The Woman Hidden

by Lucas Mattias

  Martha placed her wrinkled hand atop Clarice’s, clearing noticing the ring she had on.

  “Dear, as I said… we need to be more united. You can be sure my mouth will be sealed. Is your husband prowling around?”

  “We had a crisis, that’s it. I needed some fresh air.”

  Clarice thought it would be enough and the woman’s saddened eyes and her stiff lips proved her to be right. She also knew, however, the woman’s mouth wasn’t and wouldn’t ever be that sealed, but for now that would suffice.

  “If you feel the need, dear, feel free to visit me. My stew is the best around here.”

  “I believe you.” Clarice replied, again faking a smile. “The pie is wonder, I should say.”

  Unfortunately, Clarice hadn’t pondered that a compliment could set the woman back into her blabber for another hour before she decided to leave. The conversation restarted with cooking abilities, touching her incidents while trying to come up with international dishes, until it ended shortly after her deceased husband’s clam allergy; everything taking long turns before coming to a conclusion, everything needed excessive details and minimal, lengthy explanations. Clarice kept her patience to its maximum level, but had no need to kick her out. Half an hour with the lady seemed to have lasted double the time.

  “Well, thanks a lot for the tea. I hope everything works out with your husband.”

  “I also do. And don’t worry, I will tell Jason you used his favorite secret ingredient on that pie.”

  “Don’t forget,” she said, while heading to the door with Clarice. “Two portions of cinnamon, one of ginger and one of nutmeg. The man has a taste for spices that is formidable.”

  “I won’t forget it.”

  “And heat up the nutmeg previously, they say it’s better for your health.”

  They were both by the door, Clarice trying to find the best way to say goodbye without being too rude. She opened the door, then, and waited for the woman to leave.

  “Well, I should be around.” Martha said, already pulling her scarf closer to her face and shoving the little pack Clarice had given her in one of her pockets. “Thank you for the tea and the herbs.”

  “There’s no need for that. Remember to leave the herbs in a dry and protected place. Whenever you want, just do the infusion and honey is always a good option to sweeten it.”

  “Three measures of herbs, one cup of water.”

  “Three measures of herbs, half cup of water.” Clarice corrected, opening a smile. “Take it at night and you’ll sleep like a child.”

  “I will, dear.”

  Without further delays, Martha left, giving herself into the strong wind announcing another storm and layers of snow to come. Clarice sighed and felt relief relax her muscles as she closed the door and returned inside, trying to remember where she was before being interrupted by the lovely Martha Allembert.

  III

  As the door shut, hardly closed, Anthon felt his fist knock down the lamp on his desk. The noise caused by the debris against the wall alarmed the officials around his office, something he cared too little about. The next thing to do would be shut the drapes and sink into his chair, looking for ways to get out from that hideous crisis.

  So what if he had lost shallow evidences on a sunken case from another city? It was not even his case, to begin with. He had his own pile of problems to solve, actual ones, mountains made of filed and ongoing cases he actually cared about, not that shitty mysterious murder with no suspects. Not that stupid case worked by an inferior department that barely knew how to apprehend a witness and possible suspect.

  He stared at his phone screen without necessarily checking the time, although that had been his intention. There was an unread message from Georgia. The corner of his lips curved into a quick smile, but soon dissipated when he thought about his past few weeks. He didn’t know if he should reply her message or even move on with that particular case.

  Georgia was amazing and the sex was supernaturally wonderful and not only because it had become a matter of routine with his wife, where the sex was scheduled previously and, most of the times, didn’t even happen. She was more than fucking. Georgia represented a good part of him, the feeling of having back what had been taken from him, allowing him to be a better and more sensitive man when with her. He could open up without judgements, he could talk and be heard, as well as he could listen to her too – although she didn’t use to talk much when they were together.

  She was a mystery. Anthon, a detective, saw in that an aphrodisiac motivation, just like a rose he could open petal by petal until reaching its inner and secretive core, protected from external forces for unexplainable reasons. Thinking of Georgia brightened his day, considering seeing her accelerated his heart, urging him into doing more and more stuff so that that moment could finally arrive.

  Up to two nights before.

  Two nights ago, he had arrived home tired, not only because of his job, but also after the long afternoon of sex and light drinks shared with Georgia in some hotel, as they enjoyed the bar and, also, the room service. He had hoped he would get home, eat some leftovers from dinner and sneak in the bed, as always, without making noises, walking on tiptoes. As usual, he would try to fit himself in the small space left for him in that king size bed and would rethink his whole day and his investigations until he would get to some conclusion or, finally, to sleep.

  But nothing worked out as expected. Monica was waiting for him at the living room, her eyes red and the face swollen. It could’ve been alcohol, sleepiness or, what was revealed later on, plain anger. Her hands trembled on the armchair’s arms, while she pretended to watch TV. She was in her usual robe, an overwhelmingly expensive piece of clothing she had bought a few years ago while on a trip around Europe. She needed it, she told him, to comfort her during his late nights working. He remembered seeing her phone on her lap, while she tried to control her breathing as she noticed him in the room.

  It only took him closing the door for her to start a storm made out of yells and curses, words that went from “bastard” to “fucked up asshole”. He accepted all the name-calling because deep in his chest, he knew it was his fault, even when he wasn’t sure of the reason for that angry meltdown. It wasn’t long before the reason was revealed.

  God was good, he though then, for placing them in a penthouse, otherwise they would have neighbors filling up complaints about the Gilles.

  “I offered you the best I could, Anthon. The best.”

  That phrase kept on reverberating inside his head for the days to follow. Mostly because he hated when Monica rubbed in his face the fact that, prior to their wedding, he was a boy lost in the world trying to be someone, living in a 100 square-feet apartment on top of a bar. Monica, on the other hand, was part of the high society royalty, she knew very well where she wanted to go having so much influence and zeroes in her bank account. By chance they met, but not by chance they stayed together, but again by chance they could have an early end. Monica’s inheritance or her name, on the face of a multinational corporation, were not the reason to keep the marriage moving forward. He knew he still loved her for the woman she was besides that.

  Something that did not seem to matter. Not when his sister-in-law had decided to send her a picture of Anthon kissing a stranger, at the bar of a trendy hotel downtown. Fuck. Couldn’t he have been more discreet?

  He needed to hear that, to accept that.

  And he heard her scream and cry and go silent until she went back on talking and bringing up more stuff from the past as if the world had started to fall apart. He even considered, for some moment, that had she wanted to remove him from there, she should feel free to do it. That was a thought he didn’t externalized, both for being afraid of turning it real and also for knowing she also loved him back. A lot. She believed in that relationship, although for a long time it had been stuck facing an unavoidable fall, watching a certain death at the end of that sharp road.

  He also remembered that, after a co
uple of hours, she got tired and locked herself in the bathroom, doing god knows what. He used that time to freshen up at the terrace. Hadn’t he quit smoking, he would have lit a cigarette while observing the cityscape far below him, under his feet. A city that often enough seemed sleepless, without problems, a place that could embrace him and guide him or simply dispose of him at some sidewalk. Distant, sirens kept him alert, reminding him of the fact that, in the long run, nothing ever seems to stop, not even that late at night.

  His life couldn’t stop either. Georgia meant a lot to him, but he knew his heart to belong to his wife. Half of it. Was it possible that two people could fit into his heart, the same way?

  He shouldn’t rush into that. Georgia had been in his life for a few minutes, while Monica had faced his best and worst. Monica had offered him support when his first promotion was denied, she was his right hand when he became a detective and stood by him with invaluable strength when he needed to take thousands of nights out for work, even when a stupid pursuit put him in the hospital for almost a month under severe observation. She offered him the best treatment and stood there until his recovery. He didn’t have to push too hard to remember, she did him that favor without him even requesting it.

  When she finally came out of the bathroom, she seemed calmer, cleaner, refreshed. He believed he could have, then, the chance to talk and apologize, or even convince her what she saw was not true, that it could be a sheer coincidence or an outside attempt on breaking them up. It wouldn’t be a complete lie, he knew her family had always hated him for not being a part of that same old circle of friends. He was not a politician, nor a businessman or lawyer. He didn’t deserve being amongst them. But there he was and there he would stay. He could simply hug her and convince her everything would be fine.

  She didn’t allow him, though. Monica decided to get ready for bed. She would have a long day and would need a good night’s sleep before facing a large table of lawyers, partners and shareholders, before taking serious and necessary decisions. She simply changed her clothes and ignored him, leaving her message hover in the air before laying down and turn all lights off.

  “I need time to think. And I don’t want to think having you around.”

  That night he slept on a nearby hotel. And so he did the following night. And, as certain as the light of day, he would do that in that night, too. He feared she could take some abrupt, sudden decision and he wasn’t sure he was ready to face a divorce and all unsurmountable changes that would come from it. He decided to wait for it, without bothering her or questioning her or craving for her. He would just wait.

  But now the wait had started to take its toll.

  And then the work crisis. Apparently, he had lost important evidence from the case that seemed to be even cooler now and not only because of the approaching snowstorm. Suddenly he had come from renowned and respected detective to a pariah, the man under the scope of his bosses for further analysis. No one ever ignores a case with an urgent call. Nobody ever denies help to a coworker in predicament. Unaware of it, he had done both.

  Just to relieve his mind from that burden, he dropped his phone at the IT department, so he could be sure no virus or malware had affected his phone and, eventually, hurt his investigation.

  Nothing came out. Besides not getting any valuable answers, he was finding himself more cornered than before.

  He would just leave. Leave the department, ask for an afternoon off so he could focus again on that case, maybe even drink for a few hours until he blacked out to wake up the next morning only. At least he wouldn’t have free time to keep on dwelling on those fears when under the effects of alcohol. A single beer clearly wouldn’t be enough.

  He stood up and served himself with a shot of whiskey. He normally didn’t have alcohol at work, but Georgia had given him a bottle the weekend before and not only because it was his favorite label, but also for believing it would go well with his office. He swore it would only be a nice piece of decoration, but he really needed a sip of it.

  Warmed up by the drink, he took his coat and the trench coat, put his phone in his pocket and left. Later he would worry about answering the text or not, meeting her that night or not. For now, all he needed was the cold and polluted air from the outside and a good old bar. He even knew where to go.

  He didn’t need to drive so far to get to the place he wanted. The old bar that was once his partner years ago, the one below his egg-like apartment, where he squeezed himself between studies and his dedication to become someone worthy. Not exactly now, recalling that once he desired to become a successful lawyer, maybe even work for one of those big corporations he harbored so much hatred, plans that changed when he learned his childhood dream could be real and quite better. The bar, in the past, turned out to be a source of companionship and, at times, extra income when in need of cash to make it through the rest of the month.

  Now it was just a nostalgic place where he could drink and ignore the external world as he chatted and let things out of his chest with the owner and bartender, Mike. He didn’t even know if Mike was that almost seven-foot-tall frowny cliché of a man’s real name who, with a well grown beard and rock ‘n roll long hair, hid a big friendly heart for moments of need.

  Mike knew Anthon’s preferences. Mike knew when to offer his opinion and when to only listen. Mike knew everything and he was better than any shrink who would charge him 500 bucks an hour. In part because Anthon had a vast supply of philosophers and therapists on his upper shelf. The old Ruelle was the best of them all; aged, dark label, the best alternative to his consternations.

  And Mike was there, as always. Leaning against the counter, pretending to watch a replay of some football match Anthon cared too little about. His beard was the same, and so was his rebellious hair covered by a ragged cap printed with the name of some old classic rock band. The difference from years ago was that, now, the grey strands of hair were more dominant than the original black ones. He also looked more bloated and not only because of the belly resting on the counter, maybe all those alcohol-cured years were weighing on him.

  The small pub, somehow Irish, somehow a Kiss and Rolling Stones mashup, seemed to be the best place to be.

  Anthon sat at the opposite corner of the counter, he didn’t want contact to sunlight or contact to old fellas. He wanted to drink, simple and plain. Mike said nothing. He picked a specific bottle from one of the counters and poured some of it in a crystal glass.

  “Make it double, Mike.”

  And so he did. The amber liquid sparkled inside the container, calling for Anthon in a smooth whisper in his ear.

  “Bad day?”

  “Bad week.”

  Anthon took a long and heavy gulp, the burn from the beverage waking him up from the inside. He had an empty stomach, just then he thought of it, so his eyes immediately tried to find the peanuts bowl. He wasn’t up to it, Mike understood.

  Whiskey with a spicy portion of something fried. That was a classic, which mean that was one of those terrible weeks.

  “Monica?”

  “Georgia.”

  Mike’s thick brows briefly lifted, but he wouldn’t ask about it, Anthon knew it already.

  “Have you, Mike, ever unexpectedly met someone who seemed to have in her all the essence of what life should be like?”

  “Every day, Gilles.”

  Anthon laughed at the answer and finished his glass, already showing his desire for another shot.

  “It’s slow today.”

  “It’s a bad time of the day.” Mike replied as he finished scribbling something down on a piece of paper and took it to the counter that led to the kitchen, on the back.

  “I met this person, Mike. And my life is falling apart.” He ran his hand over his face, trying to realign his thoughts. “She may be the only constancy right now.”

  What about Monica? That questions would not be made, but he knew that to be Mike’s wonder.

  “She doesn’t want to see me. I think this time there�
��s no way back.”

  “She loves you.”

  “I know. I love her, too.”

  “What are you doing here then, eh?”

  Anthon waited for his own answer, trying to find it deep in his own guts. He couldn’t tell. He needed to talk and, as far as he could see, the people who should help him would only bring him more problems. Monica wouldn’t be prone to hear about his affair and Georgia… they simply wouldn’t talk. Not at first. Not at second. It was possible he would even forget about his troubles and they wouldn’t talk in the end of the day.

  “She knows it’s her fault.”

  “Georgia?” Mike asked, his eyes oscillating between Anthon and the match on TV.

  “Monica. She thinks I’m married for the money,” He scoffed in a sharp exhale. “I still work. I should have changed my car two seasons ago. I still have unpaid debts. And she thinks I’m still married for the money.”

  “She loves you.”

  “She thinks I love her money. The status. The penthouse. And I don’t give a single fuck about this, Mike. You know it.”

  “Does she?”

  While he played with the glass in his hands, the chewed on the question. She knew, didn’t she? She must have. Was he the type of husband who believes his wife knows it all when, in reality, doesn’t even make an effort to convey love?

  No. Bullshit. He knew how to convey it and to show it. Maybe not in that particular moment, but he had always known. He would always remember each and every anniversary, he always had gifts.

  “Why those things keep on happening to me?”

  “Because you are an asshole, Gilles.”

  Anthon laughed again. The short witted answers were a cure to his problems. He scratched his arm, trying to ignore that sudden itchiness that started to spread. Maybe he had drunk too much already, although he was only at his second glass – third, considering the small one at the precinct. Nonetheless, he could already feel his heart racing and jumping beats the way it used to whenever he had reached his drinking limitations, something that had exponentially increased in the past few years.