Breathless, she said, “Thank you.”
“Happy birthday.”
“Our song was lovely. You made me chant unique verses. It was very moving. Magnificent.”
“If you want to see me again in the future, it can be arranged.”
“This would be better, more comfortable for me, in the privacy of my home.”
“Aren’t you married?”
“Technically. Public appearances, but separate homes, and mostly separate lives.”
“Sounds complicated.”
“Life gets complicated.” She pulled her lip in. “I just want to have a good time. We could do this, not rush; then we could lie in bed, talk. I would like to know who you are, know all about you.”
“Sex isn’t required. It’s about you. About what will make you happy. You can define that.”
“No one ever asks me what will make me happy. No one has ever asked.”
“I want you to enjoy yourself, to have fun.”
“Was this fun for you?”
“Did I do or say something wrong?”
“Sex makes me like people more than I should. I could get attached to a very young man based on sex.”
“I’ve done the same before, only with a slightly younger woman.”
“Then you understand.”
I offered, “Let’s play it by ear.”
“Young man. Do you know who I am?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Let me tell you.”
“Okay.”
“More or less, I have been with the same man for over thirty years. Since I was seventeen. He isn’t the only man I’ve been with. When I was at the University of Texas at Austin School of Law, I had a few spring break moments, moments he knows nothing about. Alcohol, music, weed, sand, beaches, and taking a week away from studies to live life to the fullest was a must. I was young and energetic, idealistic, nice, and diplomatic when required. At times I wish I had had more affairs, or only had had more boyfriends, and never taken a husband. But you can’t live your life like it’s spring break. I was twenty-two when I married. I made life serious so soon. My husband was with me, was in my bed most nights, when he didn’t travel, when I didn’t travel, but I think he had mentally left me within five years. When I was twenty-eight, I used to blame the petite Pakistani girl with an accent. Then when I was thirty, I blamed the girl from Spanish Harlem. When I was thirty-two, I blamed myself for working, for having a mind of my own, for not capitulating to almost every argument the way my mother did with my father. I said it was my fault. Blaming myself was easier. We all want someone to blame. We need to have the blame focused. It is never one thing. Fires can be traced to a source, and then you can point your finger at the cause of the destruction. The disintegration of love can’t be traced so easily. It’s muddled in time, spread out over many events. Our best times were at the start. We were like Marvin Gaye singing a love song, and it was all about the need for sexual healing and wanting to get it on to get rid of our inner-city blues. I used to live for him being inside of me, lived to bond with him, but that all went away. After the children. After a million pointless arguments. You wake up one day and it all feels like a chore. I became just another chore to him, and he became just another chore to me. We married out of love, but now we stay married for legal reasons. I suppose we love each other, but we are chained together more by law than by our hearts. Now I am almost fifty. Sometimes I laugh and hear the laugh of a twenty-one-year-old woman. My reflection tells me the truth, shows me I still look young but am aging gracefully. I see my mother’s face. When she was my age, I thought she was old, but now I realize how young she was. It feels like life is just beginning for me, but I am on the other side of the halfway mark in my journey. I have fewer days left than days I have already spent alive. I feel as if I have to grab what’s left of the young inside me before the old takes root and spreads like kudzu. I ask myself if I would do my life over, and the answer is no. Not the marriage. Not the kids. I love them but could do without them and their father. The best part was when they were young. We want babies, not children, not teenagers. They need you for a while; then they become insolent and no longer need you in their lives, only your money. I love my spoiled brats, but I experienced it once and that would be enough. I might even have skipped all of those rigorous years in university and had more fun in life. I’ve always been chained to something or someone that wasn’t equally committed or chained to me. Now I am longing for something else. I am finally yearning for something for me, but the sad thing is, I have no idea what that thing is.”
I listened. Some clients paid to be heard. I listened to learn. There was wisdom in her words.
She said, “I was ambitious. Had to have a certain type of man. Had to have the biggest house. I might have been just as happy being a barista with Friday night dates that led to Saturday morning breakfasts on the beach.”
Birthdays made people reevaluate their lives. I witnessed her reevaluate hers.
She said, “That is the Reader’s Digest version of who I am. My life crammed down into a monologue I wish I could undo. I’ve never been so honest. That is who you just undressed and kissed and . . . and took on spring break.”
“I’m glad I met you.”
“I know nothing about you, nothing of your values.”
“Ask me what you what to know.”
Her smile was nervous. “Yeah. This was fun. I’ve seen more sunrises in the past than I will see sunsets in the future. Every day is precious to me. Maybe not in this way, but I must be daring. I want to have more fun the rest of my life.”
“Maybe fun is all you need. Make every day your birthday. Or have a birthday party once a month.”
“I deserve love. Love is what I need. If not love, then maybe an insane amount of sex.”
“Well, I can help on the latter.”
“Is this the way men do this sort of thing? I just walked into a room and engaged myself with you like I was still a young, intoxicated girl, a freshman in Austin, living out loud during spring break. I tried to recapture who I was then. She’s gone. That randy, naïve girl is gone. I am no longer her anymore. This is who I am now.”
“Then why did you come to see me, if not for what we did?”
“I made love to you on a dare.”
“On a challenge?”
“I talked the talk. My bluff was called. I wasn’t prepared for this. Maybe that was better. I didn’t have time to think about this. Victoria handed me a room key, told me where to go; then I just walked into a room and did it with a stranger much younger than I am. I have been cougared. I have been naughty on so many levels. Two hours ago, doing this would never have occurred to me. Peer pressure. Let’s just call it middle-aged peer pressure.”
“Peer pressure. Because your friend gifted me to you, and you felt obligated.”
“She called my bluff from a personal conversation we had weeks ago. We were by the pool, and I think I had had too much to drink. We talked about men. Old lovers. Spring breaks. I had jokingly said that I would love to be gifted a young, strong, handsome man half my age for my birthday. She said she would find me one. She said he would be young, handsome, and sexy. I told her if she did, I would have sex with him in a heartbeat, without even knowing.”
There was a knock at the door. Birthday Girl stopped talking and moved toward the bathroom. She was afraid. She didn’t know who it was, and neither did I. My bet was the moko jumbie was back. There was an electronic beep when a key card was placed in the sensor. I guess Christiana hadn’t changed the key cards yet. The door opened. It was the politician again. The Amazon was alone. She sashayed in like she owned the place and called out to the birthday girl, didn’t acknowledge me. I was just the present. A man objectified.
“Victoria.” Birthday Girl came out of the bathroom. “You startled the Jesus out of me.”
“How did it go?”
“You made me behave like a bad girl.”
“Good girls might make breakfast, but they don’t make history.”
“Drought over. I have to reset the celibate clock.”
“I’ll take ‘Things Husbands Never Say’ for ten thousand, Alex.”
“Let’s not go there.”
“I want the details later.”
Birthday Girl nodded. “What have I missed?”
“A soporific conversation. Same old bullshit arguments. NRA. Cops killing blacks. Immigration.”
“Aren’t they all bullshit and soporific? After a while, aren’t they all?”
The politician inspected herself in a mirror. “Do you need to tell your birthday present good-bye?”
“Give me a moment. We were just winding down.”
“No need to tip. I paid for it all.”
The politician’s phone rang, and she answered the phone cursing, going off on someone, chastising them for their incompetence. Birthday Girl grinned at me, and the silver fox kissed my cheek.
She whispered, “Spring break.”
I nodded, whispered, “You were good on top.”
She smiled.
The politician ended her call. “Let’s go. Beverly, they are looking for both of us by now.”
The Amazon and the silver fox left talking like professional women, as energized as a leap of leopards rushing back to their pitiful husbands. I turned my phone back on, called my favorite altruistic entrepreneur, and checked in. As soon as Christiana answered, she told me to shower again and prepare to entertain another client.
I said, “You’re joking. How the fuck do y’all do this back-to-back-customer shit?”
She told me I would have to change rooms this time.
I said, “Women can lube up and fake this shit, but I’m almost out of juice.”
“One more, but it is up to you.”
“Who is she?”
“First-time caller. You would be her first. She’s younger, in her twenties. A Mensa.”
“Pressure, pressure.”
Her voice smiled. “Shall I confirm the appointment, or pass it on to someone else?”
“One more. Will do my best.”
“Get dressed and be ready. I will call you in ten minutes and let you know the new room number.”
CHAPTER 43
BRICK
WITHIN THIRTY MINUTES, I was in a different posh suite. Already it felt like I had better control of the situation. First, I heard a dog bark; then there was a soft, tentative tap on the hotel door. I adjusted my suit coat, did the same with my necktie. When I spied out the peephole, only the top of someone’s head was visible. I cleared my throat and opened the door, hoped this wasn’t a sting by the police.
Her Afro was parted in the middle, untamed. Her nose was small, lips full, eyes light brown.
A black purse was on her arm and a chessboard was in her lap. Her little dog was at her side.
She said, “Hi. I’m Dr. Allison Émilie Chappelle.”
I lost the ability to speak, found it, shook her hand, then managed to say, “I’m Brick.”
Her dog barked twice like it remembered me. I barked back. Her dog growled. I growled.
The client said, “Strawberry, hush.”
She wore a black dress that was tight and showed off her curves. But her shoes. She rocked traffic-stopping, metallic-gold, thigh-high Balenciaga boots that had a razor-sharp pointed toe. Those boots were a fashion statement’s fashion statement. She wore no makeup. When a woman wore no makeup, she wanted to be accepted as she was.
She said, “You look surprised.”
“I think I’m in love.”
“We haven’t met.”
“I meant with the dog. Reminds me of a girl I dated in high school. Only the dog is cuter.”
She laughed. “Bet she was a bitch. A cute, expensive, fun bitch to be around. Right, Strawberry?”
The dog barked like it was laughing.
I said, “Now, so far as you. This is like Adam being sent a gift from God.”
“Stop it.”
“I’d give up a rib. A real rib. Not a McRib.”
“Stop it.”
“I’d give up a slab of ribs, the coleslaw, sweet tea, and the corn bread.”
“You’d give up the corn bread?”
“I’d give up the corn bread.”
She smiled, let loose a small exhale. She looked into my eyes and saw something I couldn’t hide.
She asked, “Have we met?”
“You haven’t met me.”
“The way you look at me. It’s like you know me.”
Dr. Allison Émilie Chappelle wheeled herself over to the desk area, and we set up the chessboard.
She said, “They told me you played chess.”
“I try. Been playing on a few apps.”
“I tried those. Chess Live, iChess, the King of Chess. I prefer playing a human being.”
We got right into it. She started the game by moving her pawns to the center. Like the day I’d seen her at Hot or Cool Café, she had an aggressive strategy.
She asked, “What was the last book you read?”
“Binti. Love that series. Rereading Brixton Rock. How Not to Get Shot by D. L. Hughley. You?”
“Redemption in Indigo and Les Contes d’Amadou Koumba. Reading both at the same time.”
“I usually read one book at a time. Takes me forever. Not wired for literary multitasking.”
“Last movie you watched or saw at the theater?”
“Haven’t been to see a movie in a while. Maybe If Beale Street Could Talk. You?”
Dr. Allison Émilie Chappelle said, “Bienvenue à Marly-Gomont.”
“A French film?”
“On Netflix. I speak French, but it has pretty accurate subtitles. It’s called The African Doctor on there.”
“Okay. Will check it out.”
“Chess players? Who do you like?”
“Magnus Carlsen. You?”
“Mikhail Tal was a genius.”
“Probably the most creative attacker of all time.”
“Oh God. He was brutal. He exposed his opponent’s king, demolished the entire kingside.”
We fought a good war. It went on and on, move after move, going for the king when it was exposed, refusing each other a decent counterplay. When she became über aggressive, I made a move that made her raise a brow.
She said, “You’re good.”
“You’re better.”
“The way you play, I’ll bet your opponents don’t even realize they are losing.”
I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She had dimples, high cheekbones. Her skin was stunning.
She smiled at me. “You okay?”
I put my eyes back on the war, made a strategic move. “Check.”
She made her move. “Checkmate.”
“We’re tied. One game each.”
“Again?”
“Again.”
“The way you look at me.”
Her phone rang and jarred us.
She asked, “Do you mind?”
“Go ahead.”
She took the call, talked science and physics, then told the caller, “In the theoretical case that the universe is stationary, homogeneous at a large scale, and occupied by an infinite number of stars, then any line of sight from Earth must end at the very bright surface of a star and therefore the night sky should be completely illuminated and very bright. Exactly. This contradicts the witnessed blackness and nonuniformity of what we call night. There are so many stars in the universe, more than there are grains of sand on all the beaches in the world, and actually there are five to ten times more stars than there are grains of sand on all the world’s beaches.
So, there’s your quick answer, and that means that if it weren’t for all the interstellar gas and dust and space pollution blocking your view, the night sky would appear almost entirely bright white. No, not exactly like a midnight sun. We can discuss Olbers’ paradox in detail tomorrow. Yeah, I’m in the middle of a chess game. Of course I’m winning. What? Well, was busy being an ambassador so couldn’t get back to you right away. Sure. Anytime, day or night. I’m here for you.”
She ended the call and turned her phone off.
I said, “That was intense.”
“My niece. She starts university next year. She’s fourteen. Plans to rule the world by the time she’s twenty.”
We continued our battle.
She asked, “Intelligence or beauty? Which do you prefer?”
“Beauty if they are intelligent, and intelligence if they are beautiful.”
“Between aesthetics and intelligence, I don’t think I’d want a smart ugly man, or a dumb handsome man. I’ve met them both before, dated both, tried both, and it went nowhere. But then again, I am the common denominator in all my relationship problems.”
“You have someone?”
“I did. I had somebody. Before . . . before. I was engaged, almost got married.”
“I was almost engaged once.”
“What went wrong?”
“I asked one question too many.”
The dog came to me, and I rubbed its coat, made the mutt smile.
She said, “Strawberry likes you. That’s a good sign. She hates everyone.”
We talked for a moment, the dog at her feet, resting, watching me, wagging its tail.
I said, “You’re an ambassador?”
“For an African NGO dedicated to training medical personnel involved in caring for mothers and children. I just returned from Uganda on a humanitarian mission.”
“I really need to start working on becoming an overachiever.”
“African parents make us all overachievers.”
“You’re African?”
“Mother is from Seychelles. Dad is Equatoguinean. They met in South Africa. I’m first generation born here.”
“You do a lot.”
The Business of Lovers Page 26
