Bruce Wagner - The Empty Chair

Apparently the boyfriend’s knife found a relatively safe spot under the ribs and I’ll never know if the Nameless One missed the arteries and vital organs on purpose. Probably. He was a precise motherfucker, would’ve been a helluva surgeon in another life. I’ll never know what the Abominable Puppeteer did to him either, surgical-wise, once he got him to the far side of the lot.

Coat and Shabby stitched what was left of my fingers and did a pretty good job of it if I do say so myself. I must have been in that weird little private ER for two days. They transferred me to a chic Old World clinic, an upgrade from the other place to be sure. When I got my wits back, I discovered it was the Drake — that’s high-end hotel living for ya. The puncture seemed to take care of itself. The main concern was my hand, because bone infection is never a good thing.

I was there a couple of weeks. It was Christmastime. I had a 24-hour nurse. Every few days, a huge Samoan looked in on me. No way you couldn’t feel safe around that man. All of the people around Kura had heart. I knew they’d take a bullet for him, and probably had — or worse. My minder never spoke, which made me feel like an utter fool. Five-hundred pounds, with a Cheshire grin. I had the feeling he was close to Kura, and when in his presence I made sure I behaved . I even acted repentant, though for what I wasn’t sure.

All I did in my perfect, stately cocoon was eat club sandwiches and listen to The White Album. Lots of room-service hot fudge sundaes, lots of doodling and drawing, lots of journaling about my White (Mocha) Knight. I had become fairly obsessed. Because after all, I’d seen him just twice — once, when he stripped off his shirt to stop the bleeding and the other while being patched up by Coat and Shabby, which was kind of a dreamy corollary of the former, with more dope and less blood — so his messianic absence made a perfect breeding ground for my hormonal, father-starved, junkie-Rapunzel imagination to run wild. In my head, my mysterious savior was pure Thanatos , with a heavy dollop of Eros on top.

So there she was, Eloise with a social disease (gonorrhea, and cured, courtesy of Coat and Shabby). Fidgety, depressed, and packin’ on the pounds… feeling deserted by all her witchy-woman powers. Like a doomed prisoner, awaiting reprieve — I still held out hope that he’d gallop up and swoop me onto his saddle. And now I remember one of the things that tortured me. They never bothered to station a guard at the door of the suite to prevent my escape, at least I never saw one. I didn’t know which freaked me out more: that I could leave anytime I wanted, or if other people could enter. What if my ex’s posse was hunting me down? (Not that anyone gave enough of a shit about my ex to avenge him — not to mention they would already have ascertained they were brutally outmatched.) In my worst moments, it boiled down to Kura not caring less. But now I know exactly why they— he —Kura — didn’t feel the need. Because it had to have been so obvious I wasn’t going anywhere, not as long as there was the slimmest chance of a rendezvous with the Big Boss. That was plain as the stumps on my hand… O, they must really have gotten a kick out of stringing me along! No, by the time I left, I was convinced I would just have to leave it all behind: my savior, the Samoan, the Norwegian nurse, the room service — ooh, that was going to hurt! — goodbye to all that. Everything but the mason jar of Darvons that Coat and Shabby had prescribed, to wean me from the heroin.

On the morning I left, I had all sorts of conflicting emotions. I was in way over my head but what else was new? I was weak and angry and weepy and paranoid. For a while, I thought Kura worked for my father! The Samoan probably disabused me of that notion somewhere along the line. But I couldn’t piece together why— how —Kura had been there to save me nor could I understand why I was being looked after— cared for — with such painstaking, tender deliberation. At check-out time, the futility of my serious convalescence crush, the intensity of yearning for my patron came home to roost. I longed for him in every fiber of my broken being. Estrogen and Electra coursed through my veins like lava. I fantasized us having a life together — preposterous. The greater my yearning, the more crazy-insecure I became. (I suppose I haven’t changed too much.) I decided to make an “overture” but was paralyzed by anxiety. What if I was rejected? Laughed at and humiliated? Another problem was — and there were moments when I flattered myself by thinking it was the only problem — that I was sure he knew by now that I was underage.

My mocha knight on a hijacked black tar horse…

All packed and dressed — it breaks my heart to see myself as that sad little girl, with her poor bandaged hand! — I held my nurse, utterly inconsolable. In the last week, I’d painstakingly composed a pitiful, “noble” letter of thanks to he who had rescued me. Lord, if only I’d kept that. I handed it to the Samoan as I prepared to go, eyes downcast, then hugged that great tree of a man while bursting into tears.

I had no idea that Kura had left the morning after the murder.

The Samoan patted the top of my head, then said, “He wants to see you.”

I don’t remember much about that trip to Paris (I was too happy, too stoned), other than being in possession of a passport that carried a name and DOB that weren’t my own. I traveled alone. The Samoan gave me a back-story — O! Now I know where that story about getting my fingers chopped by a propeller came from. That was part of the original script.

Saved again!

When I got to Kura’s I ran to his arms and kissed him on the mouth but he pushed me away. I was confused, embarrassed. Maybe he was working for my father! Or maybe he was my father, long lost, and we’d been reunited under the terms of a noir, a Nouvelle Vague . He actually asked if I wanted a tutor! You know — to be home-schooled, s’il te plaît. I wondered what I’d gotten myself into. I had a few tantrums and when the storm passed, we settled into a sunny life, très sympa. I grew up living in a mausoleum; one of my father’s estates had its own police force. But this… I’d never seen such casual opulence, such riches, such beauty. He had the most exquisite apartment in the Marais. Well, it wasn’t exactly an apartment, it was what they call an hôtel particulier. Effing spectacular. People came and went, all very respectful. To me, I mean. And Kura never discussed business. Ever.

I don’t think we slept together for at least six months. It was like he needed me to be quarantined, physically and emotionally, before we became intimate. I turned 17. I loved having my own bed, and sleeping in his without fooling around. (That was a new one.) It felt safe. Incestuous, romantic— très français! And while I may not have been capable at the time of admitting it, I’d been through some pretty profound changes. I wasn’t the girl I used to be … I should probably say we weren’t completely pure, maybe a little closer to Elvis and Lisa Marie when they were courting. You know, heavy petting optional. He was in love with me from the very beginning, but I didn’t know it. But that’s what I wanted to believe. I was so young and so vulnerable, especially after all that had happened. I probably hoped he was just biding his time, waiting to see if his feelings held. (They held for me. ) I wanted to ask all about it when we met up in Delhi but never had to, because he confessed to everything before I had the chance.