"Did you meet Sandra there?" asked Allison.
"No, she's American. Never been to Europe." Gerde glanced at her friend, who responded by nodding slightly. "I met her in New York soon after I arrived. She had been living with a man for some time who had treated her very badly." Gerde patted Sandra's knee maternally. "I convinced her to get rid of him. She did. Then she moved in with me here and I've taken care of her since." Gerde and Sandra exchanged furtive smiles, their lips hardly breaking.
Allison sipped her coffee, watching them intently, trying to gauge and comprehend the disturbing tenor of the woman's words and their seemingly unnatural interdependence.
"Men are sadistic," cried Gerde with intensity.
Allison swallowed hard and countered, "I think that's an immoderate generalization. Most of the men I know are gentle and kind."
Gerde's eyes narrowed. "I see," she said, a nebulous smile crossing her lips. "The gentleman who left here yesterday morning in a brown sport jacket, is he your boy friend?"
Allison looked askance.
"Is he?" Gerde repeated.
"Yes."
Gerde sipped her coffee slowly, eyes on Allison; then she placed the cup down and folded her hands in her lap. "He looks like an adequate lover."
"I don't think that's any of your business," Allison declared.
Gerde lowered her eyes, a gesture which feigned self-castigation. "Please excuse me again. I'm quite frank, but also forgetful of common etiquette." She looked at Sandra and smiled, a strange grimace that stretched a pair of reluctant lips. "You see, Sandra and I are very open with one another and it has become a practice-or should I say a deeply ingrained habit."
"I . . . uh . . . understand." Allison, lost for words, tried to change the subject. "I like the way you have your apartment furnished. I also prefer a combination of various styles."
"We're glad you approve," Gerde said, just as the telephone rang in the bedroom.
Gerde quickly excused herself, stood up and went to answer it. Allison watched her lope across the room, then reluctantly turned back toward Sandra.
In the fleeting moment she had looked away, there had been a change in Sandra's expression. It was now relaxed. The muscles were loose, the lips were parted and the blank expression now whispered a hint of life.
Allison examined Sandra's face and body. Then she blanched. Sandra's hand was inside her pants, massaging herself in a gentle circular motion. Her legs stiffened as the euphoria spread throughout her body. Harder and harder she rubbed, totally oblivious to Allison's presence, totally absorbed in her sexual ecstasy. Allison watched, both repulsed and fascinated. The girl's breathing deepened; her lips shook violently. Sighing deeply, she reached orgasm.
Sandra withdrew her hand, inhaled deeply once and then assumed her prior pose, as if what Allison had just seen had not happened. Again she was cold, distant, motionless.
Allison's stomach churned. She stood, wanting to get out of the apartment quickly. But something pinned her to the ground, like the counteracting force of opposing gravities.
Gerde loped back to the room and sat on the couch next to Sandra.
"We're quite proud of our apartment," she said to Allison, who was still standing mesmerized. Gerde had an amazing ability to seize upon unfinished conversations and questions after an interruption and continue as if the line had been unbroken. "It took us a long time to furnish it properly. No expense spared."
"That's the best way." Allison sat down on the ottoman, curiosity superseding her desire to run from the apartment.
"You know," Gerde continued, "we found many of these pieces lying about in the strangest places. If one keeps their eyes open, one can find veritable treasures."
Allison and Gerde began to drink their coffee, while Sandra slowly sipped at a steaming cup of tea. Her efforts were an accommodation. Her interest in the tea was minimal. The conversation, whatever there was, died. All three just stared at one another.
Slowly, Sandra inched her way closer to Gerde and slid her hand down her side and into her roommate's. Allison fidgeted nervously with her cup, spilling much of the coffee into the saucer. Again the silence. She watched the sensual movement of Sandra's hand in Gerde's, the intertwining of the fingers and the pressing of the palms. Sandra's entire body experienced another euphoric relaxation; the distant look disappeared, the sallow expression brightened. Gerde remained impassive. Sandra reached orgasm again.
"Do- What do you do for a living?" Allison was clutching.
"Nothing," replied Gerde curtly.
"You must do something to earn money."
Gerde shook her head, looked at her entwined hand, glanced back up at Allison and tightened her grip, causing Sandra to wince in excitement.
Allison, now visibly disturbed, still tried to avoid the impending confrontation. "Then you must get quite bored. What do you do to keep busy?" she asked.
"We fondle each other."
Allison stared, her mouth open.
"Fondle! Caress!" Gerde was very direct, very curt and very piqued.
Gerde leaned over and touched Sandra's breast, and Sandra's body responded with convulsive jerks.
Allison shot to her feet. "I think I'd better be going," she blurted. "I have to put away all the groceries and then I have an appointment."
"I think it's rather rude to eat and run," said Gerde.
"First of all, I didn't eat, I drank," Allison blustered, flushing. "And how dare you call me rude! After this demonstration of sickness! Masturbation and lesbianism. Right in front of me! I've never seen anything like it."
Gerde narrowed her eyes like a threatened cat. She slowly rose to her feet. "You little bitch," she mouthed deliberately.
Allison rushed by her and began to gather her packages; the largest fell to the floor. She bent down to pick it up only to find Gerde's foot pressing it against the ground. She grabbed Gerde's leg and tried to move it off the bag. It wouldn't budge. She pulled out the package, upsetting the woman, sending her sprawling to the rug. Gerde struggled to her feet and grabbed Allison by the hair as she dropped her packages and grasped Gerde's wrist, digging in her nails. Gerde winced in pain and released her hold.
Allison ran to the door, threw it open, and stumbled into the hall. When Gerde followed, Allison pressed against the rail and turned to defend herself.
Suddenly Gerde stopped, her eyes turning to the third-floor staircase. Allison jerked her head in that direction. Charles Chazen stood at the base of the stairs stroking Jezebel. Mortimer hopped from shoulder to shoulder, chirping frantically. Gone was the pleasant smile. His shriveled face was impassive, the old eyes strangely dilated.
Gerde trembled. Quickly, without looking at Allison, she stepped back into the apartment and closed the door.
Allison swayed, exhausted, her breathing almost convulsive.
"I warned you! Yes, I did. From now on, you should avoid them. They're evil." The little man stepped off the staircase and took Allison gently by the hand. "Now come, I'll walk you up to your apartment."
Allison followed Chazen up the staircase. He said nothing, neither did she. Thoughts raced through her mind. About Gerde. About Chazen. Why did the woman stop the way she had when she saw the old man? She was obviously afraid of him. Why? She didn't know. She didn't ask.
"I suggest you take two aspirin and get some sleep," advised Mr. Chazen as he watched Allison fumble for her key. "Sleep would be most therapeutic. Tsk, tsk, what a terrible incident. I hope you've learned your lesson. Listen to Chazen from now on."
Allison nodded as she inserted the key into the lock. "Thank you. I don't know what I-"
"Don't mention it. Just get some sleep."
She kissed the old man on the cheek and closed her door.
Chapter VII
"We're about ready to start," said the pencil-thin fashion coordinator with the clipboard. "Is anybody unsure of the order of appearance?" She poked her hairpiece nervously with a nineteen-cent Bic as she waited for a reply. "Then I trust everything will go like clockwork."
Allison adjusted her pants suit and took a quick sip from the cup of coffee that she had placed moments before in front of the dressing mirror. She was ready.
"Vicki, if you will? Allison, please."
Allison was surprised she had gotten there on time. She hadn't wanted to do it; it had been two years since she had done live fashion work. But she had promised and it was for charity.
She had slept very little the night before. Gerde and Sandra had seen to that. She lay in bed for hours, afraid to close her eyes. Afraid to dream. She knew she reacted badly to nightmares; she had known that since her childhood. There was nothing she feared more. And she had a feeling that- Well, she wasn't sure, but she sensed the same kind of dizziness that she had experienced so often as a child, the dizziness that had invariably preceded a night of terror.
She tried everything to fall asleep. First she sipped tea, then hot milk. Then she took a hot bath. Nothing relaxed her. She tried to read, but she was so nervous that she couldn't hold the book steady; it fell to the floor. She wondered if the two women below had heard the sound. And what were they doing? Were they in bed together making love? She cringed, got up from the bed to retrieve the book and placed it on the night table. She bent down, her hands extended. Her head swimming, she fell to her knees and buried her face in the blankets. If only the dizziness would go away. She was so tired. All she wanted was some sleep, just like she had wanted so many times when as a child she had knelt in a similar position, her head spinning, her nerves shattered. She lifted her head slightly and clasped her hands in front of her. The position was strange; it had been years since she had crouched this way.
"Angel of God," she prayed. "My Guardian Dear, To whom God's love, commits me here, Ever this day be at my side." She stopped abruptly. This was ridiculous. She was twenty-six years old. She hadn't been in a church in seven years. And what good would this stupid little chant do?
"To light, to guard, to rule, to guide. Amen," she concluded.
Soon she was asleep.
The alarm had buzzed at ten. Five and a half hours' sleep. Her head ached, her eyelids were heavy and her face was drained of color. But she hadn't dreamed. She smiled as she moved the bright green toothbrush over her gleaming teeth. No banshees. No monsters. No horrors. No matter how bad the night before had been, the fact that she had not dreamed made it quickly fade from her mind.
She left the apartment at eleven fifteen, giving herself just enough time to hail a cab, scoot downtown and join Michael for an early lunch. She raced down the third-floor staircase, portfolio in one hand, duffel bag in the other, and stopped at the base. Apartment 2 A was ten feet away, the door closed; she walked slowly, measuring the length of each step. Carefully placing her feet so as not to make any noise. Carefully watching the door. Would it be like this every time she had to pass? Maybe, but she was primarily concerned with this one time-the morning after.
Having crossed the ten feet without so much as a squeak, she stopped, listening for any evidence of life. There was none; she felt relieved. A small bead of perspiration rolled down her cheek. She wiped it away, walked to the top of the landing, started down the staircase, tested the banister and halted abruptly at the sound of rustling below.
The basement door opened. Out stepped Charles Chazen, catless, birdless, holding a large box awkwardly between his two hands and chin.
She walked down the stairs to meet him.
He chugged around the banister post. "Good morning!" he cried. "Lovely morning."
"How are you?"
"Fine, my dear. And yourself? Have you forgotten about yesterday's unfortunate incident?"
She hesitated, then answered, "Yes."
"Good. So be it." He started up the staircase. "It's nippy outside. I think I might have gotten a chill this morning. Be sure to keep your jacket on."
"I will."
He fidgeted. "Can't talk now. I'm very busy."
"Spring cleaning?"
"No. I'll tell you about it later."
She stepped onto the hall floor as he raced upward.
"Mr. Chazen?"
He stopped and pivoted. "Yes?"
"I'd like to ask you something."
"Quickly. Quickly."
She bit her lip. "Why was that woman so frightened of you?"
The smile disappeared; his eye glinted. "Evil, I said."
"That doesn't answer my question," she said sternly.
"Evil."
"But-"
He put down the box, raised his arm and curled his hand into a fist. His cheeks reddened. "I gave them this before," he said, shaking his hand like a pummeling hammer, "and I shall smite them again if they bother my friends."
She looked at him queerly. "I see," she said.
"Stay away from them. Tsk, tsk." The smile returned to his face. He leaned over and picked up the box. "I must be off. Speak to you later."
He sauntered up the stairs.
Moments later she emerged from the building, hailed a cab and joined Michael-on time.
"Sounds familiar, a bull dyke and her lover," Michael said, his mouth full of ice cream. "When you walk into the lion's den and play with the cubs, be prepared to get bitten."
"That's a lousy analogy."
"Why?"
"I didn't play with any cubs."
"All right, but you know what I mean. You know how vicious a dyke can be if provoked."
"Yes."
"Just stay out of that apartment and keep away from them and you shouldn't have any trouble."
"It's not just them that bothers me. It's what happened in the hall. You had to have been there to have seen Gerde's reaction when she saw the old man. I never saw anyone register so much fear. And I can't begin to figure out why."
"You said the old man told you they were evil. Maybe he's had it out with them already."
"Maybe."
"It's logical."
"Yes, but-"
"But?"
She thought for a moment. "I met him in the hall this morning. He said he gave them this." She shook her fist to illustrate.