Fiona Maazel - Woke Up Lonely

“Security clearance,” Bruce said. And thought: So maybe Crystal’s godmom really is God.

The guard was unpacking his bag. Bruce always traveled with this bag, so it was complete with items unsuited to today’s excursion but handy in a pinch. Tums. A hank of rope. Pajamas.

The guard said, “I might as well confiscate the whole thing until you leave. Unless you want to walk around with an empty bag.”

“That’s fine,” Bruce said. He’d had the foresight, or luck, to have put his video camera in the inside pocket of his jacket — a great big poofy jacket — which had somehow escaped the security guard. He was going to count his blessings and move on. “But, just out of curiosity, what’s the danger in pajamas?”

“Your receipt,” said the guard. “And here is one for the camera. Electronics are logged separately.”

Bruce dove into his pocket, but the camera was gone.

He stared into the booth. At the monitors along the wall. Each was split into quadrants and each quad appeared to broadcast from a different room. Five monitors, twenty rooms and scenes, among them an overhead view of an auditorium jammed with people, at least two hundred, and, in a clearing by the wall, his wife on a cerise banquette, sipping juice.

“Meeting’s that way, sir,” said the guard.

Bruce walked down the hall. It was paneled in wood, and underfoot were carpet runners in royal blue with sangria trim. He kept walking but found no meeting, just doors that were locked, except for one, which was ajar. He peered inside and listened. Listened hard, heard nothing. How could this building assimilate the noise of two hundred? It was all limestone and brick. In places like this, men were eviscerated on the rack, and their screams were heard for miles.

“Hello?” he said. And then louder, because in this parlor was a cup of tea, steaming; a half-eaten red velvet cupcake; and a cigarette butt smoldering in an ashtray. “Anyone here?”

He stepped inside and nearly upset a cart of desserts. Éclairs, profiteroles, soufflés. Poppy-seed cake and tiramisu. He eyed the spread and felt it narrated something of his future, like he’d snatch a dessert and indenture himself to the fabled witch of the house. He stepped away from the cart. Gingerly. Touch nothing. The cigarette smoke nested in his eyes. He put out the butt and spun around.

“Jesus,” he said, and he brought his hand to his chest. “You scared me to death.”

“My apologies, sir.”

It was not the guard but a man in a tailcoat — a butler, it seemed — whose sir was of a different caliber altogether.

“Oh, well, that’s okay. I’m probably not supposed to be here anyway.”

“Mrs. Anderson will be in shortly. She asks that you make yourself at home and enjoy a pastry.”

“That’s very nice, but I’m just here for—”

He paused, recalling what Crystal had said about her godmother. How much she knew. Whatever they were doing, however ridiculous, he didn’t want to blow it. Rita would get in trouble; Crystal would be mad; they’d all look at him funny in homeroom. He threw up his hands.

“For the party?” the butler said.

“Yes.”

“Very well. I will tell Mrs. Anderson that you do not wish to see her.”

“Wait, don’t do that. I mean, who? Never mind. I’ll just have this custard thing here. And a brandy, if you got any. I can wait for a bit.”

He sat down in a chair that was probably a hundred years old. Victorian, maybe. Blue velveteen, cream frame, crimped seat and back. He bit into the pie. It was an individual serving, the size of his palm. He’d wanted to shove the thing in his mouth whole, but that was always when the lady of the house walked in. Wow, this custard was good. Smooth and light. He decided to sample the strawberry cheesecake puff. And a few truffles, because they were exotic; it said so on the labels, scrawled in cursive. Like someone in the kitchen had taken the time to write in this elaborate hand the names of each truffle. Mint julep. Pepper vodka. Ceylon.

The butler returned with a brandy snifter and bottle. He was everything a butler should be. He was even bent at the waist. Ten years from now, he’d be an L.

“Care to join me?” Bruce said. “There’s clearly enough for two.”

A documentarian needs people.

The butler demurred.

“Some other time, then,” Bruce said.

He crossed his legs. His fingers were sticky. He had slept but three hours the night before — the couch was a muddle of lump and trough — and the sugar was romping about his blood like it owned the place. He went: Okay, Bruce, let’s think this out. Mrs. Anderson, lady of the house and Crystal’s godmother, was partaking of afternoon tea and dessert when she heard you in the hall. She is a pale, recondite woman who consorts only with her godchild, the butler, and, perhaps, the executor of her estate. Most of all, she does not appreciate a certain genre of man, call him stranger, a stranger documentarian who needs people.

The butler came in. Bruce asked for another brandy.

“Shall I just leave you the bottle?”

“That would be lovely.”

“Mrs. Anderson,” the butler announced.

Bruce stood. Crumbs tumbled down his thighs. She put out her hand. She was what — four foot nine? He tried not to stoop, but it was impossible.

“Sit,” she said. “Please.”

“Mrs. Anderson, it’s an honor. You have a magnificent home.”

“Call me Lynne. And thank you.”

She settled under a lamp whose glow helped define the cut of her face. Very narrow. Unnaturally so. A face between cymbals after the clap.

“I see you’ve sampled some of our pastries. The head chef is a specialist.”

“They were great, yeah. Look, I’m sorry if I chased you out before. I didn’t mean to intrude. I think I got lost!”

“Don’t be silly, Mr. Bollinger. More brandy?”

She was so small, the rest of the room began to stand up in contrast. Walls were cream, moldings were buff. No windows, much art. Giant amphora depicting the plight of Agamemnon.

“I’d love some, yes.” He was drinking heavily now, except for the face-saving caveat that, unless you were Samuel Johnson, brandy was not drink. Brandy, Armagnac really, was just fancy after-dinner wine.

She poured with grace. Three-quarter sniff for him, half a smidge for her. She wore a red turtleneck and brown flats. The effect was to condense her frame in obvious defiance of what God had given her to work with. Think I’m small now? Think my calves are compressed and bloated in a way that’s hardly possible in nature? Well, I can do worse. And frankly, what did she care. She lived in a mansion. She had minions. And if her goddaughter’s appearance was any kind of bellwether, she had very attractive friends.

He held up his snifter and regarded the liquid inside. Such an odd vessel for drink.

She fussed with the string around her neck that attached to a stainless steel dog whistle. “Look over there,” she said. As he did, a wall packed with framed impasto art broke in half like a curtain at show-time. The reveal was a console of monitors similar to that in the security guard’s booth. Here, though, no expense had been spared for the quality of the picture. It was closed-circuit viewing in HD.

“Surprised?” she said.

He was not.

“Good. It gets lonely out here sometimes. Crystal has so many friends; I like to participate in some measure.”

The whistle was in fact a laser pointer, which she trained on the first monitor: a man in a button-down with chest hair sprouting from the collar, sitting next to Rita on what had become for Bruce, in the past minute, a symbol of all things coveted but unattainable — the cerise banquette with claw-feet. Monitor two, of considerably less cause for distress: Crystal and the militia kids distributing literature. Three: a king-sized bed with canopy, rippled valance, and stuffed green platypus atop the duvet.