Page 18 of Madam, May I

I never really had a friend.

“If you’re all set I can ring you up,” Carlos said.

Again, Desdemona followed him, pushing aside the feelings of inadequacy from the past that surged forward. She purchased the book and left the store for the less than five-minute walk back to her building. She had valeted her car when she got in from the hotel and made the walk to avoid the hassle of street parking.

Tribeca bustled with activity, and there were plenty of those who lived in or were visiting the trendy section of New York. As she passed upscale bars with live bands and restaurants with their outdoor seating filled to capacity, the vibe was all about the convenience of city living. Beautiful views. Cobblestone streets. The industrial buildings that once reigned now converted to lofts that drew the creatives. Many celebrities and wealthy elite called Tribeca home.

Still, the summer heat had not diminished much at night. She was glad to stride up the street to the doorman holding the door open for her. “Have a good night,” she said to him as she passed him to step into the sweetness of air conditioning in the lobby.

“Same to you, Ms. Smith.”

She made her way across the marble floor to the elevator and pushed the button. The doors opened almost immediately. She was grateful.

Once in her condominium, she instantly kicked off her heels and wiggled her toes as she turned on the ceiling light in the living room and carried the cash she had in her tote to her safe. She reached inside it for her most recent leather-bound journal and removed the extra-fine point pen nestled in the bend between the pages.

Wednesday, July 25, 2018

Church is big business for those collecting all those tithes and offerings . . . and for those like me making sure the false prophets get just the type of pleasure they crave . . .

Reverend Hines and his particular type of pleasure were off her roster, but he was not the only man of the cloth her courtesans serviced.

With a breath, she closed the pen inside the journal and slid it back inside the safe before locking it. The silence of her large condo was especially mocking, and she walked around the entire space turning on every light available before turning on Chopin’s “Nocturnes” to play throughout the house on her Sonos wireless speakers. The first chords of the composition were light and romantic as if the pianist barely stroked the keys. She lit candles throughout the house instead and turned down the same lights she now felt were glaring. The candles offered the warmth and comfort she needed.

She paused in running a bath to close her eyes and let the music calm her, opening her arms wide and letting her head tilt back until the edges of her hair lightly stroked her back.

Desdemona was first introduced to classical piano music by one of her johns, a wealthy white lawyer of seventy years or more, who wanted nothing more than to listen to classical music all night as they lay in bed naked with their limbs entwined. One time he even cried, and she held him close and let his tears wet her shoulder.

“What was his name?” she asked herself softly, crinkling her brows as she tried to recall him.

It had been more than a decade.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, opening her eyes to reach for her bottle of Jo Malone London’s Nectarine Blossom and Honey Bath Oil and pour it into the hot bath water. “The man I forgot. The music I did not.”

At the sound of the doorbell, she opened the glass door to the lingerie closet and removed a black lace floor-length robe to pull on. She tied the thick satin belt at the waist and, giving in to the mellowing mood of the music and a whimsy she hadn’t allowed herself to feel since childhood, Desdemona lifted up on her toes and with a series of clumsy pirouettes made her way to the front door with the aroma of fruit scented candles filling the air around her. She opened the door and turned on the lights in the foyer, living room, and dining room.

“I have your room service order,” the waiter said, standing behind a tray covered with a tablecloth, small floral arrangements, a paper-covered glass of ice water, and a stainless-steel plate cover.

At the sight of her in the nearly see-through lace, he stuttered and struggled to swallow over a lump in his throat. She gave the young man credit for not letting his eyes dip down to take in her body.

Desdemona had lost her shyness about her nudity years ago. More men than the years the young man had been alive had been eager to witness her nakedness.No need to put on airs now.

“Thank you,” she said, stepping back and pointing toward the slate dining room table. “Please set it up in there.”

She moved to the sofa and retrieved cash for a tip and her purchased book before going back to the front door as he transferred everything from the tray to a seat at the head of the table. For his comfort and not her own, she clutched the book to her chest, blocking the sight of her nipples from him. As he took the tip she offered, he seemed grateful for her sudden show of modesty.

She closed the door behind him and locked it before dimming the lights again to a subtle glow, giving the candles prominence once again. She walked over to the kitchen to wash her hands in the sink and to pour herself a large glass of Rieussec from a corked bottle on the counter. She took a healthy sip as she made her way to her dinner, setting the book and the glass on the table and claiming the padded seat of the club chair.

She pecked at her pasta and mostly drank her wine as she listened to the music and eyed the book, sitting there. Seeming to mock her. She reached for it and pulled it across the table. Closer. Her fingertips tapped against the hardness in beat with the piano notes resonating in the air around her.

“Olan Killinger,” she said, suddenly remembering the man who had introduced her to Chopin.

In truth when she thought she had offered him comfort, it took her years to realize he had been the same for her in a way. It was one night a week where she had felt safe. A little less forlorn.

Two pitiful souls.

She took a sip of her wine and looked off across the dining room to the large realist painting above her unlit gas-burning fireplace. It was of her parents and her when she was just a year old. The painter had skillfully taken the small photo nestled inside her locket and created a massive painting on canvas in sepia tones. It was all the more beautiful by candlelight.

She raised her wineglass in a toast to them. She wore the locket as a charm on her bracelet. Regardless of their sins, their love had created her, and although she had been melancholy of late she never had any regrets about the life—the opportunities—she had carved out for herself. She never pondered whether they were proud of her or not. She’d taken the life she’d been given and made the best of it. Tried her best at every step to win at her own game of survival, to outthink, outlast, and outplay the law as she amassed wealth from a criminal enterprise.

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