“You are to join Mr. Indigo for dinner this evening.”
I blink. Swallow. “Join him for dinner? Where?”
“Upstairs. Rhapsody.”
“Rhapsody?”
A shrug. “Restaurant, near the top of the building.”
“And I’m to join him there? For dinner?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“In public?”
Another shrug. “Dunno, ma’am.” Flick of a wrist, revealing a thick black rubber tactical chronograph. “Mr. Indigo expects you in one hour.” Len steps through, closes the door, and puts his back to it. “I’ll wait here, Madame X. Best go get ready.”
I shake all over. I do not know what this is, what is happening. I never join “Mr. Indigo” for dinner. I have dinner here. Alone. Always. This is not how things go. It is out of the norm, not part of the pattern. The warp and weft of my life is a careful dance, choreographed with precision. Aberrations leave me breathless, chest tight, eyes blinking too swiftly. Aberrations are unwelcome.
Dinner at Rhapsody with Mr. Indigo.I don’t know what this means; it is semantically null.
I shower, even though I am already clean. I depilate, apply lotion. Lingerie, black lace, French bikini and demi-cups, Agent Provocateur. The dress is magnificent. Deep red, high neckline around my throat, both arms bare, slit up the left side nearly to my hip, open back, Vauthier’s signature asymmetry. A runway haute couture piece, probably. Elegant, sexy, dramatic. The dress is enough of a statement on its own, so I opt for simple black high-heeled sandals. Light makeup, a touch around the eyes, stain on the lips, color on my cheeks.
Heart hammering, I step out into the living room, ready in forty minutes. It would not do to keep Mr. Indigo waiting, something tells me.
“Very lovely, Madame X,” Len says, but it feels like a formality, part of the charade.
“Thank you.”
A nod, an elbow proffered. My lungs are frozen and my heart is in my throat as I take Len’s arm, follow him out into the foyer beyond my door: thick ivory carpet, slate walls, abstract paintings, a table with a vase of flowers. A short hallway leading to an emergency stairwell:Caution, emergency exitonly, alarm will sound.The elevator doors are polished chrome, mirror-bright. A window near the emergency exit, showing the Manhattan skyline, summer evening sunlight coating gold on glass.
The foyer beyond my condo is smaller than I thought it would be.
A keyhole where the call button would be, a key on a ring from Len’s pocket inserted and twisted, withdrawn, and the doors slide open immediately. There are no buttons, only another keyhole with four degrees one could turn it to:G, 13, Rhap., PH—Len inserts the key and twists it to the Rhapsody marker, and then we are in motion. Only there is no sensation of motion, no lift or dip of my stomach. A brief silence, no wait music, and then the doors slide open with a mutedding.
My expectations are dashed. Shattered.
No hushed chatter of a fine dining establishment in full evening swing. No clink of silverware on plates. No laughter.
Not one person in sight.
Not a server, not a patron, not a single chef.
The entire restaurant is empty.
I take a step forward, and immediately the doors slide closed between Len and me, leaving me alone. I feel my heart twist, hammer even faster. My heart rate is surely a medical risk, at this point. Table after table, empty. Two-tops, four-tops, six-tops, all round white-cloth-covered tables with chairs tucked in, napkins folded in elaborate origami shapes, silverware placed just so on either side of the flatware, wineglasses in the upper right corner. Not one light in the restaurant is lit, bathing me in golden shadows of falling dusk streaming in from the thirty-foot-tall panes of glass ringing the entire perimeter of the restaurant, which occupies the entire floor of the building. The kitchen sits at the center, open-plan, so the diners on three sides are able to see the chefs preparing the food, and the tables onthe other side, a glimpse of the windows and the skyline. The elevator in front of which I am still standing is one four forming the back wall of the kitchen, and there is a plaque above “my” elevator that proclaims it to be a private lift, with no public access—in place of a call button, there is a keyhole.
A thousand questions are bubbling in my brain. Clearly, my condo is only one of many in this building. Yet the foyer beyond my condo provides access only to the elevator and the emergency stairwell. The square footage of the condo, however, is not sufficient to take up the entire thirteenth floor. Why a private elevator that only goes to four places, and requires a key to access? Does each of my clients get a key? Or is there an elevator attendant?
Why is the restaurant empty?
What am I supposed to do?
A violin plays, soft high strains wavering quietly from off to my left. A cello joins it. Then a viola, and another violin.
I follow the music around the kitchen and discover a breathtaking vision: a single two-person table draped in white, set for two, a bottle of white wine on ice in a marble bucket on a stand beside the table, and a half dozen or so tables have been removed to clear a wide space around it, with thick white candles on five-foot-tall black wrought-iron stands forming a perimeter. The string quartet is off in the shadows a few feet away, two young men and two young women, black tuxedos and modest black dresses.
In the shadows just beyond the ring of candles stands a darker shadow. Tall, elegant, powerful. Hands stuffed casually in charcoal-gray trouser pockets. No tie, topmost button undone to reveal a sliver of flesh. Suit coat, middle button fastened. Crimson kerchief folded in a perfect triangle in the pocket of the coat. Thick black hair swept back and to one side, a single strandloose to drape across a temple. That ghost of amusement on thin lips.
