Another lovely lunch with a very nice boy in the ever-so-perfect dining room of a five-star hotel. Which one was it now? Oh yes, a Four Seasons. Iserina Estenbach flaked her poached salmon with a fork and remembered she hadn't made eye contact with her date in a few minutes. She raised her big blue eyes to him and feigned interest. He was a young stockbroker, dark haired, athletic, a racquetball player. Her father had chosen him as a potential good husband for her.
Ten more minutes in his presence, and she was going to scream.
It'd be a good scream, too. A glass-shattering, diaphragm-wrenching scream that would leave her throat raw.
Oh, who was she trying to kid? This guy (what was his name again? Chad! Who the hell named their kid after a drought-ridden third world country anyway?) fit all her requirements. He had money. He was physically more than acceptable. He didn't show any obvious signs of being a psychopath. He hadn't mentioned airplanes as being one of his passions, but that wasn't something Iserina had encountered in any guy she dated. Still, as long as she was able to take her jet out whenever she wanted, life would be endurable.
When Chad asked if he could see her again, Iserina said yes. Why not?
She drove off in her five-months-old sports car with the top down, letting the wind dishevel her perfect blond hair. She crossed the Brooklyn Bridge and headed north into Queens, Long Island being her ultimate destination.
Detour first. She got off the expressway and headed towards a cemetery she knew. Iserina liked Italian cemeteries because there were often photographs in ceramic plaques on the tombstones. She would get out of her car, wander through the cemetery until she found the image of someone who looked like they might have cared, then sit down and cry her eyes out in the illusion of being with a sympathetic ear.
She settled on an old favourite this time, a couple married 63 years, dead within months of each other. The woman was broad-faced, broad-nosed, with crimped dark hair. Her husband was much the same, with the alikeness that came from years of companionship. Iserina would have liked to have had them as grandparents. She sat down beside their grave and began to sob.
What would they have said to her, a poor little rich girl whose only objective in life at the moment was to find a rich husband who would indulge her whims while only demanding that she be a nice trophy who wouldn't embarrass him in public? Someone who would ignore her, let her pursue her interests, but most importantly, get her away from her father?
She leaned back against the stone. She'd have loved to fly out to Paris or London, the way she and her mother had before the war. Now North America was under Jion control and travel to Europe was restricted because it was still free. There was Los Angeles, she supposed. Los Angeles was nice. Her father would probably allow that.
Alan Estenbach was the former mayor of New York. He'd been removed by the Jions when North America had fallen, but the invaders had not made any attempt to imprison him. They'd allowed him and Iserina to retire out to their house in Long Beach and live their lives in peace.
That, Estenbach had told Iserina as she was unpacking, would be their fatal mistake.
Their home was a beehive of clandestine activity, but she wasn't party to it. Iserina's job was to play hostess, look pretty, and little else. Sooner or later, she'd be married off to a man of her father's choosing, either someone like Chad to support the war effort or as a reward to someone for a job well done.
On arriving back at the house, she stepped into her father's office to give him a status report on the date.
"So what did you think?" asked Estenbach.
"He's a nice boy," Iserina answered. "Everything you're looking for. His family own shipbuilding facilities in Quebec and he's made a personal fortune investing in something called Anaheim Electronics."
"You're going out with him again?"
"I said I would."
"Excellent."
"Daddy, may I fly out to Los Angeles this weekend?"
"Not this weekend. We have a reception. The Jions are transferring that weirdo M'Qubé from the command of their North American forces and replacing him with someone else."
"Who?"
"One of the Royal Family, believe it or not. Anyway, that's what the reception's for. Your job is the usual one; be charming, listen for whatever you can hear."
"All right. You know, Daddy, with my pilot's license I could be doing a lot more than just looking pretty at parties for you."
He picked some papers off his desk. "No. I've told you that before. Too dangerous."
Iserina nodded and rose, knowing he wouldn't say another word.
With no plans for the next day, she decided to go back into the city and sulk in an art museum. On the train in, she pondered which museum to see and settled on the Cloisters. They had the famous tapestry of the captured unicorn, and that was a theme with which she could readily identify.
She paid her fee and went inside. On a weekday, the museum of medieval art was usually quite empty. This was the case today, but she wasn't the only admirer of the unicorn tapestry.
Not that she thought she'd mind this company. He was her age, eighteen or so, about five foot seven in his black hightop sneakers. His jeans weren't snug, but still accentuated a nicely-shaped rear. He was wearing a t-shirt, but she couldn't see the front because his arms were crossed in thought. Iserina could make out the lower edge of a tattoo peeking out from under his right sleeve. She smiled a little. A bad boy!
She risked a longer glance at his face and almost swooned. He was gorgeous, easily the best-looking man she'd ever seen in her whole life. His hair was so black as to be almost blue, touching the bottom of his neck and brushed to the right. His features were sharp; arched brows, long, straight nose, delicately pointed chin.
Iserina had to know more about this vision. "Hi. Been here before?"
"No, this is my first time in New York."
"Tourist?"
He hesitated. "No, I just got a job here."
"Well, I hope you like our fair city."
He smiled at her and extended a graceful hand. She expected him to do something courtly like kiss hers since he seemed the type somehow, but he didn't. He shook her hand and his grip was gentle but firm. "It's looking good so far."
"I'm Iserina."
"Pleased to meet you. You know, I've seen this tapestry in books all the time, but I never realized what a piece of work it was. My sister's right. Some of the finest artists in history will never be known, just because they were women."
"Your sister's a feminist, I take it."
"Oh yeah."
"I didn't catch your name?"
He looked startled. He hestiated and said, "Gary."
"Hi, Gary." He was lying, she knew that much, but she also got the feeling he had a serious reason. "Have you seen the armour yet? That's another thing here that I like to look at. It reminds me of knights and ladies and things like that."
He tagged along. His shirt read, "Love animals: Don't eat them."
A sensitive bad boy. What a find! Maybe he was an anarchist with a loft somewhere in the bad part of town where they could hide out and---
Whoa, girl!
"What are you into besides medieval art?" Gary asked her later as they were drinking sodas on the grass later.
"You'll laugh."
"So?"
"I'm a jet pilot."
"Professionally?"
"No. I'd like to be, but I'm still only 17 and my dad hasn't decided what he wants to do with my life."
"I hear that. I got sidetracked into the family business too."
"What's that?"
Gary frowned. "You'll hear about it soon enough. Anyway, it's cool you're a jet pilot. I got my pilot's license on my 16th birthday and I've been flying ever since."
"Wow. What's your equipment?"
"A Kawasaki AP-12 colony plane."
"You're a spacenoid. How do you like Earth?"
"After I got over the agoraphobia? I like it. I like it a lot. I took a business trip to New Mexico earlier this year and it was the best time of my life. I loved it down there; the people are great, the sun is fabulous, the colours are just incredible. I wish I were a painter."
"You an artist at all?"
"I'm a musician."
"What do you play?"
"Stay here for a second." He handed her his drink and walked towards the parking lot. A few minutes later he came back with a guitar case and removed an acoustic six-string. He fine-tuned it, and began to sing in a scratchy light baritone:
I would dial the numbers
Just to listen to your breath
I would stand inside my hell
And hold the hand of death
You don't know how far I'd go
To ease this precious ache
You don't know how much I'd give
Or how much I can take
Just to reach you
Just to reach you
Just to reach you
Come to my window
Crawl inside, wait by the light
of the moon
Come to my window
I'll be home soon
Keeping my eyes open
I cannot afford to sleep
Giving away promises
I know that I can't keep
Nothing fills the blackness
That has seeped into my chest
I need you in my blood
I am forsaking all the rest
Just to reach you
Just to reach you
Oh to reach you
Come to my window
Crawl inside, wait by the light
of the moon
Come to my window
I'll be home soon
I don't care what they think
I don't care what they say
What do they know about this
love anyway*
He slammed home the last chord and Iserina leaned back, entranced. This was one thing a boy had never tried to impress her. "More?" she asked.
He obliged. Some songs she recognized, some she didn't. He didn't say if any of them were his. After wrapping up the fifth or so song, Iserina decided to go for broke.
"So who are you really?"
"Please don't ask me that." His eyes, which were dark enough to drown in, were downcast.
"I have to know, or I'll explode. You just spent the last half hour pouring your heart out through music. I must know who you are!"
"All right." He turned his right arm towards her and pulled up the sleeve. The tattoo was a Celtic-style tribal band, a common enough theme, but at the centre of it was the crest of the Kingdom of Jion.
"You're the enemy."
"Yeah. I'm the enemy." He lay his guitar back in its case and got to his feet. Iserina seized his hand.
"So you're a Jion. That tells me what you are, but not who."
He sat back down and began twisting a lock of his hair around his forefinger. "My name's Garma Zabi. Prince Garma Zabi of the Jion royal family. I'm here to take over command of the North American forces. There. You happy? I was trying to forget about it for just a few hours."
"I'm not sorry. I couldn't hear that much passion and not know who you are. Now that I know, I don't care. Really. I mean, how many girls get serenaded by a real, live prince every day?"
He grinned. "It's not something I've done a lot. Only for special people." He glanced away for a moment, then looked back up at her. "May I take you out to dinner?"
She sighed. "I'd love that, but my dad expects me home."
"Oh. Another time, then?"
"Please." She remembered her previous conversation with her father and said, "Wait. There's a reception for you on Saturday."
"Yes. What about it?"
"My father is former mayor Estenbach. I have to go to it with him."
"Great!"
"No, it's not. My dad hates Jions. You and I will be in the same room together, but it won't be a date."
"As long as I can look at you, I'll be happy."
With that, Iserina felt herself fall in love. Her heart suddenly felt warm and fluttery and she knew she wanted to spend the rest of her life with this boy she'd just met.
"Me too," she squeaked, then giggled at how stupid she sounded.
"Let me drive you to the train station."
Garma was a scary driver. It's not that he wasn't skilled, because he was extremely controlled behind the wheel, but he seemed to have absolutely no fear. He tore through Manhattan traffic as if other drivers were merely slow-movers on a highway. At a red light he noticed her pale face and looked horrified.
"I'm sorry, Iserina! I should be driving more gently. My dad always makes me promise before he gets into a car with me that I won't give him a heart attack."
"I think I'll ask you for that in the future too," she said.
"My other plane is a Dopp," he explained.
"Oh. I'd love to fly one of those. They're so funny-looking I can't imagine how they'd handle."
Unfortunately, the train station was right ahead. Garma cruised the block looking for parking and finally forced a taxi out of a spot, screaming in fluent Russian at the man. He settled back into his seat and said, "Well, here you are."
"Thanks for the drive. And the music. You're very talented."
"Thank you. Here." He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a business card. There was a pen in the glove compartment and he scribbled something on it. "This is my personal e-mail address. Don't use the one on the front of the card; that's the one on the Royal Family web site and it goes through assistants before getting to me."
"Okay."
"You'll e-mail me, then?"
"I will, as soon as I get home."
They sat wordlessly for a moment and then gave in to a force as strong and natural as gravity, leaning towards each other until their lips touched. Garma seemed uncertain, so Iserina placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, drawing him closer. Encouraged, his arms went around her and their first kiss felt like coming home. When they leaned back, she saw that his eyes were filled with wonder.
No man had ever looked at her like that before.
"I have to go or I'll miss my train," she whispered. "I'll e-mail you."
She walked across the street to the train station feeling as if the whole world had changed. There was life before the kiss and life after it, and Iserina knew that it would never go back to what it once was. Nor would she want it to.
"Did you have a nice day at the museum?" her father asked when she returned to the house.
"I saw some beautiful things," she told him, and left it at that.
*Neither Garma nor I can lay claim to these lyrics. It's "Come To My Window" by Melissa Etheridge.
Ten more minutes in his presence, and she was going to scream.
It'd be a good scream, too. A glass-shattering, diaphragm-wrenching scream that would leave her throat raw.
Oh, who was she trying to kid? This guy (what was his name again? Chad! Who the hell named their kid after a drought-ridden third world country anyway?) fit all her requirements. He had money. He was physically more than acceptable. He didn't show any obvious signs of being a psychopath. He hadn't mentioned airplanes as being one of his passions, but that wasn't something Iserina had encountered in any guy she dated. Still, as long as she was able to take her jet out whenever she wanted, life would be endurable.
When Chad asked if he could see her again, Iserina said yes. Why not?
She drove off in her five-months-old sports car with the top down, letting the wind dishevel her perfect blond hair. She crossed the Brooklyn Bridge and headed north into Queens, Long Island being her ultimate destination.
Detour first. She got off the expressway and headed towards a cemetery she knew. Iserina liked Italian cemeteries because there were often photographs in ceramic plaques on the tombstones. She would get out of her car, wander through the cemetery until she found the image of someone who looked like they might have cared, then sit down and cry her eyes out in the illusion of being with a sympathetic ear.
She settled on an old favourite this time, a couple married 63 years, dead within months of each other. The woman was broad-faced, broad-nosed, with crimped dark hair. Her husband was much the same, with the alikeness that came from years of companionship. Iserina would have liked to have had them as grandparents. She sat down beside their grave and began to sob.
What would they have said to her, a poor little rich girl whose only objective in life at the moment was to find a rich husband who would indulge her whims while only demanding that she be a nice trophy who wouldn't embarrass him in public? Someone who would ignore her, let her pursue her interests, but most importantly, get her away from her father?
She leaned back against the stone. She'd have loved to fly out to Paris or London, the way she and her mother had before the war. Now North America was under Jion control and travel to Europe was restricted because it was still free. There was Los Angeles, she supposed. Los Angeles was nice. Her father would probably allow that.
Alan Estenbach was the former mayor of New York. He'd been removed by the Jions when North America had fallen, but the invaders had not made any attempt to imprison him. They'd allowed him and Iserina to retire out to their house in Long Beach and live their lives in peace.
That, Estenbach had told Iserina as she was unpacking, would be their fatal mistake.
Their home was a beehive of clandestine activity, but she wasn't party to it. Iserina's job was to play hostess, look pretty, and little else. Sooner or later, she'd be married off to a man of her father's choosing, either someone like Chad to support the war effort or as a reward to someone for a job well done.
On arriving back at the house, she stepped into her father's office to give him a status report on the date.
"So what did you think?" asked Estenbach.
"He's a nice boy," Iserina answered. "Everything you're looking for. His family own shipbuilding facilities in Quebec and he's made a personal fortune investing in something called Anaheim Electronics."
"You're going out with him again?"
"I said I would."
"Excellent."
"Daddy, may I fly out to Los Angeles this weekend?"
"Not this weekend. We have a reception. The Jions are transferring that weirdo M'Qubé from the command of their North American forces and replacing him with someone else."
"Who?"
"One of the Royal Family, believe it or not. Anyway, that's what the reception's for. Your job is the usual one; be charming, listen for whatever you can hear."
"All right. You know, Daddy, with my pilot's license I could be doing a lot more than just looking pretty at parties for you."
He picked some papers off his desk. "No. I've told you that before. Too dangerous."
Iserina nodded and rose, knowing he wouldn't say another word.
With no plans for the next day, she decided to go back into the city and sulk in an art museum. On the train in, she pondered which museum to see and settled on the Cloisters. They had the famous tapestry of the captured unicorn, and that was a theme with which she could readily identify.
She paid her fee and went inside. On a weekday, the museum of medieval art was usually quite empty. This was the case today, but she wasn't the only admirer of the unicorn tapestry.
Not that she thought she'd mind this company. He was her age, eighteen or so, about five foot seven in his black hightop sneakers. His jeans weren't snug, but still accentuated a nicely-shaped rear. He was wearing a t-shirt, but she couldn't see the front because his arms were crossed in thought. Iserina could make out the lower edge of a tattoo peeking out from under his right sleeve. She smiled a little. A bad boy!
She risked a longer glance at his face and almost swooned. He was gorgeous, easily the best-looking man she'd ever seen in her whole life. His hair was so black as to be almost blue, touching the bottom of his neck and brushed to the right. His features were sharp; arched brows, long, straight nose, delicately pointed chin.
Iserina had to know more about this vision. "Hi. Been here before?"
"No, this is my first time in New York."
"Tourist?"
He hesitated. "No, I just got a job here."
"Well, I hope you like our fair city."
He smiled at her and extended a graceful hand. She expected him to do something courtly like kiss hers since he seemed the type somehow, but he didn't. He shook her hand and his grip was gentle but firm. "It's looking good so far."
"I'm Iserina."
"Pleased to meet you. You know, I've seen this tapestry in books all the time, but I never realized what a piece of work it was. My sister's right. Some of the finest artists in history will never be known, just because they were women."
"Your sister's a feminist, I take it."
"Oh yeah."
"I didn't catch your name?"
He looked startled. He hestiated and said, "Gary."
"Hi, Gary." He was lying, she knew that much, but she also got the feeling he had a serious reason. "Have you seen the armour yet? That's another thing here that I like to look at. It reminds me of knights and ladies and things like that."
He tagged along. His shirt read, "Love animals: Don't eat them."
A sensitive bad boy. What a find! Maybe he was an anarchist with a loft somewhere in the bad part of town where they could hide out and---
Whoa, girl!
"What are you into besides medieval art?" Gary asked her later as they were drinking sodas on the grass later.
"You'll laugh."
"So?"
"I'm a jet pilot."
"Professionally?"
"No. I'd like to be, but I'm still only 17 and my dad hasn't decided what he wants to do with my life."
"I hear that. I got sidetracked into the family business too."
"What's that?"
Gary frowned. "You'll hear about it soon enough. Anyway, it's cool you're a jet pilot. I got my pilot's license on my 16th birthday and I've been flying ever since."
"Wow. What's your equipment?"
"A Kawasaki AP-12 colony plane."
"You're a spacenoid. How do you like Earth?"
"After I got over the agoraphobia? I like it. I like it a lot. I took a business trip to New Mexico earlier this year and it was the best time of my life. I loved it down there; the people are great, the sun is fabulous, the colours are just incredible. I wish I were a painter."
"You an artist at all?"
"I'm a musician."
"What do you play?"
"Stay here for a second." He handed her his drink and walked towards the parking lot. A few minutes later he came back with a guitar case and removed an acoustic six-string. He fine-tuned it, and began to sing in a scratchy light baritone:
I would dial the numbers
Just to listen to your breath
I would stand inside my hell
And hold the hand of death
You don't know how far I'd go
To ease this precious ache
You don't know how much I'd give
Or how much I can take
Just to reach you
Just to reach you
Just to reach you
Come to my window
Crawl inside, wait by the light
of the moon
Come to my window
I'll be home soon
Keeping my eyes open
I cannot afford to sleep
Giving away promises
I know that I can't keep
Nothing fills the blackness
That has seeped into my chest
I need you in my blood
I am forsaking all the rest
Just to reach you
Just to reach you
Oh to reach you
Come to my window
Crawl inside, wait by the light
of the moon
Come to my window
I'll be home soon
I don't care what they think
I don't care what they say
What do they know about this
love anyway*
He slammed home the last chord and Iserina leaned back, entranced. This was one thing a boy had never tried to impress her. "More?" she asked.
He obliged. Some songs she recognized, some she didn't. He didn't say if any of them were his. After wrapping up the fifth or so song, Iserina decided to go for broke.
"So who are you really?"
"Please don't ask me that." His eyes, which were dark enough to drown in, were downcast.
"I have to know, or I'll explode. You just spent the last half hour pouring your heart out through music. I must know who you are!"
"All right." He turned his right arm towards her and pulled up the sleeve. The tattoo was a Celtic-style tribal band, a common enough theme, but at the centre of it was the crest of the Kingdom of Jion.
"You're the enemy."
"Yeah. I'm the enemy." He lay his guitar back in its case and got to his feet. Iserina seized his hand.
"So you're a Jion. That tells me what you are, but not who."
He sat back down and began twisting a lock of his hair around his forefinger. "My name's Garma Zabi. Prince Garma Zabi of the Jion royal family. I'm here to take over command of the North American forces. There. You happy? I was trying to forget about it for just a few hours."
"I'm not sorry. I couldn't hear that much passion and not know who you are. Now that I know, I don't care. Really. I mean, how many girls get serenaded by a real, live prince every day?"
He grinned. "It's not something I've done a lot. Only for special people." He glanced away for a moment, then looked back up at her. "May I take you out to dinner?"
She sighed. "I'd love that, but my dad expects me home."
"Oh. Another time, then?"
"Please." She remembered her previous conversation with her father and said, "Wait. There's a reception for you on Saturday."
"Yes. What about it?"
"My father is former mayor Estenbach. I have to go to it with him."
"Great!"
"No, it's not. My dad hates Jions. You and I will be in the same room together, but it won't be a date."
"As long as I can look at you, I'll be happy."
With that, Iserina felt herself fall in love. Her heart suddenly felt warm and fluttery and she knew she wanted to spend the rest of her life with this boy she'd just met.
"Me too," she squeaked, then giggled at how stupid she sounded.
"Let me drive you to the train station."
Garma was a scary driver. It's not that he wasn't skilled, because he was extremely controlled behind the wheel, but he seemed to have absolutely no fear. He tore through Manhattan traffic as if other drivers were merely slow-movers on a highway. At a red light he noticed her pale face and looked horrified.
"I'm sorry, Iserina! I should be driving more gently. My dad always makes me promise before he gets into a car with me that I won't give him a heart attack."
"I think I'll ask you for that in the future too," she said.
"My other plane is a Dopp," he explained.
"Oh. I'd love to fly one of those. They're so funny-looking I can't imagine how they'd handle."
Unfortunately, the train station was right ahead. Garma cruised the block looking for parking and finally forced a taxi out of a spot, screaming in fluent Russian at the man. He settled back into his seat and said, "Well, here you are."
"Thanks for the drive. And the music. You're very talented."
"Thank you. Here." He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a business card. There was a pen in the glove compartment and he scribbled something on it. "This is my personal e-mail address. Don't use the one on the front of the card; that's the one on the Royal Family web site and it goes through assistants before getting to me."
"Okay."
"You'll e-mail me, then?"
"I will, as soon as I get home."
They sat wordlessly for a moment and then gave in to a force as strong and natural as gravity, leaning towards each other until their lips touched. Garma seemed uncertain, so Iserina placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, drawing him closer. Encouraged, his arms went around her and their first kiss felt like coming home. When they leaned back, she saw that his eyes were filled with wonder.
No man had ever looked at her like that before.
"I have to go or I'll miss my train," she whispered. "I'll e-mail you."
She walked across the street to the train station feeling as if the whole world had changed. There was life before the kiss and life after it, and Iserina knew that it would never go back to what it once was. Nor would she want it to.
"Did you have a nice day at the museum?" her father asked when she returned to the house.
"I saw some beautiful things," she told him, and left it at that.
*Neither Garma nor I can lay claim to these lyrics. It's "Come To My Window" by Melissa Etheridge.