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Samantha maintains her Lavinia persona and lures to innocent patrons of the hotel into a conspiratorial escapade.
Chapter 13
The grounds of the newly built beachfront hotel were groomed like a Beverly Hills country club. Exotic flowers punctuated the once industrial landscape with color and perfumed fragrance. Guests milled around the pool, the putting green, and outdoor restaurant. With his camera tucked beneath an oversized sweatshirt, Ari sat inconspicuously on a boardwalk bench overlooking the bay and the ferry docking station connecting Baja to the mainland of Mexico. From here he could see coming and going both from the rear and front of the hotel. Max and Sam would have to come out of the honeymoon suite sooner or later.
Lighting a cigarette, Ari thought about Burt climbing aboard an airport shuttle. Being alone again would take some adjusting. He liked having a driver. He especially liked Burt. He would have appreciated his company the rest of the way, but Ari was not one to try and persuade people to be patient—to wait for the right moment. That was both the curse and the blessing of a photographer. That was a way of living few knew much about.
Ari thought back to when he had been introduced to that side of himself on his 10th birthday—when his father gave him his first camera. Being repair manager for Utica’s only full-service photographic store, he had first choice of unclaimed cameras that could be sold after one year. Needless to say, everyone in the family had a camera and now Aristotle had his.
For some reason, he found himself attracted to the unusual in the common place. Whether it was a baseball game, a family vacation or a holiday like Christmas—when his sisters were snapping away—Ari was always watching, studying, selecting what didn’t seem to fit. “Waiting for the ‘moment of truth’,” his father called it. For Ari at that age, it was just a normal instinct.
Junior high school came and while his friends pursued their oats up on Colony Flats, Ari spent the nights in his basement darkroom, continuing to pursue that moment of truth. At 16, he became the photographer for the school paper. At 17, an accident caused the loss of his entire family—mother, father, siblings, everyone. The tragedy did to the teenage boy what tragedy usually does to teenage boys—it made him go within, deep within to that place where no outside pain could ever reach him again. So, he thought. So, he hoped.
He immersed himself in work, and awards in photo magazines followed. At 22, he had moved from the Albany area to Manhattan and was working for the New York Post. Unlike the Times, the Post liked sensational “gotcha” picture headlines. Those kinds of photos came with patience, and patience was Ari’s trump card. Two years of wars, funerals, parties, and celebrities produced over 100 front pages for him. By 24, he was one of the most sought-after photographers in New York. At 25, Harrison James asked him to step up from the Paparazzi ranks and join the staff of the prestigious Profile. At the time, it was an easy choice.
That seemed like a hundred years ago. Laws had changed. For most photographers, it was next to impossible to capture “unique” pictures of celebrities anymore. Ari had been fortunate and continued getting the shot when others failed. Harrison’s support and belief in Ari’s eye motivated most of the drive.
As he thought back on Harrison’s phone call, he stared at the digital camera in his hands and pondered. Photography had changed his life. He was now being asked to help change the life of Harrison James with his personal images, images that had been meant for only his eyes, images expressing the abstract of Samantha, images that millions might not understand, captured moments this woman of multiple personalities was unaware of.
He came out of his thoughts and looked up. He hesitated, then threw his cigarette away and brought the camera to his eye. A woman in yellow with heavy dark glasses was seated at a lunch table with a man whose back was to him. Had he missed her entrance? He zoomed in tighter.
Max cut his stuffed pork chop with the sterling knife and fork and lifted it to his mouth. He couldn’t avoid her stare. “Yes, Lavinia. What is it?”
“Your mouth is your finest asset, you know. A man’s mouth should reflect the rest of his body. And yours… certainly is a credit to the rest of you,” Sam said with a smile and subtle wave of her gloved hand. Max could not help but appreciate the yellow gloves and matching linen suit—a look that set her apart from the surrounding tables of wealthy hotel guests in their Bermuda shorts and wrap-around silks. Although the size of her dark glasses did more than disguise the Samantha Turner anyone might recognize, she nevertheless was not without repeated glances, especially from the two Italian types sitting at the next table smoking Churchill cigars. Their casual, but expensive clothes might have suggested they were two businessmen. They might have been two husbands waiting for their wives as they drank from an expensive bottle of French wine, but for the next few minutes, they were going to be part of “Lavinia’s business.”
“Sir, if you move your chair just a bit to your right, you’ll block the sun for me. Thank you,” Lavinia said with a slight European accent as she slid into the third chair at their table.
“Huh?” Anthony said as he quickly looked to his associate, Paulo, with the obvious expression, what is this?
Paulo was lost for words as was Max as he suspended the fork full of stuffed pork chop at mouth level and momentarily debated whether to move it up an inch to cover the embarrassment in his eyes. What the hell is she doing?
Lavinia smiled, leaned in and placed her loosely opened purse on the tabletop, saying in hushed tones to Anthony and Paulo, “Please don’t be alarmed, and for God’s sake, please… don’t look alarmed. They’ll shoot you too if they suspect. Just pour me some wine and smile, I’ll do the talking. Please.”
Paulo now took a quick look to Anthony, not smiling much.
“Smile, God Damn it. I want to live a little longer,” hissed Lavinia through clenched teeth, accompanied by a shark-like smile and giggle.
Paulo quickly grabbed the wine bottle and shakily started to tip it toward Lavinia’s glass.
“Let your friend try,” she said.
“What?” Paulo said.
“The pouring.”
Anthony took the bottle and poured steadily as Lavinia continued in her covert whisper. “That’s better. I am with Interpol. You’re both familiar with Interpol, right?”
Anthony’s eyes drifted from the glass to a scan of the room, catching a squinting stare from Max. “Sure. Sure. Interpol. Like in films,” he said with gusto, undeniably identifying him from Brooklyn.
“You obviously have little knowledge of Interpol coming from someplace other than Italy. You are Italian, though, correct?”
Paulo jumped in, “Yeah. Yeah. We’re from…”
“Smile,” she reminded them.
“…Palermo.”
“Good. The Mafia look will serve you well as you proceed. Now, don’t stare, just think. Seated directly behind me is an Attaché from Paris who has entrusted me with some very sensitive microfilm that must reach the President without interruption. “
Paulo forced another grin and surreptitiously glanced about the terrace as he lifted his glass of wine.
Antonio leaned forward, smiled broadly at Lavinia and said, “You got to be puttin’ us on, right?”
She paused, took another sip of wine, raised her eyebrows with a grin and replied. “Putting you on? The only thing I’m putting you on is the hot seat. Because unless the lipstick you’ll find left behind when I exit this table catches the next ferry to Los Mochas, and you drop it in a waste basket of the Men’s Room on board, The President of the United States and his country, your country, might suffer unmentionable harm. Now I know…” she took another sip of wine, “… this must all sound absurd, but we have unexpectedly run into persons whose eyes--and most likely, guns--are focused on us right now. These are persons who will most likely attempt to get the information by force before the day’s end. Monsieur Démodé and I are ready for whatever might happen here, but you, and your departure on the Lo Mochas ferry are our only hope in carrying out the mission.
“Now…” Lavinia looked at them both, then focused in on Anthony. “In order to assure you safety, this is going to look like a simple case of boy meets girl, boy makes pass at girl, girl slaps boy. Anthony, reach under the table cloth and touch my knee.” She smiled again, giggled, took another sip of wine.
Even Paulo’s smile was shaking now along with his hands. Anthony’s expression had lost any semblance of pleasure as he sat somewhat stunned and spellbound by what was happening.
“Sir?” Lavinia whispered with another giggle, leaning in flirtatiously,
“My knee. And smile, for God sake.”
Anthony forced a grin and reached under the table. She recoiled, slapped Anthony so hard, he fell off the chair.
She grabbed her purse, letting her lipstick slip out onto the table, turned on her heals, raised her chin indignantly and walked briskly toward the exit, pulling Max up as she passed the table.
“Walk like a diplomat, for Christ sake, Roger,” she whispered, daubing her tearful eyes.
“What the hell was that all about?” questioned Max as he followed.
“Drivers drive, Roger. They don’t ask questions.”
Paulo sat nervously smiling as Anthony climbed back onto his chair, smiling, brushing off his cigar ash and trying to act as if nothing had happened. He glanced at the exiting Max and Sam as he leaned over for the wine bottle. He spotted the lipstick and poured the remainder of the bottle in his glass. He took a long drink, then re-lit his cigar.
Paulo sat petrified, then muttered “She was puttin’ us on, right?”
Anthony reached across, picked up the check along with the lipstick and raised himself up. His eyes blinked nervously as he eyed the surroundings, coming to rest on the ferry approaching the dock. “Shit, that ferry’s a big son of a bitch. Hope they ain’t got more than one Men’s Room.”
The click, click, click of Ari’s camera was swallowed up in the blast of the ferry’s warning horn. Puzzled, he turned from the table he had covered with twenty-three digital frames and tucked his camera under his shirt. He took a quick glance at Anthony and Paulo hurry-walking toward the Ferry Dock and stood up from the bench, fixing his gaze on the path from the restaurant to the hotel entrance. Sam stopped at the entrance, turned and kissed Max hard.
Ari’s camera would have been too late coming out from underneath his shirt, even if he had wanted that picture.
He stood motionless for a long time.
***
In a luxury hotel such as the Santa Rosalia, mid-day flowers delivered to the suites from management were not uncommon. The housekeepers generally enjoyed being assigned to the opulent rooms even though they required extra time and care. Many in fact found it rewarding to spend additional time if it were close to the delivery just for the opportunity of being there when the exotic flowers arrived. In fact, room flowers had become one of the Rosalia’s main attractions thanks to Fodor’s special comments in their five-star rating.
The housekeepers were just leaving as Max and Sam returned from the “Lavinia” episode.
“Oh, Max, it was delicious,” she exclaimed as they entered. “I wish you could have felt his hand on your knee. He was not getting off on being a Patriot. Such tentativeness. That vicarious something. Such… such…
The housekeepers pulled the double-doors shut as Samantha acknowledged them with, “Oh, thank you ladies, Gracias, Gracias.”
“You really got off on that little interlude, didn’t you?” queried Max as he stepped to the bar and prepared himself a Perrier.
“Well, not as much as some Grey Goose might do for me. Yes?
Samantha wasted no time in touring the five rooms to experience the flowers’ unique fragrances, as Max poured her two fingers of the Grey with a twist.
“I loved it. I told you I could make anybody believe me. Didn’t I, Max.”
“Yes, you did, but…” Max paused.
“Yes, Max?”
A honeymoon wasn’t where Max could enjoy hearing the truths that made up the clinical side of his wife. He much preferred the innocent truths, the mother and wife truths, the truths usually associated with a newly married couple. But today didn’t seem to be the day for such pleasures.
“Max?” she repeated.
“Yes, Sam.”
“You didn’t finish.”
“Finish what?” muttered Max as he handed her the libation. He tilted his Waterford goblet. “Would you care for a Perrier to go with that?”
Sam sauntered in through the game room, working up the strategy to make Max answer her question.
She sipped. “Of course not. Are you angry, Max?”
“Why would I be angry?”
She sat down beside him at the bar and straddled his leg with her own, lifting the goblet from his hand and taking a sip. She handed it back to him with a flirtatious grin as she took another sip of Grey. “Because I’m not acting much like a newlywed?”
Max took a long drink, then poured the balance of the bottle into his glass.
She rose abruptly and stepped behind the bar, taking the Goose bottle and pouring herself a ‘refresher.’ You are angry.”
“Sam… I just thought this short time we had together would be different, that’s all.”
“Short time? That is what you think of our honeymoon? ‘A short time together?’”
“What?” questioned Max with befuddlement.
Sam took her drink and moved to the balcony overlooking the pool.
Max sighed. “Am I missing something, or…”
“What you’re missing Max is the fact that I’m prone to boredom. You knew that when you married me. You knew it was chronic. You knew it was unpredictable, and… you knew my remedies. Lavinia shouldn’t have any bearing on our reason for being here.”
Max reeled off the barstool and quickly poured himself a scotch. “You bring up a very good point, Sam. So far, we’ve spent more time with your boredom than with us. Is that supposed to tell me something?”
She turned back to him, “Your Sam loves you Max. Don’t you believe that?”
As Max walked toward her, he could only think third person identification was telltale to a man of his former profession. But Max the former psychiatrist wanted more. He wanted excitement; bells and whistlesall the moments that he had skipped in his youth as he studied, studied and studied. He prided himself in being selective with his life and Sam had been his most important selection. Was he forever cursed with being expected to solve anyone’s problem just for the asking?
He was face to face with her now. She raised her glass and finished her drink, looking over the top with eyes he seldom saw--the loving eyes of their first meeting.
“I love you as well, Sam.”
She placed her glass on the balcony ledge and continued to look deep into his eyes; the searching look he knew so well. He took her in his arms and held her close.
“What is it you want?” Max whispered.
“To get to the next level.”
“Next level of what?” Max asked softly.
“To go beyond the honeymoon.”
“I don’t understand.”
She took his hand and turned back toward the pool and the bay beyond. “Neither does Sam, Max. Life is so easy for Samantha. She only has to pick a role to play and everything can be as it should be for whoever she chooses. It’s so easy for her. Sam doesn’t know how to get past the beginning of anything… the questions, the decisions, the…”
Max turned to her, placed her face in his hands and watched the tears beg to be released. “Can you say, ‘I don’t know how to get past the beginnings, the questions, the decisions…?’ Can you say, ‘I’m afraid?’” Max asked with all the persuasion he was capable of.
Sam’s eyes welled up, but the answer remained locked.
Only Max was capable of exposing the emotion he hoped one day would come forth from her, unbridled, unrestrained and innocent.
Sam reached up and wiped the tear from his cheek.
Below at poolside, a phone conversation ended as the screen of a laptop filled with a flurry of colors slashing in from all four sides at the sketch of a yellow abstract figure embracing a man in black. “And I don’t think it will be what you expect, Harrison. I don’t think it will be what anyone expects. Why? It’s just a feeling... just a feeling.” The mobile phone was closed and placed on the table next to the Gauloises. He took one more weary glance at the screen and closed it.
As he laid his head down on his arm and thought about whether he had earned some rest, his eyes wandered to the table next to his. The raven perched on the candleholder blinked. Ari’s eyes blinked as well, then closed.
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You have also sowed the seeds of opulence and wealth that ordinary people crave in your story. Being a common person, I would have to look up at the accoutrements you have described so beautifully. And the little side scene was beautifully done. The two Italianos from Brooklyn were totally seduced by Sam's charade. You made me wonder if they really were planning to take that ferry all the way to Mexico or did she put them on a wild goose chase (Grey Goose?). You may be also wonder if the fictitious hotel was on the western side of the Bay of Cortez. If the hotel was on the Pacific, the ferry would have to sail around the Baja Peninsula to reach Mexico proper.
Ron