Stuart Dybek - Ecstatic Cahoots - Fifty Short Stories

He’d be better off running in the opposite direction through the three speeds of rain away from the bar, but he’s outdistanced whatever advice or hunches the past or the future might afford him. He’s back in pace with the present as if he’s never left it, as if he’ll never leave it again.

The coat can barely keep up.

He breaks free of the crowd, tightropes along the curb avoiding parking meters, hits full stride, gathering momentum to hurdle the flooded gutter, and then launches from the corner of Rush and Walton — a man leaping higher than necessary to clear a puddle, some guy in midair with his coat flying.

Remove it and there’s sunlight. Terraced vineyards, a grove of olive trees, the netting of an old bridal gown shading the staked tomato plants, the sound of a distant accordion squeezed in time to the swish of the sea.

Remove it and it’s as if you’ve lifted off the weight of memory. Memory that was once so companionable, and that now has turned into an assassin. Memory with its offended honor, with its vendetta, giving you the evil eye like the godmother of a jilted bride. You work the razor along your throat while, veiled in dust, the bride stares back from a mirror framed in black like a sympathy card, an antique mirror whose fly spots have become freckles of age, whose spidery cracks and broken capillaries have reassembled into the image of your face juxtaposed upon her face, a mirror whose motto is “ J’accuse .”

Remove it and there’s the tintinnabulation of shells as the sea laps the sand. Crystalline blue water spattered by flying fish. A lemon grove in blossom. And beyond the bees, the sound of a river. And across the river on a distant bank of sunflowers, someone cupping a harmonica.

But put it on and its brim of shadow extends until there’s barely enough light to see the five steps leading down to the wet street. The moon the backside of a mirror; streetlamps in tulle. And from a black-framed doorway, exactly like the doorway you’ve stepped through, straightening his hat as you straighten yours, an assassin also descends five steps, pausing only to strike and cup a match. In the blue flare, you recognize the face as your face, the same face imprinted on all you’ve come to kill.

After considerable deliberation, the woman selects a jade slip from the rack of vintage lingerie. When she disappears into the dressing booth, Gil follows, and attempts to sneak behind the curtain after her.

“Excuse me! Excuse me, young man,” Madame Proprietor calls, rising up behind her antique cash register and peering over her bifocal lorgnette. Madame has cultured a way of enunciating that expresses profound disapproval — an enunciation that makes shouting unnecessary and yet turns every head in the store. “The peep show is two blocks south on Clark.”

Gil never sees Bea wearing the jade slip, but he and a triptych of mirrors do get to admire the poses she strikes in a violet feathered boa that Zelda might have Charlestoned wearing. “A must-have,” Gil says, “though it seems to be molting.” A Jackie O pink pillbox hat with what Madame calls a French-netted veil follows the boa. The netting is torn, and when Gil asks if that’s a metaphor for Camelot, Madame answers, “Say what?”

Next, a pearly Jazz Age dress with a plunging neckline and what Madame refers to as a handkerchief hemline. Madame pairs the dress with a deco tiara for what Gil refers to as a priestess-of-Osiris vibe. There’s an aubergine velvet beret, perfect for an aperitif with Sartre, which, Gil says, is worth the price, despite the spot that looks like pigeon droppings. There’s a sleeveless sequined top whose shimmer transforms Bea into the Blue Angel. When Gil says so, she shows her legs and sings in a German accent, “ Falling in love again, never wanted to, what am I to do …” She pauses. “I don’t remember what’s next.”

“ Can’t help it, ” Gil tells her.

“I can’t,” she says. “How about you?”

“Apparently not.”

Clothes, Bea once told Gil, can be a kind of diary. She doesn’t keep a journal like he does, but the clothes — going as far back as high school — that jam her closets, hang like chapters of a shape-changing life. Journals tell one kind of truth, and dresses, Bea says, tell another, different story. Bea doesn’t go shopping; she goes “antiquing”: she goes “junking.” Goodwill might be a second-hand shop to some, but for Bea its racks hold fragmented histories waiting to be reanimated.

A leopard-dyed rabbit-fur jacket completes the ensemble of a tiger-striped satin skirt, alligator pumps, and a wampum necklace that Bea calls her mixed-species look. There’s a crisp white shirt with a raised collar, and when Madame suggests that it’s exactly the shirt that Katharine Hepburn wore with trousers, Gil asks if Hepburn sweated profusely. Despite the underarms, he admits it’s got the look. “Just remember while wearing it,” he says, “not to wave goodbye.”

Finally, it’s time to bargain with the Madame, who, when the subject is no longer sex but money, raises her voice as if it is the customer who were hard of hearing. Gil has never been good at bargaining, and watches impressed as Bea and Madame go head to head. For a few bucks, Bea purchases an ivory crepe de chine scarf. It would appear she is buying vapor if not for the scarf’s faint threading of wine-colored stripes. As soon as they step outside, she uses it to throttle him.

In her bedroom, the vapor comes to life, slithering about Bea’s throat and breasts like the serpent seducing Eve.

“I wish everything I wore could make me feel this light,” she says, then whispers, “It feels like you’re slipping it through my body,” when he draws the scarf between her thighs. Gil blindfolds her with it and demands she guess what’s coming next. The more she’s proved correct, the more boldly explicit her guesses become.

Bea pairs the scarf with a simple black dress to wear to dinner. The restaurant is called Violet. The small pots of violets on each table are lights. Violet lighting blossoms from the bare brick walls. Its glow tints the mirrors and the blank white sheets of Japanese handmade paper and turns the scarf amethyst. The champagne racing in their flutes is tinted, too.

“Special occasion?” the waiter inquires.

“That obvious?” Gil asks, and the waiter smiles.

“I’ve noticed when you mislead waiters, your penance is always to overtip,” Bea says, after the waiter is gone.

“Who misled anyone? It is a special occasion.”

“What occasion is that?”

“We’ll know once we look back on it,” Gil says. “It’s thanks to our cheap date at Goodwill, not to mention your frugality and hard bargaining, we can afford to celebrate.”

The store where she bought the scarf was actually named Madame’s, but Bea refers to any second-hand vintage clothing store as Goodwill.

“Poor you, getting dragged along junking,” she says.

“It wasn’t so bad. Sort of like entering a time machine. Who knows where we’ll end up next time.”

“I’m afraid I can’t invite you again.”

“I promise to behave better.”

“Sorry, taking you to Goodwill is too dangerous.”

“Goodwill dangerous? How?”

“Because despite your disregard for fashionistas, pretentious proprietors, and musty shops, and your barely concealed aversion to the stained, ratty discards of strangers, you’d have me buying everything.”

After midnight, when the only café insists on closing, they follow the corkscrew street that leads like every other street in the village to the Fountain of Nymphs. If they can find the fountain, then, even in this darkness, they can find their hotel, which overlooks the fountain, although their room does not. Through their shuttered window that opens outward into palm fronds, they can hear the fountain all night keeping time with its plashing. Or is it that rather than keeping time, the fountain makes time inconsequential — at least for as long as their money holds out? Each night the echoing cascade lulls them to sleep. By morning, the burble of water is barely audible above the hubbub of foreign voices already going about their business.