The car looked long from the outside, but Sarah just figured that Kamens were just long cars. Once inside, though, it was clear that she was not only in a Kamen, but a Kamen limousine. Practically sinking into the deep, black, soft seats, looking forward, she felt like a she was nestled in the back of a silk-lined, heavily tinted, but heavenly cool tunnel.
“They don’t make cars like this anymore,” Sarah said, forcing a laugh, suddenly feeling way out of her league.
“They’ve never made cars like this,” David said, handing over Sarah’s jacket, which she’d forgotten that she’d forgotten. “But I’m thinking, hopefully someday, everyone will.”
“I could deal with that,” Sarah said, bowing her head in thanks and spreading her jacket over her knees. “I finally sold my car – one of those Korean micros – last week, and it took twice as long to charge as it would run. Even though I practically had to pay the guy to take it, I won’t miss it.”
The curve of the seat, weirdly bulging and impossibly soft, conspired to force its occupants into each others laps, so Sarah found herself clinging to the door and pretended to be mesmerized by the city as it passed. They were gliding through the traffic on Decatur Road, toward the campus and overlooking the Clifton Corridor – a four-mile stretch of simple square buildings dotted with the occasional dome, home to the Emory Labs and two dozen biotech outfits.
“Clifton,” David said, leaning into Sarah, his breath tickling her neck. “You know, ninety percent of what’s developed down there goes straight out of the country – South America, Eastern Europe.”
“Hmm,” Sarah said, too terrified to turn her head for fear of where her lips would end up.
“But they get all the tax breaks, and we foot the bills,” he said. Perhaps sensing her discomfort, he shifted back, and half-reclined on the far corner of the lumpy seat.
“We do?” Sarah asked, deciding against telling him that her third year at the institute was paid for by a state scholarship. She turned back to look at him, stretching out in his jeans, looking very comfortable but still a bit out of place in the back of a limo. “And what do you do? To pay the bills?”
Just then the car turned south, toward downtown. It effortlessly climbed a slight hill, leaving both Emory University and Turner behind.
Despite her nervousness, Sarah nodded, admiringly. “Quiet.”
“Not a sound,” he said, sounding just as impressed. “No motor, no noise...”
“Not even speeding up, or going uphill,” she said, finally sitting back. “Actually, it’s kind of weird.”
He looked back at her, thoughtfully. “Kind of the opposite of watching old movies, where cars are always … burning something, no matter what they’re doing.”
“You know, they’d even add in noise to make it seem more real,” Sarah said, remembering one of her freshman lectures. “I always wondered how they could even talk.”
“Or how everything smelled,” David said, making a face.
“So, does this thing run on water?” Sarah joked.
“Not exactly, nothing at all like that, actually, but let’s just say we haven’t had to put anything into these things since we got them last month,” he said. “I could tell you how it works, but then I’d have to kill you.”
Sarah laughed. For half a second.
“No, no, the truth is, I don’t know how it works either,” he said, trying to surpress a chuckle. “And I don’t know if anyone’s going to pay what Kamen’s asking, either. But I hope so.”
“So what does one of these go for?” Sarah asked, realizing too late that it sounded more like she was trying to gauge the size of his wallet.
David just smiled. “Let’s just say it’s competitively priced... if you add up what you pay with regular split-system cars over five or six years.”
Sarah nodded as if she knew what that meant. Then she nonchalantly glanced out the window, to make sure she still knew where she was. Just outside the city, somewhere near Ponce de Leon Avenue. They were on the main drag, in fact, gliding down the center lane as cars swarmed past on both sides. Somewhere near here, she thought, was Scarlett’s – the best steak house in Atlanta.
The steak house, she thought, where she took Vince on their first date.
God. Vince.
“You know, David, I...”
“Investor,” he said.
“What?”
“I’m an investor,” David said. “Actually, I’m not an investor, but the people I work for are.” His eyes twinkled, playfully. “Actually, the people who work for my dad are.”
“Ah,” Sarah said, shaking her head, but smiling. “Your dad.”
“It’s a good gig if you can get it,” he said, smiling back.
“Apparently,” she said.
David fell silent, his eyes moving only slightly, quickly, as if searching, studying Sarah’s face. Slowly he sat up, then leaned forward, then lightly placed both his hands on hers, on her knees. Now his gaze was locked, hard, on her eyes.
She blinked back.
“Sarah,” he said, quietly.
She was suddenly acutely aware of her own breathing.
“Ready to see your painting?”
She swallowed, and nodded, at once relieved and disappointed that he didn’t say something else. Whatever that might be.
His face broke out into a grin.
“You,” she said, reaching up and giving his short red beard a little tug.
The car pulled over, and came to a gentle stop alongside a very busy sidewalk. To Sarah’s surprise, they were not at a house, or a mansion for that matter, but right in the middle of the new commercial district, home to both banks and bars, many of them built inside two-hundred year old buildings – or at least buildings designed to look that old.
David jumped out, then helped Sarah onto her feet. Passers-by slowed, their eyebrows cocked thoughtfully as they tried to figure out exactly what kind of car they had just exited. For a moment, Sarah imagined herself a celebrity.
“You don’t... live down here, do you?” Sarah asked, taking his outstretched arm.
“No, this is just...” he replied, momentarily confused. Then that sneaky smile again. “I mean, if you wanted to see my place instead, you should have just asked.”
Even with only a couple of drinks in her system, her face felt flushed and burning hot as she blushed.
David led her across a narrow street, took three steps, then stopped at a small panel to punch in an access code for a nearby pair of thick plexi doors. Sarah pulled free, then looked up as she backed away, trying to figure out what building they were about to enter.
She recognized it immediately. She always called it “the skinny one” – almost two blocks long but seemingly only a few meters wide, a tall, sharp triangular wedge squeezed onto a sharp triangular lot at the intersection of two nearly parallel streets. It was definitely one of the genuinely old buildings downtown, and apart from the modern blue glass Sarah thought it looked like a narrow cake slice of an ancient castle.
Above the door, two polished metal numbers reflected the lights of passing cars.
“74 Peachtree,” David said, pulling the door open. “Originally known as the Flatiron Building, supposedly the oldest building left around here.”
Sarah stepped inside. They were in a small tiled foyer, facing a row of three lifts. To both sides, more doors, leading to different offices. The place was dark, and all the interior windows were opaque.
“There was another building just like it in New York,” David continued. “I think this one came first, but it’s still standing.”
“What’s in here?” Sarah asked. She had walked past the building several times, but realized she never looked to see what kind of offices were inside.
“Nothing special, mostly architectural firms and lawyers,” he said. “Oh, and a Gaugin.” He winked.
The lift doors opened, and David followed Sarah inside. She was again at ease, and turned to face him as the doors slid shut, and tugged at his collar. “Yes, I see,” she said. “But, what if it turns out to be missing?”
“If you don’t get to see your painting,” he said, brushing against her as he stabbed at a button. “You can have anything you want.”
They kissed, quickly, as the lift shot up, but slowed almost immediately as it reached its destination. The eleventh floor, the top floor of the building. This time David stepped out first, and headed down a short hallway. Sarah followed, stealing glances out any window left off. All she saw, though, was the sides of other buildings.
David punched in another code on another panel. The last door, the only one Sarah could see without a name on it, opened. He stepped into the dark room, holding his arm out to signal Sarah to wait a moment, then uttered a staccato stream of maybe twenty numbers, closing with, “suspend.”
Something in the dark chirped twice. The lights in the room came on. He turned, took Sarah’s hand, and pulled her in.
They were in an abandoned office, but Sarah couldn’t tell what kind. There were a handful of desks, pushed haphazardly against one wall, covered with sheets and upside-down chairs. In one corner, a small pile of old terminals and frayed wires curled around the base of some kind of dramatic metal sculpture, now covered with dust and leaning precariously to the side. And all the windows were not closed, but instead covered over with faded, yellowing paper.
But smack dab in the center of the room, on a simple black easel, was a fittingly gaudy and heavy gold frame. And inside that frame was a painting. A simple one, with basic lines and plain colors. It was definitely a Gaugin.
“My god,” is all she could think to say.
David had to nudge her forward, toward it.
Sarah wanted to inhale the scene. A dark-skinned woman with long black hair, looking distractedly, or perhaps lovingly, off to the right. A rippling lavender dress, with a collar of white lace. Behind her, a field of bright yellow and a dark blue patterned cloth, a chair, perhaps. And in her hand, a smooth red and yellow fruit.
She closed her eyes and rummaged through her old books in her head. It was from after 1890, she surmised, after Gaugin had shunned his European influences and run off to the South Pacific – where he’d eventually died. But not after his already incredible art had been infected with the colors and spirits of his final paradise.
“Woman with a Mango,” David said. “Painted in 1895, I think. The woman is Tehura, who Gaugin took as a wife in Tahiti after he deserted his first wife and their five children.”
“It’s beautiful,” Sarah said.
“It is,” David said. “And yes, it’s real, but no, it’s not really mine. We’re backing a private gallery tour from Paris, and we just got this one on loan last week to add to the exhibit. You’re about the first person to see it, in person, in this country, in about fifty years.”
Sarah just stared.
David came up behind her, and rested his hands on her shoulders. And the two of them just stood there, in the dim office suite, as Tehura at once ignored them and mesmerized them.
Sarah’s eyes started to go dry, as she almost wished she could burn the image permanently into her brain.
She didn’t know how long she was lost in her thoughts before she noticed that David’s hands were sliding, softly, up and down her arms. His fingers were cool, and soft, and just lightly brushing her skin, from near her neck down to the tips of her elbows and back again.
Now she closed her eyes, and started to feel dizzy, overwhelmed by what she had just seen but riveted by what she was now feeling.
Just then there was a blinding flash that Sarah could see through her eyelids, and moments later a deafening, earth-rattling crash. The windows shook, and the floor seemed to as well, and Sarah could help but let out a shriek and spun instinctively to grab David tight around his waist.
He was surprised, too, but soon started to laugh. He hugged her close as he did so, and Sarah, pale with adrenaline, could hear his laughter deep inside his chest.
Another flash, then another, and again the deep rumbling outside.
“Storming early tonight,” David said, still chuckling, reaching over to pull some paper off the window. “They said the ‘heat island effect’ is going to be pretty bad this year, and by the looks of it, they just might be right.”
Still half buried in David’s coat, Sarah looked outside. The sky above Atlanta was already dominated by a massively tall, thick and churning black mass of clouds, its flat base reflecting the city’s orange lights and swirling like a huge fire. The building storm was powered by the incredible concentration of heat absorbed by the concrete and steel of the city, which every night flooded back into the sky like an invisible torch. Sarah always thought the awesome display was like looking through the glass bottom of a boiling, black pot of smoke and flame.
By winter, the nightly storms would come like clockwork, exactly seven hours after the sun sets. But tonight it was unexpected. And, Sarah thought, regrettably timed.
“I better get you back,” David said, sighing. “It’s a big week for you.”
“I think so,” Sarah said, nuzzling her face against his shirt. Now that he mentioned it, she was feeling very exhausted.
He reached down and tucked his finger under her chin, then pulled it slowly up until he could see her face. “It was a pleasure rescuing you tonight, Sarah.”
“Thank you for rescuing me,” she said, grinning. “And for sharing this.” She turned again to look at Tehura, and shivered.
David lowered his head onto Sarah’s shoulder, then pressed his face into her cheek as he gave her a strong, reassuring hug.
Then he kissed her, first in the tenderest curve of her neck, then just below her ear, and finally, sliding his fingers deep into her hair, a deep, warm, probing kiss, hungry and urgent, and a little sad, as if he knew it would be the only such moment they’d ever share.
And she cradled his head, gently, from below and kissed him back hard, as if she knew it too.
Posted by Ryan at November 11, 2002 1:58 AM