“I guess it would be terrible for me to say I have no recollection of those children.” She whispered and Jason pretended not to listen, trying not to invade the intimacy of her inner thoughts.
Clarice handed him one of the pictures, which he took with no delays, wondering he could know something from the pictures, supposedly.
Nothing. It was a simple picture, a garden, plenty of sun and two children. Small, good-looking, two boys who seemed happy beside Clarice, who showed younger and more tranquil features than those from now. There was a shadow over that photo, not a physical shadow, something different. Maybe she wasn’t actually as happy as she tried to show, or that could simply be Jason’s tendencies to associate the image to that. He was happy with his son, but he knew how to recognize an unhappy smile trying to transpire positivity behind the exhaustion. He would know, better than anyone, how to recognize that by distance.
A doubt came to his mind and his eyes ran from the photograph to the woman and then to the belongings in the bag, which she had already put back again in the backpack.
“You were running away.”
“Was I?” She replied, confused by his certainty.
“Personal belongings, photos, clothing, maybe your journals… You just do not carry that when crossing a forest.”
“Yet, no phone. At least I’d have a digital library on me.” Clarice mocked, distractively stirring the tea in her own mug, trying to mix the honey to the liquid.
“True. Marco’s life is all about the latest iPhone and his morning jogs. I think he would trade me for a prototype without thinking twice.”
They shared giggles and, for the first time, Jason felt naturality in the moment and, perhaps, even some lightness to that. Clarice kept on stirring her drink until that moment his eyes, which thoroughly followed her, captured the moment when she raised the spoon, hit it twice or three times against the mug’s edge to get rid of the excess tea in there and Clarice, finally, took the small spoon to her lips, attempting to completely clean the utensil before laying it on the saucer over the counter. There was nothing special about that action, but it seemed so natural, so ordinary and automatic that it made Jason lose a few minutes floating on the scene that repeated itself over and over in his mind.
“Jason, I just want to make it clear that what I said is the truth. I don’t want to cause any conflicts between you two.”
“Gibberish,” He replied, returning to the present moment and making himself comfortable on the stool he was on. “Marco and I have no conflicts, we just… he’s sixteen, what else could I expect from him?”
“Still, I’d like to apologize. I shouldn’t have brought that up, shouldn’t have asked him about… about her. You barely know me, I barely know you, and I had--”
“Clarice. What’s done is done. Marco will get over it and I’m fine with that.”
She sighed and, delicately, put the backpack on the floor, ignoring the object’s presence. She was more focused on appreciating the tea and that moment than on searching information with urgency, something Jason came to understand once trying to imagine the kind of life Clarice could have had. He took the moment with her, sipping the tea slowly, allowing the drink to warm his body and spirit little by little, cleansing it from the slight tiredness the journey from before had brought to him.
“What makes a husband try and kill his own wife?” She raised the question, almost in a rhetorical way, still staring at the steamy drink in the mug.
Jason didn’t answer, but held his breath, as if it would get her to ignore his presence in there. Nonsense, he was at his own house and a loud thought shouldn’t make him so uncomfortable. Unfortunately, the question had made him uncomfortable. Jason took another sip from the tea and opened a smile, trying to remove her mind from those questions.
“The day you leave, I guess I’ll miss this tea.”
“At least you’ll have something to miss.”
“No!”, He quickly replied with a laugh. “I didn’t mean that. I meant that... I guess, sometimes, we go through unique experiences in life. Experiences that build and shape and change your way of seeing the world. And I think you might be one of those experiences, Clarice.”
She smiled, taking one more sip and observing him from over the mug’s edge.
“Maybe I am. Are you always that philosophical?”
Jason laughed again, flowing with the lightness of that moment. For a long while now he hadn’t gotten into such nice conversation with someone, he hadn’t allowed himself to that in the past years. His wife’s death brought him a thousand fears and problems, forcing him to enclose himself inside his own obscure world of books, characters and solitude. Marco was the closes contact he had and, now, Clarice had come to him as an intervention, breaking all those barriers and offering him the freedom to be who he was once more. Not exactly who he once was, but the best side of the person he could ever be.
VI
Her nails dug deep on his lower back, while her teeth slid across Anthon’s neck, following the same rhythm their bodies were moving with each thrust, each tremor, each strike. The bed, enormous, now seemed too small for them and that man proved to be even more surprising than she had expected. The feeling of having him between her thighs, of being entangled to him as if they were one, with nothing but sweat between them, gave Georgia an indescribable feeling of power, superiority, a feeling of control. While one of his hands grabbed her breast, the other was sliding down her back, accommodating her on the position that fit him better.
She turned, placing herself on top of him, touching his lips with hers, ignoring the mess caused by the hair, breathing and perspiring, just sinking into the moment.
“There, don’t… don’t move...” She pled, breathless, slowing her own pace. “Slow… There.”
And he obeyed. Partially for being completely subdued by her, and the bigger part was that he was enjoying that moment just like a child who goes to Disneyland for the first time. She twitched, feeling the climax was closer than ever. She held his head with both her hands, bringing him closer to her, now he was basically sat on the bed, while she was on him, against him, one inside of the other in a perfect rhythm.
Anthon shut his eyes, the woman could feel the spasms through his body, he was also close to getting in that place they so wanted to share with each other. In flashes his lips slid on hers, moving to her neck and kept on moving down and down, while her nails created irregular patterns on Anthon’s shoulders and back, reminders he would carry forever from that evening. For it was already evening.
Her thoughts escaped her mind for seconds when she felt he was touching her right and the moment was about to come.
And it came. They had allowed themselves the control until both were ready and, with that single eye contact, they both understood. The movement increased again, gradually, and she felt it was time. His breathing became heavier, louder, short and failed; while hers also became louder, higher, shaken with the same intensity that she felt trembling her whole body. And that trembling feeling spread through her limbs up to her head, coming in waves in a second time, and again, and she also felt his body shiver and quake as the spasms and the thrusts became deeper and more abrupt. She was not the kind of woman who yelled in pleasure, but, for the first time, she did it, she let herself do it, considering that he, somehow, also deserved some reward for it.
And they both fell on the mattress, Anthon lying on his back, breath and speechless, with Georgia over him, perspiring, panting, trying to recollect herself while she felt her lips extremely dry and the sheets completely wet. She would need a shower and a moment outside to freshen up, but for now she would be there, at least until she could calm herself again.
It was not five stars’ hotel, but it road motel either. The presidential suite seemed to be a nice idea when they planned to be there for only one hour, but they were almost on their eighth and, from the window, it was possible to see the full nighttime outside.
Her head moved up and down accor
ding to Anthon’s chest, and she gave herself into the moment, into the silence, the cadence.
“Look…” He whispered in a breath, still trying to breathe right. “I’m exhausted. Positively exhausted.”
He sat on the bed again, although now his intention was to get rid of the condom so he could comfortably lay and, probably, enjoy a nap. Georgia observed him still down, asking herself whether she should have caused so much damage to his back. Nice back, by the way. The detective was, without a doubt, the most charming consequence she had ever stumbled upon. And he also could deliver it in all possible ways.
She was also exhausted and aware that she would never be able to sleep before taking a long steamy shower, maybe a bath would be better. She was exhausted and not only because of that hotel day with him.
He dropped his body on the bed again, this time nesting her head on his chest, placing his head one her nape and bringing her closer to him. Strangely too close for a first night of casual sex.
“You should be,” She completed, taking the chance to imply a discreet and purposeful compliment “after three long times.”
“For some reason, I had you as less… wild.”
“If I tell I’m used to listening to it, you could take it the wrong way.”
As they spoke, his voice became slower and slower, sleepy, almost distant. She kept on observing him.
“Thrice.” She whispered in his year. “You have a lousy wife.”
She noticed when he made excessive effort to open a smile. The after-sex drowsiness was taking its tool, three times stronger.
“The last time we fucked was, well…” He laughed. “I don’t remember the last time. I guess... I don’t remember the last time I fucked my wife. I have a lousy wedding, that’s what it is. She probably doesn’t even remember the shape of it.”
“Oh, that she must remember.”
He smiled, already far enough. The way he sighed and kept on smiling, with his left arm on his forehead and the eyes almost shut confirmed that, soon enough, he would be asleep. The other hand, behind Georgia’s head, ran its fingers across her dark hair, sometimes gently massaging her scalp, sometimes not. Even those movements were becoming rare, losing its pace.
“Will you hate me if I sleep?”
She slid her hand across his face and chest and abdomen, stopping as it reached the lowest part of his upper body, gently touching him.
“No. You deserve that, Detective Gilles.”
“Keep calling me like that… and the fourth time will arrive before expected.”
She curved her lips in a smile and waited, in silence. He sighed a few more times, cleared his throat at other moments and, suddenly enough, everything got still. His breathing was now in automatic mode, cadenced and slow. His eyes weren’t moving and no words came out from his mouth anymore. Still she waited, maybe for fifteen or twenty minutes, maybe even more, but she held on, patiently still.
When she considered it to be time enough, she raised the hand laying on his abs and moved it in front of Anthon’s face, one side to the other, observing his reactions. None. She raised her head and, then, lightly blew against his face where his beard started to show up, indicating it would soon be shaved again.
He moved. He whispered something impossible to comprehend, seemed to have opened his eyes and smile, only to turn to the other side and make himself more comfortable. He was indeed far, far away.
She slid to the edge of the bed and jumped out, careful not to make any sounds, and got inside one of the white hotel robes, covering her naked body. Then she fixed her hair in an improvised bun and moved to the corner of the room, where both her and Anthon’s belongings had been thrown over a small accent table. From her bag she took a pack of Morley’s, placing a cigarette on her lips while searching for her Zippo, already walking towards the balcony on the other side.
It was cold outside the room and, although the snow was not falling anymore, the wind was sharp. She lit the cigarette and took a long, deep drag from it, relaxing after all those times with Anthon. He was good, after all, more than she thought he could ever be. However, she still had to remember he was merely means to and end and not a resting place to settle down and be for a while. He was disposable.
Maybe he didn’t have to be.
No. She wouldn’t let herself be misled by mere pleasure. The hurry and the cold weather made her cigarette end very soon, tossed away in a small hotel ashtray. She returned to the bedroom and thanked the carpet on the floor – something warm, but that also prevented unnecessary noises to be made.
He was at the same place, dead by exhaustion and completely naked, unaware of anything around, available and vulnerable as no detective should ever be.
On the floor, their pieces of clothing were scattered irregularly and so they should be. Georgia moved down and spent some time admiring his gun locked inside the holster and sleeping on Anthon’s crumpled shirt, wondering whether to touch it or not. She shouldn’t. Also, she wanted something else. Some things else.
Over the nightstand, their cellphones also rested. She moved towards it, on tiptoes, and grabbed his phone, already lighting the screen. At first, 22 missed calls, the preview of a message with thousands of abbreviations that looked like a puzzle and a notification from some app she didn’t know. When she tried to unlock the phone, a lock screen popped up, blocking her.
Georgia, however, was familiar to the device and it was similar to hers. If she were lucky enough, he would have also configured it for fingerprint unlock as she did, making it another challenge she would have to overcome. Carefully, to avoid waking him up, she moved the phone under his thumb, holding it there for instants until she got the screen unlocked. Biometrics, in the end of the day, were not that reliable.
And he was still in deep dream state.
Georgia went to the balcony again. She stopped for a while, though, when she crossed the large mirror on the room’s wall. Traces, evidences of who she once was were written out of her countenance and she could barely recognize herself. The hair was different, and so was her posture. Her eyes were still the same, but the rest… a mask she would have to carry with her for unknown time until she tied up all knots left from that story.
It was still quite cold, but the balcony offered her protection and distance in the case of Gilles waking up. In the worst scenario, she would simply pretend to have just arrived at that place and, then, would pretend to acknowledge the similarity between the phones, she had merely confused the devices. He was a man, he would believe anything, all she needed was a sweeter tone of voice and the promise of kneeling down later.
She sat down, making herself comfortable inside the heavy and fluffy robe, trying to harness as much heat as possible from it. His phone, now unlock, looked like the bedroom of a depressed person – an enormous mess with thousands of apps, imagens, icons out of place. If she could, she would organize it, but she couldn’t nor had time to.
Calculating all her moves she accessed his instant texting app. She couldn’t leave traces, so she had to avoid unread conversations for she would obviously be the only suspect on reading them. What she needed should be somewhere in there, maybe an unsaved contact number… maybe one of those people with three or four unread messages… nothing.
She figure the next stop should be at the e-mails. This was easier to do, once she would only need to be careful of retagging the red messages and unread after opening them all. Spam, doctor’s appointments e-mails, warning about something that was not paid and... a mail from [email protected]. And attachments.
Georgia opened the e-mail, while finding a more comfortable position on the chair, crossing her legs on the wide piece of furniture. The e-mail contained few lines, few details. There follows requested info regarding the case previously discussed, please reply ASAP. Expecting reply soon.
The information was not even that relevant. Digital copies from bulletins and reports filled by cops from that region along pictures. Four or five simple photos: one portrayed a bu
rned down place that, if you really squinted, could look like a house in which only a long staircase and one wall remained up; another picture had a charred body, with hands and feet tied back as animal before the slaughter; what looked like a bloodied arrow and blood drops on the snow, pointed out by small yellow plastic tags with numbers. Crime investigation, details that could even be important, things that could offer the detective the lead he needed in that case.
Such a shame it would be if he lost those pieces of information.
Such a shame, indeed, she though while she slid her finger across the screen, confirming the deletion of that e-mail. Next, her fingers became alive and started knocking around the screen, while searching for the trash folder to delete the message once more, removing it from his device once and for all. Luckily enough, that server would be similar to the one she had access to, always in sync and that would also delete the message in case the detective accessed his account from a computer.
A mishap and maybe suspicion, both of what she was already willing to face.
Job done, silently she returned to the room, closing the balcony door again and sinking into the steamy warm environment inside the room. Without further noises, as if almost floating over the floor, she returned the phone to its original spot, beside her own device, and returned to bed, before we could wake up for any stupid reason, annoying her in such glorious successful moment. She found herself a way to fit again in the detective’s arms and closed her eyes, waiting she could also enjoy some sleep, even if for only a couple hours.
The Woman Hidden Page 6
