Love under contract

by Karin Fromwald

  Gregor was neither a great fan of music, nor did he find dancing gripping. He was glad that he had mastered the standard ballroom dances half-way. Nonetheless, watching his wife, how her slender muscles moved with each movement, had its appeal. Her dance partner lifted her high, and tossed her bodily into the air, and caught her handily. It wasn’t classical ballet, that much he could see.

  Gregor smiled and could now understand why she was so crazy about her body weight.

  He knew the teacher; years ago she had also done choreography for fashion shows. Her name was Madame Wyhna, and she was half Russian. She had not spotted him yet since she was standing with her back to him and periodically struck the floor with her cane in anger when a movement didn’t measure up to what she expected.

  He was also lost in wonder that Zara accepted every criticism without a word of objection. She did the same movement a hundred times, sweat ran down her face, the pink bodysuit was wet, as was the case with her partner, a young dark-haired dancer.

  “That’s enough for today,” Madame Wyhna called out, and turned off the music. “Practice, practice, even if you’re doing it all for fun!” she said loudly, with her strong Russian accent.

  Both of them nodded wordlessly, and Zara looked up and discovered Gregor, who was leaning against the glass door of the dance studio. Madam Wyhna turned around and smiled. “What a surprise!” she cried out.

  She recognized him immediately. It had been many years since she had last seen him. How could it be that he had changed so little. Perhaps a wrinkle or two around the eyes, and his hair was a little shorter, but as he stood before her in the tight black jeans and white shirt . . .Gregor Levy. The only model that she had ever met who always carried books in his pockets and appeared to be studying everywhere, literally everywhere -- even before the big fashion shows -- sitting on the floor, lost in his studies.

  Gregor went to her and embraced her. “Madame,” he greeted her. She stroked his cheek. “My God, you haven’t changed a bit.” Gregor grinned and kissed her hand. “But I have; your eyesight isn’t as good as it once was. How are you?” She sighed. Her hip joints hurt, her fingers ached... where should she begin?

  Zara came over to them with a towel around her neck and wiped the sweat from her forehead.

  “I assume, my dear, you’re not here because of me, but rather because of the young lady,” Madame Wyhna smiled and looked at Zara.

  “I’m going to take a shower,” Zara said quickly and looked at him. Does this man know everybody? she asked herself. Gregor smiled at her. “I won’t take you with me if you’re stinky.” “Charming as ever,” she countered and showed him her back.

  “Then I can have a cup of tea with Gregor,” the dance teacher called after her, linked arms with him and motioned toward the adjoining salon where a gold-colored samovar was set up.

  Gregor watched Zara disappear into the dressing rooms.

  The two sat down on old, red chairs with worn seats and Wyhna poured him a cup of black tea.

  “Well, I’ve heard that you became an investment banker and have made a lot of money, just as you always wanted.” All the women used to be after him. And why not? He was one of the few beautiful men in the fashion business who wasn’t gay. Gregor nodded. “Yes, one could say that. And you, Madame, still a dance teacher?” She laughed. “Yes, until death, no doubt. I have few students now. My nerves can’t stand these little ballet-rats any longer – and I haven’t choreographed for many years. This, today, was for the bored wealthy would-be dancers.” She looked down at his hands and saw the gold wedding band on his left hand. “I see that you are married. The fact that at last someone has caught you now is not surprising.” Gregor laughed. “Madame!” “What are you doing here with my little princess?” she asked pointedly and nudged him in the ribs. Handsome and rich men never stayed with one woman; he probably married a nice Jewish girl, but adventure beckons, and Zara had her reputation in Paris.

  “I’ve only come by to pick up my wife,” Gregor said, not without some pride in his voice, and grinned. My God, he was really proud to have this girl as his wife. His blue eyes shone and Wyhna looked at him, caught up short, as if she had misheard. “Zara?!” she asked, as if there were someone else present. “Yes, Zara, your little princess.” Wyhna wrinkled her brow. “Hmm..” She took a sip of tea. “What?” Gregor asked, disconcerted; how should one interpret her furrowed brow? “Well, you’ll have beautiful children,” she said, lost in thought, but hardly had she said it, she flinched. She had forgotten that Zara.. “I don’t think so,” Gregor mumbled, a little out of sorts. “Oh, I’m sorry.” She reached for his arm. “I forgot that Zara can’t have children. I’m sorry for you.” It was so embarrassing for her that she had said that, especially since she knew Zara’s story. Gregor shook his head. “You don’t have to be sorry, but you seem to know her well.” Wyhna smiled. “Yes, yes I know it because .. .at that time . . .my God, that was a drama. There she was, pregnant, yes, and her father a Minister. The mother arrived here and pulled her away by the hair, and this quack of a doctor almost killed the child … ” She shook her head, disgusted. She could remember it all so well, and she sighed. She was still holding Gregor’s hand tightly.

  Gregor was silent. Zara was so secretive, she had never told him about this. How could she become pregnant at fourteen? Or, more importantly, by whom, without her parents knowing. What kind of family was this? No wonder that she’s so crazy.

  “How long have you known her?” she asked him then, after a short pause. “Not so very long,” Gregor admitted. “Hopefully, she won’t make you unhappy.” Gregor sighed. To whom is she saying this? “She can also be different,” he defended Zara. The dance teacher laughed. “Yes, yes. Don’t misunderstand me . . . everyone loves her, but she?” She shrugged her shoulders dramatically. “It’s as if it were yesterday, as her mother brought her to dance classes, she was always different, crazy, always a hair away . . .” “From insanity?” Gregor asked, smiling. “Ah, you do know her . . .” She broke off the conversation as Zara approached, her sport bag bouncing from her shoulder, wearing flat sandals and a thin red and blue striped summer dress. Her foot was bandaged with white gauze. Her hair was pulled straight back, close to her head, and she looked like a little girl, as she did so often.

  “So Madame, what kinds of horror stories are you telling Doctor Levy about me?” she asked and looked at Gregor curiously. Wyhna laughed. “You didn’t tell me that you’re married . . .” “Well something like that travels rather quite quickly, and so it’s still a secret. You understand, Madame.” Gregor stood up and gave Wyhna a kiss on the cheek. “Good-by, Madame, thank you for the tea.”

  “Good-by, Gregor . . .” She smiled. As they both left, Madame Wyhna watched them and thought that Zara did not seem happy. He, however, beamed mightily. He reminded her of a hunter who had bagged the bounty of his life.

  Gregor silently took Zara’s sport bag from her, and as they left the dance teacher’s rooms, Gregor asked, “What’s up with the foot?” “I fell.” she answered briefly. Zara’s apartment was a short walk away. “Why are you here?” she asked him.

  “Don’t always hang up when I call,” he said sharply. Zara laughed aloud. “I was at a lecture and it wasn’t on purpose!” Naturally, it was, but should she be straight with him, now that she had her driver’s license again?

  But Gregor saw through her, although he said nothing to her. “I’m here for my work, and I can certainly see my wife,” he said placatingly.

  They had arrived at the old Parisian house where Zara lived – it was, as Gregor realized with amusement, in the middle of the Jewish quarter, not far from the old synagogue. There was also a beautiful old café on the ground floor.

  Zara opened the door and they ran up the stairs. There was no elevator in the beautiful art nouveau house.

  Gregor had been in the apartment earlier. He had been surprised that it wasn’t at all like her grandmother’s; perhaps that was why she had sold it without any
argument.

  At first he thought that he was in the home of an Arab. The beauty of the colors astounded him, and it had everything – from the waterpipe to the dark wood furniture in Oriental style, and the colorful gaslamps.

  In the bedroom, a pink mosquito net was stretched across the bed, and it was decorated with dark sheets and blankets. A Moroccan lamp stood in the corner. Here, to his amazement, he had even found a Sabbath candelabra. It seemed as if she had become infatuated with the Orient. He would have to take her to Israel; perhaps she would like it there. She had to be enthusiastic about something, he hoped.

  Zara tossed her sport bag into the corner and wanted to listen to her messages on the answering machine, which was blinking. “Don’t you have any appointments?” she asked and looked at him. “Yes, with you..” He pulled her to him and embraced her. “With me?”... she smiled. It was the first time that she had smiled at him. She pulled away. “I still have to finish a paper!” Actually, she also wanted to go to this new club with her friends.

  Gregor smiled. “We’re going to dinner with some of my business partners; with your intelligence, these business dinners shouldn’t be a problem, should they?” Did he mean the question in earnest, or was he mocking her? Sometimes she wasn’t sure. Earlier she had been, but since London, unfortunately not any longer.

  Zara shook her head. “But I don’t want to!” Gregor sighed. Zara went into the kitchen and looked for an apple in the fridge. Gregor took the opportunity to press the button on the answering machine. It was full of news, where and when the parties were beginning today, and who would be going where.

  Zara returned to living room while the answering machine was still running. “What are you doing, listening to my messages?” She turned it off. He reached for her hand and held it fast. “You’re going to dinner with me; you can go to the parties tomorrow.” “No, the club opening is today,” she said petulantly and wanted to pull away from him. “No, you’re going to dinner with me,” he repeated emphatically. “Let go of me, you can . . .” she cursed him and reached for a beautiful large red decorative bowl standing on an old commode. She raised her hand. Gregor was speechless. What had happened to the woman with the perfect manners? The one he had in front of him was authentic! No play-acting, but also no princess; this one could swear worse than any fishwife!

  He ducked a little, otherwise the bowl would certainly have hit him in the head. It flew in an arc to the wooden floor, where it shattered into countless pieces. He finally did let her go, but said, “You’re nonetheless still going to dinner with me, even if you throw all your dishes at me!” She looked at him, wide-eyed. “No, I’m not!” she cried out defiantly. “Yes, you are ...”

  He pulled her to him and kissed her on the nose; she squirmed, but couldn’t get out of his embrace – and it was fun for her, although she couldn’t explain why she felt that way.

  “Let me go!” she repeated, but suddenly had to laugh, God knows why. The situation was a little strange, and Gregor couldn’t do anything but laugh along with her, resoundingly. He held on to her, fiddled with the zipper of her thin dress until he got it open, and stroked her bare skin. She didn’t have a bra on. Somehow they made it to the sofa and lay there, tightly wrapped around each other, while Zara tried to get his jeans off, which, with his help, she was able to do.

  They were half naked, when someone begin to hammer on the door. Gregor looked toward the hammering sound, irritated, and asked, “Are you expecting someone?” Zara was just in the process of kissing him from the neck down, and said nothing. She was still reluctant to kiss him on the mouth – this hesitation was her personal protest, and she simply shook her head. “That’s probably Marc, my neighbor; he always comes over to borrow something.” The knocking didn’t stop. Gregor sighed, pushed Zara aside, and got up. “Let’s take a look at who your neighbors are!” He went to the door – alone, and wearing only tight underpants – and opened it.

  A man close to Zara in age stood in the entrance way. He had dark hair, blue eyes – a blue that was probably provided by contact lenses, since it looked so fake that it couldn’t have been his natural eye color – and fine facial features with which he probably also earned money as a model. He looked at Gregor, speechless – with wide-open mouth – and stammered, “My God, my God!” Gregor laughed. “No, that I am not, but the synagogue is next door; perhaps you can find him there!” What kind of a guy was this, Gregor asked himself. Definitely gay. “Oh, my God,” Marc continued and now held his hand over his mouth. Gregor was a little confused. “Can I help you?” Gregor asked and suppressed his laughter. “Yes and how... !” he was able to utter. Zara now came to the door, stood behind Gregor, and looked past him. “Marc, close your mouth!” she ordered, and laughed too. She knew why Maurice was reacting like this, and that’s why she hadn’t said anything when Gregor volunteered to go to the door. Zara was wearing only her lace panties, but she knew Marc’s preferences. She could stand in front of him stark naked and he wouldn’t notice, even though her figure was quite boyish.

  “This is Marc,” she introduced him to Gregor. “He is my neighbor.” “What do you need?” Marc smiled and pointed to Gregor. “This man, please.” Gregor shook his head and took a step back. Zara was still laughing. “He’s already taken, Marc . . .” Marc stared at Gregor’s perfect body. “You’re Gregor Levy, right? And perhaps also gay, no?” Gregor laughed even harder. “No, I’m sorry, I can’t help with that.” He embraced Zara with one arm and kissed her hair.

  Actually the neighbor came at an inconvenient time, now, when they were finally getting to the point. He hadn’t seen his wife for a few days and now that he was sleeping with her again, the desire for her was so strong that he often had only one thing on his mind during the day, namely sex – instead of concentrating on his work.

  “Marc, you’re interrupting,” Zara said and laid a hand on Gregor’s naked chest. “I see; how unfortunate. I only wanted to borrow some crème fraiche.” Marc grimaced dramatically – oh, why were men like him heterosexual – although he liked Zara very much, this man … he was too good for her. He let out a dramatic, loud sigh. “Too bad, I would have taken him instead of the crème fraiche.”

  Gregor stepped forward and said, “I’ll get it.” He didn’t find the young man’s stare all that pleasant. He didn’t appreciate such glances during his modeling career either.

  He overheard Marc saying to Zara, however, “You didn’t tell me anything about him. What is Gregor Levy doing in your apartment?!” Zara laughed softly. “He is my husband.” “Oh, no! Since when?” Marc could hardly believe it. “You’re curious, and it’s none of your business; I’ll tell you all about it some other time. Now get lost with the crème fraiche, and have fun!” She took the container from Gregor and pressed it into Marc’s hand. Since he made no pretense of leaving, she shoved him out the door. When he was gone, she leaned against the door and sighed. “He’s very nice, but a handful . . .”

  Gregor stood before her and looked at her. Had he heard pride in her voice for the first time as she spoke of him as her husband, even if it was just because he was her gay neighbor’s pin-up boy? “Marc has several photos of you in his bedroom,” she explained grinning. “I’m more interested in why you have crème fraiche at home.” Zara smiled. “For cooking?!” Gregor laughed. “But you don’t eat it yourself, do you? Zara laughed and embraced him around his hips. She stood on her tiptoes. “Now don’t say that I have an eating disorder again!” Gregor grinned. “It’s alright, I don’t want to fight just now.” He had something entirely different in his mind and picked her up to carry her to the sofa. She was so light!

  She sank into the cushions of the broad, soft sofa and wrapped her legs around him. “Gay neighbors and a synagogue next door! Where did the woman with the perfect manners that I met in New York go?” he murmured and pulled Zara’s slip down. “She wasn’t authentic,” she whispered and ran her fingers through his hair. Yes, she liked him, she admitted to herself, even if she was som
etimes furious with him, it was better with him than with most other men. She looked at his lips and came nearer, almost shyly, but Gregor, who had waited for days that she would kiss him, responded to her touch immediately.

  She tasted like apple, like mint, like more, and he pushed her into the cushion. She simply held him fast with her legs and they lay there like teenagers for a long time, kissing and petting.

  There was hope for him and Zara, he thought, smiling, as he saw her closed eyes between kisses, her full mouth, which she held out to him greedily, because she loved being kissed by him, because she loved every touch and wanted more, much more. She pulled down his pants with her toes and held him by his hips. At some point in-between he quietly asked, “Now admit that sex with me is fun, even without any of your crazy intentions and absurd thoughts of revenge!” She smiled and kissed him. “Hmm, I have to think about that, and I’ll tell you later.” Her eyes had something wily about them. What the devil did she have in mind now?

  After they had sex on the sofa and on the rug, and climbed into the large round bathtub, Gregor said again “You’re going anyway, even if you don’t want to!” “Compromise?” she responded timidly. She pulled his hands up and held them, looking at his long fingers. Was there anything that wasn’t perfect about this man? He sat behind her, with her between his legs, leaning against his chest. She looked up at him. How could he resist her? She knew exactly how she could persuade him.

  “Suggest something,” he said obligingly. “We’ll go to dinner and then I’ll take your people to the club. It’s supposed to be good.” Gregor wrinkled his brow. He was skeptical; in the meantime, he had gotten an idea where Zara hung out night after night and thought it might be a little much for these men in their conservative suits with their even more conservative views. “And what do you mean by good? Sex? Naked women? Drugs?” Zara laughed. “No, well yes, maybe all that as well, but leave that to me.” “Zara, these aren’t some kind of crazy artists.” “Hey, I was once an attorney for these guys; I know that I can’t drag them to a hip-hop club!” “And you may well become their banker, if someone takes you on after this change in your way of life.” In fun, he pushed her underwater with one hand. “Are you crazy!” she cried out, when she came up for air. She wiped the foam off her face and laughed.