The Deception Dance (4 page)

Mr. Contacts doesn’t notice my staring, but he definitely
notices the flower guy. His mouth curls toward the blond man in a
feral snarl, like a dog. Maybe he's smiling . . . no, it's a snarl.
Turning his back, he taps a large, husky man on the shoulder. Almost
in unison, the men surrounding Mr. Contacts, who a second ago looked
tensed for a brawl, stomp away.

The flower guy spares no glance for me as he runs after the men who,
one by one, disappear behind an archway. His shirt billows out with
every stride until he too sprints out of sight.

I stare at the archway.

That was seriously weird. So the flower-guy and Mr. Contacts know
each other, or, hate each other; and both, for some reason, want to
talk to me. I chew on my lip, a nervous habit I just can't seem to
kick.

I’ve been standing too long in one place; I have that dizzy,
not-enough-blood-going-to-my-head feeling. Then my insides clench
with the familiar horror movie feeling again; almost as if what I saw
didn't really happen . . . I’ll follow those guys, no one will
notice me, and if I see a fight, or anything, I’ll turn around.
I just want to make sure that it was really him, and that I'm not
imagining things.

I turn. Linnie is still lip-locked with her Italian stud. Chauncey’s
cut down to talking to only two men now, one of them, Ramiro. She
extends her leg; he grabs her ankle, lifts it and kisses her bare
foot. I could just say nothing and leave . . . But, that might scare
Linnie and I don't want to do that.

As soon as the girls are in hearing range I shout, “I’m
heading back, see you later.”

Chauncey favors me with a wave of her hand and doesn’t take her
eyes off Ramiro.

I know I should head out the way I entered, but the archway the men
left from is not too far out of my way.

The arch leads to a tunnel through a building, which then leads to an
alley, all of which are deserted. I can hear the crowds in the piazza
behind me, but no voices echo in the alley ahead or the street it
leads to. I walk into a narrow space between tiny parked cars, lining
two sheer walls that loom up on each side of the alley, like a solid
earthen trench.

This was a bad idea. Yeah, Raven, follow the group of guys who look
as if they're about to fight into a narrow deserted alley. How come
my common sense always returns, five minutes after I've made an
idiotic decision? Silent and stealthy? No thanks.

I calculate that it’s six in the morning in Northern
California, so I extract my phone and dial my dad’s number.

He picks up on the second ring. "Linnie?” for some reason,
he sounds worried.

“No dad, it’s me, Raven,” My voice echoes down the
narrow street.

“Oh, good.” There's a bubbling sound in the background,
probably a coffee maker.

"Already heading to work?"

“You know me. So, tell me about your day, what'cha been doing
over there?”

“Today was awesome; Linnie almost fell in the Tivoli fountain.
For lunch we went to this open market and bought bread and brie and
we had a picnic and then we went to the Pantheon.”

"Was it everything you thought it would be?"

The alley empties me into a busy street, lined with restaurants.
After covering the phone to release a sigh, "Oh, dad, it was
better. Hey, here's something for your general contractor brain, the
Pantheon is the world's largest unreinforced concrete dome."

"Don't tell me things like that."

"Dad, it's been standing for two thousand years, it's not as if
it would collapse just because I and Linnie were under it."

"It's bad enough you girls are six thousand miles away; there
are some things I just don't need to know."

On that, I couldn't agree more.

"It sounds as if all your reading and research is paying off,
anyway." There's a gulping sound. "So, what happened to
Chauncey?”

“She was jet-lagged.” If you can get jet-lagged from
vodka. "Hey dad, I just remembered, will you check on Mrs.
Trandle for me? I'm worried that she ...”

"Oh, I meant to tell you," My dad interrupts, "Mrs.
Trandle moved into a retirement community."

"What? When?”

"Yesterday, I think, I helped her family move a couple of
boxes," he says.

I stop walking. "That's ridiculous, dad. She wasn't planning on
moving two days ago. Old people don't just get up and move in a day.
And, I'm pretty sure Mrs. Trandle doesn't have family."

"Birdie, what's the matter? What's this about?"

"Don't you think it's freaky, dad?"

"Not at all. I've never seen you talk to Mrs. Trandle once. When
did she tell you about her family or plans?"

I sigh. "I . . . I guess not. But, did she seem okay about
moving?"

"I didn't see her; she was already gone by the time I helped.
Sweetie, what's going on?"

"Nothing," I say. "Will you just check on her for me,
if you get the chance?"

"Of course. If I see her family again, I'll ask what home she's
in. So. . ." he says, in his 'time to change the subject' tone,
"What are you doing now?"

I glance around the street, restart my speed-walking. “Standing
in the lobby of our hotel, it’s beautiful. I’m turning in
early, dad. Linnie, Chauncey and I are shopping tomorrow and I have a
feeling it’s going to be exhausting.”

Dad chuckles. "I bet. Talk to you tomorrow night,” his
tone says, ‘this is not a request’. “And tell that
other daughter of mine to not be such a stranger, I expect a couple
of calls from her, too.”

“Sure, I’ll tell her . . .”
when she detaches
her face from the random Italian man she met tonight
. “I
love you, dad.” I hang up the phone and sprint the rest of the
way to my hotel. A different top-hat-tipping man from yesterday opens
the door for me; he doesn’t smile.

I climb to the fourth floor, enter my room and fall into bed. I stare
at the fireplace, now swept of ashes. No one saw the letter before I
burned it, and it was all paranoia, anyway. My dad's right, I know
nothing about Mrs. Trandle or her family. And, chances are, if I
noticed how much Mrs. Trandle needed help, so did others. Paranoia is
contagious; I’m sure Mrs. Trandle is fine. Satisfied with my
conclusion, I let my eyelids slip closed. What feels like moments
later, Linnie wakes me by jumping on my mattress.

“Oh, I’m in love, I’m in love, I’m in love!”
she exclaims with every jump.

I open my eyes with some effort and laugh. “Wow,” I
manage.

She jumps on me, knocking the wind out of my lungs, and then
continues to suffocate me by squeezing my waist. "Oh, he’s
perfect, so Italian, and so sexy.”

“It seemed as if you two were connecting intellectually”
is what I intend to say, but my words don't make it out.

She releases me, letting me breathe again. "He’s taking me
out for a drive tomorrow, an all-day date.”

“What?” Propping myself on my elbow, I focus on her and
whisper, “What about shopping? Are you leaving me alone with
Chauncey, all day?”

She must not hear the desperation in my whisper because she sits up,
bounces on her bottom and says, “You two will have so much
fun!”

I roll over and grumble, "Congratulations, I’m going back
to bed.”

Linnie lies next to me and retells every word she and her new ‘love’
spoke to each other; my eyes close and I fall asleep.

Day four

“Scusi,” a woman says, in a nasal voice.

I don't look up because some butter dripped off my croissant and is
running down the back of my hand. Linnie and Chauncey, who were
joking about a guy I don't know, fall silent. We sit street-side,
outside a little café, a few blocks from our hotel. Passing
cars cool the already warm air of the morning; the only downside is
inhaling the frequent gusts of car exhaust.

"Yeah?" Chauncey says lighting up a cigarette; she smokes
French cigarettes, so I get to inhale secondhand smoke all vacation.
Y
ay, me
!

I stuff the rest of my croissant in my mouth, wipe off my hand with a
napkin and glance at the woman.

A short, all-business type woman, who's dressed in a suit that's
possibly worth more than my dad's car, is looking at
me
.

I nod and hasten to swallow.

“Great, you’re American. I’m sorry to bother you.”
She sounds as if she's from the east coast, perhaps New York. "But,
you are gorgeous."

My eyes widen; I thought she was going to ask me for the time.
"Thanks," I say.

"My name is Nina Brandon; I’m from Paloma modeling agency.
I’m in the middle of a shoot.” She gestures over her
shoulder. "Have you ever done any modeling?”

I shake my head.

“And you live here or in America?”

“California.”

Chauncey removes her sunglasses, leans on her elbow and smiles a
shoot-ready grin at the woman. "Hi, my names Chauncey Halverson.
I’ve
actually done some modeling with...”

“I’m sorry dear; I’m in a real rush,” Nina
says, not even glancing Chauncey’s way.

Chauncey scoffs and says under her breath, “Oh, are you looking
for Goth models?”

“Actually, we’re looking for a more natural look this
season," Nina says, while extracting something from her pocket.

Chauncey drags her cigarette and exhales a cloud of smoke into Nina’s
face.

Nina coughs and gives one brusque wave in front of her face, not
wavering her gaze from me. “I’m giving you my card; on
the back I’m writing a code so no...” she pauses to peer
at Chauncey, "eavesdroppers can say they’re you.”
She scribbles something on the back of a business card and places it
beside my plate. “I have to run.” Nina smiles at Chauncey
and then Linnie. "Your friend is gorgeous!”

“Don’t I know it!” Linnie shouts after the woman.
She shrieks. “Oh my god, Raven, I can’t even believe it.
I’ve even heard of Paloma models and I don’t know
anything about fashion. You’re going to be famous!”

Thank goodness, a horn’s honking stops my sister from
jack-hammering the hole I’m in any deeper.

“Oh, it’s him!” She gives me a panicked smile.
"How do I look?”

“Great.” I say while leaning over to kiss her cheek. “Do
you have your cell phone?”

“Yes. Seriously, Raven, sometimes I’m sure you’re
my
older sister.” The horn honks again. She squeals,
“Eeeee, I’m so excited." She jumps up and leaves me
alone with Chauncey.

We sip our coffee drinks in silence. I again ordered an espresso;
Chauncey has a ‘non-fat’ latte. I’m pretty sure the
waitress didn’t understand what Chauncey meant by non-fat and
that her drink is full fat, and perhaps even unpasteurized. I look
away to smirk.

Chauncey breaks the silence first, “I was
thinking we could start at Piazza di Spagna, walk down via Borgognona
to via del Corso then the driver will pick us up after lunch and
drive us to via Margutta. They’re all pretty close together.”
She lights up another cigarette. “How does that sound?”

It sounds like a bunch of streets. “Great, uh, wherever you
want to go is fine with me.” Except that I would rather be
cleaning out a construction site's porta-potty than shopping with
her.

Just for something to say, I tell her, “In the Piazza di
Spagna, there’s a fountain fed by an ancient aqueduct: people
drink from it.”

“Disgusting,” she says, before inhaling her cigarette.
Chauncey puts a few Euros on the table. "I’m paying for
everything today, and don’t complain, I insist.”

She stands and I can’t help noticing how much more model-like
she is than I. Sure, I’m tall and lanky, skinny all the way up,
but Chauncey looks like a polished jewel in comparison. She has the
distinct look of someone who's been well-groomed, all her life, never
having a bad hair day or a pimple scar.

The first store we enter in the Piazza di Spagna is as tiny as its
store-lady, who does not even raise her head to acknowledge us. Where
the woman did not see fit to acknowledge us the walls oblige: there
isn't a wall or surface that doesn't reflect some part of me. Past my
reflection, in the windows of the outer wall, people talk and eat and
play on the famous one hundred and thirty seven Spanish Steps.
Waiting at the top of the steps, sits Trinita del Monti Church: her
towers poke into the sky like the upheld arms of a waving friend. But
with Chauncey's shopping schedule, I'm more likely to have a brain
aneurysm than the chance to explore the Trinita del Monti.

"
Hello
?" Chauncey mumbles under her breath to me,
"My god, these Italian women are such stuck-up bitches.”

I couldn't agree less: everyone's been really nice to me, the Italian
men perhaps
too
nice.

When Chauncey turns to the store-lady her smile is so sweet you could
spoon it into tea. "Can we get some help over here?"

The store-lady rushes over to help and each time she brings Chauncey
a shoe in her size, Chauncey sends her back for another pair; my neck
hurts from watching the little woman dash back and forth.

"You don't talk much," Chauncey says to me as she buckles
the strap on a stiletto.

It's not a question, so I don't answer her.

She holds out her foot. "What do you think?" The gaudy gold
shoe's spiked heel could double as a weapon in one of the books I
read.

"It's not really my style." None of the shoes here are.

"Yeah," Chauncey says, dragging out the word and glancing
down at my flip-flops. "I'm going to buy these." She stands
up to stare at herself in the mirror, with puckered lips. “I’m
surprised you’re not buying anything, don’t you need
shoes?”

I flip over a tag on a pair of stockings that the store woman had
brought over for Chauncey: they cost more than I allotted for my
daily spending. I say, "Nope."

Chauncey pulls off the killer shoes and stacks up five other pairs,
before handing
me
her credit card. "Will you buy these
for me? I have to make a phone call," she asks with a toothy
smile. "Oh, thank you, you are so sweet.”