Looker

by Michael Kilian

  “I still have your red scarf,” he said.

  “You’re very sentimental.”

  “Not sentimental. Beholden. I’m your chevalier, remember? How next may I serve you?”

  She took a large sip of her rum. “You may serve me by being amusing. By diverting me.” She smiled at him, trying to establish a different mood.

  “Camilla, I can’t help you out of this bloody mess unless you tell me a lot more about what’s going on. I know you know who killed Molly. I should like to know why she was murdered.”

  “Please, no.” She was staring into her drink, just as she had the first time he was with her like this, the two of them, in a restaurant.

  “You can trust me,” he said. “You have to.”

  “You’ve helped me enough. You’ve done more than enough, at great risk. I appreciate it. Please, let’s leave it at that.”

  “Look, Camilla. This isn’t simply going to vanish. We have to deal with it.”

  “Not tonight!” There was the spark of anger in her eyes and a crackly snap of it in her voice.

  “I’m sorry.”

  They sat silently until their dinner came, and hardly spoke through that. Finally, just to draw her out, draw her back, he began talking to her as he would to someone he encountered at a reception or cocktail party, amusingly and inconsequentially—about New York gossip, art exhibitions he’d liked, sailing, silly people who frequented Mortimer’s, McMullen’s, and other Upper East Side spots they both knew. She responded amiably, but it was obvious her mind was elsewhere. She asked for more wine. They had already gone through a half bottle of an expensive Bordeaux.

  “I’m feeling better, Mr. James,” she said, when her glass was refilled.

  “You have to stop calling me that. We’re friends now.”

  “Bien sur. J’ai vous baissé. But not ‘A.C.’”

  “My Christian names are Arthur Curtis.”

  “Arthur. Art. No. Perhaps A.C. is best.”

  She drank more wine. When they were done, night had fully fallen, but it was still quite balmy. She leaned back in her chair and looked up at the dark sky.

  “I’d like to dance,” she said. “Can we find a place to dance?”

  There were nightclubs with island steel-drum bands and hotel lounges with small combos playing mostly society two-step music. A.C. was grateful when she settled for the latter.

  Camilla did not want to talk. She was content to drink and dance. As she became more tipsy, his own clumsiness on the floor ceased to matter. She danced with great abandon for several numbers, then slowed, clinging to him, her head against his, humming softly to the music. She moved her hand to the back of his neck. As they dreamily made their turns, his leg would slide between hers, her thigh pressing softly against his. For all he knew, she was thinking of someone else as she gave herself so indulgently to his arms, but he held her as though she were his own, a rare and precious possession.

  She stumbled. Like most models, she had exquisite balance and caught herself, but he worried now that he might never get her back safely on that little motorbike.

  “Time to go home, Camilla.”

  “Home,” she said. “How I should love to go home.”

  She held onto him somehow, as they rolled along out of Hamilton on Crow Lane. Reaching the rotary just outside the town, he pulled out of the traffic stream, turning onto the little road that followed the opposite shore of the harbor. It was narrow and full of curves, but they encountered few vehicles, the bike’s little headlamp poking lonesomely into the soft shadows, the reflected lights of Hamilton twinkling and shimmering in the dark water to the right.

  She began to sing: “Sand in my shoes, sand from Havana …” She swayed slightly from side to side.

  “Camilla! Please! Hold on tight.”

  “I’m just fine, Arthur Curtis James. No need to worry.”

  He reached back, gripping her hip, but that only made the machine even less stable. A fall, with the pavement tearing at her flesh and beauty, could be disastrous.

  Trusting to the fates, he returned his hand to the handlebars, going a little faster now, desperate to get her to the hotel without incident. At length a side road appeared ahead on the left—Chapel Road. He remembered that it led directly across the island to South Road and Elbow Beach.

  It climbed steeply, then swerved sharply to the right. He managed that curve, but at the bottom of the following hill, a turn to the left caught him unawares. The motorbike skidded, the rear wheel slipping off onto the shoulder. He fought to regain control, but she was leaning off to the side, pulling on his shoulder.

  The front wheel struck something and they went over. He was thrown forward, banging his knee on the handlebar, sailing into the air and landing with a soft thud in the high grass of a ditch. She cried out. Then there was silence.

  He sat up. The minibike lay on its side. Its engine rumbled and sputtered a moment, then ceased. The headlamp went out.

  “Camilla?”

  A pause. “I’m all right. I think.”

  She was quite near. He got to his knees and groped forward, finding himself suddenly beside her.

  “You’re not hurt?”

  “Just a little scared.”

  He lay down next to her. “Can you move your arms and legs?”

  “Oh yes,” She tried it. “Yes. I’m fine.”

  “Can you get up?”

  “I can. But I don’t want to. I feel so gloriously comfortable, A.C. This grass is so soft. A.C., look at the stars.”

  He rolled over onto his back. She moved her head until it was cradled by his shoulder.

  I have seen starry archipelagos, and islands,

  Whose heavens are opened to the voyager.

  Is it in these bottomless nights that you sleep,

  In exile? A million golden birds.

  “Starry archipelagos?”

  “Rimbaud,” she said. “‘Le Bateau Ivre.’” She took a deep, happy breath. “A million golden birds.”

  She raised herself and came slowly upon him, lowering her face to his. She kissed him. Her mouth opened slightly and she kissed him again. He pulled her roughly to him, his hand moving down her back, reaching to the warm flesh beneath her dress.

  As they plunged into the sweet, mad, delirious experience he had dreamed about a thousand times since the first moment he had seen her on Arbre’s runway, an unexpected flurry of unwanted thoughts beset him: fleeting images of Davey on the sailboat, of Kitty behind the wheel of her car, of Bailey drunk and loving in his arms.

  He drove these from his mind as their bodies joined. She murmured to him through her kisses, her hair falling over him. Then at once she lifted herself, moving astride him, gently, then with urgency. He kept his eyes closed. Even in the dark, he didn’t want to look at her face. She was so very human now. He didn’t want to see the goddess.

  At the end, holding him closely again, she began to cry, but then, before he could find a way to comfort her, she rolled over onto her back beside him, one breast exposed. Wiping her eyes, she gave a sound of contentment.

  “How wonderful, under all these stars,” she said.

  “More than wonderful.”

  She took his hand and held it close to her eyes, then kissed it.

  “I love you,” he said.

  “Oh no, A.C. You mustn’t say that. Please don’t love me.”

  “Just tonight.”

  “All right. Just tonight.”

  The motorbike started when he tried it and did not seem seriously damaged. Camilla, smoothing out her clothing, stood somewhat wobbily, but he could not tell if that was due to drink or hurt. She climbed on behind him without complaint, holding onto him with just one hand as, slowly now, he drove them through the dark to the other side of the island.

  They left the bike with a sleepy black woman behind the counter of the rental shed who paid them little mind. As they walked back up the main drive, he noticed Camilla was limping slightly.

  “You’re sure yo
u’re all right?”

  “Oh yes. I’m fine. Lovely. Wonderful.”

  He pointed to the hotel’s main building—to the lights at the very top.

  “Well,” he said. “I’m staying up there. On the other side, actually. Wonderful view of the hotel entrance.”

  She looked down the hill, toward the sea, and took his hand. “I want to go to the beach.”

  Her limp seemed more pronounced as they descended. He put his arm around her. There were lights set here and there in the shrubbery and trees. They saw another couple crossing one of the lawns, but there was no one else. The beach club was closed and deserted, though the floodlights illuminating the promenade and the sand below were still shining brightly.

  At the bottom of the stone steps, Camilla slipped off her shoes, carrying them lightly in one hand. A.C. followed her example, pausing to roll up the cuffs of his trousers. She moved slowly in the thick, fine sand, and he caught up to her easily.

  “The sand is so cool,” she said. “It’s like walking in silk.”

  “I love you, Camilla.”

  She continued on, as though not caring if he followed. The beach was protected by the outlying coral reef and, despite the wind, the waves were small. The underwater slope was gentle, the shallows extending far. She went out until the little wavetops were splashing her thighs, soaking the bottom of her skirt. He sloshed his way to where she was. She turned into him as he put his arm around her, coming close to him. She did not want to be kissed.

  “When you close your eyes like this,” she said, “standing in the water at night, you could be anywhere. You could be a million miles away in space. When I was a little girl, we used to go to an island where my family owned land. I’d go out at night into the shallows and stand there, listening. I’d close my eyes, and be any place I dreamed of.”

  He gently lifted her chin, tilting up her face. “I don’t want you to close your eyes. I want to look into your eyes.”

  “‘When I look into your eyes,’” she sang, repeating a line from an old song. “You don’t want to look into my eyes, A.C.”

  They were wide open, staring up into his. The distant light from the floodlit beach reached them, but the crystalline blue was gone. They seemed quite dark.

  “You don’t know what you might find,” she continued. “It could be something horrible.”

  As must happen to every man with Camilla, he suddenly felt fiercely possessive. He had captured her. She was his and no other’s. He slipped his hand over her breast. In all their passion, he’d only glancingly touched her breasts.

  She turned away, looking out to sea. A ship’s gaily dancing lights were visible to the southeast. It was moving surprisingly fast, crossing to the west.

  “I could be on that ship,” she said. “Sailing away. I need only walk out to it.”

  “We could be on that ship,” he said.

  The night at once became darker. He looked behind them and saw that the lights on the beach had been turned out.

  “It must be late,” he said.

  “I think I’d like another drink,” she said. “Yes. Another drink. I’m getting cold.”

  When they reached the dry sand of the shore, he hesitated.

  “The bar may be closed.”

  “I don’t want to go all the way up to the bar,” she said. “My room’s just there. I have one of the Surf rooms, overlooking the beach. I have things to drink. Rum, gin, too. The Canadians sent it. I thought it funny. Supplying models with strong drink during a shoot.”

  They started toward the stone steps, crossing the now darkened sand. The ground lights set among the trees on the hillside above were still glowing, like yellow lanterns.

  Her limp had become so pronounced he had to help her up the stairs, but when he boldly offered to carry her the rest of the way, she shook her head.

  The seaward wall of her room was nearly entirely glass opening with a sliding door. A white table and three chairs were set out on the little patio in front of it. She had him sit down and disappeared inside, turning on a light. A short while later, she returned with two glasses and a bottle.

  “This is rum,” she said. “I haven’t any ice. Did you want water with it? Or tonic?”

  “Straight is fine.” He poured an inch or so of the liquor into a glass for her, and then an equal amount in one for himself. Seating herself, she took the bottle and half filled her glass.

  She was wearing a white terry cloth robe. Her leg was bare, and he guessed she had taken off her clothes. It was warm now here in the shelter of the trees. The night was close around them.

  They sat quietly and drank. She coughed, but only once. He wanted to touch and hold her again, but held back.

  “Can I still trust you, A.C.?”

  “Yes. Of course. Always.”

  “You’ll help me?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll protect me? You’ll keep Detective Lanham from finding me?”

  He reached into his pocket and took out the red silk scarf she had given him. He had folded it into a soft, compact square. He shook it out, then brought it to his lips.

  “As I promised.” He returned the scarf to his pocket. “I didn’t mean to frighten you about that. I think I may have exaggerated how serious he is about this.”

  “No you didn’t. I talked with that man. He is a very serious person.”

  “I don’t think his superiors will allow him to go looking for you.”

  “Unless something else happens.”

  “What could happen now?”

  She took a very long drink of her rum, holding the glass to her lips for several swallows. She coughed again as she set the glass on the table. She had tied her robe loosely, and it fell open. He could see both her small, lovely breasts, and the sheen of her flat belly.

  “Drink, A.C. Drink and be merry.”

  Her voice was cold and lonely. The ship was gone from the sea that stretched before them. The waves sounded close.

  “I love you, Camilla. I’ll love you forever.”

  “Forever. What if you had a wrinkled old woman on your lap?”

  “But I don’t.”

  “What if I was an ugly woman. A fat, ugly woman, a woman with a big nose, or bad skin.”

  “You wouldn’t have been on Arbre’s runway. We’d never have met.”

  “If I were a woman like that, you’d never even talk to me.”

  “Camilla. We are what we are. Your beauty is part of you. You wouldn’t be the person you are now if you hadn’t always been beautiful. You’d be someone else.”

  “I’d be worthless.”

  “No. Camilla, if you were to have a horrible accident tomorrow, if you were horribly disfigured, I’d still feel the way I do, because that wouldn’t change what you are, who you are. It wouldn’t change what’s happened.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Then you don’t know me, not as well as you should.”

  She smiled a little. “Drink.”

  He gulped the last of his rum. She had nearly finished hers. Eyes downcast, she stood, placing her perfect hand on his shoulder.

  “Come inside now,” she said. “I want you to make love to me again. For a long time.”

  There was tenderness and gentleness and caring this time, but no mad passion. He did everything that he thought might please her, thinking only of her, giving nothing to himself. When they separated, he lay beside her, gazing at her sleepy face. She gave him a small, sweet smile, her last of the night. It was almost as though she were ill, and he had administered some soothing treatment. Feeling that his life was now utterly complete, he rolled over and fell into a blissful sleep.

  He awakened twice. The first time, it was to a fearful uncertainty as to where he was. He turned and found her naked beside him, lying very straight and very still on her back, like a dead person awaiting the ministrations of burial. She was awake, her eyes wide open, fixed upon the ceiling.

  He called her name softly. She said nothin
g.

  The second time, near to the first glimmer of dawning, he panicked to discover the bed empty and cold beside him. But, sitting up, he saw her standing near the opened drapes of the window, her nude form limned by the false light. Hearing him, she turned slowly to face him, standing eerily, like a ghost come haunting.

  “I think you’d better go back to your room now, A.C.,” she said, her voice low and tired. “They’ll be coming to get me in the morning.”

  “All right.” He stood and began to get dressed. He felt clumsy with her watching him.

  “When will I see you?” he asked, when he was done.

  “Later. Perhaps for lunch. Yes, I’ll meet you for lunch at the beach club. About one o’clock.”

  “One o’clock.” He kissed her. She allowed this, but did not embrace him. Her arms hung loosely at her sides.

  He slipped outside. In his fatigue and joy and triumph, he felt quite giddy. If he were still a boy, he might do cartwheels on the lawn. Instead, he stretched and yawned and smiled to himself, starting up the walk with jaunty vigor. But something stayed him. There was a whisper of a sound that did not belong. Her voice.

  Moving quietly, he returned to the screen of her door. She was talking on the telephone.

  “This is all I’m going to tell you,” she was saying. “We have nothing to fear from Pierre. It was all a sham. There’s nothing in his will. I looked at it. There’s nothing in his lawyer’s files. He was lying to us. He tricked us. You, me, Momma, God knows who else. I don’t think he has any idea where it’s hidden—if those things even exist anymore.”

  The man on the other end spoke so loudly A.C. could hear his voice, though he couldn’t make out what he what he was saying.

  “Listen to me!” Camilla said. “It’s true. He’s been lying to us, lying about everything. And he has that videotape. He’s the one who’s been threatening people with it.”

  She paused, listening.

  “The police know about it,” she said. “One of them told Mr. James and he told me … No, they don’t know anything else. And neither does he. Don’t you dare go looking for him. You leave him alone.”

  A.C. heard the man swearing loudly.

  “Stop it!” said Camilla. “No. I’m not going to tell you where I am. You’re never going to know where I am ever again … No, dammit! I mean it. I mean it more than anything in my life. You’re dead to me now. Let me be dead to you.”