The Memory Artists - Jeffrey Moore [12]
Here Samira put her pen down because it had run dry. She rummaged in her bag for another, unsuccessfully, then looked from side to side. Recessed into the wall, just above the bed frame, were three small drawers, painted the same colour as the wall, barely visible. She pried open the first with her fingernails and found what looked like lenses— telescope and camera lenses.
The second contained thick beige writing paper, a postcard of a church with a sketched portrait on the back, a small jewellery box and … a gold-nibbed fountain pen. She glanced sideward and rearward, lest by some infernal magic Norval could see her, before taking the pen out. And then the postcard. And then the jewellery case.
Again she looked in all directions before opening the case, whose miniature golden key was in the lock. Inside was a silver ring, a three-part gimbal ring. Closed, the clasped hands formed a traditional friendship ring; opened, the hidden inner ring revealed two hearts, along with an engraved inscription:
Nor,
Love always,
Terry
Terry? Is Norval gay? She examined the sketch on the postcard:
She restored each item, carefully, trusting her memory for their exact positions. Still burning with curiosity, not to mention guilt, she quickly pried open the third drawer. And closed it just as quickly. You don’t want to go there, she said to herself. She counted to three and then reopened it: Rakehell condoms, black silk rope and a Zorro mask. And a vial of … white powder. With only a black “K” on the label. She re-closed the drawer.
Pen in hand, she began flipping through the pages of her diary, to a section called “MEN, or MISTAKES I have made,” and added, in royal purple ink:
January/02
Norval. Met two strange men in the Psych elevator today, within minutes of each other—one on the way up, one on the way down. They had a strange resemblance, as if they were brothers. One, cute but possibly a strayed lunatic, uttered barely a word; the other, absurdly good-looking, talked the entire time. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Who was he? A decadently dandified baron on his way home from the opera? A brooding count with a bloodstained past? Certainly a smug bastard, with a martial tone that could freeze nitrogen—and a strong, virile, almost animal beauty which was, quite simply, irresistible. The type that entangle me in their sticky little webs, that draw me crashwards. Is that exquisitely ravaged face my fate, I wonder? Why am I so predictable? Why do I always go for beautiful brutes and bastards? Every society, I once read, must be wary of the unattached male, especially the attractive one, for he is universally the cause of countless social ills
She set down Norval’s fountain pen and leafed backwards:
Claude. Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m just attracted to borderline lunatics. I meet them wherever I go—bars , bookstores, parties, movies, museums. Yet whether they’re young or old, rich or poor, the scenario is always the same: After we “get involved,” they go blitzoid on me. Sometimes this takes the form of them smacking me around. Other times it’s screaming about how I won’t “commit.” Both of these things happened today. So I’ve reached a decision—I’m taking the veil. A vow of chastity. That’s it, it’s over. No more sex, no more relationships . . .
Pietro. Sat beside me on the train—in a completely empty car. Forty-five minutes with a pawing Pithecanthropus bog-man with merging eyebrows and barf breath …
Nick. Why do men do this? He started by slobbering all over me, his spinning tongue car-washing my face. He ended by chomping on my clitoris. I screamed, and the moron thought I was climaxing …
Max. A tad effeminate, not usually my style, but a nice face, nice skin. And besides, I was very drunk. We quickly, much too quickly, arrived at the moment of truth,