Jack O'Connell - The Skin Palace

She doesn’t turn around. She twists the knob and in as even a voice as she can manage she says, “Get your hand off me now or I’ll scream.”

He removes his hand from her shoulder and grabs her at the elbow. She tries to yank the door open but it won’t budge. Her heart and her breath go crazy and she wheels around to push him, but someone’s beaten her to it. A bearded man has Jakob by the shoulder and is yanking the kid backwards. Jakob lets go of Sylvia’s arm and his eyes go huge and he starts to stammer, “I did not do anything. I did not do a thing. We were just talking. Please, madam, tell him, please.”

The man looks to Sylvia for an explanation and she in turn stares at the fear and confusion on Jakob’s face and says, “It’s all right, you can let him go. It was just a misunderstanding. I’m not feeling well. I’ve really got to leave.”

She turns and tries the door again and realizes it’s locked.

The man looks her up and down, then lets go of Jakob and steps forward to turn the deadbolt and open the door.

Jakob says, “We were talking. She looked perfect for the part of the waitress. We were just talking.” Then his voice dissolves into a gasped breath and he runs out of the café and disappears down Verlin.

“Are you all right?” the bearded man asks. “Did he hurt you at all?”

“No,” she says, suddenly feeling flushed from the wine and the upsetting. “No, it was a misunderstanding. He didn’t … I should really just get going. It’s been an awful day.”

“Would you like me to call you a cab?” he asks. He’s got a very soft voice and he’s dressed in kind of old-fashioned lounging pajamas, that same deep rose color as the walls and the waiter’s jacket. They look as if they’re made of silk. Sylvia looks down to see he’s got slippers on his feet and she’d think that he recently rolled out of bed if it weren’t for the fact that his hair looks just washed and combed.

She thinks about walking out of the Zone or waiting for a bus and she surprises herself by saying, “Could you? I’d really appreciate that.”

“Of course,” he says, looking like a concerned doctor, gently taking her arm and leading her back to her seat.

“Why don’t you just sit down and relax for a second. I’ll be right back. There’s a phone in the office.”

Sylvia watches him walk away and though it’s probably a stupid thing to do, she takes a long drink of Pernod. She’d not tell Perry anything about today. She’s going to chalk the whole thing up to some bad misjudgment and let it go. She doesn’t know what she was thinking of, coming down here, alone, following Quevedo into his store, walking into the middle of the crowd outside Herzog’s. As soon as the cab drops her home she’s going to shower and change and cook dinner. Something nice and warm. Something Perry likes. Maybe some meatloaf and baked potatoes. Something kind of hearty that her mother would cook. She’ll tell Perry she’s changed her mind about the camera. That she doesn’t need the money. That they can buy something else. Or they can bank it. They can start the house fund like he wants. Maybe they’ll talk houses over dinner. Where they want to live, what style of house they agree on. Features they want. She hopes the cab comes quickly. She just wants to be back in the apartment, to lock the door and take a steaming shower, put on some tea and listen to some music. Maybe she’ll call Perry at work, ask him to come home a little early. Ask him to pick up one of those real estate magazines at the supermarket. Tell him she’s sorry about last night. That she just hasn’t been feeling well. That she misses him.

The man comes back to her table and says, “They’ll be a few minutes.” He gestures to a chair and says, “May I?”

She nods, sips the last of the Pernod.

“Jakob gave you a little scare? I apologize. The boy has no sense of social grace. The owner’s son. He comes here to read and scribble in notebooks. I’m sure he intended no harm.”

“You’re not the owner?” she asks.

He looks surprised. “I’m sorry. My God, I’ve been contaminated by Jakob. My manners appear in remission.” He extends a hand and says, “Rory Gaston. And I’m the manager.”

She shakes his hand. “Sylvia Krafft.”

“I’ve never seen you in here before, Sylvia.”

“First-time customer.”

“Well, I hope this little incident won’t discourage you from coming back. And as an incentive, allow me to pick up the check.”

“No, really—” she starts to protest, but he won’t hear any arguments.

“Too late, Sylvia. Fait accompli, as they say. Please, I’ll sleep much better tonight.”

They stare at each other for a moment and then, without any preamble, she hears herself say, “So what can you tell me about Terrence Propp?”

She’s jolted him. He literally pulls back in his seat and swallows and seems to consider his words until finally, in a hushed voice, he says, “Who sent you?”

Sylvia’s got a small buzz going from the wine and the liqueur and maybe that’s what makes her want to start laughing. He sounds like he’s delivering a line from any number of campy B-movies. But he’s serious. He suddenly looks nervous and distracted, as if she’s just accused him of something.

“Quevedo,” she says.

“Quevedo?” he repeats.

She nods and lets the silence build.

“Who’s that?” he says and starts to crack his knuckles.

“You don’t know Mr. Quevedo?” she says, letting her suspicion show.

“Never heard of him.”

“Well, he knows you. He sent me to this place. Told me to ask for Rory Gaston. That is your name, right?”

“Look, Ms. Krafft, I’m telling you I don’t know a Mr. Quevedo—”

She cuts him off and asks, “Well, why would he send me here and mention your name?”

He turns in his seat and looks at the front door, then turns back and says, “I’m sure I have no idea.”

They stare at each other until she says, “Could you just give me Propp’s number? I’d rather set something up directly with him.”

Gaston laughs out loud, immediately sucks his cheeks in and says, “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

A horn sounds and they both look to see a red cab has pulled up out front.

“Your ride,” he says, folding his arms across his chest.

She stands up and takes a step toward the door, stops next to Gaston and says, “I might have something that belongs to Mr. Propp. If he’s interested in getting it back, have him call me. Tell him I’m in the book.”

She heads for the door and as she pulls it open, Gaston says, “Tell the cab to go and give me fifteen minutes.”

“You’ll put me in touch with Propp?”

“Fifteen minutes,” he repeats.

She debates it for a second, then yells to the cabbie that he can leave. He stares with his head cocked, then gives her his middle finger and pulls away from the curb.

She turns back to Gaston and says, “You’ve got fifteen,” but he doesn’t seem consoled by her decision.

He moves to the door and relocks the bolt, pulls down a floor-length shade. Without a word he turns and walks to the bar, grabs the bottle of Benoit-Levy from an ice bucket and returns to Sylvia’s table.

She moves back to her seat and Gaston refills her glass.

“We’re in an awkward situation,” he says.

“How’s that?”

He takes a drink from the mouth of the wine bottle, then raises it in toast, shrugs his shoulders and says, “I take it you want entrance?”

Sylvia stares at him.

“To the group,” he adds.

“That depends—”

“No,” he barks, adamant, suddenly annoyed. “We’ll have no fence-sitting. You give yourself over or you don’t. You’ve heard the call or you haven’t. There’s no inbetween.”