by Ava Zavora
"Tell me where you are in your house. What's it like right now."
"I'm sat on my favorite chair. Big, brown leather. All the lights are out. I like the dark. I'm not afraid of it."
Eden lay across her bed, settling in. Though she was excited, his voice had a soothing, storytelling quality that was mesmerizing. He sounded even sexier in conversation. Was she ever in trouble.
"What's your favorite book?"
"Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky. It's one of the few books I take with me everywhere I go. That and a volume of Hemingway's letters. I re-read them every so often."
Hemingway again. Not only did he admire the man's work, but it seemed he identified with the man himself. Masculine, larger than life. Gifted.
But Dostoevsky was a revelation. Such an intense and weighty novel, about a killer's rationalization of committing murder for a greater good.
"Why is that your favorite?"
"It's insightful. Very dark. Beautiful and hopeless. Dostoevsky's brilliant."
She would have to ponder on the deeper meaning of this choice later. One's favorite book was a window to the soul. What did Crime and Punishment reveal about Adam's psyche?
"How did you find me?" This was a question she had purposely saved so that she could hear the answer and read his voice.
"Because I was looking for a review of The Angel's Shadow and yours was the best."
She had meant to surprise him but was disappointed when he sounded tickled by her suspicious tone instead. He had known she would ask and had prepared a flattering reply. Though she was flattered, she was loathe to admit.
He cleared his throat. "This picture of you, where was it taken?"
"What?"
"In Skype."
"Oh." She had uploaded a favorite picture as an avatar for her Skype account the night before. "In a creek, near my house."
"You're holding something in your hand, what is it?"
"A camera. I was taking pictures of dragonflies." The picture had been shot earlier in the year, a hot spring day. She was wearing a sleeveless white dress, standing in the middle of the stream, surrounded by trees.
"It's too small to see on my iPad. Can you send me a larger picture file via e-mail so I can see it clearly?"
"Now?"
"If it's not too much trouble."
"Okay. Hold on." She put him on hold as she searched through her iPod's camera album. She e-mailed it to him.
There was a thoughtful silence as he looked at it.
"The way the sun is lighting up your hair ... " he murmured, not exactly in admiration, but as though he was describing a painting. Detached, matter of fact. "The color of your skin. You have a beautiful shape. Exotic looks. You must have men---"
"Enough about my appearance," she interrupted, embarrassed. Scrutiny made her uneasy, as when a man stared at her too long, too boldly. Though he said nothing on the other end, she could tell he was surprised. She sensed that he was noting her reaction, his mind calculating rapidly as he had been since the beginning of their conversation.
"I want to know what you look like."
“What would you like to know?" He sounded amused, like he had guessed correctly how long it would take for her to ask.
“If you grew your hair, what color would it be?”
“Light brown. Blue eyes,” he added before she’d had a chance to ask. “Six foot one.”
“Do you know how tall I am?” she asked timidly. “Five foot one.”
“Jesus! A whole foot shorter,” he mocked.
“I’m what you call well-built,” he continued, with a touch of pride. “Pale. With my head shaved, people tell me I look like a Russian criminal."
"Do people look at you wherever you go?" Intuition told her that his looks attracted quite a bit of attention. But not in a positive way.
"Yes," he replied simply. "Airport security, in particular, take one look at me and set me aside for a thorough search. And my bags. Every time."
He looked menacing then. Thuggish. Scary. Perhaps Crime and Punishment described true events in his life? Yet with the heart of a poet …
"You'll never send me a picture of you," she stated. It wasn't a question.
"No. Like I said, I don't trust computers. I don't trust the Internet."
She could tell that in this subject, he was immoveable. It was a sensible position to take and he was answering all her questions, as he had from the beginning. Yet the more she found out, the more mysterious he seemed. She was certain he was hiding something, but decided not to press him.
"You usually wear all black," she remembered him writing. "When did that start?"
"When I was fourteen."
"Do you like wearing suits?"
"Yes. That's one of the reasons why I like living in Sicily. It's very old-fashioned here. Men still wear trousers and jackets every day. Every morning when I have to work I polish my shoes."
"Old school. And the women wear dresses?"
"Yes."
That should be a warning to her. He was a manly man who probably liked ultra-feminine, old-fashioned women. So why was he interested in her?
As though he were reading her mind, he asked, "Do you consider yourself a feminist?"
"Yes," she answered warily.
"A feminist in the modern sense or traditional?"
"I don't hate men if that's what you mean. I'm raising one, after all. I don't believe that women should subjugate men in order to feel powerful, or be necessarily in opposition to men in order to advance in society. I believe in equality between the sexes." She tried to keep from sounding like she was on a soapbox. But if he was turned off, he was turned off. Better to be upfront about their beliefs than continue under misapprehension.
“Does that have anything to do with why you box and take Krav Maga?”
“Uh, no.” She wondered if he was reconsidering her, but she had warned him that she wasn’t as feminine as she seemed.
“Why both?” he persisted. “It seems like going overboard.”
“I wandered into boxing accidentally. On my 35th birthday three months ago, I decided to start a list. To try 36 new things before my 36th birthday. Boxing was number three. I was planning on just taking one class at my local gym then moving on but I ended up liking it. I don’t know why really,” she confessed. “I’ve never been athletic. The opposite. I hated sports. People in my class laugh at me sometimes. But I don’t care.”
“Something about boxing appeals to you.”
“Yeah. I guess because I’m so petite and most people assume I would be too girly or nerdy to like anything like that. I don’t like hitting people!” she added quickly, in case he thought she was violent. “Just punching things, like heavy bags. I wish I was a real boxer. You said you’ve boxed since you were 15?”
“Yes.” She detected a weariness in his tone. “I trained. Never fought anyone in the ring. Always outside of it. I didn’t box because I liked it. I did it because I had to. I was on the streets then."
She felt silly now, a privileged dilettante. He was the real thing. She imagined someone very young, lean, and hungry. She suspected that he was probably a formidable and ferocious fighter.
"And at that time, my line of work made it necessary.” He spoke in a way that was deliberately vague yet meant to discourage her from asking more specific questions.
“You don’t need to fight anyone now?”
“Not physically, no. I have different types of opponents these days. People I’m forced to do business with,” he said with disdain.
Eden heard Dante arrive home from dinner with his dad and go up the stairs.
"Hold on," she said to Adam. "Hi, honey," she said as Dante entered her room, his backpack slung over one shoulder. He came over to give her a peck on the cheek, glancing curiously at her iPod and the earbuds in her ears.
"What'd you have for dinner?
"Pasta."
"Do you have any homework left to do?"
"I've got Stats lef
t," he said as he turned to leave.
"I'll just be on the phone." She closed the door to her bedroom. "I'm back," she said to Adam.
"Your voice," Adam mused, "It sounds different when you're speaking to your son."
"Different? How?"
"Softer." She detected something that might have been envy in his tone.
"Do I sound very harsh otherwise?" she joked.
"No, but I can tell how you feel about him, just by your voice alone." He paused and when he continued, the forlorn note was gone. "What is his name?"
For some reason, this question made her heart contract.
"Dante," she replied quietly. What Adam noted was true - even when just saying his name, her voice revealed so much. She might be guarded with everyone else, but Dante was her weakness. "After the poet."
"Was labor so hellish?" he teased, "That you named him after the person who wrote Inferno?"
She laughed. "No. I just always liked the name."
"Your favorite piece of literature?"
"No," she admitted.
"Yet it's significant to you," he persisted. "A symbol of something ..."
She was silent, uneasy that he was openly analyzing her.
"Out of a terrible place," he continued, striking with such eerie precision that Eden could only gasp, "He was your redemption."
Eden's mouth fell open. Who was he?
She scrambled to form a light reply. "If that's so then I should have named him Virgil," she laughed an insincere laugh, "And he would have hated me all his life. No," she insisted. "I just like the sound of Dante. Plus, it happened to be literary."
"I'll be honest. If your son had been younger, I would have had a problem. But since he's older, and almost a man..."
"A problem with?" she asked, getting ready to be offended. "Don't do me any favors" - was on the tip of her tongue.
"You and me." It shouldn't have, but these three words immediately made her anger dissipate. "You and me." "Us." Was he saying what she thought he was saying? Had he made up his mind? Already?
"Have you ever dated a woman with children?"
"No."
“Have you ever dated an older woman?”
“No.”
"Then why ... " she trailed off. Why her? All because of a damn good review?
"In Sicily, I would be looked upon as being less of a man, if I were to date a woman, not only divorced, but with a child."
She made a sound of disgust. She didn't care how lovely and old world charming Sicily was - it was definitely not a place for her, fallen, scandalous woman that she was. At least two strikes against her. Three, because she was a feminist. Four, counting the fact that she was seven years older. She didn't need to ask what Sicilians would think of the age difference. Judging from what he said, if she lived in Sicily, she would be an untouchable or be on the same level as a prostitute.
"Do you feel more at home in Sicily? The way of life there?" she asked in a neutral tone, attempting to change the subject before she started badmouthing his current home. "Is that why you left the UK?"
"I left the UK for a plethora of reasons. But mainly because I didn't like where society is headed, going from collectivist to individualist. I'm frustrated with current government policies. The future there is bleak and scares me."
"That's why you write the poems."
"Yes. Anytime I feel despair or anger. It's therapy for me. Here, I feel at peace. People actually care about one another."
"You're happy there."
"Happy," he said, as though considering an unfamiliar idea. "I'm content."
"You've rarely had peace in your life?"
"Yes. It's been ..." He paused, searching for the right word. "Tumultuous. I crave simplicity above all. My business is here and in two years, I will transfer the helm to someone else so I can retire."
"At 30." she reiterated, still in disbelief that he was only 28. There was such weight in his voice, as though he had carried heavy burdens for a long time.
"At 30, yes."
"Do you want a relationship or are you just lonely?" he asked abruptly.
Eden was taken aback. When he wanted to be direct, he was very direct.
"I do want a relationship. Actually," she started to confess, "I was on an online dating website. I only started dating last year. That's how I met my ex-boyfriend, the one I told you about. It's supposed to be the best one. They ask you hundreds of questions and you get to be very specific about what you're looking for. Then you get matched up based on scientifically proven algorithms and points of compatibility and they set you up on a first blind date with your matches.”
She could hear him moving around on the other end, opening a door and then walking as she spoke. She could hear the wind. He was outside. The tick, tick, tick of a lighter, Adam sucking and then exhaling. She shivered. It was unexpectedly erotic.
"For instance, among other things, I specified that I definitely wanted a nonsmoker." He chuckled. "And someone who lived near me. I rejected a bunch of profiles just because they lived too far away."
"And how far was too far away?" he asked, amused.
"Over 30 miles."
They both started laughing.
"I think," she said, serious again. "I think I'll let my subscription expire."
"How many relationships have you been in?"
Eden cringed. She hated answering this question.
"Two."
"Your ex-husband and...."
"The last boyfriend, yeah."
He said nothing on the other end. He didn't express disbelief, which could be a good sign.
"You were married for...?"
"Two years." Please don't ask, she silently begged. "Together for ten. We met each other in high school."
"Married for two years ..." He mulled this over. "You didn't want to get married, did you? Was it against your feminist principles?"
"No. It's just that ..." She struggled, again shocked by the uncanny way he arrived at the truth, that she was the one who was reluctant to get married and not Dante's dad. "I’m not opposed to marriage. But -"
"You knew he wasn't the one," he finished. "Yet you got married because your family was pressuring you. No," he said suddenly, as though something struck him and he changed his mind. "You don't care for convention. For your son. You got married because of your son," he declared, confident that he was right.
Eden was speechless.
"And two months or so with the ex?"
A bit dazed, she made a vague sound approximating a yes.
"Do you still talk to him?"
"No." The answer came out sharper than she intended. She decided to turn the tables back on him.
"Have you ever been married?"
"No."
"You weren't ready."
"Yes.”
“See, I have a theory about men and marriage. It's not so much about finding the right woman, but I think men have to be ready and then they marry whoever they're with at the time."
"That may be true of some men. But not for me. If I had found the right woman three years ago, I would have married her." As with everything he's said and written, Adam's tone was decisive, confident. She wondered if he ever doubted himself, ever wavered.
"You don't speak to your ex-girlfriends?"
"None of them. They're all whores." His harsh words were saturated with so much bitterness, Eden knew she should tread carefully.
"It sounds like they hurt you very much."
"They're all opportunistic liars. All they cared about was how much they could get out of me."
"You're so perceptive," she began, "You see through people, into their hearts." You could see through me, she thought. "You're pretty smart." Understatement of the year. "Could you not see through them?"
"They did everything in their power to endear themselves to me. Like my ex. She was my waitress at my favorite bar in London. She needed a place to stay, I had an empty apartment. And it went from there."
"They all
came to you needing help in some way?"
"Yes."
She could see picture it so clearly now. The outsider in black, treated with suspicion everywhere he went. His heart melting with kindness from a beautiful woman, perhaps helpless or helpless-seeming. She would have to appeal to his old-fashioned sense of honor. He would be protective. Although he was freakishly intelligent, women were his weakness. His blind spot. They used him, then betrayed him.
"They knew I had means. Whatever it was they wanted or needed, I could provide. And they didn't care about my reputation."
"Reputation?" she asked in alarm. "What reputation?"
He took awhile to answer, as if deliberating how best to phrase his words. "I've developed a certain reputation over the years."
"People fear you," she remembered him writing.
"Yes." He paused. "Sometimes, I don't have to do anything and people are afraid of me. Like my ex. Once I found out she was cheating on me, she went into hiding with the one she cheated with. I was told that they moved from place to place every other month because they were scared."
"Of you finding them?"
"Yes," he laughed. "So I didn't even have to do anything to them. They were scared all on their own. Isn't that sad?"
"Would you have done her violence?" Her voice was steely.
"No!" He showed agitation for the first time in their conversation. "I would never hurt a woman. Never! They were scared because of what I've done to others. My enemies."
"Your enemies," she murmured. He just didn't look like a criminal. He was one. Or used to be? She really hoped it was the latter. She let his vague answers sit there between them. She didn't want to know specifics.
"You said you're a businessman. What type?"
"Imports. Olive oil, cheeses, various products."
"From Sicily?"
"Yes." It seemed legitimate enough. It was the most ordinary thing he had said so far. So why did it seem incongruous?
"Do people ever meet you and ask, 'Are you for real?'"
"All the time." There was no pride in his tone, but again matter of fact. He knew he inspired incredulity.
“Your scars," she suddenly remembered. "You were going to tell me more about them. What happened in the car accident -when you got the scars on your hands?" She pictured him in a fast car, young and reckless. Perhaps drunk.
