Second Skin (31 page)

‘Faith found out, didn’t she?’

‘It wasn’t that, really.’ He put aside his bowl, locked his arms behind his head, and stared up at the dark ceiling of the plane. ‘Thing is, she found out that for my father it hadn’t been just a roll inna hay. He felt something for this other woman – this
Jew
– and she put her foot down. “It’s her or me,” she said, knowing full well he couldn’t divorce her in the eyes of God.’ He gave Francine a meaningful stare. ‘Catholicism, right? It’s a fuckin’ pain inna ass, you ask me.’

‘I don’t know much about it.’

‘There, y’see. What I said.’ His eyes returned to the ceiling. ‘My old man, he might’ve been a terror onna streets of Astoria, but he was a devout Catholic. Went to church, donated money, did, y’know, good deeds for the diocese, even ate fish on Fridays even though he hated it like poison. Usedta cough it all up inna toilet, afterwards. But he nevah ate more food till the next morning.

‘So he, y’know, took what Faith said as gospel. The Church said divorce was a sin an’ that was that.’

‘So then what happened?’

‘Faith, she said to him, “What does it matter, anyway? She’s a Jew. She knew what she was getting into when she seduced you. She won’t feel a thing.” Trouble was, she’d got it ass backwards. It was my father who had seduced my mother; it was my father who didn’t know what he was getting into.’

‘So he
did
see her again,’ Francine said, hoping for a happy ending.

‘I dunno, really.’ Paul blinked several times as if he had something in his eye. ‘My mother married John Chiaramonte, a Renaissance-history professor from City College, where she was going to night school twice a week. She’d known him for some time and he had already proposed to her once. She did it very fast, I guess, because she knew she was pregnant.

‘My mother was a practical woman, always using her head,’ he said with a good deal of admiration. ‘When I was born six months later, John never asked her who the father was. According to my mother, he just accepted me as his own.’

He sighed deeply. ‘A love like that...’ He broke off for a moment. Then looked across at Francine. ‘That was the kind of love Black Paul Mattaccino felt for her.’ He put his ragged nail between his teeth once more. ‘He must’ve seen her somehow, some way, ’cause she got money regularly.’ He gripped his short leg. ‘My stay inna hospital, the operations an’, afterward, the rehab, my mom got the money from him for that.’

‘But why do you work for Bad Clams?’ Francine asked, putting her bowl on top of his. ‘Why do you hate my mother so much?’

‘I don’t hate your mother so much now, an’ I don’t hate you at all. You believe that, don’t you?’

Francine shrugged.

‘Well, it’s true. Hey, remember what you said before about bullshit? This is not bullshit, okay? Whatever’s going down, it’s between families, the Leonfortes and the Goldonis. You and your mom just, like, got caught in the gears, is all. She shoulda kept her nose clean, stood bya sideline like a woman should.’

‘Then they would have shot her down, just like they did my father,’ Francine said fiercely.

‘I don’t know ’bout that, I swear.’ Paul flicked a piece of nail into the darkness. ‘Was imported talent did that, an’ I was kept inna dark.’ He waved a hand. ‘Between you an’ me, I think it was a wrong decision to try to whack your mom. She’s a tough cookie, just like you.’ He gave her a little smile. ‘But she sure fucked up my life now.’

‘Occupational hazard.’

He stared at her wide-eyed, then gave a little snort of astonishment.
‘Marrone,
whatta mouth on you, kid.’

She looked at him with a steady gaze. ‘Maybe this isn’t just family. You hated Faith, I know that.’

‘Sure I hated the fuckin’ bitch. She killed my father, Black Paul.’

‘Is that story true?’

Paul held up a hand. ‘On the soul of my sainted mother.’ He grimaced. ‘I hope Faith got what was comin’ to her. I hope she’s fryin’ in hell.’

‘I smell revenge.’

‘Where d’you get that kinda talk, kid, the fuckin’ movies?’

She climbed up on the seat, turned to look back down the seatbacks to where Margarite lay in darkness. ‘You think she’s all right?’

‘Sure, she’s all right.’

Francine turned back as he tapped her lightly on the arm. She slid down into the seat.

‘Kid, tell me something. Your mom ever, like, take you to Santa Maria in Astoria?’

‘The convent, you mean?’

Something passed behind Paul’s eyes. ‘The convent, yeah. The Sacred Heart of Santa Maria.’

Francine nodded. ‘Lots of times.’

‘You met the old lady, the mother superior?’

‘Every time I was there.’

‘What’d you guys talk about? Religious stuff or what?’

‘Yeah. Religious stuff.’

But her eyes slid away from his and he knew she was lying. It didn’t matter, he wasn’t interested in what they talked about. He leaned forward, his hands clasped in front of him. ‘You meet anyone else?’

Francine could sense the tenseness come into his face because she could see all the squinty lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth get harder, more defined. ‘Sure, lots of others. Nuns, right? Who else would be in a convent?’

‘Of course. Who else?’ he said so softly she had to strain to hear him. ‘But, I mean, could you tell me if you’d met one specific nun if I described her?’

‘Why do you want to know?’

He leaned even closer. ‘It’s important, kid, okay?’ His voice was no louder than the harsh whisper she used while talking to a friend in the library.

Because she believed him, she said, ‘Okay.’

‘Right, she’s kinda tall, lean, with, like, great legs.’ He waved his hands as if to erase the message. ‘But that wouldn’t mean nothing, ’cause she’d be wearing a habit, wouldn’t she? But she’d be real pretty and have dark, wavy hair. And the most unusual green eyes, the kinda green you see inna ocean, not close in, like, but far out where the water’s deep.’ He sat back abruptly, as if he had realized he had said too much. ‘You seen anyone like that at Santa Maria?’

‘No.’

He squinted at her. ‘You sure, kid? You’re telling me the truth?’

‘Yes.’

‘Really?’

‘Really and truly.’

‘Oh, Jesus,’ he whispered.
Really and truly.
That was the phrase Jaqui used. He sat for a long time staring at Francie before his eyes went out of focus. Even in the semidarkness, she could see she’d hit a nerve, and she’d remember that. At length, his eyes snapped into focus and he slapped his thighs with the flats of his hands.

‘Okay, kid,’ he said in a completely different voice. ‘What say we see how your mom’s doing back there?’

‘Come to bed.’

‘Not yet,’ Nicholas said.

Koei, who slept in the nude, wrapped herself in the bedclothes and stepped off the futon. As soon as her feet touched the wooden floor, she shivered. ‘It’s cold.’ She pressed herself against him. ‘Aren’t you cold?’

‘Only up here,’ Nicholas said, tapping his head. ‘I had two incidences of Kshira burning through my conscious state today, time and light shifting. I was out of control, my mind felt as if it had been taken over.’

‘And how do you feel now?’

‘Fine. Perfectly normal.’

Her eyes, huge and dark and full of life, seemed to hold reflected the whole of Tokyo’s nighttime dazzle. ‘Okami-san will help you.’

‘I don’t know.’ He felt her near him, felt how much he desired her near him. ‘He was hurt this evening trying to help. He’s old, Koei. His mind’s sharp enough, but it’s turned elsewhere, on the politics consuming the country, and I think he lacks the intrinsic strength to help with my inner battle.’

For a long time Nicholas said nothing. He stared out the window at the nighttime lights of Tokyo. They were high up in an ultramodern high-rise with a sculpted facade in the center of the city. Nicholas had bought a duplex, huge by Japanese standards, then hired the architect who had designed the building to redo the interior. The result was a combination of pink, gray, and black granite surfaces softened by chunky expanses of light cherry and darker, deep-grained
kyoki
-wood.

‘I’ll make us some tea,’ Koei said, unwinding herself from him.

Nicholas stared down at the Naigai Capsule Tower. It seemed close enough that a leap to its top was possible. It was a holdover from the 1970s Metabolism movement, which separated permanent structures like roads and freeways with the temporary, like housing. It had been a brave but unsuccessful stab at integrating the two halves of an urban whole.

The tower of spiderweb scaffoldings and elevator banks was like an exoskeleton within which were arranged like boxes of chocolates, premade apartments of different sizes into which people moved as their economic status evolved. What had been a fad twenty years ago was now a relic, the impractical and unlovely Metabolism movement having died a deserved death. Only a few people made their homes there now. He wondered why it hadn’t been razed to make way for new ideas in architecture.

After a moment, he followed Koei down the wide staircase with the stainless-steel banister, which led from the second floor with its two bedrooms and baths, done in traditional Japanese style.

Downstairs was almost entirely Western in aspect, save for Nicholas’s museum-quality collection of artifacts from all over Southeast Asia and China, which filled the walls and cabinets, covered the sleek granite and marble tops of coffee tables, sideboards, and commodes.

As he watched her deft, concise motions, he said, ‘Do you ever think about him?’

This form of verbal shorthand might have stymied another woman, but not Koei. Her active, intuitive mind absorbed every nuance and tonal quality of the person she was with.

‘I almost never think of Michael Leonforte.’ She measured out the pale green tea with a thin bamboo ladle, her beautifully formed arm passing through darkness into spangled light so that diamonds danced along her skin. ‘When I do, it’s to remind myself how truly miserable a human being can be.’ She looked up at him and the light in her eyes was electric. ‘So I will never forget how lucky I am to have found you again.’

Nicholas watched her finish fixing the tea in the midst of the
kyoki
– wood and porcelain kitchen. Her deftness came from happiness, an inner knowledge of self. How different she was from the teenaged girl he had fallen in love with so many years ago, different as night from day. As different as this kitchen was from the large one he’d had in his house on the outskirts of the city. He had been very fond of that kitchen, but this one was infused with Koei’s small, ordinary movements, and the other was dark and dead as a grave.

‘How much do you miss the house?’ Koei asked with her usual perceptiveness.

‘I was raised there,’ Nicholas said, taking the fired-clay teacup from her. ‘There are so many memories. It’s hard to let go.’

‘Are you sorry you sold it?’

He sighed. ‘I don’t think so, no. There were bad memories there, also. The house felt glutted with Justine’s unhappiness. And then when she was killed in that car accident...’ He paused for a moment, sipping his tea. ‘She never was able to adjust to living here. She wanted so badly to return to New York.’

Koei looked at him over the rim of her teacup. ‘So, I think, do you.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Oh, but you do,’ she whispered. ‘It’s always in the back of your mind, even though you may not want to admit it.’

‘Japan is my home.’

‘Perhaps.’ Her face, knowing and serene, seemed to float in the light-infused darkness, a beacon of sanity in an increasingly insane world. ‘But maybe you weren’t meant to have just one home. Not everyone is. I feel your longing, Nicholas. I know how much you miss it.’

‘I have no time now to go back.’

‘That remains to be seen. Perhaps you will return sooner than you think.’

He looked deep into her eyes. ‘I
will
have to go, and soon. The American affiliate is still without a president. Terrence McNaughton, my high-powered lobbyist in Washington, is conducting the prelims with a corporate headhunter right now, but I’m going to have to do the final interviews myself. But how did you know?’

She laughed, holding out one palm to him with the openness of a child. ‘I am only responding to what I feel from you.’

‘Even so, how can I think of going back to New York when I’ve lost touch with what’s happening at Sato? This new man, Kanda Tōrin, has inveigled his way into the company and Nangi-san’s trust.’

They went into the living room. Koei pulled the drapes back, revealing the spectacular view of a city as if caught in the midst of a stellar fire. They sat together, touching, two tender animals in the comfort of the night.

‘I take it you don’t trust him.’

‘Frankly, I’m not sure what to make of him,’ Nicholas said. ‘Something is rotten inside the company, and right now Tōrin’s my prime suspect. But I know whatever opinions I might have are colored by the fact that I’m jealous of his position with Nangi-san.’

‘Then I think it’s time you had another talk with Nangi-san.’

‘Nangi’s heart attack was worse than he let on.’ Nicholas, finished with the tea, felt the hand-fired clay cup sturdy beneath his palm. ‘He’s getting better, but what I’m told he needs most now is time. Besides, he told me to trust Tōrin.’

‘Then give them both the benefit of the doubt.’

Nicholas shook his head. ‘Sounds good in theory, but in practice...’ He looked at her. ‘I get the distinct impression something is happening I know nothing about.’

Koei put the tip of her forefinger in the center of his forehead. ‘Do you feel it from here with your
tanjian
eye?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you may very well be right.’ She sighed. ‘On the other hand, the older you get the more precious time becomes, my darling. I think you must give Nangi-san that time.’ She reached up, smoothed the lines on his forehead, then kissed him on the cheek. ‘Don’t look so perplexed. You already know what you will do. Follow your heart and you will find yourself close to the mark.’

He turned abruptly away from her and she felt his withdrawal. It was not the first time, nor would it be the last. She was neither offended nor worried. She knew these acrid emotions had turned Justine’s relationship with him rotten. Time was her only ally here, and she knew she needed to make the most of it.