A Postmodern Love Read online

  As he went away, her image was imprinted firmly in his mind. She was more beautiful than he had gathered from afar. As if her face had not been born and grown and accumulated age and wrinkles, it seemed to have been measured with exactitude and carved out of marble. The dimensions were perfect. Her large eyes had an odd mixture of green and gray. Seen from the front, the full lips reposed with a slight puckering and gleamed red, full of blood and flesh and life. Yet a singular imperfection, a flat mole in an oval shape, was on her left cheek, about two inches below her iris, suspended in mid-face, like a piece of dust that had landed there. The mole was indeed minuscule, but amid the porcelain paleness of her skin it loomed in his vision. It was located at the most prominent point on her cheekbone, just above where the downward curvature began, above a subtle hollowness where a hint of shadow resided. And there was an overall starkness in her face, a stark beauty, but one which was held up on a foundation of gentleness, for the beauty of a woman must exceed mere proportions and measurements and contain within her features something indescribably intangible, nobleness and gentility. Lana’s beauty was such that it at once could make any man realize she was beyond his reach and at the same time be obsessed with her, even after the very first encounter. And there was something else in her beauty that suddenly meant so much to him, as if it alone could help him live again and dispel the cancerous slime of guilt from his conscience.

  3

  Guilt had infected him in Iraq. It had been his third tour. Until that point, he had stayed in the Green Zone, safe from harm, fixing eardrum perforations all day long. This time, however, he had volunteered to go out with the patrol as a medic—a simple mission to search a house for hidden weapons. The soldiers were cheering him on. The commander said it would give the soldiers a boost of morale, as long as he understood the danger. He even carried an assault rifle and was excited to do so. Though with a pregnant wife at home, he knew he was taking an enormous risk, and yet something pushed him to go, to experience real danger at least once.

  After twenty minutes of a bumpy drive, three Humvees stopped, and the soldiers, nine in total, disembarked into an alley surrounded by houses on both sides. It was dry and hot, a typical Baghdad day. A few clouds hung up high in the sky, from which an invisible drone must be watching them. Everything had the brownish tinge of dust, even the air. Everything smelled exhausted and burnt, like combusted tires, wood, diesel. Windows were slammed shut, suppressed voices speaking Arabic could be heard drifting away, and the sound of feet retreating echoed from around corners. Thomas got out with the soldiers and stayed closed to the squad leader, Alberto Santiago, as he had been instructed. With an easy and practiced confidence, Alberto motioned to the men and got everyone into position. He whispered to Thomas and pointed things out, things to watch out for, as though Thomas were his superior. Thomas’s breathing that had been fast since he got into the Humvee now became wild and erratic, and his fingers felt icky with sweat, but he couldn’t get a nervous grin off his face. Sweat collected on his forehead and ran down his face, smearing his glasses. Suddenly, something was wrong and he felt it. He stepped forward and in the same instant heard a whistling snap. Then the chaos began—voices screaming, guns firing, and bodies jostling and taking cover behind the Humvees. He crouched down and, as he did so, a door across the alley opened and a shape appeared at the threshold. Reflexively, Thomas squeezed the trigger, and a blast of bullets moved along the wall like a paint stroke. A person staggered across the door and fell into the light. It was a boy. He was unarmed and blood was squirting from his chest. Thomas got up and was about to run to the boy to see if he could be saved, but something was holding him back. “Doc, doc,” someone screamed loudly in his buzzing ears, over the deafening salvos of gunfire now exploding all around him. He turned around and saw Santiago on the ground with a hand to his neck, blood everywhere. He ran to Santiago and carried him, with another soldier’s help, inside a Humvee that took off almost immediately. Santiago growled, his right hand pressed over the wound, and his legs kicked furiously, instinctively trying to run away. Thomas worked quickly, putting a pressure dressing on the wound, injecting Santiago with morphine and Versed, and starting an IV. The fact that Santiago was thrashing before being put out was a good sign that the bullet hadn’t entered his spine. Once back inside the Green Zone, Thomas followed Santiago into the operating room, got into a surgical gown, and helped the on-call surgeon explore the neck. The bullet had merely nicked the jugular vein; Santiago would live, almost unscathed.

  A lot of back slapping later greeted Thomas, but he would have none of it, only responding with a customary nod. “Good job, Doc,” someone said. “One hell of a job, Doc,” someone else said. No one mentioned the Iraqi boy, but the image of the boy, maybe fifteen years old, falling down and dying in front of him, kept intruding. The wild fury of automatic rifles, the stinging fumes of gun smoke, the sweat dripping down his neck, moved around him still. The sniper had meant to shoot him; he was lucky enough to have stepped out of the way, that was all. In the calm after the battle he came to realize this, and that he had killed an innocent boy. Now he felt the sudden urge to get far away, very far away from all this. In the Green Zone, there was, however, only one place to go to, if not to get away then at least to know that faraway places existed. He made his way to the communication room, to the cubicle with the phone to his ear, and finally he heard his wife on the phone, her voice sounding so sweet among the voices of other soldiers nearby talking to their loved ones. “I’m sorry but I didn’t want it now,” she said matter-as-factly. “I’m in the middle of my business. I can’t be put out for so many months. I’m still young enough, we can try again in a few years. I had to do it. I had to do it.”

  “What did you do?” he screamed and slammed down the phone.

  He rushed to his bunker, got on his knees, and prayed:

  Oh God, I killed a boy.

  And my child, my unborn child.

  Take me away from here, take me away.

  That was the moment; he had had enough of death in all its forms—the gunshots that shredded the body, the explosions that blew apart limbs, but also the forceps ripping out the barely formed life on the operating table. Was it a life for a life? He had killed an innocent boy, therefore his unborn child must also be extinguished. It choked him inside, the calculus of ordinary death, the cancerous goo of guilt. It was then that he yearned for a life, but not his current life, for the very reason that he could see every detail of it, to the last despicable gasp. What he was desperate for was life and beauty, one and the same, something that would set his heart ticking fast, his soul burning with a fever, sending out glittering sparks into an otherwise gray existence. Let it be red but never black. It was then that he decided to divorce his wife and to resign from the Army Reserve in which he had served since his first year in medical school.

  4

  Two days later after meeting her, he had a date with Lana on a Saturday night. The anticipation was achingly palpable after a few years of Internet dating failures, of the mundane questions and fake interest and bourgeois pretension that came with modern courtship. During his bleakest moments, when the dead Iraqi boy resurrected vividly in his dreams, Thomas had tried to break his nightmares by visiting Crystal, an escort in Santa Monica, who euphamistically called herself “a private companion” and was obsessed with Marilyn Monroe. Now with Lana, he hoped to put all that behind him and have a new start.

  The sky had turned dark when he parked in her street in a working class neighborhood in Torrance. The sprawling apartment complex appeared decrepit under the street light; the wooden shingles covering the outside of the building looked brown and cracked. Two floors of units, numbering at least thirty, faced a central pool. Through the metal gate at the front, Thomas could look into the pool area where it was quiet. A row of tall palm trees lined up in front. He rolled down the window, and a cold breeze blew through.

  The anticipation of dating the most beautiful woman that he had ever
known in his life had given her an aura that the sight of the apartment complex quickly dashed. Real life with jobs, money, car, suddenly came to the fore. From all the things she had said so far and the manner of her speaking, he gathered that she possessed much sophistication, but why was she living here?

  Light from another car behind him reflected off the rearview mirror; it came from a black truck parked a dozen feet away. A man got out and stood by the car, stretching. In the rearview mirror, Thomas couldn’t make out the man’s face, but saw that he was wearing a baseball cap and a black jacket and was of a burly build.

  His phone rang. He saw Lana’s number on the display and wondered if she’d had a change of heart.

  “Thomas, is that you? Sitting in the car?” Lana said.

  “Yeah, I just got here. A bit early.” He squinted at the apartment. “Where are you?”

  “Look up.” Standing by a window on the second floor, Lana waved.

  “Oh, yeah. I see you.”

  “I’m coming right down.”

  Thomas got out of the BMW with a dozen roses he had bought along the way. He felt the eyes of the man with the baseball cap on him, and he looked back at the man. The man, his face hidden under the baseball cap, was indeed staring at him. He approached the front gate and waited. With the roses in his hand, he had the impression of being in high school again, though he had never gone to the prom. Quickly looking himself over, he saw nothing out of place; his shirt collar was straight, his jacket buttoned, and his glasses adjusted. A cold breeze brushed his neck. He heard the truck door closing. He looked back and saw that the man with baseball cap had gotten back inside the truck and sat there like a curious shadow.

  The metal gate clanged as it opened. Darn, she’s beautiful. He sucked in deep breaths and went toward her. She wore a black dress that flared out above her knees, a slick red leather jacket that hugged her body and went down to her midriff, and a pair of matching high heels. And she held a scaly, python-skinned clutch. A single diamond dangled on a fine chain on her neck. Her threadlike black hair clung closely to her neck.

  He was taken by a most gentle smile as she came forward and offered him her cheek. Her perfume blended in with the roses.

  “These are for you.” He handed her the roses.

  “They’re lovely.” She brought them to her nose. “Thank you. You’re such a gentleman.” She walked to his car while continuing to smell the flowers.

  He rushed forward and opened the car’s door. As he hurried around to the driver’s side, he saw that the man with the baseball cap was still watching them. Maybe the man was a curious bystander, who was understandably ogling a beautiful woman. Once seated, Thomas started to drive away.

  “I haven’t had roses for such a long time. Thank you.” She put them on the back seat and kept looking backward, through the rear windshield. “Where are we going?”

  “I hope you like American fusion. The restaurant is in Manhattan Beach.”

  “I’m dying to ask you something. Are you related Oscar Wilde?”

  “No. I wish. But my father’s side came from Ireland. My mother’s side was from Cuba. You know, when I was growing up, he was very particular about how I should be called. Thomas, never Tom.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. When I was a young boy, my father always insisted that I responded only to Thomas. He said: there are few things in life you can control. And you can control your name, what you want to be called. I named you Thomas after the saint. Tom was not a saint, he was a cabin boy, a farmer boy, a kitchen helper. Thomas was a saint. Never let anyone call you Tom. It’s Thomas. Do you understand?” He assumed a loud didactic voice to mimic his father.

  “How interesting. You must love him very much.”

  “No. In fact we don’t get along. We don’t keep in touch.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” She shifted her head so that she could look into the side mirror.

  “What about you? Your heritage.”

  “Oh, my father was French. Clark Fauves. He was a professor of literature at a small liberal arts college in Michigan. My mother was a mix of different ethnicities. She had a touch of Native American. I inherited my hair from her, jet black and silky smooth. They both passed away when I was in high school.”

  “I’m so sorry,” he said.

  She seemed absorbed, looking into the side mirror.

  “So, you were seeing a doctor in my building?” He tried to engage her in a conversation, but she didn’t seem to hear. “Are you looking for something?” he added and checked the rearview mirror himself. He saw the bright headlights of a truck.

  She turned to him. “Oh yes, as a matter of fact I did. I inherited a medical problem. Some inheritances are unwanted.”

  “Can I help in any way? I know all the doctors in the building.”

  “Hmm, I’ll let you know.”

  Thomas was heading toward the beach. When the car stopped at a red light, he saw a panhandler standing on the median, holding a sign. Thomas took out a five dollar bill and waved it to the man. The man said, “Thank you, God bless you.”

  Thomas turned to Lana and saw her squinting at him.

  “I know it’s not the best thing to do. They may use it for drugs and alcohol, but I’d like to think they would buy food with it,” he explained. The truth was he missed his only brother John, who had had schizophrenia, become homeless, and died, every time he saw a homeless person.

  “You’re a kind man, Thomas. You don’t need to justify it to me,” she said softly and seemed to fidget a little.

  He nodded quietly. He liked the way she talked, and a profound depth behind her beautiful face was changing into something imbued with grace and nobility, right in front of his eyes.

  Soon, Thomas pulled up at the restaurant. But as the car was about to swerve over into the valet lane, Lana said urgently, “Oh no. Please turn out. Keep going,” and she grabbed the steering wheel herself and turned out. “Please keep going.”

  Thomas drove on. “What’s going on?” he said.

  “Keep driving. Get on the freeway,” she said, while she kept her head turned back, watching the road behind them. “He’s following us. Turn right. Turn right.”

  Thomas pulled on the steering wheel, the car cut a tight turn, and the tires screeched.

  “Keep going. Keep going.”

  “What’s going on?” he said, trying to be as calm as possible. In the rearview mirror, he saw that the headlights following him were high off the ground and could be those of a truck.

  “He’s following us,” she gasped.

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know but keep going.”

  Around this area of Manhattan Beach, the streets had no streetlights, and he was familiar with these streets, having had driven around here whenever he went surfing. He took a sudden left up a narrow road and sped fast, knowing that even if that truck was following them, it could not match his speed on the winding street. At the first street, he cut right and then a quick left. His headlights shined against a cat’s eyes, and it jumped from the street just in time. A gush of turbulence swooshed by rhythmically. Finally he merged with a big street, heading to the freeway.

  “Keep going. Go on the 110 north.” After several blocks, when it appeared that no one was behind them, Lana laughed and said, “I’m so sorry I alarmed you back there, but I think someone was following me. Maybe I’m crazy, but I’ve been seeing this guy wearing a baseball cap hanging in front of my apartment.”

  “Really. You’re kidding? That’s crazy. Why would anyone follow you? Though I did see a guy standing by a black truck when I picked you up. It could just be a coincidence.”

  “I’m so sorry. I must be paranoid. Please don’t think I’m strange, but I thought I saw a truck following us from my apartment. Please just forget it. I overreacted. It was nothing,” she said breathlessly and then brought her hands together as if to compose herself.

  “Well, that was exciting,” he said and laughed with une
ase.

  “I’m sorry. You must think I’m crazy. You know I’ve been all over the world and this is the first time that I have a sense of being followed.” And then she said cheerfully, “But all is not lost. Let me make it up to you. Let me take you to an art exhibit instead. I was going to ask you to come after the dinner anyway. My friend Astrid is an artist. Are you all right with this?”

  “Absolutely, I love art.”

  “You know, there are many types of art,” she said, and her voice became calm again. “But that’s another subject all together. You know the artists can be a temperamental bunch. Sometimes they can be very difficult to deal with. And Astrid is temperamental, even volatile.”

  “Are you kidding me? I’d love to know the artist. The more temperamental the better. It’d be a treat.”

  “Okay.” She took out her phone. “Dom, darling . . . Listen. I won’t be needing you to pick me up . . . Yes, yes, I will. It’s just that I have a ride. So you don’t have to come . . . Of course, I wouldn’t miss it for caviar and vodka. Ha ha. You know that . . . Is that so? I’ll see you soon.” Then she turned to him and said, “There, it’s settled. Oh, but I haven’t told you where we’re going. I hope you don’t mind driving to downtown LA.”

  “Of course not.”

  The car entered the freeway.

  “Have you lived there long?” Thomas asked, still thinking about the possibility of someone following her.

  “No. The apartment is a bit rundown, I know. I’ve been there for a month,” she said as her face assumed a seriousness. “It’s a long story of how I got there. I’m not working at the moment, living off a small savings. So, being on a budget, I can’t afford anything fancier. But it’s been safe so far.”

  They made small talk, and she asked him about the minutiae of his life. The facts of his life he told her, while he omitted many unflattering things and camouflaged the rest. He couldn’t resist telling her about his tours in Iraq, how he had saved Alberto Santiago’s life. Of course, he said nothing about the Iraqi boy. Though after about thirty minutes he had a suspicion that she was only asking so she didn’t have to answer any more of his questions. He reckoned her age to be around twenty nine, and if true, she was ten years younger than he was. Then finding himself overwhelmingly curious about her past, he asked, “Where did you go to school?”