Flora looked at this woman for three seconds, and then turned back to the stall door. “Isabelle, are you in there?”
“Don’t do that. What are you doing?”
Flora turned and looked witheringly at the woman. “Have you finished in here? Mind your own business and leave.”
In true Viennese fashion, the woman huffed and puffed but then fled.
When she was gone, Flora knocked hard again on the stall door. This time the force of it pushed the door open. No one was inside.
Flora turned around and walked back into the restaurant. She could just make out across the dimly lit room that Leni was sitting at their table talking to someone. A man… Vincent Ettrich.
As was the case whenever she saw Vincent, Flora froze for a beat. Before he met Isabelle, Vincent and Flora had had a wonderful short affair that left her dizzy with surprise, desire, and longing. It had not gone the way she planned. For two years after it ended (her doing), Flora could not stop wondering in her secret heart if this was the man she had been waiting for her whole life. When it was happening, both of them had treated their relationship as something delightful but insubstantial—a classic fling. For a few days here and there together now and then, two married people being naughty away from the world among crumpled bedsheets and hotel room service.
When the end came, Flora was initially glad, then sad, and in due course dumbstruck by how much their affair had meant to her. A month after she had ended it, she saw Vincent again in New York. But she was so frightened of her feelings for him that she barely let him kiss her on both cheeks when they met for lunch. To her dismay, her aloofness didn’t appear to bother him a bit. Naturally she’d had fantasies during their time apart. Some important part of her hoped he would have come to the same conclusions as she and run to her when they met, hope and gratitude flying off him like sparks. Instead Ettrich looked at her fondly, as if she were an old classmate he was pleased to see and shoot the breeze with about the good old days—but that was all.
Half a year later he came to Vienna for business and at a party they both attended, Flora introduced him to Isabelle. Later she swore to Leni that she knew the moment those two shook hands that that was it; Fate had just stepped onstage. But the truth was she introduced them because she was showing this man to Isabelle for her appraisal. She wanted her best friend to meet and talk to the guy so hopefully she’d have some new insight as to how Flora might win him back.
But part of her account to Leni was true—fifteen minutes after introducing Vincent to Isabelle, Flora Vaughn had seen enough to fade into the background. She turned quickly away with a gulp and a grimace when later she saw them leave the party together.
“Hi Vincent.” She always worried about her voice when she was around him. Worried that it would betray her by going too high or low or crack or something that would tip him off as to how flustered she still was in his presence.
“Was she in there?”
The abruptness of his question took her off guard. Flora sat down. “No. I didn’t see her leave, did you?”
Leni took out her cell phone and dialed Isabelle’s number. “No, and you know she would have told us if she were going home.”
Flora’s eyes traveled back and forth between Leni and Ettrich.
Looking around the room, he slowly began to shake his head. “The whole thing is starting again.” It appeared that he was talking to someone but it wasn’t them.
Holding the phone to her ear, Leni looked at her friend to see if she understood what he was talking about. Flora caught the look and shrugged no. Then she gently asked Vincent what he meant.
Even if he had wanted to answer, there was no time. A giant, ear-splitting crash exploded from the front of the restaurant. People sitting at the tables there cried out and leapt from their places, glass shards and splinters splashing on and all around them. The wide front window of the restaurant had been destroyed. Half of it still sat in place, jagged and dangerous-looking. The other half, the top part, had burst across the tables and floors and customers seated nearby. It looked like a bomb had gone off.
There was such shouting, movement, and tumult that no one paid attention to what caused this. One minute the window was there, full of afternoon light, the next it exploded, showering a million sharp pieces of glass across the room. A woman stood frozen in place, her little round pocketbook held out in front of her like a shield to stop whatever came next. She jerked when another crash came a moment later—a waiter dropped the large metal tray he was carrying when he began to feel the glass shard wedged in his cheek. Part of the shard was black—a fragment of one of the letters spelling the name of the restaurant on the front window.
Leni had been trained in first aid and immediately went to help. Flora, not knowing what else to do, followed her.
Vincent’s eyes darted all around, taking in the scene: paranoid, dubious, taking in everything. The room was chaos. No one else knew what he knew. What was worse—what had just happened, or knowing what he did?
He wanted to stop the world for just a moment before deciding what to do next. Despite what was happening around him, he dropped his head back and closed his eyes. No good—those few seconds in his own darkness brought nothing helpful—all he knew was that he had to find Isabelle immediately.
Head still tilted back, he opened his eyes. High above the table hung his model airplane. Motionless, it looked as if it were suspended there on wires. It was larger now, twice as large as the one he had built. But even at that distance there was no question that this was the same plane—same shape, same markings. Only now it was two feet long. Big enough to break through a thick window if it hit the glass with enough velocity and force.
The instant Vincent became aware of it, the model began falling toward the table. It dropped slowly, like a leaf drifting down from a tree on a windless day. A dip here, a twist, it descended like it had all the time in the world. When it landed on his table it gently knocked over a half-filled glass of red wine.
The plane lay so that Ettrich could see the cockpit. He had done a brilliant quick sketch there with a black felt-tip pen of Isabelle’s head, as if she were the pilot. He had showed it to her as she was walking out the door to have lunch with her girlfriends. Stopping, she closely examined it and smiled. Without looking at him she asked, “Am I the pilot of your plane?” He wrapped his arms around her big pregnant body from behind and growled, “A hot dark yes to that, Cap.”
Tunica Molesta
Isabelle Neukor was flying. Not only that, but she was doing it on her back. It was the most remarkable thing. She kept turning her head to look down at the sidewalk as she flew, sure that any second she would drop and really hurt herself, especially at that speed. But it didn’t happen—she just zipped along. She was on her back two feet above the pavement, moving very fast toward who knows where. She was pumping her arms too, as if there were invisible oars in her hands and she was rowing a boat. Down to her knees, up to her chest, down to her knees… the faster she rowed, the faster she flew above the sidewalk.
No one around seemed surprised. She passed an old woman walking two little dogs. Then a mother pushing a baby carriage who glanced indifferently at her and then away. Not a word, not a raised eyebrow. Next, Isabelle passed a kid clicking along pretty fast in the same direction on a yellow skateboard. Then a well-dressed man in a Chesterfield coat standing in the middle of the sidewalk reading a newspaper. He looked down at her as she passed and impassively back at his paper. No one paid attention to Isabelle; no one gave her more than a cursory glance as she floated by, flat on her back, arms pumping.
If she needed to avoid anything she just stopped moving one hand and pulled hard with the other. That was how she steered left or right. It was exactly like rowing a boat.
Nor did anything seem strange about the world around her. She saw trees blowing in the wind, pedestrians, and a blue and orange hot dog stand with several workers lounging in front of it drinking beer. Nothing appeared differe
nt other than her mode of travel which, although strange, she was beginning to enjoy. She really had no idea where she was going, but for the moment that didn’t matter. Because bizarre as it was, it had become one of the more exhilarating physical experiences she’d had.
This was the third time it had happened, so she was a little less shocked than before when the experience had been so new and disturbing. The first time she was brought here, she had been sitting on the couch in her apartment looking at a magazine. She was turning a page when suddenly—poof—she was in this place, this land, or whatever it was. For an hour or two she wandered around, scared out of her wits. But nothing happened. She wandered, looked at things, wondering and worrying all the time What is this? Where am I? Why am I here? Then just as suddenly, poof—she was back on the couch again.
The second time she was in the kitchen cooking an egg when, poof—she was back here. It appeared to be the same town but she didn’t really get a chance to find out because her visit was very brief—only a few minutes. In fact that second time she was actually walking up to someone to ask them where she was when, poof.
This time the last thing she saw was her hand turning the silver lock on a gray toilet stall door. The next moment she was on her back flying above a sidewalk. It was that fast and simple.
Remembering something, Isabelle desperately dropped both hands to her stomach. Feeling the child inside her there, she let out her breath in a fast relieved whoosh. Now she was okay. She had always had the baby inside her when she was brought here before, but who knew how things worked in this mysterious place? She always had to check herself to see if she had brought Anjo with her.
For the first time since arriving, she looked down at her body and saw that she was wearing the same clothes she’d had on in the restaurant a few minutes before. That hadn’t changed. Her mind was clear, her stomach swelled with the baby, her clothes were the same… it was as if she’d only walked from one room to another. But in this room she could fly—on her back.
She defined the experience to herself now as “blinking.” Because that’s exactly how it felt when it happened—one second you’re here, then blink, and you’re there.
This was the third time it had happened in a month. Isabelle had said nothing about it to anyone because she wasn’t sure what she wanted to say yet.
If she had tried to describe the experience, she would have said From one moment to the next I leave here and appear there. It’s completely out of my control how and when it happens. Sometimes it’s strange and surreal there. I see things that are impossible to imagine or describe because no words do them justice. Other times when I’m there it is little different from real life. Nothing bad has ever happened. I am just taken there awhile and then I am returned to my life.
“Hello!”
Isabelle had been so lost in both her surroundings and thoughts about being here again that she hadn’t noticed when the tiny man suddenly appeared on her stomach. About the size of a salt shaker, he nevertheless wore a fancy black suit, crisp white shirt, and black silk tie that reflected the passing light. Only his loud hello brought her back to the moment. Thirty inches down her body, he waved at her. He looked so happy and expectant that she felt compelled to say something.
“Hello. Who are you?”
Hitching up his trousers, he sat down on the high mound that was her tummy. But he did it so carefully that she barely felt the added weight. “My name is Broximon. How do you do?” He waved again.
“Excuse me? What did you say your name was?”
He smiled as if he’d heard that question before. “Broximon.”
“Broximon.” She had to say his name herself. It sounded familiar, but she was too preoccupied at the moment to figure out why. She did try his name out on her tongue as if it were some kind of new taste.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “That’s right. And welcome to you, Isabelle. It’s high time we met.”
Because she hadn’t moved her arms since noticing him, her body had begun to slow until it came to a complete stop in the air. Then it gently floated back down and landed on the sidewalk.
Bending forward and stretching his neck, Broximon looked over her stomach at the ground. “Don’t worry—as soon as you’d like to move again you can. All you’ve got to do is pump your arms like you were doing before.”
“You know who I am?”
“Of course, Isabelle. We all know who you are.”
“You all? What does that mean, all?”
Broximon swept an arm out in a long slow 180-degree arc. “Everyone here.”
Before she had a chance to ask where here was, he saw something off to the left and called out, “Jelden! Jelden, over here.” He looked at her. “You’ve got to meet this guy. He’s a real character.”
This was nonsense. All of these things were coming at her at the same moment, but they were only more questions. She needed answers. Lifting Broximon off her stomach, she put him down on the ground and stood up. Only when she was fully erect did she look toward where he had pointed. Five feet away was a man made entirely of butter.
“Isabelle, I’d like you to meet Jelden Butter.”
He was bright yellow. He wore matching blue jeans and a denim shirt. He wore a corny-looking straw hat with a hole in the brim and a dandelion slipped under the red bandanna sweatband. A long stalk of hay hung out of the left corner of his mouth.
“Howdy, Isabelle.” He stuck out a hand for her to shake. But just as she reached for it, he jerked his away, thumb up, over his shoulder. Then he cackled. “Sucker! They fall for it every time.”
Broximon rolled his eyes and patted Isabelle reassuringly on the shoe. “Don’t mind him. He lives in a 1950s time warp. That’s where all his jokes, no—that’s where all his life comes from. Right, Jelden?”
Butter looked at the two of them and smirked.
“Did you eat Jelden butter when you were growing up, Isabelle?”
She was staring so intently at the yellow man that she didn’t really hear the question. It was true—the closer she looked, the more obvious it was that he was made entirely of butter.
“What?”
“I asked if you ate Jelden butter when you were growing up.”
“What’s Jelden butter?”
Jelden Butter put a hand over his heart and said in a hurt tone of voice, “I am. Weren’t we just introduced?”
Isabelle looked from Butter to Broximon and then back at Butter.
Broximon saw her look of growing dismay and explained. “Jelden was a famous brand sold in California in the 1960s and seventies. They ran a bunch of television advertisements starring him.” He pointed to the yellow man.
Jelden put his thumbs up into his armpits and sang very loudly,
“Jelden butter on your plate,
Helps to make the morning great!”
Broximon slapped his hands quickly over his ears. “No, Jelden! I swear to God, if you start singing those damned jingles again—”
Too late—the Butter Man was already singing his third jingle by the time Broximon dug in his pocket, withdrew a disposable lighter and flicked it into life. He stuck his arm out and walked toward the singer. Seeing that little flame, the fire that could melt him, Jelden shut up immediately.
All Isabelle could think was Why doesn’t he just blow it out? But then she remembered where she was. Things were different here. Maybe in this world, people made of butter weren’t able to blow out flames.
Taking a few quick steps back, Jelden said to Broximon, “All right, all right, I’ll stop. Put that away. I only came to tell you your friend is looking for you.”
Isabelle didn’t know what he was talking about. What friend? She looked down at Broximon, assuming he understood the statement.
Broximon asked, “How do you know that? When did you see him?”
Jelden said petulantly, “A few hours ago.” He looked at Isabelle. “You don’t know who I’m talking about, do you?”
She shook her h
ead. “No.”
“Simon? Simon Haden? You know him, right? You know that name.”
“Simon is here?”
“This is his world. Welcome to Simon Haden land.”
When he was alive, if you had asked Haden how many times he’d dreamed about Isabelle Neukor since they first met, he would have been embarrassed to admit at least once a week. Women generally said yes to him because he was so handsome. If they said no he either dismissed them, or else became interested in finding a way into their hearts for the little while he needed to conquer them.
Isabelle said no to him often but so sweetly or wittily or sexily that his interest in her grew into a kind of low-grade obsession. And Haden had never been the obsessive type. Until a couple of years before he died, things had come easily to him. He’d had no need to obsess about anything because life was pretty much his for the asking. Not only that, but a great deal of what he wanted was offered to him.
Not Isabelle. After a while he didn’t even know if she mattered to him—getting her mattered, fucking her mattered. Having her underneath him with her clothes off and his cock deep inside her mattered.
Haden ruined any chance he had when he brought her to a party where she met Vincent Ettrich. He had originally met Vincent in Los Angeles while there on business and liked him very much. Particularly because both men were unrepentant womanizers and had common ground on which to walk. Ettrich knew LA well and introduced Haden around to interesting people. The men had a good time together. A couple of years later when they bumped into each other at the Loos Bar in Vienna, Haden repaid the favor. When he heard that Vincent knew Flora Vaughn, he took him to a party where he knew Flora and Isabelle would be—and ended up regretting that invitation for the short rest of his life.
Within a week Ettrich had won Isabelle’s heart, body, mind, and soul. Haden was appalled but what could he do? Worse, Ettrich was so grateful for the introduction to this phenomenal woman and the big magic that was happening between them, that all he could do rhapsodize like a warbling bird about her when the two men met. Of course he didn’t go into any kind of inappropriate detail because he respected her so much. But that’s all Haden wanted to hear—her details. Where were her moles? Was she loud? Did she say no to anything in bed or was she shameless? From Ettrich’s hints and smiling silences, Isabelle Neukor was a tiger, a whirlwind and a feast in every way. Haden thought his head would explode.
GLASS SOUP Page 4
