Sleeping in Flame

by Jonathan Carroll

  "Yes, we are."

  "It's wonderful there now. We've just been playing ball on the field. Only a few people around, and the view is clear all the way to Czechoslovakia." He tipped his hat and the two of them moved off down the way.

  "It sounds like something special up there. You're still not going to tell me?"

  "No, Maris, you have to see it. It's not that much longer now. Only a few hours." I smiled to reassure her I was kidding.

  Before leaving the forest, we passed a giant antenna for O.R.F., the Austrian National Broadcasting Company. Its high, intricately worked steel and busy electrical noises were completely out of place here. She looked at it for a moment, shook her head, and moved on. "It looks like some invader from Mars sitting here, trying to decide what to do next."

  Two men came out of the little office at the base of the antenna. Each had a sandwich in one hand and a beer in the other. Both stopped in midstep and midbite when they saw Maris.

  "Mahlzeit!"

  They seemed so tickled by this lovely woman in the middle of nowhere wishing them a good meal, that they grinned like the cartoon characters Max and Moritz. They tipped their bottles to her, and nodded to me their approval of my companion.

  "That wouldn't be such a bad job; working up here on top of the world."

  "Wait, you haven't seen anything yet."

  It was another few minutes before the hill evened out into the giant open field that gave onto the most beautiful panoramic view of Vienna I knew. I'd discovered the place years before, but it was true I almost never went there. There are certain experiences in life we should hoard so we never forget to savor them when we have them.

  I didn't want to look at her until the full impact of the view sank in. The late afternoon sun, perfectly round and sad yellow, had begun its slow slip to the horizon. The light at the end of a clear fall day is wise light: melancholy, able to pick out the most beautiful or important characteristics of anything it touches.

  Without thinking, I said that to Maris as we stood there, and I was glad I did, but also a little embarrassed.

  She turned and looked at me. "Walker, this place is superb. I can't get over how much has happened in the last twenty-four hours. I can't. Yesterday at this time I was talking to the Munich police about what Luc had done to me. I was crying, and scared to death. More scared than I've ever been. Now, today, I'm up here on Mount Olympus, feeling comfortable with you." Her voice changed completely. "Can I say something else?"

  "Sure."

  "I think something is going to happen between us. The feeling is already there for me, and it's only the first day we've spent together. I don't know if you want that, though. I don't even know if I should be telling you."

  I took a deep breath and licked my lips. My heart felt like a truck trying to burst out of my chest.

  "Maris, the first time I saw you I thought it would be the greatest thing in the world if that woman in the red hat were waiting for me. As far as I'm concerned, something's been happening between us since then."

  That's when we should have embraced and held each other tight. But we didn't. Instead, both of us turned away and went back to looking at Vienna below. But despite our not touching then, it was a moment I will remember the rest of my life. One of those extraordinarily rare moments when everything important is so clear, and simple, and easy to understand. It was a moment like the view of the city: perfect, tinged with a light so pure it made me sad, transient.

  In the next months, we would grow so close and empathetic that she once joked she wasn't breathing air anymore, she was breathing me. All that happened, and I will tell you about it, but those minutes on top of the hill were somehow the best. They were our Eden, they were what set everything else in motion. Finally, they were what ruined us.

  CHAPTER TWO

  1.

  When we were driving back downtown, Maris asked if she could see my apartment. There was nothing in her voice that said she had anything more in mind than normal curiosity. She'd been so forthright about her feelings that I didn't freeze up at the request or lick my lips like the Big Bad Wolf. She wanted to see my place, and that was that. After we got out of the car and were walking down the street, she took my hand and slipped it with her own into her pocket.

  "I liked the barbershop and I loved the hill, but why did you take me to that pet shop?"

  "Because the owners love being there. I sense it every time I go in. They love the dog, they love talking to their customers, they probably love it when no one's in there but them. So few people like what they're doing these days. People don't do their job well because they hate it or are bored by it. I like to see people enjoying what they're doing with their lives. There's a bank near here I go to just to watch the teller handle money."

  We were at the door to my building and I stopped us just short of it. The door was fifteen feet high and made of carved wood, a beautiful thing.

  "Look at this door. Sometimes when I'm going in I stop and look at it because the guy who made it obviously did the job with love."

  We walked down the long hall to the entrance to my part of the building. Then up three stairs to the ancient elevator that made so much noise ascending that I often worried whether I'd reach my floor or not. We got in and I slid the door closed, pressing the button for the fourth floor. The thing clanked, groaned, and lurched up. Maris gave me an alarmed look.

  "Don't worry, it does this every time."

  "That's not reassuring."

  When it stopped on my floor she opened the door fast and got out faster. "That thing should have been in The Third Man."

  At the door to my place I fumbled with my keys, and realized I was more nervous than I'd thought. But I finally found the right one and turned it in the lock. As soon as I did, Orlando gave his normal "welcome home" meow on the other side. He must have been standing right by the door, because it hit him with a small thump when it swung open.

  "Do you always greet your cat like that?"

  On hearing a foreign voice in his kingdom, he stopped dead and "looked" in Maris's direction. He was a friendly fellow, as cats go, but wasn't used to other creatures (besides me) being in the house.

  "Let him smell you, then he'll be okay."

  He walked over and gave her the once-over sniff test. Satisfied she was neither enemy nor large mouse, he began his normal weave around and through her legs.

  "Can I touch him?"

  "He'd like that."

  She picked him right up and gently patted his head. He didn't purr, but I could tell by the set of his empty eyes that he was content to let this happen. Holding him in her arms, she walked into the living room. I followed, feeling like a real estate agent eager for a sale. It was important that she like where I lived, liked the space and objects with which I had chosen to surround myself. Sitting down in one of my expensive chairs, she looked slowly around, checking out the room from that low altitude.

  "Which of these do you sit in when you're alone?"

  "The one you're in."

  "I thought so. The leather has the most wrinkles. Le Corbusier was such a goof. These are the greatest-looking chairs around, but there's nowhere to put your arms. He talked about the necessity for absolute simplicity in things, then designed snazzy furniture like this that's simple, all right, and totally impractical! It's the same with his buildings."

  "That's true! I'm always looking for something to do with my arms when I'm sitting there."

  She put Orlando down and worked her way out of the chair. "Sure. And they cost a small fortune, too. Do you have any pictures of your family?"

  Nodding, I went to my desk and took out a large envelope filled with photographs. I felt a little exposed handing it over, though, because of the pictures of Victoria in there, the pictures of Victoria and me clowning for the camera, the pictures of me in costume for movies and ads I'd done. Besides the wrinkles on my face and personality, those shots were really the only concrete remnant, proof, to Maris York of my last few years.
There was a pullover in the closet bought on a trip to Paris with my former wife, spoons in a kitchen drawer we'd chosen together at the Vienna flea market. But Maris didn't know that. Besides these photographs, she would only know Victoria, or my past, through my stories, but those were so shadowed and colored by my biases, secrets, and hurts . . .

  "Is this Victoria?"

  "Yes."

  "She looks a lot like I thought. Your description was good."

  She saw my parents, their house in Atlanta, my stepsister, Kitty, in the kitchen making brownies.

  "Did you ever read anything about handwriting analysis?" She was holding a snapshot of me at the age of ten in a Little League uniform. I shook my head.

  "The most interesting thing about it is that experts say you can never tell people's personality via handwriting until you've read five pages of their script. There are certain big companies that give a test when you apply for a job where you're required to write longhand for five pages. Then they give only the fifth page to a graphologist or psychologist and get their opinion. I think it's the same with a person's picture album. You've got to look at the whole bunch before coming to any conclusions. Right now I'm thinking 'How come he doesn't talk much about his family? Why does he only have a couple of pictures of his stepsister?' Things like that. But I know I have to go through all of them and see what they're of before I can get any clear idea of you."

  "Would you like a drink?"

  I must have said it in a strange voice, because she looked up quickly. "Are you angry, Walker?"

  Looking at the floor, I shook my head. "It's funny how you can be thirty years old and still embarrassed about things that happened when you were young. Things you didn't have anything to do with, but they still have their hooks in you.

  "I was adopted, Maris. I was found in a garbage can outside a restaurant in Atlanta. A bum discovered me while looking for dinner one night. He's the closest I ever got to who my real parents were. But by the time I found out his name and where he lived, he'd been dead for years."

  An expression of pain and great wonder spread across her face. "Is that true?"

  "That is true. I have a great family. I love all of them very much, but I have no idea who the real ones were. And you want to know something? Victoria always believed that's why I became an actor: so one day my real parents would see me up there on the screen and know their son. I don't know how they'd recognize me after thirty years, but she was sure that was one of the reasons why I worked so hard at succeeding in the business."

  She came over and took my hand. "And that embarrasses you? It's like a German Mдrchen!"

  "If it were a fairy tale it'd be all right, but it's a real life, Maris. My life!"

  "It is not. It's the beginning of a life. What you've done since then is what matters. Look at all those people who were born with everything, but then muck it up completely. They're the ones who should feel guilty. From what little I've seen and you've told me, you're a decent man with a good supply of perception and sensitivity."

  "And my divorce?"

  "Don't be silly. Something like 50 percent of adult Americans have been divorced at least once. How did it happen?"

  "We cheated on each other too many times."

  "That's not so nice, but it's one of the dangers of living today. Everything is open and easy, and you don't have to put much time in to get all those exciting things our parents told us came only after hard work and a lot of real love. I think our generation is still getting used to the fact that sex has been relegated from the main course to an appetizer on the menu. It's too bad, but it is. We just have to accept that and move on."

  "But you said you're interested in me. Doesn't my being divorced make you skeptical about my staying power?"

  She walked over and put her hands on my shoulders. "I'm skeptical, I'm scared, I'm excited. You don't get killed one day and then fall for someone the next. But that's what's happened, isn't it, Walker? What can I do, put on a crash helmet and duck?"

  I leaned forward and just barely kissed her lips. She kissed back, but then her body began to tremble all over. Her mouth moved into a smile beneath my own.

  "I'm sorry I'm shaking. It's been so long since I did this. It's been so long since I wanted to kiss someone."

  I took her full into my arms and stopped the words with a real kiss. Her fingertips pushed on my shoulder blades. I could feel her breasts against my chest. I ran my tongue slowly down the line of her jaw to her throat. She shook harder, flattened both hands against my back. Her throat was soft and warm. When she swallowed, I felt her Adam's apple move beneath my tongue. She smelled of hours-old perfume and a human heat that made me want to shove my hands under her clothes, touch the skin it cooked from. Our kissing became less tender, more bold and wet. She kept shaking, but it was all one with our moving then, so I ignored it.

  I turned her so her back was to me. Kissing ears and hair, I slipped both hands under her sweater and ran them slowly up a slim rib cage to her breasts. She put her hands over mine, not so much to stop as join them on their first, tentative move across her body. Surprisingly, she began to hum. It got louder the longer I touched her. Then she sang in a quiet, deep voice, "'Now is that gratitude, or is it really love?'"

  "Is this passion, or are you giving a concert?"

  She turned and faced me, smiling. "Do you know the rock group, Oingo Boingo? That's their song. It's exactly how I feel right now. What you're doing makes me so hot. Is that because it feels good, or because you're doing it?"

  "Both, hopefully." I started pulling her sweater up and off. As soon as it was off and tossed on the floor, the quaking of her body increased. Looking me in the eye, she quickly shrugged off her undershirt. She wore no bra. Her breasts were large and I wanted to kiss them. But bared so quickly, I was suddenly afraid even to touch them. They didn't seem the same ones I'd held in my hands an instant before, when her black sweater and white shirt acted as stern chaperones.

  Sitting down on the floor, she untied her shoes and took them off. "Come sit here with me."

  As soon as I did, she started unbuttoning her pants. But before she could go further, I pressed her gently back onto the floor. The carpet was dark brown. It lit up her pale skin like a lamp. She smiled at me, put her arms up, and wiggled her fingers.

  "Come hug me."

  2.

  Several hours later, Nicholas Sylvian called.

  "Walker, where's Maris?"

  "Right here, Nicholas. What's the matter?"

  "Good. Her asshole boyfriend Luc just called me. Said he knew she was in Vienna and wanted to know how to reach her."

  "Christ! What'd you tell him?"

  "I told him to fuck a bird. I don't know anything about where she is. Do you?"

  "What'd he say to that?" Maris slid closer to me in bed. I turned the receiver so she could hear, too.

  "That's the problem. He said he was coming to town tonight to find her. Called me a shithead, and said if I didn't tell him where she was, he was going to get me!" He laughed. I heard him light a cigarette and blow out smoke.

  "Where will he look?"

  "I don't know. In the phonebook? Who cares. I just wanted to tell you what was happening. How is our beautiful friend?"

  Maris took the phone from me. "Nicholas, don't be so cool about this! Luc's crazy, and stupid enough to really try something bad. Maybe he'll do something to your family."

  "Maris, remember that movie, Babyskin, I made with Weber Gregston as his assistant? When it was over, he gave me a Colt Python pistol as a present. A crazy but very sweet Geschenk. If the little Frenchman comes, I'll shake it at him and tell him to go away."

  She hit her head, exasperated. "You idiot! And what if he goes to your house when you're not there? Have you thought about that?"

  "Yes, I have. Just enjoy yourself and stay close to Walker now. Let me talk to him again, please."

  "I'm here, Nicholas. But she's got a good point, if he is as nuts as she says."

 
"Did I ever introduce you to Goldstar? The meanest man I ever met. European boxing champion years ago, but now he works as a stunt man. Looks like Gorbachev. He's at my house now and he'll stay there a couple of days. If Rambo comes, he'll have to shake hands with Goldie before he gets in. Everything is taken care of, believe me.

  "You want to go to dinner tonight? I made a reservation at Frascati for nine o'clock. Let's go eat some scampi, huh?

  "Maris, if you're still there, stop listening."

  Shaking her head, she rolled to the other side of the bed and started petting Orlando, who was perched on a pillow.

  "Is she okay, Walker?"

  "She's fine. We had a great day together."

  "That's good. Let's finish it with a good meal."

  Ristorante Frascati was one of the few gifts I'd ever been able to give Nicholas that he didn't frown about. The decor was a mixture of bad paintings of Venetian scenes and uncomfortable chairs. But the food was the best Italian in town, so it had become one of his regular hangouts.

  Maris and I arrived a few minutes early and were chatting tiredly when he breezed in. Nicholas Sylvian was a celebrity in Vienna. When he entered a restaurant there was much fawning by waiters, whispers, and subtle pointing by pretty women and jealous men as he made his way across a room.

  "I've already ordered a hundred scampi and two bottles of Orvieto for me. Maris, you look much happier today. Did you meet his cat? Only Walker would buy a fucking blind cat!"

  He looked around the room to see if he knew anyone. The artist Hrdlicka was sitting in a corner with a group of people. When he saw Nicholas, he made a funny face and tipped his glass our way.

  Nicholas waved back. "I just bought a bronze figure from Hrdlicka that cost as much as a house. It'll take five men to put it in my living room. Then I'll never be able to get it out of there again. The greatest piece you ever saw, so I had to have it. End of discussion. Where's the wine?"