Quiver (13 page)

As they talk, every detail of his face, their surroundings, their conversation is intensified to mythic proportions. Deidre feels like she is on drugs or in some weird dream. She sees the city through his eyes as he points out architectural features she’d never noticed before, his long, elegant hands gesturing into the wind. She tries to concentrate on what he is saying, but the beauty of the idiosyncratic details his character has etched into his mannerisms, his slightly crooked smile, the gap
between his front teeth, the heaviness of his eyebrows—all distract her. She is thankful when the ferry ride is over and they finally reach the comparative privacy of the restaurant.

He asks her to order for him—Thai food is not something he is familiar with. She asks for honey prawns, crab in green curry and sweet and sour fish balls. She wants to watch him eat. Zoe’s comment about how you can tell what kind of lover a man’s going to be by the way he eats comes back to her. “Never trust those who are in a hurry to finish; if they don’t linger over the entrée, it’s wham, bam, thank you ma’am, and one sore pussy—those are the ones who are interested in their orgasm, and not in yours.”

Deidre looks across at Mischa; he smiles at her. She looks away. Her vulnerability frightens her. She watches him pick up a prawn and slowly begin to tear off its shell. She hopes he’d be tender and slow; his gestures suggest the touch of a sensualist. She’s always found hands the most erotic part of a man. They are like a microcosm of the rest of his body. He’s probably got a beautiful penis, she thinks, and blushes. She can’t remember the last time she saw or even held one up close. She’d had a disastrous one-night stand with a sculptor. His proficiency as a lover had intimidated her and she’d spent the whole night apologizing for her clumsiness. She couldn’t remember much about that night, certainly nothing as specific as the touch, taste or feel of his cock. She’d consciously dismissed any thoughts about the desirability of men. It was a useful ploy, as she was surrounded by men day in and day out at work. Not that any licentious thought ever passed through her mind while she was there. God forbid! She saw too much of their conniving stratagems. But Mischa was different.

“What are you thinking about?”

“About my work.”

“You’re a banker, yes?”

“A merchant banker. I help people invest. A lot of the skill is in the timing. But it’s all so transient. A deal you’ve worked on for months comes off and then you’re onto the next thing; it’s all dependent on the mood of the market place. Sometimes I think I secretly long for something that has a little more permanence.”

“You should become a gardener, like me!” He licks the honey off one of the prawns. Deidre can’t help notice the sudden pinkness and length of his tongue.

“That way you get to experience real time, plants are good that way. They are dependable. You plant them, you make sure the environment is right, you love, fertilize and water them, then presto! They grow flowers and bear fruit. People and life, this is far more unpredictable. Were you ever married?”

“Once.”

“Me too, for about five minutes.”

“What happened?”

“She left me for a black marketeer. And you?”

“He left me for our design consultant. We were in business together.”

“She must have been ruthless, your design consultant.”

“He. And no, he wasn’t, but they were in love. And sometimes in the face of such a simple truth you have to step aside.”

“He left you for another man?”

“It happens. It was a long time ago.”

“No children?”

“No. But I did put my eggs on ice. They’re frozen, suspended, in case I decide to have them later.”

“So it’s not too late.”

“No, not when you plan ahead.”

“Some things you can’t plan for, like emotions. To control them would be like trying to control rain or thunder.”

He tells her about being involved in the rebellion against Gorbachev and how one of the three martyrs was a personal friend of his. He is passionate about political history. He has a comprehensive overview of Europe, and his understanding of the two world wars and the psychological ramifications of the resulting migration enthrall her. She tries out her homespun theories about nationalism and its relationship to territory and economy. He counteracts and challenges her at every point, quoting from Kant, Spinoza, Marx. The titillation of ideas—this is what she finds most sexually stimulating. Collectively their discourse takes shape, sprouting branches and strange fruit. By the end of the meal she feels as if her intellect has been revived with an electricity that has left her feeling alive and capable of anything.

They stand outside her small terrace. Mischa doesn’t know whether to touch her or not. He’s frightened of overstepping cultural expectations he may be unaware of. He extends his hand. “It has been a beautiful and most stimulating evening.”

His sudden formality makes her nervous. She takes his hand and shakes it, wanting him so badly she physically aches, wondering whether she should just pull him toward her and kiss him. It’s mathematical, really: the rate of one’s fear of rejection is inversely proportionate to the level of desire one feels. The thought etches itself across the recesses of her mind, while her body screams touch him, touch him. If only she had Zoe’s confidence.

“Do you…?”

“What?”

“Never mind. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Of course.” With a formal little bow he turns away, and with trembling knees, overwhelmed by a desire to cry, she desperately fumbles with her keys at the front door.

Once inside she bursts into loud sobs, shocking the cat who flees under the couch. She can’t believe she could be so foolish, and convinces herself that he didn’t find her attractive enough.

Too old, she keeps repeating to herself. Resign yourself to a nun-like existence for the rest of your life. Playing back the picture of him over and over, she throws herself onto the bed and eventually falls into a deep sleep, thankful to feel the effects of the Valium she’d taken swim through her body and pull her down into a dreamless sleep.

Nothing about her appearance the next day indicated any emotional change. She had pulled her hair back into a severe knot, as if to punish herself for the emotional laxity of the night before. She had made up her mind that utter immersion in her work was the only cure for any ridiculous romantic notions she might have indulged in. She was sure that she would never see Mischa again, that his interest in her was merely that of a lonely migrant searching for an intellectual companion, and nothing to do with desire or the potential of a love affair.

The only thing that was difficult to negotiate was a route around the flower stall. This morning she’d walked an extra block to the office and had used the back entrance. The low hum of the computers and the constant sound of the phones and fax machines obliterated the possibility of debating
internally on what could have been a great love affair, or at least one night of bliss. She adjusted the silk scarf around her neck and walked briskly up to her desk. Already there were four faxes from Tokyo and a couple of messages from her various clients.

She booted up her screen and checked out the overnight figures for the Nikkei. An inner voice kept saying gold, gold. Several snippets of information were being pieced together in her brain. Other bankers credited her with intuition, a natural hunch about what to buy and when to sell, but there was nothing magical or mysterious about Deidre’s ability to second-guess the marketplace. It was the fastidious collection of information and the knack of fitting it all together in a lateral jigsaw that made her an exceptional banker. Why she hadn’t been promoted was something her colleagues didn’t like to speculate on, knowing that it was only her gender that kept her out of the inner sanctum. She was on a hundred and fifty thousand a year, but what she made the bank was over fifty times that amount.

She looked up gold. Stocks were down on all the major markets, but the idea kept gnawing at her. There was a remark she’d overheard, that article about new mining technology in
New Scientist
, a fall in the Hang Seng, a mine in Western Australia that had been using the techniques for a least a year. Finally, that Gutnick tip she’d had from one of her clients. Coles-Myer needed to invest a hundred thousand; she could start with them. If she bought now while the prices were low she could come out on top, perhaps sooner than people suspected.

Fifteen minutes later she was standing in the office of Edward Short, her immediate superior and CEO of the investment branch of the bank. A balding man in his late fifties,
Edward had recently left his wife of twenty-five years to marry his secretary, fifteen years his junior. He hated Deidre. He found her manner inherently arrogant, but the fact that she never bothered to socialize with the other bankers also made it difficult for him to muster up enthusiasm for her. Sometimes he was convinced that she was passing some covert moral judgment on his behavior. She also strongly reminded him of his mother. But in the past ten years she had introduced fifteen major clients to the bank, and her investment record was such that the clients refused to deal with anyone else.

Deidre assumed that Edward was awkward with her because he was uncomfortable with all intellectual equals, especially if they were female. She trusted him nevertheless.

“Gold. There’s this small mine, east of Coolgardie. McHuen’s. I want to buy.”

“Gold is down at the moment.”

“I have a strong feeling—you know, one of my blindingly insightful flashes.”

“Leave it with me, don’t buy just yet, give it a day or two.”

“It’s going to go now, I know it.”

“Hey, trust me on this.”

“Fortune favors the brave.”

“Wait a week.”

She grimaced but reluctantly assented. “OK, but then I’m buying.”

He spun around in his chair as soon as she’d left the room, waving and pulling a funny face at her back as he watched her walk out of earshot down the corridor. As soon as she disappeared he picked up his phone.

“Harry? Pick me up twenty thou on gold. A small company called McHuen’s. No questions, OK?”

*       *       *

Deidre walks back into the dealers’ area. One broker, a young gun in his early twenties, is busy shaving while negotiating a deal on the phone. He’s only been with the company for eight months, yet he’s already on the same salary as Deidre. She checks the trade index figures.

“Congratulations on the Fuji deal. Only you could have pulled that one off.”

“Yeah, nerves of steel.” He turns and in an undertone mutters to his mate, “And heart of ice.” She catches the words faintly, but ignores them.

“Deidre!”

A ripple runs through the banking floor, new blood has entered the arena—she can practically see the testosterone bristling. She turns. Mischa, dressed in his suit and clutching a huge bunch of roses, stands in the center of the floor. He smiles at her. Everyone swings around and stares surprised as Deidre walks up to him.

“I brought you these. I think maybe I insulted you last night.” Deidre, acutely aware of the grinning faces, leads Mischa toward the door.

“This isn’t the place to talk.”

“Are you ashamed that you know me?”

“It isn’t that. The people here, the men, they think I’m a snow duchess.”

“Snow duchess? Is this a good thing?”

“It means that I’m frigid. Cold like snow.”

“They are fools.”

Several of the bankers snigger.

“Mr. Gretchka, I think we should discuss your portfolio in my office.”

She formally walks him out into the corridor. Outside he grabs her hand and leads her toward the fire escape.

“Where does this lead?”

“To the roof.”

Holding her hand he starts climbing. She follows, half of her fighting to regain control, the other half drawn by the determination of this young man. He pushes the trapdoor open, revealing a small square of blue.

Once outside, the view is spectacular, revealing the whole panorama of the city of Sydney. Church spirals butted up against the skyscrapers set in stark relief against the horizon. To the north looms the Bridge, the Opera House nestling like a jewel in a belly button, at its base. Beyond them the harbor shimmers, tantalizing in the summer heat.

“It’s beautiful, like heaven,” he whispers as if he is in church. She smiles and traces a bead of sweat running from his cheek to his lips. As her fingers caress the soft young skin he catches her between his lips, drawing her into his mouth with his teeth and pulling her toward him. He wraps his legs around her. Her heartbeat quickens as she feels the shape of his erection pressing into her skirt. This moment of discovery never fails to astound her.

They roll gently down the slope of the roof. He holds on to her as they turn slowly, the spinning azure sky blending with the red of his shirt, the soft gray of the roof as they turn over and over, arriving at the shallow base of the roofline. He takes his jacket off and spreads it on the tarmac surface. The heat rises up and she can smell the hot tar mixed in with the scent of flowers floating up from the botanical gardens.

He is kneeling—waiting for her. She stands by him, bending slightly in the warm wind, her eyes closed. Without
thought. Just the music of the city and the anticipation of his touch. She feels his hands running up her legs, up to her center. With her eyes still closed, she focuses on this sensation, the roar of the cars below and the sound of a plane passing overhead all melting into the tips of his fingers. He strokes the softest part of her skin, the inside of her thighs, drawing tiny circles with his fingertips. She can hardly stand for the sheer pleasure. Slowly he runs his fingers around the edge of her pants, caressing her outer lips and pulling them back a little so that her clitoris is pushed hard against the cloth. She wants him to slip one, two, three fingers into her. She wants his cock. Without saying a word he pushes her tights and pants down to her ankles.

“Please, just stand there for a moment.” She stands exposed, the wind blowing up her skirt, on top of the world, on top of this blind city. To be naked and so close to the thousands of workers hidden behind a multitude of mirrored windows. Prisms of intrigue. A thousand afternoons. A thousand moments like these.