Sleeping in Flame (8 page)

"Everyone says 'I'm not as happy as I'd like because of this reason or that. If I can beat it, then I'll be content.' Nicholas doesn't think he's loved enough. So that's his goal: get interesting people to love him, and he believes he won't feel so scared or alone when he goes to bed at night and looks into the dark. Then he wins their love, but it's never enough. Not ever.

It confuses him, but he still thinks it's the right way, so he keeps doing it.

"Don't you know the name of your lonely, Walker?"

I recoiled slightly. We had talked intimately all day, in bed and out.

Yet this one question scratched long fingernails across some psychic blackboard inside, leaving me both jarred and strangely moved.

"I don't know how to answer that." I tried a smile but it died.

She touched my hand again and shook her head. "Don't take it the wrong way. I didn't mean it like that."

Fortunately, the waiter came for our order so I didn't have to say anything more. Instead, I watched Maris ask his opinion on several things, her small mouth a moving plum of color.

Why had her question so disturbed me? What _was_ the name of my lonely?

The confusion about my real parents? Wanting a life partner, but then betraying the one I had had for no valid reason? Had I fallen so quickly for

Maris York because, deep down, too much of my life was empty, one big lonely that needed filling fast?

"Jesus, do you know who that was? Evelyn Heckler! I didn't recognize her. She changes hairdos
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as often as I change shoes." Wine glass in hand, Nicholas stood next to the table, apparently not interested in sitting yet.

"What did she want? She looked completely pissed off at you."

"She was! Her husband Pierre directed that awful film, _Full House_. Did you see it? The worst!

I don't know which was more horrible, the direction or the script. I said that in a magazine interview a few weeks ago. Pierre doesn't talk to me anymore, but this is the first time I've seen Evelyn since it came out.

"I also made the big mistake of having an affair with her once. Every time we went to bed in her house, she had drawings her kids had done all over the walls of the bedroom. Do you know how depressing it is to do it when you're looking at Fred Flintstone?"

He leaned over Maris, kissed the top of her head, then finally sat down.

Dinner came a few minutes later and we all leaped on it at once. Those poor shrimp didn't stand a chance. While we ate, I told a long silly story about Los Angeles that kept both of them laughing through most of the meal.

I had gone to college in Lost Angles and been both happy and tan there.

But four years of the city convinced me that was enough, despite its being _the_ place for actors.

Everything both clever and shitty has already been said about that shiny part of the United States. But I'm sure they'll go on talking about the state until it cracks off and falls into the sea one fine day. Whether it is a beautiful woman with a hidden killer disease, or a genuinely wonderful place teeming with interesting, imaginative people and possibilities, I think it gets all this attention because no matter what's said, it never fulfills anyone's expectations -- high or low -- and thus remains the ultimate tricky enigma.

Dinner ended with espresso, grappa, and big handshakes from the management. Out on the street again in front of his car, Nicholas embraced each of us.

"I have to go look at a cassette of an actor they want me to use in the new film. All I know about him is he has a big nose.

"Maris, I'll ask about an apartment for you tomorrow. Walker, call me, huh?"

We watched him work his car out of its parking place, and drive slowly down the narrow street.

I turned to Maris. "Would you like to go back to Uschi's now?"

"I think so. It's been a long day, you know?"

"But a good one! Two amazing days in a row. How often does that happen?"

Taking my arm, she put her head against my shoulder. "I want to see all the films you made. Do you have copies? Will you watch them with me? Can we fool around tomorrow, too? Can I have your telephone number? Will you be my friend?"

She turned and stood in front of me, nose to nose, still making requests. I gently put my hand over her mouth and nodded yes to everything.

The evening was nearly asleep by the time I left Uschi's apartment.

Streets were empty, save for an occasional lone wolf taxi cruising slowly by.

Vienna is a city where most people go to bed at ten o'clock. You rarely see anyone walking around past midnight, and those you do are usually going home.

I stood in the doorway of her building pulling up my collar. Dog-tired, all I basically wanted was to go straight to bed. But a small part of me was still keyed up and demanded something more before calling it a night. A café down the street was still open, so I decided on a quick brandy there and then home.

Walking that way, a figure suddenly loomed before me down the street. It took a moment to see that it was a man riding a bicycle. The bike was completely decked out in a mad, glittering jumble of streamers, mirrors, saddlebags, bumper stickers, antennas, and everything else. The man had a long

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Rumpelstiltskin beard. He wore one of those round fur hats that cover most of the head and ears and remind you of wood-choppers in Alaska. Pedaling hard enough to make the bike sway from side to side, he came flying toward me as if death, or sanity, were right behind him. The street was quiet but for the whizzing sounds of the bike and the man's loud breathing. I was so tired that

I didn't know whether to go left or right to avoid him. He kept coming and I kept standing there. As he got closer I saw more and more of his features. His face was lined and scored. A long, narrow stalactite of a nose hung above a mouth (he seemed to be smiling) full of dark teeth that went in every direction. I still hadn't moved when he was ten feet away and coming fast.

"Rednaxela! Welcome!" he shouted as he passed within inches of my feet, so close that I could smell his garlic, sweat, and craziness. He didn't look back once he'd gone past; just drove straight up to the corner, a sharp right there and . . . gone.

I looked at that corner awhile, then up toward Uschi's apartment, then at the corner again. It was time for Rednaxela to go home.

3.

I pulled the handbrake up tight, gave the motor one last goose, then turned it off. The Renault shivered and coughed, as if angry the trip was finally over. But Maris and I weren't. We had driven all night from Munich

through a snowstorm straight out of _Doctor Zhivago_. What was worse, the car had no snow tires, heated only our feet (sort of), and the windshield wipers marched to the beat of a truly different drummer. Four times we'd had to pull off the dark and treacherous autobahn to scrape icy slush off the windshield.

The last time, outside Linz, the car wouldn't start again when we climbed back in. Nietzsche said there are times when things get so bad you either laugh or go crazy. Another option is to sit in a cold Renault R4 that won't start and eat _Extrawürst_ sandwiches at four in the morning.

The car was loaded to the gills with her things, which included seven large LEGO cities, a stuffed Russian crow, and a state-of-the-art Atari computer that looked like something the Pentagon used. The cities and crow made sense, but the computer was a surprise. It turned out she used it to sketch and design the cities before she built them.

As soon as I got out, my neck and back felt as though I'd been hefting cement bags for the last nine hours. Bending over and touching my toes a few times, some of the hairier moments on the road came back to give me the creeps. I looked through the car window and saw she was doing stretches, too.

"Remember how that border guard looked at your crow?"

"It was the only thing that interested him. I'm sure he thought I had heroin or something inside.

Walker, you know how much I appreciate your helping me."

"Would you have done the same thing?"

"You know I would."

"Right. So I just did what you would have done."

"Don't be so gallant. You did me a really big favor and I appreciate it a lot."

"That's good. Let's start unpacking your things."

"Don't you want breakfast first? Let me treat. We can go to _Aida_ and have hot _Töpfen golatschen_."

"If I fill my stomach now and get warm and cozy, I'll go into coma.

Let's take the first couple of loads up to your place and then have coffee there."

"_Gut Sowieso_."

Although she spoke fluent, unaccented German, having lived there so long, it almost always surprised me when she slipped unconsciously into

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Deutsch. Once, when I asked her what language she thought in, she said both.

"Okay, Ms. Sowieso, let's go."

After studying the real estate section of the newspaper every day for two weeks, Maris had found a small, recently renovated studio apartment in a

Biedermeier house on the edge of the Wienerwald. The owners were a rich, unpleasant couple named Schuschitz who immediately announced that the big untidy lawn behind the house was not for her to use. I told her no one with that name and that much pettiness deserved her rent money, but Maris said she was sure they'd all get along fine after awhile. And she was right.

I took the computer out of the car and gingerly made my way across the icy street to the front gate. She unlocked it, and then went back to get a load from the car.

It was seven o'clock in the morning and the sun was just up, but the hard cold stillness and heavy gray sky were not the best welcome home to our first day back in Vienna. As I struggled up the outside stairs to her apartment, Diplom Ingenieur Schuschitz (as the big brass plaque on their numerous doors announced) came toward me.

"So, Frau York finally decided to bring her things and stay awhile, eh?"

He had the face of a man who was sure he had all the answers and would be happy to tell them, if only you were smart enough to ask. But I knew his wife had all the money from her side of the family, and treated him with the sweet dismissal due the fool she'd married a long time ago when they were both young, she was naive, and he only was good-looking.

I was about to say something unpleasant when Maris came up close behind me.

"Frau York, that's not your computer is it? What do you do with something like that?" he asked.

"I'm working on schematic physiology right now, and need the machine to do the representative zero zone equations. It's much faster that way."

He looked puzzled, then hunted: If he stood there a moment longer, we'd discover he didn't know a thing about "schematic physiology."

Smiling like a nervous rat, he welcomed her home and hurried past.

I waited till I heard the gate close behind him, then said over my shoulder, "I didn't know you were good at zero zone equations."

She laughed a little. "Sure, he's an ass, but remember, I have to live in their house. Anyway, that's how you treat people like that: Make 'em know how dumb they are, and they go away feeling a little less pleased with themselves."

For the next hour we toted Maris's old environment into her new one. It was another way of getting to know her. She liked rough-edged singers like Tom Waits and Screaming Jay Hawkins ("You like cool music, but I want to hear the kind that tears your heart out"), heavy, laced shoes and boots, obscure novels in both English and German. I'd helped pack these boxes in Munich, but we did everything in a hurry so as to be out of there as quickly as possible. To tell the truth, she'd been calmer than I then, but I wasn't ashamed of that nervousness. From the moment we rode west out of Vienna two days before, I'd had a deep-seated feeling I would do something both extreme and regrettable if Luc showed up.

In the month we'd been together, Maris slowly told the tale of her relationship with him. Too much of it reminded me of the ingredients in the witches' pot in _Macbeth_: fillet of fenny snake, a toad dead under a rock thirty days, sweat from the body of a just-hung man. She resented the comment when I said it, but there was no avoiding the fact she'd tied up with a high-level psychopath with a Ph.D. in creative sadism.

They'd met through a mutual friend, and from the beginning Luc had done all the chasing.

Charming and clever and vulnerable (she thought), he called constantly, sent exotic flowers, took her to meals he paid for with borrowed or stolen money. They slept together for the first time in a seven-room apartment in Schwabing he said was his, but later turned out to belong to an old
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lover he threatened to beat if she didn't get out for two days and leave him the keys. He told Maris truths like that when their own relationship had degenerated into a series of ominous scenes and dangerous possibilities. One afternoon he came over to her and a date at Schumann's and sadly scolded her for not telling this man she had AIDS. Just because she was dying didn't mean she had the right to kill others, no matter how bitter she was.

"He sounded so heartbroken and _convincing_, Walker. The other guy ended up thanking Luc as if he'd saved his life."

"What did you do?"

"What can you do? Say you don't have AIDS? That's a hard accusation to follow, you know?"

Somewhere in those cardboard boxes was a film he'd made about her entitled _It's Incredible!_

It showed the cities, her working on them, people talking about them at one of her shows. The film was all right, but pedestrian. If it was any indication of his ability as a film director, it didn't say much. When they started having trouble, he took the film and added a new section: He stole her favorite piece of work, and filmed himself pouring gasoline over it and burning it.

"Why didn't you just leave? Or tell him to get the hell out!"

"I did, but he had a key."

"Change the lock."

"I did! But he got a locksmith and had a copy made when I wasn't there.

I changed it three times. The last time, I had one of those expensive unpickable locks put in.