A Thousand Words
Chapter 9
The Portrait
"If you really want to see it, I can take you there..."
The cab stopped at a luxury apartment building on Fifth Avenue in the East 80s. Erik hadn't said a word during the trip, and neither had I. I was much too nervous to say anything. I also was much too busy trying to keep myself from flying off the seat as the cabbie swerved in and out of the uptown traffic.
Erik helped me out of the cab and held my arm as we negotiated the piles of snow and puddles of slush on the sidewalk. As he escorted me into the building lobby, the doorman smiled and nodded. "Good evening, Mr. B. Nice to see you again."
"Thank you, Ronnie. Good evening to you."
How did the doorman know him? Did he come here often? I looked inquiringly at Erik, but he just smiled at me. Towards the back of the lobby, the elevator doors stood open as if waiting just for us. We stepped in and Erik pushed the button marked "PH."
"We're going to the penthouse?" I asked.
"Yes." He offered no more by way of explanation.
A bell sounded off each floor as we ascended to the top of the building in the tiny elevator car. When the doors finally slid open, we stepped out into a large foyer. There were two doors, a set of double doors directly opposite the elevator and a smaller, single door on the far right wall. He took my hand and led me to the double doors in front of us. He punched in a security number on a small keypad, and I heard a click as the door automatically unlocked. And to think I still used a key to get in my apartment! How very old-fashioned of me!
Erik opened the door and stood back to allow me to enter.
I could hardly believe what I saw as I entered the living room: this single room was larger by far than my entire apartment! The far wall consisted solely of glass, broken only by a set of glass French doors that opened out onto a terrace, and this transparent wall afforded a spectacular view of the city. The kitchen and dining room were off to the right, and to the left was a foyer containing a spiral staircase that led upstairs and a hallway that led to what I guessed was a library or office–I could see a wall of shelves in the room that was filled with books.
But this room–it looked like one of those places you see pictured in Architectural Digest. A huge stone fireplace dominated one wall, and a cozy grouping of furniture surrounded it. A sleek black grand piano stood in another corner. An enormous and ornate Oriental rug lay at my feet. The furnishings were a combination of antiques and modern pieces, and it worked well; it was a combination I'd never have the courage to try myself. Even if I had the money.
Erik had taken off his overcoat and threw it over a chair. He helped me out of mine.
"We shouldn't be here, what if the owner comes home?"
"The owner won't mind. Come, look at this." He took my hand and led me to the French doors. We stepped out onto the huge stone terrace and looked upon a truly breathtaking view: the vast expanse of Central Park was laid out before us in the night like a lush black carpet strewn with glittering gems. Just a few blocks south of us, the hulking mass of the Metropolitan Museum of Art stood bathed in floodlights. And on the opposite side of the park, the colossal apartment buildings of Central Park West rose up out of the darkness and glistened in the cold winter night. We were up so high that the street noises down below us were barely discernible. It was so quiet and peaceful up here.
"Isn't it beautiful?" he whispered in my ear. He was standing behind me, with his arms around my waist, looking over my shoulder. I leaned back against him. A few flakes of snow fell from the night sky.
"Oh, yes." I shivered from the cold.
"Let's go back inside. You must be freezing."
As I re-entered the living room, I saw a large painting on the far wall, near the front entrance, that I hadn't noticed before. It looked very familiar, very French Impressionist. The muted colors, the soft brush strokes, the slightly blurred overall effect... As I walked across the room to get a closer look, I smiled thinking that it probably was another of Erik's paintings, done in the French Impressionist style. Boy, would I look like a fool! I moved in closer to see the signature, and I think my jaw actually dropped all the way to the floor.
"Oh, my God! Monet? This is an actual Monet?" I turned back to look at him, pointing stupidly back at what could only be termed a masterpiece. He nodded. I was dumbfounded. I had never been so close to a real work of art. I had seen them in museums, of course; but they always had velvet ropes around them and security guards stationed nearby to keep you from getting too close. But here I was, face to face as it were, with a real Monet... hanging in someone's house! I was afraid to breathe on it.
I still had so many questions I wanted to ask, but before I could gather my thoughts, Erik held out his hand to me and nodded towards the hallway. I reluctantly followed him as he started up the spiral staircase. I just wanted to stay and look some more at the Monet, forgetting our original purpose in breaking in to this apartment.
The upstairs hallway had several doors. Erik went right to another set of double doors and opened them. He entered the room and I followed.
This could only be the master bedroom. It was enormous. The entire room was decorated in black and varying shades of blue; it had a decidedly masculine feel. Like the living room, it had a wall of windows which offered the same spectacular view, and the drapes were open so we could feast our eyes again on the dazzling Manhattan skyline.
"Do you like it?"
"It's beautiful. But I still don't know what..." Erik cut me off in mid-sentence by inclining his head towards the wall behind me. He had that enigmatic little smile on his face again. I turned to see what he was so pleased about, and I gasped.
There it was: my painting, hanging on the brick wall above the fireplace.
It was stunning. In the portrait, I was lying not on the shabby sofa in Erik's studio but on a shimmering damask chaise longue, and the background was filled with rich velvet drapes in deep jewel tones trimmed with golden fringe. My dark hair fell in perfect waves about my shoulders. The expression on my face betrayed my feelings for the artist; he had perfectly captured in my eyes and enigmatic Mona Lisa smile the desire I felt within me as I posed for him. It most definitely was me, but I looked so beautiful, more so than I ever imagined I could be.
As if he could read my mind, he whispered in my ear, "I painted you just as I saw you."
He was standing right behind me; his breath tickled the fine hairs on my neck as he spoke.
"It's... it's just beautiful, Erik. I can't believe that's me."
"Oh, but it is. You are beautiful." He kissed the curve of my neck.
"But who..."
"Shh. No more questions." He turned me around to face him, took my face in both of his hands, and kissed me. So warm, so inviting. I stood on tiptoe to meet his lips as his arms crept around me. I melted into them, and suddenly all the questions that filled my head disappeared. All I could think about now was him–the nearness of him, the taste of his lips on mine, the feel of his body pressed against mine, the promise of what was to come.
We stood there, in a close embrace in the middle of the room. His hands slid down the length of my body until he reached the hem of my dress. He grabbed a handful of blue knit fabric in each hand and slowly lifted the skirt up, up, finally pulling the dress up over my head. It fell to the floor somewhere behind me.
I was still terrified that someone would walk in on us.
"No, we can't, not here..."
"Don't worry. No one will bother us, I promise you. We're alone."
He shrugged out of his suit coat, and I lifted his sweater up, exposing his chest. I lowered my head and brought my lips to the smoothness of his stomach. I felt his chest vibrate as he moaned softly; that spurred me on to cover his skin with a trail of wet kisses. I tasted him, breathed in his scent, and consequently I felt the warmth and wetness of my own growing desire. Because I was trembling (maybe it was the fear of being discovered in this place, or maybe it was just pure desire), I fumbled a bit as I tried to undo his belt buckle. He removed his sweater, tugging at it to get it over his head, and tossed it to one side.
Somehow, with all that tugging, he managed to keep his mask in place. His sweater landed on the dresser, jostling a few items on the gleaming surface; a small framed photo skidded off the edge and landed on the thick carpet.
I straightened up and our lips met again, and Erik nudged me a few steps backward until I was sandwiched between him and the brick wall surrounding the fireplace. The familiar pangs of desire grew deep inside me; I wanted him and I wanted him now.
"Tell me what you want," he said in a low tone, almost a growl.
He must be some kind of mind reader...
XXXXX
Erik lay asleep beside me on the enormous bed, curled on his side, his leg thrown over me. We must have dozed off after our marathon lovemaking session–first against the fireplace wall, then on the dresser, and finally on the bed. I grinned to myself as I remembered our outrageous antics in this unfamiliar bedroom. Erik was insatiable, taking me again and again, and I could honestly say that I had no complaints!
I was afraid to move for fear of waking him, but I was cold–we were still on the bed, not in it, never having taken the time to pull back the covers and slip under them. I slowly turned, and he shifted in his sleep, moving away from me. I got up and reached for the nearest piece of clothing I could find. It was Erik's sweater. I pulled it over my head, taking in the now-familiar spicy scent that I had come to associate with him. Wearing his sweater gave me a sense of comfort, of safety. It hung halfway to my knees, and the sleeves were so long that I constantly had to push them up.
Near where the sweater had lain on the floor was the framed photograph that fell off the dresser top. I picked it up and was about to replace it when I caught a glimpse of the photo inside. I stared at it for what seemed like hours. It was so shocking to me that I couldn't believe what I saw there; my befuddled brain didn't understand what it meant.
I looked over at Erik, lying naked in the middle of the huge bed. He was now awake and had propped up his head on his hand. He was watching me intently. I opened my mouth to speak, but the words didn't come. I took a long, careful look around the room, ending with the portrait on the wall, and suddenly everything fell into place. I turned back to Erik.
"Oh my God," I whispered, "this is your apartment."
He didn't respond. I looked again at the photo I held in my hands.
"And you have a twin."