The Gilda Stories Page 8

Sorel’s salon was noted for its wine cellar, and the pride of that reputation shone on his face as they sipped in silence. He spoke in a supple voice, slightly accented by the knowledge of many languages. “I know much about you. Your face has been in my mind for some time now. It is difficult to believe that finally having you here with me would exceed the pleasure of anticipating your arrival. But it does.”

  “You continue to be gracious to me, Sorel, even though I arrive unannounced, muddy, and—”

  Sorel cut her off. “Please, as I’ve said, we’re family here. Your arrival could never be unannounced. Wherever we are we must expect each other. This is a family lesson we’ve learned well. You, too, have learned it or you would not have come to me.”

  “I came to…” Here Gilda stopped, uncertain what she thought would be the result of her coming. She could ask about Bird, but once her whereabouts were known what would Gilda do? What then did she need to know from this man who’d been like a myth to the women at Woodard’s? What had she come here for?

  “I need to know much. Where the questions begin though is a question itself. I would ask where Bird has gone, but I know that that is something I will learn if I wait for her to tell me herself.

  “I would ask where I go now that I’ve given over ownership of Woodard’s to Bernice’s daughter and come to this hill city full of light. Or I could ask what I might need to ask.”

  “And to the last I would answer there is nothing to ask. You’ll stay here with me to continue your lessons as it was meant to be. Bird will answer the questions you have for her in her own time.”

  Gilda started at the sound of Bird’s name spoken aloud by another, as if she had been afraid all along that Bird was only a dream.

  “She’s been here and prepared us for your arrival. She needs to spend time apart. Listening to the people who gave her first life. Listening to the missteps she has taken. Reuniting with herself.”

  “Reuniting?”

  “Yes.”

  Anthony returned and filled their glasses silently, then leaned down and whispered in Sorel’s ear so softly that even Gilda could not hear what was said.

  “I’m afraid we shall be joined shortly by another. We’ll continue our talk later,” Sorel said, looking directly into Gilda’s eyes. She heard the deliberate use of Bird’s own tone, one she had often used when they studied in the twilight of her room so long ago.

  “If you were to succinctly sum up what you’ve learned,” Sorel continued, “what few words would you employ? Now, without the benefit of philosophizing?” Sorel’s deep-set dark eyes no longer twinkled as they did most of the time when he spoke. They were unwavering at this moment, much as Bird’s had been when she taught history or languages to Gilda.

  “Betraying our shared life, our shared humanity makes one unworthy of sharing, unworthy of life.” Gilda spoke easily. She had not known how deeply she felt the lessons she had learned.

  “You are a most accomplished student, my dear. We’re proud of you beyond our greatest dream. The second lesson, which will become equally as important, is that there are many who do not share this belief. In fact, they thrive on commitment to the abject converse of that lesson. You will come to recognize them with ease. In the meantime there are several people I should like to introduce you to—Ina and Joseph, Juan Jose de Ayala, Esther—none of whom seem to be about this evening. But we shall see to your introduction into society posthaste.”

  Sorel sat back on the settee with a look of satisfaction on his face. Soon, however, a slight shadow settled on his forehead. He sipped from his wine, not glancing up at Gilda for several minutes. His gaze then began to slowly scan the room. When it stopped at the door the shadow descended over the rest of his face. His brow tightened as the woman who stood poised in the doorway made her way toward their table.

  The red of her hair was a beacon superior to the electric candles lining the walls. Gilda turned away quickly to watch Sorel’s reaction. She was puzzled. He was both annoyed and pleased to see this striking figure in the doorway of his salon. If this was the visitor who’d been expected, Sorel was not prepared to speak of her.

  Gilda absorbed Sorel’s feelings of pleasure and anxiety as fully as she could before turning her attentions to the woman herself. As did much of the clientele in the salon. Her russet curls cascaded onto her shoulders, which were draped in deep blue satin. Although her dress covered her from neck to toe, it managed to be more provocative than anything Gilda had ever seen.

  She strode toward their table with a lanky walk as if she were strolling in breeches on a country road, yet the lift of her chin and the deliberateness of each step were elegant. Beneath unfashionably full brows were deep-green eyes sparkling in unnatural competition with the champagne on their table. Her full, wide mouth was painted a shade of red that perfectly matched her hair.

  Sorel rose nimbly from the settee and took her hand, pressing it gently to his lips. Anthony appeared behind them both, his mouth set grimly and the knuckles of his large hands almost white as they gripped the new champagne glass. Gilda stifled the impulse to rise next to Sorel.

  “Gilda, may I present Eleanor. Eleanor, I hope you’ll join us?” He spoke to her almost shyly.

  “Of course,” Eleanor said in a deep but breathy voice as she slipped in beside Gilda. She seemed to consume Gilda in one glance, her evaluation evinced in a thin smile that was both remote and enticing. Sorel sat down at the other end of the curved settee facing them, and Anthony poured wine in each of the three glasses.

  “Eleanor has the distinction of being homegrown royalty. Her family has lived here by the bay longer than perhaps any other. Since before the ships, before the gold, before the traders. Alas, they have all died out except Eleanor and her uncle, Alfred.”

  “And he is probably seeing his last year even as we speak,” Eleanor said with no trace of sorrow. “But let’s not talk of the old and dying, rather the fresh and vital. You, my dear, are new to our jeweled bay. What news do you have to bring us from the uncivilized hinterlands?” The lights sparkled off the lustrous material of her dress, making her seem synonymous with the bay.

  Gilda felt an unfamiliar discomfort, her words stumbling over each other inside her. She almost shook her head in an effort to sort them out and avoid sounding like a stammering child. She was further unnerved by the certain knowledge that this woman knew exactly what was going on inside of her. Her words finally came together when she turned her gaze away from Eleanor and back toward Sorel. He was much like Bird in his capacity for clarity, and Gilda relaxed under his steadying influence.

  “I’m afraid what you say about the hinterlands may be true although I’d hesitate to refer to them as uncivilized. I’ve spent the better part of two years journeying by horse and by foot from Louisiana to the east, then north and west, seeing the most wondrous sights. Trees and deserts of such magnitude I might never have believed they really existed, except that my eyes have always been quite healthy. And there is almost no pleasure greater than lying down in the warmth of benevolent wolves listening to their thoughts.”

  Eleanor hid her surprise under a question. “And do they have thoughts?”

  “All living things have something we can consider thoughts.”

  “And did they never have thoughts of devouring you?” Eleanor asked with a wickedly brilliant smile.

  “Of course. But as I’ve said, the trip was civilized and we know those thoughts are everywhere, not just the in the woodlands.” Gilda responded, surprised that she had spoken so freely with this woman.

  Eleanor’s voice was low and solemn as she spoke. “Then that explains your outerwear. I was afraid for a moment some new fashion was sweeping out from the east and I was frightfully outmoded.” Her eyes twinkled impishly, softening the words. She reached for Gilda’s hand across the table. “You must let me dress you.”

  Gilda felt her face flush with the heat of embarrassment and again was plunged into speechlessness. This time she feared it was permanent. S
orel came to her rescue.

  “What a splendid idea. How better for two people to come to know each other than from the outer garments in.” His laughter edged out uncertainly as he looked around for Anthony, who was on hand with a second bottle of champagne before Sorel could speak. A glow of girlish innocence suffused Eleanor’s face. She dimmed the dazzling light surrounding her by closing her eyes, as if turning the damper on a stove. This left her face more accessible, youthful. Gilda wanted to wander the streets with this woman, looking at fabrics, learning her city. She still felt a bit of the awe that had almost crushed her earlier, but now her body rang with a sense of adventure.

  Eleanor refocused her eyes on Gilda. “Then I shall call for you here in the salon, perhaps about 3:00 P.M. We can take tea together and shop until the merchants have run out of time and cloth.” The embers of her smile flared as she turned to look directly at Gilda. Faint orange flecks mixed with the malachite green of her eyes. Gilda had the surprising desire to go on the hunt with this new woman. Instead, she rose from her seat before Sorel could do so himself to let Eleanor move from behind the table.

  Eleanor and her dress sparkled as she stood; Gilda lifted the woman’s hand to her lips before she thought about it. She stopped midway, realizing how odd she must look to all the others in the room, then continued planting a lingering kiss on Eleanor’s hand in a move more casual than she felt.

  “Till then,” Eleanor said, then bent to kiss Sorel lightly on the forehead. She swept from the room with a curt nod toward Anthony, who stood watching them from across the room near the end of the bar.

  Gilda sat down, feeling slightly chilled by the loss of Eleanor for the rest of the evening. It took a moment to realize that she again felt in need of the blood. She was surprised that the desire rose so soon, but it was unmistakable.

  Before she could speak Sorel said, “I know that Anthony would be more than pleased to accompany you this evening. To show you some of our city by night. He’s a most knowledgeable guide. And he’s eager to know more of you, New Orleans, and the path between there and here.”

  Gilda was relieved to have been handed a direction. “Yes, that would be wonderful.”

  Anthony appeared beside the table and said, “I will meet you outside your door in ten minutes, then.”

  Pride returned to Sorel’s smile as Anthony made his way through the room and spoke a few instructions to the bartender. “Later, when you return, Anthony will show you to our parlor. We can talk more there. You’ve spent a few difficult years of adjustment and growth. It’s unfortunate that Bird’s departure had to come when it did. But none of us chooses our destiny or it wouldn’t be called destiny, would it?” He laughed lightly before he continued.

  “Now is the time for healing, for resting. Laying claim to the things you know but aren’t yet certain of. Yerba Buena is just the place for this.”

  “I would say thank you only because that’s the propriety I’ve been taught,” Gilda responded, “but I know it is inadequate.”

  “On the contrary, it’s ostentatious between us.” Sorel rose and took Gilda’s hand as she stood. She hurried from the room, a tension gripping her shoulders and stomach, one she couldn’t remember ever having before.

  Anthony stood on the stairs below the thick wood outer door of Gilda’s room. He seemed surprised at the change in her appearance: she wore a dark, heavily knit sweater and a man’s cap. Gilda was comfortable returning to the guise of boyhood that had cloaked her during her travels west, releasing her from the pretenses and constrictions of womanhood.

  “Quite a transformation.” Anthony said. “I wondered how you were able to travel unmolested. Let’s walk toward the water.”

  “I realized before I left home there would be no place for me on the road, alone. Even with my advantages I’d be fair game for every male passerby. It seemed easier to simply keep to myself and let people make presumptions. A funny thing though…,” Gilda began to chuckle softly, “at least four times—four times—on the road, even in a small town just east of here… four times I met others just like me. I mean women dressed like boys. Just going around from place to place trying to live free. I didn’t dare say too much, but we recognized each other so easily. Four times!”

  Gilda and Anthony laughed out loud together. “One ‘fellow’ and I had a great talk. He said he had a friend in California who married a woman and had been living with her for ten years. Said the only thing she missed was wearing perfume. Gave her wife an expensive bottle every birthday!”

  Anthony laughed uproariously, grabbed Gilda’s hand, and began to run. They moved quickly, leaving their laughter behind hanging in the empty air. When they stopped they stood near the dark docks of the bay. The fog rolled around them, clinging to the warmth of their clothes. They walked silently down streets and through alleys until Anthony saw one with whom he would share. Gilda was unused to searching so openly, among so many people, but followed Anthony’s lead, hanging back when he indicated.

  A young man stood near the entrance to a lodging house about to light a cigar. Gilda stepped into the shadows; Anthony walked up to him with a match in hand. As he struck the match his gaze caught the man and he walked him backward out of the lamplight. There was no sound, but Gilda was able to peer into the darkness and see through it, observing Anthony in the secret moment of exchange. She looked away toward the lights that sprayed up the hills behind them and waited. Quickly it was done. She heard Anthony speak softly to the man leaning weakly against the wall. Then he lit the match and held it to the dark cheroot still in the man’s hand.

  The man said “thank you” in a rather thin voice and took a deep inhalation of the smoke. Anthony returned to Gilda’s side. Together they walked in silence further along the docks.

  “There are many here who enjoy the terror we can bring to others. They live as much for that as for the blood,” he said abruptly.

  “Yes, I’ve heard this but I don’t understand it.”

  “Human nature remains with us, I’m afraid,” Anthony said. “And if you’ve really no grounding in this world, no understanding of its wonders and that we are simply one of those mysterious wonders you… some feel they must be gods—or devils.”

  “Anthony, you sound so ominous. Like those who told stories of us in New Orleans. To hear some of the tradesmen talk we were ha’nts, or vodun priestesses, or ghouls.”

  “Ghouls, perhaps. Some here are certainly that. What else can we call one who thrives on ripping out another’s throat, or on deceiving people into ruin or servitude. I would say they are ghouls.”

  “Among us? You mean here in this town?” As her question erupted she felt the years of sheltering at Woodard’s were in glaring evidence.

  “Yes. They can even be found some evenings in the salon sipping champagne with Sorel.”

  Gilda gave a start but held back her questions. “On the road I met many more beasts on two legs than on four. My fears were not of wolves or mountain cats. They have an understanding of the reasoning of nature. I found it comforting to share that reasoning that needs no words. But with men there is no reasoning at all sometimes.”

  “Then you will understand what I say about human nature being twisted to unreasoning.” Anthony’s voice became taut. “There are those who burn like small fires waiting to engulf, to consume whatever comes near them.”

  Gilda sensed an urgency in Anthony’s words but was distracted by a man sitting alone atop the driver’s seat of a carriage. He held the reins of the horses absently, accustomed to hours of waiting for his passengers. She laid her hand on Anthony’s arm lightly, then sprinted ahead and silently ascended to the seat beside the nodding man. She listened for his thoughts a moment, catching them up in her own.

  She felt reassured. Unlike the man whose blood she had taken earlier, this one was full of thoughts and dreams. The dominant one now was a hope that his master would end his evening early so he could go home to his own wife and children.

  Gilda almost bea
med with joy at such a simple yet wholly fulfilling desire. She held him in her thoughts and leaned forward, moving his muffler from his neck, and lanced the flesh gently. She took her share of the blood and read his thoughts of his family. She was particularly pleased at the warmth this man held in his heart after the chilling conversation with Anthony. She made the exchange, reinforcing this man’s simple pleasure and using another part of her mind to reach out to his master. Gilda found him inside the crowded gambling rooms behind the carriage and implanted in him the sudden need to go home and be with his family. She sealed the opening and gazed at the dozing face. It had a mildly contented smile.

  She and Anthony continued their walk, flushed with the warmth of life. They turned northward toward Sorel’s and were almost mounting the final hill when Gilda asked, “How long have you known Sorel?”

  Anthony was surprised at the directness of the question. Because of the nature of their history, most left the exposition of their lives to be inferred from conversations among themselves rather than inquiry. Few of them would ever ask such a direct question of another, of personal things such as one’s last name or birthplace. Such questions made it feel as if one had to, suddenly, be accountable for one’s past life.

  “Many years.” He felt the deliberately vague response surface involuntarily. He started again. “We have been together for one hundred years. We met in France. They were difficult times. Not unlike those that have just passed here. He brought me into the family, although he had to be cajoled to do so. That is a story for another time. We’ve lived in many homes in Europe, but it is only here that we’ve been happy—for fifty years. He talks of going east, but I’ve convinced him we’ve much to do here. The east seems steeped in a truly insidious atmosphere just now. To shoot a president—in the back no less!” Anthony shivered as if remembering other atrocities as well before going on. “Bankers and politicians conspire over every dinner table to mortgage farmers into submission. There is a smugness that I’m sure would do nothing but enrage him. And me. I’m afraid we much prefer the rough directness of the ambition we find here.” Anthony took a deep breath, exhilarated by sharing his personal thoughts so openly.