Nicola Griffith - Stay

I imagined how it might have been, to bend and kiss her, to feel the flutter of the pulse at her throat, to make her croon with her eyes closed, to lay myself slowly, ah, inch by inch along her length, mouth to mouth, lips like plums, breast to breast, belly to belly, thigh to thigh. Wet pubic hair would tangle together, and her breath would shudder, her eyes would flick open, stare into mine, blue, like still-wet-from-the-dye denim—

Tammy’s eyes were brown. Brown. It was Julia’s eyes that were blue, Julia whose lips were like plums. It was Julia’s scent I imagined, Julia huffing down her nose, Julia’s hands holding my cheeks, grinding me into her, pulling me down hard enough that her long fingers would leave bruises. But my palms tingled with the memory of Tammy’s breast, Tammy’s skin. Help me, she had said. They had both said.

I sat up. Julia? No response. Should I do this? There were always consequences. There always would be. Perhaps it was a bit late to think about that now. Julia? Nothing.

I put the light on again, made the seven strides to Tammy’s bed. She lay on her side, back to me, very tense. “Tammy.” She turned, slowly. “Tell me everything you know about Karp. What he looks like. His routines, his friends, his work. Everything.”

“Are you going to kill him?”

“He’s not worth killing. But I’ll get the tape.”

The red-breasted grosbeaks lifted from the clearing just after dawn. Three hours later, I lifted from Asheville regional airport, on my way to New York. I’d left Tammy with the truck, a brand-new cell phone, and a list of things she could attend to in the cabin and clearing, if she felt confident to do so. “I should be back tomorrow or the day after, but I’ll call.”

The flight was uneventful, and this time when I checked in at the Hilton I remembered to ask for a king-size bed. King beds are often put in corner rooms so that any noise the occupants might make is less likely to disturb other guests; the greater distance from the elevator means less foot traffic, and so more peace and less danger. They are also very handy to the emergency exits. This time, too, I remembered to bring underwear. Unpacking took longer.

At four in the afternoon, the hotel’s corner coffee lounge was largely deserted—just me, the baby grand in the corner that looked as though it hadn’t been played for months, and the solitary customer who sat with his back to huge windows onto Sixth and stared morosely at a legal pad covered in scribbled figures. I took a seat in the corner, facing out, where I could watch both the room and the three pigeons strutting in and out of the shadow on Fifty-third Street. In the sun their neck feathers shone green and purple, in the shade their tiny eyes glowed brilliant orange. Eventually a server in black trousers and white shirt came over to find out what I wanted. I ordered a latte. He ambled off.

Tammy had given me Karp’s cell phone number. “He always answers it, if he’s at home. If he’s working, or with a client, he keeps it switched to voice mail.”

“Always?”

“I was with him for nearly four months, I never saw an exception. He takes that phone with him to the bathroom, the bedroom, when he’s emptying the garbage. He has four batteries: it’s always on. It’s the only phone he uses.”

“What about when he’s out, but not at work?”

She had frowned as she thought back. “I’m not sure. I don’t remember it ringing when we were out eating dinner or at a movie or anything.”

I took my own cell phone from my pocket and dialed his number. It went straight to voice mail. “This is Geordie Karp. Leave a message.” He was working—but where, and for how long? A lot of the initial work on any project would be informal, she said. He would sit and watch for hours, not even taking notes, then he would talk to the client—again, usually informally; he liked cafés and food courts and bistros. It was only after that that he made detailed notes, and set up his cameras to record data. Then he analyzed the video data and drew up recommendations. He could be anywhere, at any stage in the process.

My latte arrived. It tasted like Starbucks; not a patch on Dornan’s. Two of the three pigeons took flight and landed on the verdigrised metal sculpture at the corner, on Sixth. I had no idea what it was meant to be, but from the back it looked like an enormous green dildo. Perhaps the artist had been making some kind of statement about prostituting her art. I tried to estimate its size, ran through scale comparisons in my head: it would have to be wielded by a person about the same height as the Hilton. Assuming that person was having sex with someone of the same proportions, and that they were enjoying themselves and thrashed about a bit, they’d do more damage to Manhattan than Godzilla. For a while I had fun with film titles: Attack of the Fifty-Foot Couple. Dyke! They Came from Bikini Atoll… The body doubles would have a hard time of it, take after take rolling naked on tiny model buildings. Perhaps they would be paid time and a half, to make up for all the bruising.

It took me a while to realize Julia had not appeared to join in the fun. I tried not to think about it.

Karp liked to eat out, he liked to party, and when he had the choice he rose late and worked late. I could either check out his favorite haunts, one by one, or I could relax until tomorrow; he would be in or out of the loft at some point and I could track him from there.

I walked south under an early evening sky: violet and strawberry and peaches-and-cream, like some fanciful layer cake. I ate at a restaurant in the MetLife Building, where the haricot soup was better than mediocre, the service impeccable, and the highly polished marble floor slippery. One old man with frail skull and wrist but strong chin, too proud to use a cane although it was clear he needed one, nearly fell three times just getting to the bathroom. Perhaps the food was so expensive because of all the lawsuits.

It was still early, so I walked the fifteen blocks to the hotel. It was about nine when I got back, and the downstairs bar was filling up. I found a seat near the stone sphinx and snagged a harassed-looking server. I’d been drinking Syrah with dinner, but here they didn’t have anything decent by the glass. I asked for brandy instead, and it arrived at the right temperature, and more swiftly than my afternoon latte.

When I brought the glass to my mouth, the fumes punched right into my hindbrain and the memories there: sitting in the restaurant in Oslo, stomach full of good food, sipping Armagnac while Julia leaned across the table and put her hand on my arm, her lovely hair swinging across her jaw, smoky sable in the low lighting. She wore the gorget I’d just given her, and her smile was lopsided, patient, because she knew I’d bought the gift because I loved her; it was just that I didn’t know that yet, and she would have to wait a little longer for me to work it out.

I sipped, and the hot liquor eased the pain in the center of my chest, warmed the unfallen tears, made me long to bury my face in a woman’s hair. In Julia’s hair. I sipped again, and breathed more easily, and knew I wouldn’t curl up and weep in the bar of the Hilton.

The bar was almost full, but the conventioneers—the Sixth Annual National Minority Business Conference—were easy to spot. They sat in tight groups of three or four, mostly men, mostly in black or charcoal suits with pin-striped shirts and silk ties. It was clear from the volume that most were meeting for the first time: as strangers, they didn’t know who was the most important, so they had to seem comfortable, to take up space physically and verbally; they were defining their places in the hierarchy. Laughter and booming voices rose and fell in unpredictable patterns, accompanied by lots of backslapping and gaze-meeting. The occasional woman in these groups showed the same affinity for solid primary colors—sky blue, bright red—as women in politics used to.