CHARLOTTE
Charlotte fumbled with the lock. Before she could get the door open, Martin opened it from the inside. He looked tired. Behind her, Luca reshuffled their boxes and bags. The ones Charlotte had been carrying sat on the black and white tile floor.
“We’ve cleaned out the three Bs,” Luca said. “Bendel’s, Berdorf’s and Bloomingdale’s.”
He held out the bags for Martin to see. Charlotte gathered the ones on the hall floor, and they stepped inside.
“One of the dresses I bought cost more than my Hassleblad,” she said, giddy from the spree. “And when we finished with me, we moved on to him.”
Martin looked them over.
“Ah, the power of money,” he said, with a sigh.
Luca dug into one of the bags and pulled out a long, narrow orange box.
“And a little something for you.”
It was an Hermès tie. The pattern was an intricate mix of musical instruments and art supplies: brushes, paint tubes, sticks of pastel. The way the design was woven together, you had to look closely to discern them.
Luca insisted on showing Martin everything, wanting his approval, tearing the clothing and accessories out of their boxes until there was a mountain of tissue paper and cardboard on the living room floor. Charlotte found herself enjoying his pleasure more than her own.
During dinner they tried to behave as if nothing had changed. Charlotte resisted the urge to scrub her face. She stayed in character; if she let herself revert back to her old self, even for the few hours left before they had to leave for the airport, she was afraid she might not be able to get the look back. Luca had climbed back into his usual uniform of jeans and a white T-shirt. He had a beautiful body, broad shoulders, no hips, just enough ass; it was obvious that he worked out.
He pulled together a dessert, some praline ice cream topped with a sauce he whipped up out of frozen strawberries and a splash of Curaçao.
Martin turned broody again. They’d eaten in the kitchen, around the steel bistro table and chairs he’d bought in Paris. He’d told Charlotte and Luca about the first year he and Haze were guest artists in Belgium, about Haze and the Algerian, how he rode the train to Paris the weekend he bought the table and chairs, and stayed at the George V. How all those weekends he left Friday night and didn’t return until Sunday afternoon, to give them room. He said he enjoyed those weekends, prowling the flea markets and antiques shops, eating in outdoor cafés, people-watching. The few weekends he stayed in Brussels for performances weren’t too bad. Haze was more considerate of him then. Not like later on. The humiliation was what stung the most.
Charlotte watched Luca’s reaction, since Martin’s tales were so obviously directed at him. To chasten him? Or get a rise out of him? She wasn’t sure. If it was tension Martin was trying to create, it didn’t work. Luca puttered around the kitchen, clearing the dinner dishes and loading them into the dishwasher, as if he didn’t hear him.
Haze, Charlotte thought, I never would have put up with him for that long. She’d never put up with any man for long, except Zdenĕk. She used to think the distance they kept from each other was what kept it interesting. Zdenĕk knew his place. She knew hers. But she was no longer sure. After living with Luca and Martin she regretted living alone for so many years. Something in her was softening. She knew there was no turning back; still, she didn’t trust it. Zdenĕk wanted a life she might not be willing to give him, and as a consequence, after so many years together, she might have to risk losing him.
Later that night she sat on the edge of her bed, thinking about Luca. She wondered if he knew how old she was: forty-two. Twenty-one years since Zdenĕk collapsed outside her door. Twenty-one years since she’d slept with anyone but him.
Unable to sleep, she listened to the voices arguing in her head.
“You know what’s going to happen.”
“Won’t.”
“Will.”
“You know you want him to touch you.”
“Want doesn’t mean will.”
“And you want to touch him.”
“Won’t”
“Will.”