Three Sides of the Coin (Catherine I) (16 page)

             
She took his hand and stooped into the car, facing forward, eyes quickly adjusting to the light.  Across from her, surely, sat Captain Jack.  She was on new ground here, not knowing the etiquette of limos.  It seemed both non-rude and impractical, two known but competing principles for all protocols, for the other passenger to step out of the car.   So she did not know if she should be offended that he did not come in to retrieve her himself, or whether he was following limo blind date procedure to exquisite detail, or whether he was playing a power game.

             
For all appearances, she deemed, as her eyes adjusted to the light, he could very well be a power player.  He had a salt and pepper, square-cut beard that matched his full head of slightly wavy hair.  He was nowhere near balding, nor did he sport a military cut, but neither did he choose the long ponytail that some men did, who did so merely because they could.   To her, some of those men wanted to scream, "I'm an old hippie!" or "I'm a cool, rapidly aging liberal.  That surely attracts the chicks!"  She found those men quite off-putting.  His tuxedo looked as well fitting on him as her dress looked on her.   At least while she was standing.   While she walked elegantly in the gown, because she slid into the limo on the street side of the vehicle, she had some difficulty with the skirt catching and exposing not only her left leg as designed, but a goodly portion of her right leg as well, and she feared, at least a glimpse of her panties.  The good Captain had the kind sense not to leer at her, or ogle her lovely legs should the opportunity have presented itself, but merely gazed piercingly at her eyes. 

             
His eyes were dark brown, almost black and if Da Vinci had the whole "The eyes are the window of the soul," thing right, the shades were drawn here and there would be no soul searching stares with this man.  His face had seen many years but did not look exhausted, but more crafted by nature.  Men, some men, seemed to age so much better than women.   Perhaps our culture allows us to appreciate those men who have succeeded over the ravages of time and we respect their scars and wrinkles.  It seems so cruel what we expect of women in this regard.  Old age seems less a success than a measuring stick of regret for opportunity lost.  Catherine was proud of how well she looked, but she knew a lot of that was because she looked younger than her age.  The combination of age won confidence and youthful DNA, coupled with her rigorous adherence to creams and lotions, SPFs and sun hats made her the beauty she was.  But she knew, in the 20 years that lie before her, she would not look as impressive as this man before her.  For she estimated his age to be at least 20 years in advance of hers, old enough to be her father, she thought.   A sexy father in his intimidating way.

             
"We have time before our dinner reservation.  What do you know of Boston?" He asked waving his hand towards the all of Boston.  His voice was strong and moderately deep, as she expected.   She pictured him in a dark blue pea coat, standing on the deck of a ship casting firm and calm orders to scurrying sailors trying to adapt to the storm, the whale, or the battle.  None of these would faze him in the least.

             
"Not much, I have only been here a couple of times and I usually don't research cities other than to find out where to go and where I might eat, or shop, if it came to that."  She didn't mention that research into the history or the background of a city was an act that she deferred to her husband, or occasionally, Mike.

             
"You lose the opportunity to make the city more, more than just a mixture of shops, ethnic backgrounds and pretty buildings.   Cities are a story written in stone.  They are a trail of dreams and failures.   They are a promise of a future that might yet not come to pass, depending on the people that are there.   They are evidence of our humanity."  He said this as he looked out the window.  Catherine felt both ignored and blessed to be allowed into his thoughts.

             
Captain Jack directed the chauffer to drive them past things she knew and did not know as he narrated things of note:  The Big Dig that went beneath the city, and its starts and stops, errors and corruptions, cost overruns and delays, but eventually it will merely be a road that everyone assumes was always there.  Catherine imagined him upset with the limited knowledge and memory of the general public.  She shivered slightly, imagining him not to be someone she would want to disappoint.   She found that an odd feeling toward someone she had only just met.  And she knew it went well beyond him being a paying customer.

             
He showed her the beauty of the diversity of the buildings.  Like many old cities, Boston mixed its historically oldest  architecture with newer styles, some art deco here, some clean glass and granite here, even some ugly concrete slugs, Captain Jack laughed, added to the interesting mix.  Again Catherine found herself (with little good reason), wanting to contribute to this man, not only to keep from raising his ire, but to add to his joy.

             
He seemed to find a joy in big cities that kept their parks up, interesting in complexity, and free from too much commercialism.  "There must be street vendors.  Those are the souls of a city.  It shows respect for the entrepreneurial spirit.  But no buildings outside a zoo or an occasional pagoda."  He pointed out the display over the Big Dig, a walking park, he called it.  Here was the famous Boston Commons, a bit of a disappointment, he thought, but the Back Bay parks had much more personality.

             
He pointed out the Public Garden, as the limo stopped.  "That is much more of what I had in mind.  Nice calm walk paths, flowers and trees, people and peace."

             
The chauffer pulled open the door and extended her his hand.  She took it, and successfully she felt, negotiated the skirt out the door.  Captain Jack soon stood at her side, and for the first time she noticed he carried a cane.   He took a step, demonstrating a slight limp and she asked, "Are you alright?"

             
Her mind flashed to her pirate fantasy and she thought, "Well, not quite a peg leg, and no patch or parrot to be found anywhere."

             
He turned to her and stated, "My injury is an old friend, come about honestly and well earned.  And like all my old friends, also honestly earned, they are not subject to pity.  We will not discuss this any further, do you understand?"

             
Catherine nodded her head cautiously like a little girl caught peeking into her father's wallet.  Captain Jack, gestured towards the doorman, who had been patiently holding the door to the Four Seasons restaurant open for them all this time.  "Shall we go?" He asked, the gesture a point, rather than an open palm.  She, nearly shamefully, headed towards the door, again inexplicably feeling a great sorrow at letting him down, rather than a rage at the rebuke. 

             
At the table, she sat quietly as he ordered for them both, nearly immediately.  "The lady will have the petit filet, medium rare, with a baked potato, a house salad, oil and vinegar.   I will have the filet, rare, with frittes, and house salad with the house dressing."

             
He, turning, asked her, "I assume you will tolerate a bit of wine with dinner?"  and called the wine steward over.   "We will each have a glass of wine with our steaks.  Would you be kind enough to select an appropriate red?"  The steward bowed and left.  Catherine noted that Captain Jack seemed to care little for her failure to respond to his question.  She realized that if she was to have an objection, she had best be on a quick wit and respond instantly, or the window of opportunity would slam on her indecision.   She also noted that the wine steward seemed familiar with Captain Jack's request.  Whether that was due to the fact that many wealthy people would come here and expect the choice the wine steward would make would be proper and cost was not a restriction; or whether Captain Jack was a known and valued customer who was not to be bothered with trivial questions such as preferences or cost points, she did not know.  

             
The salad, the steak, and, of course the wine were all excellent.   Through dinner Captain Jack spoke in philosophical generalities and geographical as well as historic specifics.   But he seemed equally adept at dodging her questions of a personal interest.  Catherine prided herself on "pumping" people, especially men, for information without their cognizance or later anxiety.   She would smile to herself on how much she would know about them, and how little they would know of her after an hour's chat at a cocktail party.  Men were so susceptible to their ego's being stroked.  They enjoyed the attention, particularly from a pretty woman.   They felt they were interesting if someone seemed interested.   Catherine felt knowledge was power and she loved the power.  However, here Captain Jack seemed in control.  He controlled the power of knowledge here.  He knew things about her, and she nothing of him.   And she realized that would change little as she asked her questions.

             
"You seem to know a lot about Boston.  Did you grow up here?  Do you live here now?"

  He hesitated just a beat.  "I neither grew up here nor do I live here now."

              "Where do you live?" 

             
"I cannot say I truly live anywhere."  Then he deftly changed the subject and left her with her questions strewn across her mind.  Will he answer?  Should she ask?  But she was not one to give up and later asked a question that she felt might be overly bold, considering her status as an escort.

             
"What do you do for a living?"  She felt a wave of relief as he smiled rather than looked cross. 

             
"I trade. The details are both exciting and boring.  Like an accountant feels excitement in the balancing of his debits and credits, but would realize that a rant on how exciting that is would merely confirm his status as an occupier of a dull career, I feel any discussion of trade with anyone other than another trader would merely glaze your beautiful eyes and fill you lovely mind with desires of another person and another place."

             
Catherine took in this deflection and felt a certain conceit in his compliments.   She realized he was to give her nothing that did not leave him as a mystery.   So she settled in with responses that were no longer probes into his shell, but to allow him to escalate his display of control of knowledge.  She wondered if this would be how he would always be, fascinating in depth, or whether this was an onslaught of data that would soon exhaust itself.   Was he a most interesting man or a thin veneer of trivia best left alone?  Was he someone, like a photo of a rugged model smoking a cigar surrounded by snow capped peaks, but in reality, a lifelong native of a suburb of a small mid-western city with no history of cigars or mountains?  Someone better left a dream.

             
After dinner, the bill was brought subtly and Captain Jack signed it.  Catherine saw no credit card, leaving her with the deduction that Captain Jack was a well known commodity to the Four Seasons with a trustworthy line of credit.  She felt a sneaky smug feeling.  It was said about her, the best way to keep a secret from her was to tell it to her.  It might have been her suspicious nature, that anything worth telling would either be not worth remembering, or it would be retrievable information.   Life was too short to worry about stuff that could be had for free.   But her mind was always probing for facts that did not match the story before her.   Her children were always sussed out, no matter how devious their cover-ups.   What made her interesting was she took these deceptions as a part of life and never got upset with lies or subterfuges.   It was what made life interesting.  She merely took great joy in knowing something that was not laid before her.   And so she felt proud that she knew something of Captain Jack, not laid before her feet.   But she knew, it was a tiny victory.  He had to be rich and he had to be sociable, or she would not have been paid to be here.    But now she knew that he was not here for the first time, nor was it likely that he would never be back.

             
As they walked, or she walked and he slightly limped, she took greater note of his height.  He must have been six foot and she realized that she seldom had gone out with tall men, surprising since she was a couple inches over the average height for women.    She had never felt a need to have a man much taller than herself.   She felt that women who needed a tall man, or nothing, were losing out on the many interesting men that came from the outcasts of these women, and wondered how they would respond to a man who insisted, as a prerequisite, on short stature, exquisite beauty, or fawning adoration of men.    Therefore, it was odd that his height impressed her.  This man, in ways subtle and overt, had cast a shadow of power over her.  He had wealth, mystery, knowledge and now, physical power.   And it wasn't the first time she had apprehension over her ability to swim through this ebbing tide of confidence.   But yet, oddly for Catherine the control freak, she had no doubts about continuing this discovery.    It was like a secret being kept from her, by her.   She wanted to discover, to uncover these feelings now emerging.

             
In the car, doors having been opened, and drivers and limos being ready with not a hesitation from table to car seat, another indication that this was a man to be obeyed, he told her that they would just be going down the street to Symphony Hall.   "Are you familiar with Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto Number Two?"