Decadence (31 page)

I said it to free myself from that old fear. To know that I could say it to someone else. To know that I could feel it take root and bloom. I said it while I felt safe. I said it softly, gently, nervously, like I was a Scaramouch. But I said it. What was important was that I said it. I had reclaimed my power to say it. As Prada slept, when he was no longer on this level, when he couldn't hear, that was when I said it.

When I could say it and not feel the burden of expectation, not hear it repeated because I had said it, or not hear it
not
repeated after I had said it, when I owned the moment, I let those three words free.

A weight had been lifted. The world was no longer resting on my shoulders. Then I eased back into the bed, the bed that many others had used for sleep and copulation, pulled his arm around me, absorbed his warmth, and I slept. The anxious, overbearing clock that ticked inside of me, it paused, gave me rest. For the first time in innumerable years, I slept like a woman who was finally satisfied. My journey had ended.

The fire had burned itself out. But like Gilsonite mines in the Utah wildlands, I smoldered. But there were no flames. Prada had all but extinguished my inner conflagration. My darkness had relinquished control to the emotions that lived inside of my heart. Tomorrow the fire would start anew. But tonight, there was a well-earned rest.

I woke up startled when a Spanish-speaking woman entered the room. I hadn't heard her knock. Hadn't heard her call out that she was from housekeeping. I didn't know where I was for a few seconds. It was close to noon. It was checkout time. Cocooned in come-stained, saintly white covers, wrapped in the exotic scent of a man who had flown the world to bring congratulatory flowers, I woke up alone, Prada's flavor on my tongue. He wasn't in the hotel room. There was emptiness in the room. The sound of
only
one heartbeat. I searched for him. His luggage was gone. Nothing had been left behind. No note. No text message. I had messages from others, from my mother, from my father, from Bret, from Rosetta, from my agent, from Lola Mack, from celebrities, from my underpaid-and-overworked New York editor, from my literary agent, from my agent at The Screenwriters Agency, from Regina Baptiste, even from high school and college friends, but nothing from Prada. Gone. He had left me the way I had left many men.

Nia Simone Bijou,

First and foremost, congratulations on all of your success. I bet you're surprised to hear from me. I didn't expect that I would be compelled to write you after so long. One of my sisters and her boyfriend were married last month in the Dominican Republic and I was the best man for the ceremony. Being home felt strange, but I was happy to see my friends and family. I saw someone who looked like you. When I saw her, I didn't expect to miss you, but I did. The entire evening was filled with love and joy and for a moment I was sad because I was not with you. Does that sound stupid? We are strangers now. We have been for some time. I never had a chance to let you know why I left college without attempting to say good-bye to you, why I didn't call you after our last night in the hotel. Maybe you don't care. During that time, I couldn't tell. You weren't an easy woman to read. I left Hampton because I was in love with you and I couldn't take being in the same city with you and not being with you. I didn't want to be in the same state. I couldn't bear being in the same country. I know that after you broke up with Chris, we only had a few moments, but they meant the world to me. I had been on the sideline looking at you for years. Those moments that you were with me like you were my girlfriend, even though I knew that you weren't, were like a dream come true. I left to get away from the memory of us, a memory that was everywhere I looked. I left to be able to start over. What I didn't know was that the memories would follow me. I wanted to forget how much pain I was in. I wanted to forget how mad things had become, the cheating and the deception on Chris's part, a crime for which he had enlisted me to be his coconspirator. And I wanted to forget that I ever loved you. Most of all, day in and day out, I hated myself for lying to you on behalf of Chris. I couldn't stand to look at myself anymore. I had hoped that in the middle of all that we would become a couple. I had so much love for you and I had hoped that what I felt in my heart was real when I touched you. And then one day after that last night together, you didn't call. You never picked up the phone to even see if I was alive. You stopped talking to me. You left me without a good-bye. I was concerned about you. Graduation came and went. Not a call. Not a note. You just left Hampton and never looked back. And so many times, I would dial your number . . . just to hear your voice . . . not knowing what to say. So I eventually left Virginia. I went back to the Dominican Republic for two years. Then when I felt that enough time had passed I returned to the United States. Most days, Nia, I think about you. I wonder how you are . . . if I concentrate hard enough I can even smell you . . . that's the special thing about memory. There's no room for anyone else inside my heart because you're still there. Always there. I know you have someone else by now, but he will never love you like I did. My love was real, and I know this love I feel for you has carried us through many lifetimes. I know that we may not get it right in this life, but we will be together someday again as we should be. This I have never wavered on. I have always been clear about you and my intent to love you. Last night I had a dream about us. . . . I didn't want to wake up. I knew that if I woke up I couldn't touch you anymore. My dreams allow me to hold you. I told someone the other day that every love song that I sing, I sing to you, especially if it's a Mariah Carey tune. “Vision of Love,” “Always Be My Baby,” “We Belong Together,” and “Don't Forget About Us” take me back to you without fail. It's sad, much sadness there. I have a great job now. Baseball is behind me. And I'm writing a book. What's inside of me refuses to leave so I will try and write it away. I think that I got the urge to write from you. I'm not good at it, not like you were. Not like you are. The book is about us. If I ever finish it, there will only be two copies. One for me. One for you. The reason I am not sure that it's over is that I don't know how to end it. Maybe if I end the story I'll stop wanting to be with you. It's damn good. You would be proud of me. I knew that we only had a few moments, but I knew you during my college life, those powerful years, watched you for countless semesters, and those were the best years of my life. If I could save time in a bottle, as it is already written, I would save every day that I have spent with you, even though there were but a few, even though you were crying over Chris. Every moment was important, every laugh, every tear, every time we made love, every time that I looked at you and dried your tears. I didn't care that you were in love with Chris, I didn't care that you were blinded by your love for him, because I was blinded by my love for you. That love that I had for you back then, I have it all with me still. I consider myself lucky to have experienced it, regardless of how it ended up. I always thought we would be friends at least, but I realized when people have loved as we did, when lines are crossed as we crossed lines, there is too much pain, and we would only serve to remind each other of a time in our lives we want to forget, so a friendship is impossible. I still humor myself with the idea. You are and always have been the one. It feels like you will always be the one for me, always, no matter where I am or whom I am with. No other woman has compared to you. You have my heart. I'm writing like I am writing a book. And I hope that enough of this rambling is clear. I hope that you have read this far. I don't know if any of this matters. It just mattered to me to let you know these things, to let you know how I feel about you still, to let you know that I love and miss you so much and that I am so sorry for everything. If you ever want to see me or talk to me, if ever you feel like we have a chance, please contact me. Hopefully this letter finds its way into your hands. Hopefully tonight I will have the courage to come find you and put it in your hands and see your face once again. And if I do find the courage, hopefully you will read it to the very end. As in life, it is funny how things turn out. I met you a few days before Chris. Maybe a week. At the student union. The AKAs were stepping. You were in the crowd, had on dark blue jean shorts, brown sandals, and a red, white, and black T-shirt from Trinidad. I had my favorite T-shirt from the Dominican Republic, one that had Sammy Sosa's image on the front, and on the back was the red, white, and blue flag of MI
QUISQUEYA. That started our Caribbean conversation. You were passionate. You were funny. You were so innocent. Loved your hair short too. I told you that you were very
tierna
. I had called you ladylike and you thanked me. You asked me if I spoke Spanish. I said I did. Then you started speaking in Spanish, your pronunciation so good, and your vocabulary already so amazing that it was intimidating. You needed a little help in advanced Spanish, expressing opinions using concessive clauses. For a few sessions, I was your unofficial Spanish tutor and I had your attention, had you to myself two hours each Tuesday and Thursday for seven weeks, almost two months. I wish I could *69 those days. I think I learned more from you than you did from me. Every time I saw you, I wanted to ask you out. You were so passionate, so intelligent, and inside you lived the fervor of Ayn Rand and Hedy Lamarr. Hedy had beauty, but she had intelligence as well, intimidated many men. Then one afternoon
mi tigre
Chris came over to our table. Never will forget how you lit up. I smiled, but the way you regarded him devastated me. You ended up with him. Never understood that.

I keep trying to conclude this correspondence, but the words refuse to end. The finger has been pulled from the hole in my emotional dam. I remember your tears, your trauma. It's not my intent to remind you of the onslaught of problems or to loose a flood. But like the little Dutch boy who removed his finger from the hole in the dam, words pour out. I'll force the words to end, even though I'm long past making a fool of myself. It was great seeing you tonight. It was truly great being in the same room. Most importantly, even if I never see you again in this lifetime, I would love it if you consider me your friend forever.

Rigoberto Traveres.

P.S.—
Me encantó tu película muchísimo
. It was amazing.

P.P.S.—You were incredible on stage. Again you have motivated me.

P.P.P.S.—
Mi Quisqueya es, y siempre será mejor que el tuyo. Tenía que decirlo. No pude resistir.

Beverly Hills,
California.

The conurbation of excess was bordered by Bel-Air, Santa Monica, and all areas that were so proud to be Beverly Hills–adjacent that they keep their real estate prices high enough that a single-digit millionaire was considered a broke man up here. Billionaires were the new millionaires in this country. The town of Los Angeles, California, was originally named El Pueblo la Nuestra Señora de Reina de los Angeles de la Porciúncula. The original name of the Beverly Hills area was Rancho Rodeo de las Aguas and was a lima bean farm until they started drilling for oil. Less than seven hundred people lived there a little more than one hundred years ago. Eventually, Hollywood came. Minorities were no longer welcome. Greed was planted and grew like trees. Dollar trees. More greed was planted. And the greedy were still coming. Presidents came here to have fund-raisers. Royalty came here, would visit 90210 but would never set foot in the area that houses the citizens living in 90220. For a few days I played the role and basked in the sought-after zip code of bourgeois television shows, real-life heirs and heiresses, dignitaries, television celebrities, movie celebrities, celebrities who were famous for doing nothing, executives, and media moguls who basked in a luxurious culture and did their shopping at the triangle along the cobblestone roads on Rodeo Drive, which in reality was a crappy version of the astounding Champs-Élysées in Paris. Nothing here was original. Not one single concept. They wanted to do a female version of
The
Expendables
, and
The
Expendables
was another version of
The Seven Samurai
. I'd never fit in here, not the way most did.

•   •   •

Six days later,
the weather was dry and felt warm enough to wear shorts and a T. The warmest part of the morning was around eleven, when it reached the low eighties, but the temperature would drop thirty or forty degrees after the early sunset. But for now, considering we had taken a break from Hollywoodland and spent the last two days in Mammoth snow skiing, this dry warmth felt like summer in the islands. I wore a white, two-piece bikini and heels, along with wide Jackie O sunglasses. The outdoor sound system played music by Irving Berlin. “What'll I Do?” A cup of mango tea was at my side, as was a worn copy of Anaïs Nin's
Henry and June
, a novel that I had read more than a priest had studied a Bible. I sat poolside underneath clear skies, another rarity for LA. The letter that Rigoberto had given me was on the table. I read it ten times today. And I had read it just as many times yesterday and the days before. My cellular rang. I looked at the caller ID. It was a call from Chris's cellular. But I knew that it wasn't Chris. It was his humanitarian wife. It was a co-member at my hellfire club. It was my nemesis. She had dialed my number ten times a day for the last five days. Each time I had cursed her, used many dyslogistic adjectives to express my dissatisfaction with the audacity she had to call, cursed the walls and snapped out how I felt about her ringing my phone. The humanitarian hadn't left a single message. But I knew that it was she. Intuition. Expectation. I had been here before. Not with her. But I had been here before. I had been here with the Jewell of the South. It had been very ugly.

I wiped my face, looked at my hand, and expected to see spit that had been spewed like venom. With regret, I knew that when Chris touched his face he remembered my hands, remembered the moment that I had lost the plot and had become as irrational as the square root of the number two.

Again I looked at that emotional, moving letter from Rigoberto. I swallowed his pain.

My mother came out to the pool. She wore a red-and-black two-piece and high heels as well. My mother held two cellular phones. One was in her hand and as she walked, she typed a text message, a long text message. As she typed at the speed of light, my mood shifted. The other phone was being held up to her ear with her shoulder. Her tone was militant. It wasn't a Hollywood business call. It was personal.

“She and the farce for a government are a disgrace. I read online that they are trying to phase out the GATE program which made it possible for many blacks to get a university education. And the VAT they are promising to remove from certain food prices have been in place for years. Everyone already knows that. That's why she's a running joke. Black people need to wake up and stop being bought and sold so easily. She went into power and things for black people have worsened.”

I tried not to, but I thought of Prada. I had whispered that I loved him. I was afraid, not heartless. I was filled with desire and fantasy, not without a soul. I did love him. Maybe not as he loved me, not at the level that he professed, but I did.

More than one thousand and seventy days had passed since I had met him at Zen in Trinidad. I ached for him now. I ached to be laughing and eating and dancing with him now. I ached for him as, based on his passionate words, Rigoberto had ached for me for many years.

He had desired me and I had cherished Chris and Chris had preferred Siobhán. Preferred. I refused to and never would see that union as a union of love. I searched but failed to see the humor in the cruelty that life brought to many.

Prada carried more weight at this moment. My heart was heavy for him. My mood hidden behind sunglasses and an expressionless face, I ached for Prada the way other men ached for me. I wanted to call him. I wanted to text him. Skype him. But ego would not let me.

My mother sat on the wicker recliner next to mine. She ended her call, put down both of her cellular phones, and right away she picked up the letter that I had been reading over and over. I didn't slap her hand. I didn't protest. She read it. She read my private life, read Rigoberto's confession of love. Then she put the letter back down and sat next to me in silence. Soon she picked it up and read it again. She shook her head as she put it back down. My cellular rang once more. The same phone number out of Florida. A number from a cellular from Miami. I turned my ringer off and put it down on the tile. I waited for her questions. I waited for the mommy voice and finger-pointing criticism.

She said, “The actors are in London doing
The Graham Norton Show
and a couple of them are in Paris for the French show
Le Grand Journal
, which I still think that you should have flown over to be on, but it was your call. You have a few more interviews, then we're done.”

“The London interview. Radio. I have to talk to Angie Le Mar.”

“She's brilliant. Comedian. Director. Simply brilliant. She understands what you do.”

“It's going to be recorded and played the day of the premiere.”

“The Leicester Square London premiere is in two weeks.”

“I know. Time flies.”

“Will Prada be there to escort you down the red carpet?”

“No idea.”

“Have you talked to him since the premiere?”

“No.”

“He hasn't called?”

“No.”

“You haven't called him?”

“No.”

“Something happen?”

“Honesty is not the friend of love.”

“How long did you know him? Your stepfather said that he comes from a very powerful family.”

“He does. They are on the level of Sabga.”

“One of the top successful entrepreneurs in India and not just known in his parent's country or in London, but throughout the whole world. Petroleum, telecommunications, software, other things.”

“I know.”

“Did you love him?”

“Doesn't matter.”

“Was it the cultural difference?”

“Mommy, please.”

“Religious difference?”

“Let's not do fifty questions.”

“You're okay?”

“Is there any other choice? Is there ever any other choice?”

She reached over and held my hand. She squeezed it three times, then held on. About twenty minutes later we turned over, were on our bellies facing each other.

She said, “That was a passionate letter someone wrote you.”

“Very.”

“Chris. That boy from Belize.”

“What about Chris Eidos Alleyne?”

“I have a feeling that you are leaving a lot out. You have omitted much. That letter is from Rigoberto. That was Chris's friend.”

“His best friend.”

“I never heard about him. You have left a lot out, my daughter.”

“Am I supposed to tell you everything?”

“Do you think that you should tell me everything?”

I shrugged.

She said, “It's not easy. What your stepdad and I went through. Not easy. My therapist said the most effective way to let go of anger was to forgive my ex-spouse. I told him that I had Caribbean blood and I'm not Jesus, plus I work in a very racist Hollywood, a town that thrives on revenge, so the concept of forgiving was a difficult one to comprehend. He told me that it was going to be an extremely difficult thing to do, especially in the case of unfaithfulness. So listen to me, it's very important to approach this in the proper manner.”

“Which is what, exactly?”

“Decide that you are ready to truly forgive, and you mean it in your heart. Next you need to find a way to tell your ex that you've forgiven him. Can be face-to-face, on the phone, or even by e-mail.”

“Can I just send a text or post it on Facebook or send a tweet?”

“Stop with your jokes. You might write or tell him that you know that you're not getting back together, but you want him to know that you forgive him. Accept that the past is the past, as I had to accept that the marriage was over. Had to let go of the anger.”

“You haven't let go.”

“We're talking about you, not me. You have to let go of the anger and become a better you. Remember both the good and bad sides of the relationship, as I have to do with the marriage. Make peace with yourself, as I have had to find a way to make peace with myself. Your stepfather wasn't perfect, but neither was I and I guess that I have to be realistic about how I contributed to the divorce.”

“How did you?”

“He wanted more children. I guess that I was content with you. I denied him that right. He tells me that the resentment he had toward me came from that. I was never fully a wife for him, in his eyes.”

“No one ever said.”

“I know. I was busy working and I had, to be honest, lost your father. I didn't want to have another child and then end up divorced with two children by two men. I didn't want to stay at home and be taken care of like every other Botox-faced woman in this neighborhood. I was in the land of opportunity and I wanted to pull my own weight. Guess I was afraid. I didn't realize that then, not as I do now, now that I am able to clearly review my emotions. But I should've given you a brother or a sister, a sibling. Instead I remained stubborn, determined to succeed in my career, and I accepted his infidelity as if that were the true cause of our divorce, moved on and established a support network outside our marriage-related friendships. I moved forward and developed future goals that did not involve him. I fell into my work and made sure that you had what you needed. I allowed myself time, several years to heal before I even thought about another relationship. But the big thing was I planned my life as a single mother.”

“Did you ever see Dad again? Had you seen Francois Henri before the premiere?”

“You know we talk off and on.”

“That was not the question. Have you seen him?”

My mother paused. “What do you mean did I see him?”

“As a wife sees a husband. As a woman sees a man when she thinks no one is looking.”

“Are you really going to ask your mother that type of question?”

“What's really been going on?”

“I saw your stepfather again. You were away in college. Your freshman year. We decided to talk without lawyers present.”

“Well?”

“He came to Los Angeles. Stayed a few days, maybe a week. We went to dinner at Gladstones, to talk. Well, I went to talk and he came to listen to me tell him how he had made me feel, that affair.”

“And?”

“Like I said, my therapist thought that it was a good idea that I said things to him face-to-face.”

“So?”

“I was angry. Said horrible things. Told him that he had disappointed me, he told me that I had disappointed him as well. But it was my meeting so I took the floor and told him all that was inside of me. Said things that no lady should ever say. Whenever he opened his mouth in rebuttal, I did my best to emasculate him. He's French. He's expected to have a mistress. And when it happens, he expects that it will be dealt with privately. Or at least in his mind he felt that he was expected to. The problem is that I am not French, and if a French wife accepts her husband having other lovers, he married the wrong one.”

“And?”

“We drank.”

“And.”

“We talked. Things calmed down and we talked in a normal tone.”

“And?”

“We drank some more wine.”

“And?”

“One thing led to another.”

“And?”

“Afterward, he told me that he liked the sex that we'd had and wanted to do it again.”

“Wow.”

“He didn't say it that way. He said it in French, so it sounded . . . it sounded French.”

“He liked it and wanted to do it again. He liked the sex? What does that mean?”

“He wanted me back in his life, but to me, since he had other involvements, that meant he wanted me to become his mistress.”

“Did you?”

“No. And that's not funny.”

“You sure that you didn't?”

“He's not a perfect man, but he is a good man.”

“You did.”

“No. It would've been like the song Sugarland sings, “Stay.” He'd leave my home, then fly back to Paris, leave my bed and leave me in limbo. He'd be back in her bed and leave me wondering when he was going to come back. I'd be angry. Envious. How long does something like that last? I had gone through the madness and divorce with him and I had already exhausted myself of the foolishness. So I cut to the end of that script. She had already won. She had won. He belonged to her. So, I told him, married man, go home to your next wife.”