coffee tastes delightful. I focus on my mug.