The
gears in Zach Rivers’ brain began to slip. Normally his training would kick in and he would execute an
immediate and instinctive sequence of actions. He would simply know what to do, how best to survive the
situation, without prejudice or doubt.
Not now. This bundle of
bloody clothes and matted blonde hair was hijacking his training. He was plagued by questions: “Who is this? What is she doing here? What do I do to protect my seclusion?” His mind slipped gears into a stall,
then free floated in space: open,
empty, not thinking, like those first moments when he was about to solo. A jazz player’s mind, composing on the
spot.
His
mind rested with that image as he unlocked the door of his loft. He turned on the lights, which bathed
the space in gentle illumination from the recessed bulbs. He picked up the body, feeling the dead
weight in his arms, and walked into his vast living space. “Never,” he thought, “why am I doing
this?” He amplified his question
with, “this is insane!” He carried her to the living room area and gently put
her on the overstuffed leather couch that faced the sliding glass doors leading
to the small deck overlooking the harbor.
She
was out cold; her breathing regular.
Rivers rarely rushed his improvisations, taking an exploratory approach,
interested in the journey more than the destination, and this was no
different. Music always focused
him. He remembered some tense
situations working for the CIA when he would construct an approach he might
have to a tune, which would diminish the anxiety. Sensing that she wasn’t critical, and he could take his
time, he walked to the shelves to the left of the couch that held his music
collection and sound system. He
was working on an arrangement of John Coltrane’s “Dear Lord.” Ballads always gave Rivers
trouble. At their basic level,
ballads were simple, sentimental, romantic, and teetered toward taking a deep
emotion and making it mundane. On
a deeper level, ballads articulated a longing, a quest for salvation, and
verged on being a musical impossibility.
John Coltrane was a master of the ballad - one of many examples of his
brilliant journey into the uncharted spaces of his being. Trane would provide comfort. Rivers looked under “C” in his large
collection of discs, one of the few vices he allowed himself to have, and found
“Classic Quartet” box set. He
pulled out disc four, which he put into his player, pressing track four on the
remote. He hit the repeat button,
allowing Coltrane’s crystalline lament to fill the space with the spirit of
unexplored emotionality.
He moved to his
galley kitchen across the room.
Rivers found a ceramic bowl in his cupboard and filled it with warm
water. He fetched a couple of face
towels and a plastic dispenser of grapefruit scented soap from his
bathroom. Turning the ceiling
lights brighter he returned to the sofa where he saw blood everywhere: clotted in her hair, smeared all over
her face, her dress saturated, trails of dried blood down her beautiful
legs. He didn’t know where to
begin, but her face, vulnerable in sleep, held a compelling pull. He started there. As he washed away the gore from her
cheeks he felt like an archeologist in the process of uncovering some rare and
mysterious treasure. Despite the
calming effect of the music, he had doubts about his actions. He was nagged by the apprehension that
what he was doing was nothing but trouble. Was he losing control to a force greater than himself? He thought, “Sure, I surrender all the
time to the forces of improvisation when I play. But the only danger there is hitting the wrong notes or
running out of ideas. What shit am
I getting into here?”
The woman moaned,
shifting his attention. She was
still breathing, and that was good.
He lifted her head and removed her hood. He thought, “Christ, even as a bloody mess this woman is…”
His thought was interrupted by her stirring. Her body changed position, but she did not wake. Another thought, “I have to focus. I’m
becoming distracted; can’t think straight.” He wanted to take off her raincoat, but did not want to wake
her. In sleep, she would not be in
pain. In sleep, he would be able
to think without having to interact with her. In sleep, he was safe. He studied her legs and saw what
looked like teeth marks. A small
row of indentations between two deep punctures wounds. “Looks like she was bit by some animal
with sharp fangs.” He began cleaning the dried blood from her legs, examining
them for further wounds. Finding
no more, he went into the bathroom, found some disinfectant and bandages in the
cabinet above the sink, left the light on, and began to patch her up. He carefully cleaned the wound with
disinfectant, wrapped gauze around it, and finally taped the bandage in place.
When he finished
administering to her leg he stared at her face. He wasn’t sure what to do next. There was so much blood. He wondered if she had been shot or
stabbed. To continue to treat her he would have to take off her raincoat and
bloody dress, and the potential for unpleasantness caused him to hesitate. His mind slipped out of gear
again. She made a whimpering sound
as if she were waking up. She opened
her eyes, iridescent green cat’s
eyes, and she stared at him.
Expressionless. He couldn’t
read her, which was unusual for him. He just stared back at her while
Coltrane’s lamenting ballad filled the room. For a moment he thought that he was looking into a mirror,
those deep green eyes reflecting the same bewilderment. Then something stirred
in her. She grabbed him by his tee
shirt and pulled his face down to her blood-drenched dress. Her pull was strong, assertive,
dominating. It was as if she knew
better than him what he needed and she was not going to accept any
hesitation. He found himself
surrendering again. This time to her movements, as she found the triggers that
sent waves of pleasure through his body.
She moved on top
of him, worked her way to his groin and took charge. He accepted her skills, forgot that thirty minutes ago she
was at his mercy, and rested in the rising wave of pleasure that she was
giving. When it came to an end he
tried to get up from the couch. She put a hand on his chest, gently pushing him
down, and saying, like a mother would say to a child, “Shhhh.” In the afterglow of being fellated he
acquiesced, his eyes never leaving her face.
She
got up from the couch. Seeing the bathroom light on and the door open, she
limped in that direction. She found a glass, drank some water, turned off the
light, returning to Rivers. She
looked him in the eyes, gently touched his face with her hand. He attempted to speak, but she put her
fingers to his lips. “Shhh.” He obliged. She bent down, kissed him gently on the lips and said, “Spascibo.” This
bloody and beautiful woman then rose from the couch, zipped her raincoat, put
the hood over her head and walked out the door without looking back. Rivers lay on the leather couch, unable
to organize this last strange hour into any scenario that made sense. His head was throbbing.
He got up from the
couch to get an aspirin. Turning
on the bathroom light he went toward the medicine cabinet over the sink. He hesitated when he noticed that on
the cabinet mirror, in bright red lipstick, was the word “Grushenka.”
