Secrets of the Apple Page 31

  She sang in English, starting in a low, almost gravelly voice that flowed through the fast throbbing beat like raw honey poured down a rocky cliff face, waving a finger at the audience, repeating the line, “You’re not the one for me.” Her voice vibrated through the speakers, liberated from squashy sofas and thick deadening carpets, intense, overwhelming, while her eyes played over the audience, lingering here and there as if speaking to an intimate friend. Ryoki felt naked, his home sliced open to reveal fantasy furnishings never intended to sit in the open air. He believed every man in the room would look at her and guess his midnight thoughts. There would certainly be talk, if not pointed questions. He wished she’d simply written a check, paid the band their going rate. But even the greedy little man inside him finally put down his brass-tipped cane in defeat. This moment was inevitable.

  Afterwards, Kate sang an upbeat duet with the lead, then ended her set with “Can’t Help Lovin’ That Man,” a song he’d begged for at least once a week since he first heard her sing it months ago. Her gaze rested on him for the opening phrase, languidly pushing off to brush the audience with small, intimate strokes. As always she sang it a cappella, carrying through the low notes in a rich, dark chocolate, rising to a powerful climax, backing off at the last, gently dipping the final notes in a bittersweet wistfulness that left the room feeling strangely still and trembly.

  As the sound died away, there was a pause, a general catching of breath, then shouts and popcorn clapping that snowballed into thunderous applause. For two heartbeats Kate stood perfectly still, eyes lowered, kind of bashful now it was over. The lead singer came forward, kissed her on one cheek, whispered something private in her ear. They gently bumped right fists, pointer fingers interlocking, a secret clubhouse handshake.

  As she walked down the stage steps Ryoki felt certain she would come to him and waited patiently as she slowly made her way through the crowd of well-wishers, still wearing her public face. But at the halfway mark, a hand darted from behind a thick marble column, arresting her progress. Startled, she drew back, and Ryoki took a step forward. But her face relaxed, and again she started toward him, accompanied by Montgomery and a woman he did not recognize.

  Two days earlier Kate warned him she’d been railroaded into facilitating an introduction, expression neutral, ending her sentence with a sniff and a roll of her eyes. Montgomery’s boss was one Amanda Booth, Vice President of International Business at Cutter and Smythe, a firm which had been sending him letters and invitations for months, all of which had ended up in the trash. Kate advanced toward him, her face frozen in the fixed smile she once reserved for Jackson Browning. Ryoki looked at Montgomery to see if he had read Kate’s expression. But Montgomery looked like a man who had just kicked the winning goal, so he guessed not.

  The American woman stuck out her hand as Ryoki took her in: Black Italian evening suit, cool abrupt movements, erect posture, late thirties, early forties, no wedding ring. He shook her hand and dipped his head slightly, a mere shadow of a bow. Kate’s right eyebrow raised a sixteenth of an inch. “Amanda Booth,” the woman said, her hand still firmly shaking Ryoki’s. “We arrived just as you and your lovely assistant were beginning to dance.” She inclined her head toward Kate who hadn’t actually been allowed to make the introduction, just lead them across the room and gesture like a game show hostess. “You must dance often.”

  “I had a very good partner,” Ryoki said, smiling politely.

  Ms. Booth looked again at Kate who smiled, lips closed. It was her hang-back-and-take-measure mode, Ryoki knew. He guessed Ms. Booth wasn’t faring well so far, though it was early yet.

  “Yes, I’ve heard a great deal about Matthew’s Kate,” Ms. Booth said, giving Kate a sharp once-over. Ryoki winced inwardly. At Tanaka, he was the only one who used Kate’s first name. “It seems she’s accomplished at dancing, singing, languages, and Matthew tells me she made her dress too. It must be nice to have such a talented assistant.” Ms. Booth turned to Kate, canines bared and glistening. “I was just telling Matthew that if you put your hair up, dear, you’d be straight out of Jane Austen.”

  Neither Kate nor Ryoki chose to comment, Montgomery spoke up to fill the awkward silence. “Actually, she teaches college English, she’s not a real assistant.”

  Ms. Booth looked at him vaguely, ready to move on to the next subject, but he soldiered on, defending Kate’s position. “Yeah, I sat in on one of the writing classes she taught. She’s always telling these stories. It’s spellbinding, really….” His voice trailed off uncertainly, as if suddenly attuned to the fact that Ms. Booth didn’t care.

  Kate was getting tired of Ms. Booth, Ryoki could sense the little fidgets preliminary to take-off. But he was curious for her opinion, and just as she opened her mouth to politely excuse herself, Ryoki lightly placed one fingertip on the inside of her forearm, effectively chaining her to his side. She settled in for the duration and he slid both his hands into his pockets.

  Eventually, they’d talked around to the point where the conversation could naturally end. Ryoki agreed to meet with Ms. Booth the following week, and she swept away, leaving Montgomery wavering in her jet wash, twisting right and left, smiling at Kate and craning after Amanda until The Booth turned and raised her hand, practically snapping her fingers before the gesture morphed into a friendly beckoning. “Matthew,” she called, “I see some people I want you to meet.” She disappeared into the crowd, sucking him after her.

  Ryoki had to admire her timing. Exactly the requisite number of seconds necessary to initiate the acquaintance, set up a business meeting, and exit gracefully before becoming a bore. You just couldn’t teach that. Perhaps she was wrapped in a ledger sheet at birth and given a calculator as a teether.

  He asked Kate what she thought, though he’d already divined she didn’t like her.

  “I understand she’s very good at her job, an out-of-the-box thinker. Matt says she’s taught him a lot.”

  “What, nothing else, no personal insight?” he teased, hoping to segue into a dance.

  “You mean like Browning?” She shook her head. “That was a lucky guess. He gave me the creeps. She doesn’t.” She looked nettled, prickly, tired around the eyes as though her performance had siphoned off her reserves.

  “Would you like me to take you home?” he asked, leaning in, touching her arm.

  “What? No, of course not,” she said, stepping back. He watched her climb into her public persona the way she stepped into her high heels. “I see the Japanese ambassador is headed this way, accompanied by his very beautiful, accomplished and single daughter,” she said too brightly, her words bleached by the fluorescent bulb suddenly screwed into her voice. Ambassador and daughter were closing in; too late to run. Kate mouthed “Good luck” and escaped into the crowd, leaving him to the tender ministrations of a twenty-one-year-old beauty bearing a dismaying resemblance to his ex-wife.

  By 2:00 a.m. The Bandeirantes were long gone and the crowd had thinned to a trickle. Ryoki, who had intended to leave no later than eleven, had unexpectedly spent the last three and a half hours socializing and singing karaoke with a group of heretofore unavailable politicians who could fill in some highly troublesome potholes in his distribution channels, newly gouged by corrupt and exceedingly avaricious opportunists. When the last minister had blearily called him friend, invited him to lunch, and trotted off to the care of his own driver, Ryoki went to find Kate and tell her all about it. He found her sitting at a darkened corner table, staring mesmerized at a candle as it gasped its last. The thrill of his success faded as he saw she was down to her last calorie, worn thin by a glut of smiling small-talk. Anyone else would have looked at her glassy expression and assumed she was drunk, but Ryoki knew better and approached her gently, as he would a sleepwalker. “Kate, your party was a big success. You told me you could do it and you did.”

  Kate turned her head to look at him blank-faced before turning back to the centerpiece. “They placed the flowers too close to the candles
. They’re all wilted and covered in wax. I should have picked up on that. I hope it didn’t happen during dinner.” She fell silent again, captivated by the smoke now wreathing from the charred wick, exhausted enough to tip forward and sleep where she sat.

  Ryoki leaned over and whispered, “Are you ready to go, honey?” He reached for his phone to signal their driver to meet them out front.

  “Yes, thank you,” she said automatically, gathering slowly to her feet. He put his hand on the small of her back, in case she should lose her balance. But through sheer effort of will, she stood straight, lips curved in a small, closemouthed smile. She’d once told him her grandmother used to chastise her for being a sourpuss whenever she caught her staring into space, “‘It’s not ladylike to frown in public.’” Kate had mocked her grandmother’s scratchy voice and waggling finger, but at the telling hour Ryoki could see the lesson had been learned. He draped his arm around her waist, holding her close, careless of who saw or what they thought, and would have happily wandered to his car in forbidden bliss, had not a friendly drunk immediately stumbled into him, clinging on, chattering in slurred Japanese his thanks, congratulations and apologies, almost without taking a breath, not a word of which the man would remember in the morning. Ryoki made a break for it when the intruder paused to puke into a topiary.

  He’d already helped Kate into the back seat and climbed halfway in himself when he happened to notice the drunk giving a claim ticket to the yawning young valet who thoughtlessly sent someone off to retrieve the car. Ryoki sighed and wearily got out of the car. By the time he had the drunk poured safely into a cab, he returned to find Kate leaning back with her face turned to her window. As the driver pulled away, he touched her arm. “Kate,” he whispered. She didn’t move, not even a flicker, her breathing even and regular, her shoulders loose and relaxed. He touched her cheek, lightly brushed his finger across her neck. Nothing. Dead to the world.

  She’d forgotten to buckle up and as Ryoki leaned across to fasten her seatbelt, he paused when he happened to glimpse her face. Eyes closed, features tranquil, she looked young and fragile, bearing only a passing resemblance to the woman who had single-handedly taken five hundred prisoners only hours before. As they pulled away from the hotel, he switched off the interior light and cupped his hand on the side of her face, pushing back her hair, letting his fingers linger in the silky strands, gently combing through the tiny knots and tangles. This was not like the movies, he thought. Never any tangles in the movies, three minutes of romance shot after two hours of professional hair and makeup. He brought his hand back to her face. Still, she stayed asleep.

  Both seatbelts forgotten, he turned her shoulders to make her face him. She stirred at the sudden movement, and Ryoki had only an instant to wonder how he could possibly explain himself, when they passed down a lighted street and she opened her eyes unseeingly, looking him full in the face before closing them again and snuggling into his arms. Ryoki sat dazed for a full block, wanting to shake her, to make her open her eyes and confirm what he thought he’d seen. There had been no guardrails in those eyes, no speed bumps. It was the moment that wheels leave the ground and the whole gleaming jet flees the earth to land ten thousand miles away where light and color are new and strange.

  She loved him. He knew it.

  He buried his face in her hair, breathing in the scent of her shampoo, kissed the top of her head, slow and sweet, the word love whispering through his mind, again and again. He loved Kate; this admission was long past due, the embryo probably conceived that very first day. Pink suit. She wore a pink suit. She looked like a gift, he remembered.

  But this love felt subtly different than the word he wanted to blurt out the first time he had sex with the bored girl in the discreet hotel. Until the day in Vegas when Kate took his shirt between her fingers to teach him to sew on a button, he had never imagined anything lay beyond passionate attraction. Now, looking back, he recognized her needle had unwittingly stirred the ashes of a phoenix, an atavistic capability that had been slowly expanding ever since, gradually joining hands with its amorous cousin. This kind of love prompted the lone wolf to perceive the toxic losses inherent in a life free from deep commitment.

  Time blinked past, and Ryoki looked disbelievingly out the window when the car slowed to turn into the drive, pausing as the heavy iron gates swung inward. Tenderly he began to shake Kate until she lifted her head and looked him directly in the face, her eyes slowly focusing, she lurched back, sputtering.

  “Sorry, sorry.” She jerked clumsily, trying to regain control of her limbs. “Why didn’t you just push me off?” she said disgustedly, fumbling for her evening bag and muttering “probably drooled” just under her breath. Waving off their driver, Ryoki opened her door and helped her out, setting her on her feet and keeping his arm around her waist. She tried to pull away, but he held her close all the way into the house, through the main hall, out the back, through the garden, and to her cottage.

  “The evening was a great success, Kate,” he said, punching in the code on the alarm pad. He pulled out his keys, fiddling for the right one. “I think it was good for the company. I hadn’t heard you sing like that before.” She looked up, squinting against the security lights.

  The key grated into the lock and the bolt slid back.

  “I rehearsed with the band in private, as a surprise,” she said through a yawn, her hand over her mouth. “Marcelo’s amazing at getting the right sound.”

  She put her left hand on the doorknob.

  “Was it hard for you, getting up there like that?”

  “Always,” she said, beginning to twist the knob, her dress swooshing against the door as she inched backward. He put his hand on the small of her back, suddenly conscious of the delicate skitter she’d been practicing since January, never allowing him closer than halfway. But Ryoki was done with delicacy and skittishness. He clasped her right hand and carried it upward, gently blowing across her skin and slowly pressing his lips to the inside of her wrist, lightly dragging his fingers across the gooseflesh rising on her arm. With one finger he raised her head to find her lips parted in invitation, her eyes an even mix of passion and panic. “Kate,” he whispered, leaning forward, willing her to meet him, to give herself into his arms. He closed his eyes and for an instant he felt her breath in his mouth—

  A loud click.

  The latch released and she vanished inside.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Ryoki did not awaken until lunchtime the following day. Heavy-eyed, he showered and dressed before going down to the kitchen for a snack, startling the formidable cook who yelled “Oi!” her meaty hand encountering a Chinese sugar bowl that flipped and shattered against the marble pastry board. She recovered and bowed respectfully, one eye trained on the spilled sugar, as though to remind him that there are consequences to interrupting the natural order.

  He stepped right; she stepped with him. “May I help you?” she asked, her impressive girth barricading the supply line. He stepped left; she stepped left. “Is there anything you require?”

  “No, no, I just want a sandwich.” She started to answer, hands on hips. He gave her a dose of the Tanaka Stare to throw her off kilter. Quick—zigzag, left, right—juke—bread—HA! Holder of the Bread equals Maker of the Sandwich! He visualized doing a victory lap while holding the loaf aloft like the Wimbledon Cup, but thought it might be in bad taste, a fatal miscalculation. Bowing again, she politely snatched the prize from his hands and asked exactly what kind of sandwich he fancied, adding, “No need to come all the way to the kitchen, just pick up the house phone.”

  Undeterred, Ryoki held his ground, intending once and for all to reveal his secret identity as Master of the Sandwich, keen to experiment with an unusual set of condiments smeared in precise quantity and particular order. It was time she recognized her place. My house, my kitchen. He opened his mouth and squeaked, “Pastrami.”

  In record time she handed him a gourmet pastrami sandwich, garnished with mi
nt and bearing no resemblance to his heart’s desire. “And a tomato sandwich for Miss Kate,” he added. “Salt, pepper, extra mayo, blot the tomatoes—”

  “She left an hour ago, dressed up sharp, and Dona Cecelia took Lucas to play with her grandsons. Real quiet here today.”

  “Oh, oh yes, of course.” Ryoki wandered out, shoulders sagging, holding a disappointing sandwich, leaving sugar and broken china in his wake. Out of habit he took his lunch to the dining room where he sat chewing and working out what to do with a rare unstructured day, his eyes straying to the great blank space where the Fates had hung. The silence began to congeal around him until he almost felt lonesome for the painting’s greens, yellows and reds, vibrant slashes of life cutting their way into the monochromatic room. He would have mocked the painting had it been there, maybe railed against it; anything would be better than the great green nothing.

  When he could stand it no longer, he carried the last quarter of his sandwich into his den where he sat at his desk staring at a pile of reports he’d so diligently carted home the previous evening. Sighing, he reached for the first document, but stopped before his fingers touched the paper.

  Lately he’d been having these thoughts, too insignificant to be called ideas, more like observations: The constant ticking of all the clocks, the unremitting revolution of night and day, the unbroken success of Tanaka Inc. How many weeks had he been out of his office, yet the world had continued on and on, good and bad, hopes and frustrations. The reports could wait. He dialed Kate’s number, but it went directly to voice mail.