Chapter 3
Helga walked through the museum, studying the rough, bold brush strokes, as colors merged into one, as they played against the stanzas, as they collided into masterful creations, and bled against the canvas. The beauty of Van Gogh, of Picasso, of Dali and Magritte, of their great accomplishments reflected in the light and cleverly became inflicted on Helga's retina as she moved in a slow pace across the many isles. Some pictures made her feel inspired, some made her feel dull, others aroused her, few disturbed her. All the while, as these emotions merged into one, that of excitement, Helga did not, even for a moment, experience surprise. And then she felt someone's hand against her shoulder.
She quickly turned, instinctively swaying her hand to protect herself, and hitting Arnold against the chest.
"Well," he said sarcastically, "you be careful with that routine of yours, someone might get hurt."
"No one who doesn't deserve it," she replied coldly and turned to Narcissism by Dali.
"You like that?" Arnold said, trying to draw his prey into a trap.
"I do," she said and continued moving down the surrealism section.
He scurried after her, struggling to catch up.
Helga felt his gaze upon her and it made her feel strange, a burst of emotion, an antipathy mixed with interest.
"Can I ask you a question?" she said.
"Go ahead," Arnold replied.
"Why are you following me across the museum?"
"I'm not, we just happen to be looking at the same paintings."
"Why are you here?" she asked.
"I love art, the world is a canvas." The real reason was that after calling her temporary secretary, with whom he had an affair a while back, she drew to his attention that her employer would most likely be found at the art museum. Helga liked art, an interesting realization about a seemingly ruthless curmudgeon. Perhaps he could use it as a weakness against his sullen enemy. "People are canvasses too," he continued after she did not reply.
"I agree with you," she turned toward him, and he felt exposed under the light of her pale eyes, "only some are empty canvasses, surrounded by too luxurious of a frame."
He smiled at her; something interesting was pending within. Helga had always been an intriguing person, which was perhaps why he so disliked her.
"Surrealism," he sighed, looking at a picture where a train was coming out of a fireplace, "you spend so much time here. Why do you love it so much?"
Helga sighed, wondering what his intentions were, "because it's so mysterious, so original. It takes a while to understand, but when you do, you feel a renowned sense of accomplishment."
"Does that resemble you?" he asked, trying to follow her train of thought.
"I love surrealism not because it resembles me, but because I wish it did."
"I thought you loved it because you've got nothing else in this world to love," he said without thinking. Suddenly, he realized that he had just jeopardized further his chance of seducing Helga.
"Is that why you love art?" Helga launched her counterattack, "because you have no one human to adore?"
Arnold considered it for a moment; "I'd like to adore you."
She studied his face, almost falling for the last remark, but she wasn't going to make the same mistake again. Helga turned around and began walking faster, trying to get away.
"Where are you going?" he exclaimed from the distance, as she spend across the parquet.
"I'm going to lunch, and then. I don't know," she replied hastily.
At last, he caught up, "Would you like some company?"
"Yes," she replied quickly, "Just not yours."
Arnold looked to the side, where the workers had already begun working on the decorations for the evenings festivities, a celebration for the arrival of a new painting from Russia's collection by Mark Chagall.
"Will you be here tonight?" he asked, "for the party?"
"Everyone will be here tonight for the party," Helga replied, "I just hope you're not."
She began speeding away and Arnold did not follow. He would have plenty of chance that evening. Meanwhile, he remembered that it was Saturday, on of those glorious days of the week when the cleaning ladies came to his home.
Many had gone through Arnold's apartment, very many, too many to count. Arnold would seduce them and then release them, awaiting a new offering on a silver platter. It was very easy for him, very engaging, entertaining, and always cheerful. He could disconnect for a moment, knowing that for what he'd paid he was getting double benefits. Sleeping with his numerous maids, of course, was never taxing or difficult, which was a blow since he enjoyed challenges, but nonetheless fulfilling and even surprising sometimes. The last maid he had fired was a tempestuous, dominant redhead, with lenience to bisexuality and his landlord's daughter. Of course, after the strange orgy took place, Arnold's rent was doubled and his good relationship with the management was severed for an eternity. Of course, Arnold had always enjoyed the volume privileges going awry. It gave him new challenges to contemplate as to how he would get his liberties returned.
Lola had been working for him for over a month now, and not a single day passed without him making a lewd comment of placing his palm on whatever sacred female body part his avid heart desired. The busty, green eyed brunette who must have been at least ten years younger than him seemed to have been enjoying his come ons, or so it seemed apparent through her jubilant giggles and panting pleading for him to stop. Nevertheless, she never showed interest in going further than mild flirtation.
Today, she was looking particularly lovely, with her thick hair in a high pony tail, her body wrapped in a green, low cut t shirt and tight jeans. This was her working attire, but it seemed to Arnold that climbing ladders to the top of his bookshelves was not easily done in the sort of pants that seemed far too undersized for her bottom.
While Lola was cleaning, Arnold lay on the bed, surveying the young girl's physique as she worked and thinking naughty thoughts involving it. Considering his stress and frustration today had to be the day, it absolutely had to. He could already picture her hair in disarray, her face grimacing in an adorable but amusing way as they made the bed explode, as they made the ceiling fall over their heads, but miss due to their invincibility.
"Hey Lola," he said in a voice one would use when communicating with a child, although partially relevant, "are you having fun?"
"I'm working," she said, "Do people have fun at work?"
"Well, darling," he smiled, looking up at the ceiling from his supine position, "That depends on the person. I, for example, do."
"Well," she sighed and began dusting the bedpost, as her hips swayed from side to side with a melody she played in her head, "It's all different for you. You get to sit all day telling people what to do."
"That's true, Lola," he continued, "but you have the same opportunities as I, don't you?"
"Well I do go to college," she replied, "but I'm not from some rich, privileged family like you."
Arnold sighed, remembering his 'rich, privileged family.' "What makes you so sure I'm rich?"
"Well, your apartment, for one. How can a person who isn't from some millionaire breed get this high in this world?"
"Stranger things have happened."
"Look, if I offended you or something, I'm really sorry. But, like, let's not start these meaningful conversations."
"You wouldn't like to have meaningful conversations with me, Ally?"
"Well, you're my boss," she started reasoning, "I don't think it's proper to talk with your boss about his family and background."
"You wouldn't like to be the one to rescue me, Ally?" he said only half sarcastically, "most women do. Who knows, perhaps you'd be the one to succeed."
"Unfortunately, I have too many problems of my own to extend charity."
"You need charity yourself, then?"
"Maybe I do," she said slowly, "You're endowed to give it."
"Yes," he smiled, "I'm very well endowed."
"Ew!" she exclaimed in her girlish voice, "I didn't mean it that way!"
"What way did you mean it, my nymphet? What charity can I render you in exchange for your own?"
"Not grabbing my ass every five minutes, first of all. Your nymphet or whatever wouldn't mind getting a raise. And maybe even some benefits!"
"And in return, will you sleep with me?"
She quickly turned and saw that he had been creeping up behind her. Surprised and appalled, Lola slapped him; "You have no right doing this! This is sexual harassment."
Arnold lay back on the bed. "Oh darling," he began "you're right, I was raised a prick. I think like a prick. I act like a prick. But then again, so would any man had they been like me, from a rich privileged family, that is. I can't control something I've known my whole life. I'm a lost case as a person, Lola."
Her face softened as she leaned by him and her chest pressed against his arm. Arnold barely stopped himself from singing in triumph. She fell for the same line he had given virtually every other woman he had ever been with. It seemed, he thought, that in the female psyche, their self-esteem grew through the ceiling at the mere possibility that an emotionally unavailable man had been trying to let them in. It was like being the chosen one at a beauty pageant, like winning a poetry contest.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, her hair brushing against his cheek from behind her head. He touched her face and kissed her, simultaneously sliding the shirt and bra off of Lola's body. Thirty minutes later, it was all over.
After taking a shower, Arnold began to get dressed. Lola was still in his bed. He hated it when they stayed; he hated having to force her to leave.
"I have to go now," he said.
"Where?" she studied him as he put on his suit, which made Arnold look even more handsome.
"This gala at the art museum. I don't want to be late."
"Are you absolutely sure you have to go?" she asked, approaching him and putting her hands onto his shoulders.
"Yes," he moved away, trying to get out of her reach.
"I'll go home, then," she said, understanding that it was pointless to touch him when he was in this mood.
He watched her get dressed with frenzy, wishing she would hurry up. When she was done, he sighed with relief.
"Okay," she said before departing, "Here's my phone number, just in case you forgot," she handed him a paper, "You seem stressed. When you feel like talking, call me."
He took it and looked into her searching eyes, every girl, no matter what their stature or esteem, always think they're special.
"Yeah, okay. I'll see you next week, Lola," he said, knowing that it was a lie. Not once did his conscience trouble him.
Arnold finished getting dressed in silence, not taking his mind off Helga, and the way she looked day resembling the way she looked eleven years ago. Maybe Helga was never meant to be beautiful, maybe when she walked the streets, the men did not turn her way like they did for Lila, Rhonda, and Lola. Maybe when she smiled, the room was not brightened, and when she spoke, birds did not sing along to the innuendo of her voice. Maybe Helga was never meant to be beautiful, and maybe that was okay because she was meant to be something else. Maybe, unlike every other woman, she did not long to save a man. Maybe she longed for a man to save her.
And there was Arnold, plotting to endanger her. He felt disgusted with himself for a moment, but that did not stop him from imagining the words he'd say as he would lure his prey into a cave that very night.
Helga walked through the museum, studying the rough, bold brush strokes, as colors merged into one, as they played against the stanzas, as they collided into masterful creations, and bled against the canvas. The beauty of Van Gogh, of Picasso, of Dali and Magritte, of their great accomplishments reflected in the light and cleverly became inflicted on Helga's retina as she moved in a slow pace across the many isles. Some pictures made her feel inspired, some made her feel dull, others aroused her, few disturbed her. All the while, as these emotions merged into one, that of excitement, Helga did not, even for a moment, experience surprise. And then she felt someone's hand against her shoulder.
She quickly turned, instinctively swaying her hand to protect herself, and hitting Arnold against the chest.
"Well," he said sarcastically, "you be careful with that routine of yours, someone might get hurt."
"No one who doesn't deserve it," she replied coldly and turned to Narcissism by Dali.
"You like that?" Arnold said, trying to draw his prey into a trap.
"I do," she said and continued moving down the surrealism section.
He scurried after her, struggling to catch up.
Helga felt his gaze upon her and it made her feel strange, a burst of emotion, an antipathy mixed with interest.
"Can I ask you a question?" she said.
"Go ahead," Arnold replied.
"Why are you following me across the museum?"
"I'm not, we just happen to be looking at the same paintings."
"Why are you here?" she asked.
"I love art, the world is a canvas." The real reason was that after calling her temporary secretary, with whom he had an affair a while back, she drew to his attention that her employer would most likely be found at the art museum. Helga liked art, an interesting realization about a seemingly ruthless curmudgeon. Perhaps he could use it as a weakness against his sullen enemy. "People are canvasses too," he continued after she did not reply.
"I agree with you," she turned toward him, and he felt exposed under the light of her pale eyes, "only some are empty canvasses, surrounded by too luxurious of a frame."
He smiled at her; something interesting was pending within. Helga had always been an intriguing person, which was perhaps why he so disliked her.
"Surrealism," he sighed, looking at a picture where a train was coming out of a fireplace, "you spend so much time here. Why do you love it so much?"
Helga sighed, wondering what his intentions were, "because it's so mysterious, so original. It takes a while to understand, but when you do, you feel a renowned sense of accomplishment."
"Does that resemble you?" he asked, trying to follow her train of thought.
"I love surrealism not because it resembles me, but because I wish it did."
"I thought you loved it because you've got nothing else in this world to love," he said without thinking. Suddenly, he realized that he had just jeopardized further his chance of seducing Helga.
"Is that why you love art?" Helga launched her counterattack, "because you have no one human to adore?"
Arnold considered it for a moment; "I'd like to adore you."
She studied his face, almost falling for the last remark, but she wasn't going to make the same mistake again. Helga turned around and began walking faster, trying to get away.
"Where are you going?" he exclaimed from the distance, as she spend across the parquet.
"I'm going to lunch, and then. I don't know," she replied hastily.
At last, he caught up, "Would you like some company?"
"Yes," she replied quickly, "Just not yours."
Arnold looked to the side, where the workers had already begun working on the decorations for the evenings festivities, a celebration for the arrival of a new painting from Russia's collection by Mark Chagall.
"Will you be here tonight?" he asked, "for the party?"
"Everyone will be here tonight for the party," Helga replied, "I just hope you're not."
She began speeding away and Arnold did not follow. He would have plenty of chance that evening. Meanwhile, he remembered that it was Saturday, on of those glorious days of the week when the cleaning ladies came to his home.
Many had gone through Arnold's apartment, very many, too many to count. Arnold would seduce them and then release them, awaiting a new offering on a silver platter. It was very easy for him, very engaging, entertaining, and always cheerful. He could disconnect for a moment, knowing that for what he'd paid he was getting double benefits. Sleeping with his numerous maids, of course, was never taxing or difficult, which was a blow since he enjoyed challenges, but nonetheless fulfilling and even surprising sometimes. The last maid he had fired was a tempestuous, dominant redhead, with lenience to bisexuality and his landlord's daughter. Of course, after the strange orgy took place, Arnold's rent was doubled and his good relationship with the management was severed for an eternity. Of course, Arnold had always enjoyed the volume privileges going awry. It gave him new challenges to contemplate as to how he would get his liberties returned.
Lola had been working for him for over a month now, and not a single day passed without him making a lewd comment of placing his palm on whatever sacred female body part his avid heart desired. The busty, green eyed brunette who must have been at least ten years younger than him seemed to have been enjoying his come ons, or so it seemed apparent through her jubilant giggles and panting pleading for him to stop. Nevertheless, she never showed interest in going further than mild flirtation.
Today, she was looking particularly lovely, with her thick hair in a high pony tail, her body wrapped in a green, low cut t shirt and tight jeans. This was her working attire, but it seemed to Arnold that climbing ladders to the top of his bookshelves was not easily done in the sort of pants that seemed far too undersized for her bottom.
While Lola was cleaning, Arnold lay on the bed, surveying the young girl's physique as she worked and thinking naughty thoughts involving it. Considering his stress and frustration today had to be the day, it absolutely had to. He could already picture her hair in disarray, her face grimacing in an adorable but amusing way as they made the bed explode, as they made the ceiling fall over their heads, but miss due to their invincibility.
"Hey Lola," he said in a voice one would use when communicating with a child, although partially relevant, "are you having fun?"
"I'm working," she said, "Do people have fun at work?"
"Well, darling," he smiled, looking up at the ceiling from his supine position, "That depends on the person. I, for example, do."
"Well," she sighed and began dusting the bedpost, as her hips swayed from side to side with a melody she played in her head, "It's all different for you. You get to sit all day telling people what to do."
"That's true, Lola," he continued, "but you have the same opportunities as I, don't you?"
"Well I do go to college," she replied, "but I'm not from some rich, privileged family like you."
Arnold sighed, remembering his 'rich, privileged family.' "What makes you so sure I'm rich?"
"Well, your apartment, for one. How can a person who isn't from some millionaire breed get this high in this world?"
"Stranger things have happened."
"Look, if I offended you or something, I'm really sorry. But, like, let's not start these meaningful conversations."
"You wouldn't like to have meaningful conversations with me, Ally?"
"Well, you're my boss," she started reasoning, "I don't think it's proper to talk with your boss about his family and background."
"You wouldn't like to be the one to rescue me, Ally?" he said only half sarcastically, "most women do. Who knows, perhaps you'd be the one to succeed."
"Unfortunately, I have too many problems of my own to extend charity."
"You need charity yourself, then?"
"Maybe I do," she said slowly, "You're endowed to give it."
"Yes," he smiled, "I'm very well endowed."
"Ew!" she exclaimed in her girlish voice, "I didn't mean it that way!"
"What way did you mean it, my nymphet? What charity can I render you in exchange for your own?"
"Not grabbing my ass every five minutes, first of all. Your nymphet or whatever wouldn't mind getting a raise. And maybe even some benefits!"
"And in return, will you sleep with me?"
She quickly turned and saw that he had been creeping up behind her. Surprised and appalled, Lola slapped him; "You have no right doing this! This is sexual harassment."
Arnold lay back on the bed. "Oh darling," he began "you're right, I was raised a prick. I think like a prick. I act like a prick. But then again, so would any man had they been like me, from a rich privileged family, that is. I can't control something I've known my whole life. I'm a lost case as a person, Lola."
Her face softened as she leaned by him and her chest pressed against his arm. Arnold barely stopped himself from singing in triumph. She fell for the same line he had given virtually every other woman he had ever been with. It seemed, he thought, that in the female psyche, their self-esteem grew through the ceiling at the mere possibility that an emotionally unavailable man had been trying to let them in. It was like being the chosen one at a beauty pageant, like winning a poetry contest.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, her hair brushing against his cheek from behind her head. He touched her face and kissed her, simultaneously sliding the shirt and bra off of Lola's body. Thirty minutes later, it was all over.
After taking a shower, Arnold began to get dressed. Lola was still in his bed. He hated it when they stayed; he hated having to force her to leave.
"I have to go now," he said.
"Where?" she studied him as he put on his suit, which made Arnold look even more handsome.
"This gala at the art museum. I don't want to be late."
"Are you absolutely sure you have to go?" she asked, approaching him and putting her hands onto his shoulders.
"Yes," he moved away, trying to get out of her reach.
"I'll go home, then," she said, understanding that it was pointless to touch him when he was in this mood.
He watched her get dressed with frenzy, wishing she would hurry up. When she was done, he sighed with relief.
"Okay," she said before departing, "Here's my phone number, just in case you forgot," she handed him a paper, "You seem stressed. When you feel like talking, call me."
He took it and looked into her searching eyes, every girl, no matter what their stature or esteem, always think they're special.
"Yeah, okay. I'll see you next week, Lola," he said, knowing that it was a lie. Not once did his conscience trouble him.
Arnold finished getting dressed in silence, not taking his mind off Helga, and the way she looked day resembling the way she looked eleven years ago. Maybe Helga was never meant to be beautiful, maybe when she walked the streets, the men did not turn her way like they did for Lila, Rhonda, and Lola. Maybe when she smiled, the room was not brightened, and when she spoke, birds did not sing along to the innuendo of her voice. Maybe Helga was never meant to be beautiful, and maybe that was okay because she was meant to be something else. Maybe, unlike every other woman, she did not long to save a man. Maybe she longed for a man to save her.
And there was Arnold, plotting to endanger her. He felt disgusted with himself for a moment, but that did not stop him from imagining the words he'd say as he would lure his prey into a cave that very night.