The Outsiders (5 page)

The party
was an archipelago, islands placed in a stream of humanity formed
around men and women of power and surrounded by those who wished to
suck that power dry, or join in partnerships that could lead to
power of their own. The dress code was uncomfortably immaculate.
Impeccable. Perfection was the expectation, and extravagance the
rule.

Malachi traveled the circuit easily, his form-fitted suit and
carefully curled
hair stood out, even in a
gathering of the mighty. Eyes followed his progress, and more than
once he was forced to disentangle himself from a more than casual
flirtation, or the attentions of business associates and would-be
paramours. He would not be dissuaded, his course was
set.

She sat,
back to the room, her hair dangling across her face coyly. Slender
fingers gripped the leather edges of a book more important than the
business of the mighty. Her shoulders were shrouded in crushed
velvet, lined with fur. Malachi caught an artfully turned ankle
beneath the hem of her dress and the flash of sequins on delicate
sandals. Absolutely inappropriate.

Malachi’s
pulse quickened. A passing servant held a tray of snifters, filled
with their host’s brandy, and he reached out quickly, snatching two
from the tray without missing a step. A smile slid across his
features and transformed his too-intense face into the facsimile of
a courtier.

“
Pardon me,” he said, stepping close to the arm of the woman’s
chair.

She
turned slowly, glancing up into his eyes and letting the curl of
hair that had so enchantingly hidden her face from view slide back
and away to hook behind her ear. As she moved, her fingers were in
motion, and the covers of the book were drawn closed, even as
Malachi was drawn nearer still.

“
May I offer a brandy?” he asked, proffering half of his recent
booty with a flourish.

She
smiled, accepting the liquor and bringing it to her lips for a
sip.

Her eyes
twinkled, and she spoke at last. “It’s not cognac,” she said, “but
it is free.”

Malachi
smiled at the jest and nodded, sipping his own drink.

She was a
sudden fascination. The turn of her lip, the flash in her eye, and
the cover of the book she’d tucked just out of sight, all captured
his imagination in a room that seemed designed to dull it. She
spoke in whispers and giggles of those passing around them, their
fashion or lack thereof, their mannerisms and the topics that
fascinated the room. She had recited poetry, dark poetry that
seeped into his mind when he thought he was paying it little
attention and would return later with the memory of her
eyes.

He’d asked to see her again, on an impulse, and she’d smiled
and nodded in agreement. There was a bistro, she’d said - small and
unassuming, but with a wine cellar to draw royalty on the sly and a
stage where the minstrels gathered. He knew the place, or of
it.

Then she was gone. It was the last time he ever saw her, and
but for the silken bookmark that dropped in her passing, might have
been the last time he truly remembered her. But there was the
bookmark, and, romantic fool that he was, he followed where it led
– an old bookstore, dark and severe, sculpted, it seemed, from
brick and thick rugs, mahogany and dim shadow. Though he didn’t
read for pleasure, he went there still, drawn by dark eyes and
darker verse, hoping to blend one back to the other. Hoping to find
her smile.

Christopher snapped the book shut as a sliver of something
very cold seemed to embed itself in his spine. With his nose deep
in the book and his shoulders hunched forward, the room had
dwindled until the world might have been shut out by solid walls
and he in the privacy of his own den. Now the echo of the book’s
closing reverberated through the place, and he glanced around
hastily. It seemed miles to the counter, where the old man glanced
up peevishly at the sound. The small glowing circles of lamplight
at each desk glimmered eerily, and the creaking of the huge ceiling
fans overhead grew ominous.

On the
book’s cover, he saw the girl curled in her chair and he averted
his gaze hastily, as though she might turn and catch him in her
gaze. He wondered what he should do, and so, he sat and did nothing
as the moments ticked away. He watched the glow of headlights
growing and fading away as traffic passed on the street. He
imagined that the fans sound had grown to the ticking of an immense
clock, counting down the hours and minutes until.

What?

The front
door opened, and he leaped to his feet, seized by unreasoning
panic. A short, furtive man with a long grey coat entered, nodding
to the proprietor at his counter and bustled across the center of
the room, making toward the stacks in back. The stranger paid no
more attention to Christopher than he might have paid the wall. A
breeze from the front door stirred Christopher’s hair, and he
cursed under his breath.

He turned
back to grab the book and a wave of vertigo slid through him like a
greasy knife. The desk was bare. There was no book in sight. He
glanced to the side, steadying himself against the solid wood
frame, but there was nothing beside, or beneath the desk or chair.
Nothing. Turning so quickly he teetered and almost lost his
balance, Christopher bolted for the front door, slamming it open
and diving into the night beyond.

Traffic
had slowed, but he still nearly managed suicide by stupidity,
staggering into the road without a glance to either side. Tires
screeched, and he fought for breath, tripping up onto the sidewalk
on the far side of the street and turning to fall heavily against
the wall. He closed his eyes and concentrated.

He was
just tired. It had all been confusing, and he was disappointed in
not seeing Sylvia at the restaurant. That was all. He slowly
regained his senses, and began to feel stupid. What must that old
man in the store think of him? Lucky the guy hadn’t called the
police to report the crazy man reading a blank desk and crashing
out into the darkness without a backward glance.

He opened
his eyes and stood up. He found that he’d come to rest against the
wall of the Little Havana Bar and Grille. The aroma of hot food
filled the air, and his mouth began to water. He hadn’t eaten,
after all. Maybe that explained the apparent hallucinations of the
past few minutes.

Christopher stepped to the door and pressed it
open.

She sat
alone in a far corner, one foot curled up under her skirt, the
other toe-first to the floor in scuffed Doc Martens. Her hair
dangled, as it seemed it always had, over the side of her face,
hiding her features. On the table in front of her were a half-empty
wine glass, and a book. Christopher’s heart thudded ominously, and
he felt blood rushing too-quickly to his head. The hostess was
saying something to him, asking questions, but he couldn’t really
hear her. He was already walking across the room, more quickly than
he should, his hips banging into tables and elbows and drawing
curses as he passed.

He
stopped beside the table and stared down at her, unable to speak.
For a moment, she continued to read, though he was blocking the
light and bathing her in shadow. Finally, with a quick flip of her
head, she glanced up. Her eyes flashed dangerously, and her lips
were set in a grim line.

“
Hard time finding the place?” she asked.

The
vertigo threatened to return, and more to save his failing balance
than for any other reason, Christopher dropped into the seat across
from her.

“
What do you mean?” he asked. “I...I waited outside for over an
hour.

She
stared at him, and for a second Christopher thought she might reach
out and slap him. He was trembling, and he ran his fingers suddenly
back through his hair. He glanced down at the table, wanting to
escape her gaze, somehow. The book she’d been reading was cradled
in her hands. When she saw him glancing at it, she snapped it
shut.

“
I’ve been here since 7:30,” she said slowly. “I have read
nearly two hundred pages of this book, finished most of a bottle of
wine, had a salad by myself, and you were standing
outside?”

His eyes
grew wide with disbelief.

“
Eight,” he said at last. “You said eight - I was waiting for
you outside, wasn’t sure you’d remember what I look
like.”

She was
still staring at him, but the corner of her lip was twitching. As
he watched in stunned silence, she suddenly lost control and
dropped her face across her arm on the table, laughing
uncontrollably. Her hair came dangerously close to dipping into her
wine glass, and Christopher leaned forward to slide it further
toward the center of the table.

A
waitress had materialized beside them, and was staring down at
Sylvia in confused silence. Christopher glanced up at her and
shrugged, indicating that she should bring another wine glass. The
girl turned and hurried away.

Sylvia
sat up at last, wiping tears of laughter from the corners of her
eyes.

Christopher wasn’t certain whether to laugh with her, be
indignant, or scream. The events of the past couple of hours
haunted his mind, and the more times he ran them all through his
head, the more they blurred and folded in at the edges.

As the
waitress returned, and Sylvia shakily poured wine into his glass
for him, still trying to reign in her mirth, he leaned
forward.

“
I have to ask you something,” he said. “I have to ask you
about the bookstore.”

“
Bookstore?” she replied, one eyebrow arching. “What
bookstore?”

He
watched her eyes as he answered, not certain what he was hoping to
see.

“
The Home of the Tome,” he said. “Across the street. When I had
waited long enough I was sure you weren’t coming, I went over
there.”

It was
her turn to watch him. When she didn’t reply, he
continued.

“
I didn’t really mean to go there, it just happened. I was in
the stacks, in the back, and there was a book leaning out – almost
like it was there for me to find. There was a paste-down
illustration on the cover.”

“
That doesn’t seem earth-shattering,” she said, sipping her
wine.

“
It was a picture of you,” he said softly.

Her eyes
narrowed almost imperceptibly, then she was smiling again. “You
must be mistaken,” she said. “I have never posed for such a
picture.”

“
The book was over a hundred years old,” he said, ignoring her
comment. “Dated 1897.”

She
remained silent, but seemed a little more pale, her features
wavering in the dim light of the restaurant.

“
The inscription read, ‘For Sylvia.’”

She
leaned back, draining her glass with a quick gulp. It was obvious
to Christopher that she hadn’t exaggerated the amount of wine she’d
had while waiting. Her movements were smooth and sensual, but they
didn’t end when they should - continuing just beyond the careful
control of nerve and muscle, and her expression was
vague.

“
Excuse me,” she said, rising unsteadily. “I have to visit the
ladies room.”

“
But...”

She was
tottering off before he could question her further, and Christopher
grabbed his glass, sloshing some of the sticky red wine over his
hand. He gulped it down and refilled it about halfway, emptying the
bottle. He stared at the shadowed curtain through which she’d
disappeared as if after a missed ship.

He
glanced down at the table and realized with a start that she’d left
her book. It was turned away from him, and the lighting was dim,
but he could make out a slick, illustrated dust jacket and the
tassel of a bookmark flipped casually up and over the
top.

He
glanced away guiltily. She hadn’t wanted him to see the book, he
was sure of that. Both times he’d seen her, in fact, she’d gone out
of her way to conceal what she was reading. It seemed wrong,
somehow, to break her trust, particularly since he’d apparently
come within a crazy impulse of standing her up.

Christopher hesitated only a moment before leaning over and
turning the book so he could read the cover. It was a beautiful
illustration. The borders were done in Victorian arches and the
font of the title gave it a shiny gold metallic glint.
Christopher’s hand shook, and the wine sloshed again, but he
ignored it.

Seated in
a velvet-covered chair in the drawing room of some dark, brooding
mansion, a woman quietly read her book. Sylvia read her book,
emblazoned across the cover in near photo-quality realism. The
title flashed like a neon strobe in Christopher’s mind. “New
Leather & Old Cognac.”

He
flipped the cover open, nearly tearing the page as he pawed his way
quickly past the publisher’s page and blank end pages. Just past
the title page he stopped. The dedication read “For
Sylvia.”

Christopher reeled back from the table, cracking his head
painfully on the booth behind him. The wine glass toppled from his
fingers, splashing its contents across the table. He could hear the
gasps and cries of those around him, but it didn’t seem real. It
seemed they were all very far away, or that he was watching a movie
where the room was whirling and slipping away into some special
effects wonderland.