“Some people think it’s an artifact of earlier life,” said Nataly.
Eric shook his head. “People have an imaginative explanation for everything around here,” he mumbled.
Nataly didn’t seem to hear him, was scrambling up the scree slope towards a needle of rock towering high above them.
Eric hurried after her. The footing was loose and crumbling, and he was puffing again when he reached the top. Nataly had descended to a depression at the base of a rock spire between two wider massifs on either side of it.
Eric slid down scree to join her. Nataly’s eyes twinkled, and she seemed amused. “You wanted to see where the angels come from, and I think it’s here. I feel a kind of extra energy when I’m here.”
“Right,” said Eric. “I guess my receiver is offline.”
“Here, take my hand.” Nataly reached out, took his hand in hers and closed her eyes.
“Don’t you feel anything?”
Eric’s face flushed, and he was suddenly conscious of his breathing. “Your hand is either very warm, or mine is cold.”
“No, no, not that. Not heat. It’s violet, or purple. It comes out of the rock at my feet, and goes through me to this spire when I touch it. If there’s a portal for angels or beings from another dimension, I think it must be right here.”
Eric squeezed her hand, thinking she might pull away from him. “I guess I’m just not sensitive enough to feel it,” he said softly. “Sorry.”
Nataly opened her eyes. A moment before they had seemed much darker. Perhaps it was a trick of light reflected from orange and red rock. She pulled on his hand, and grasped his collar to bend him forward. “Then tell me if you feel this,” she said, and kissed him very softly on the mouth. It was not a long or deep kiss, but the shock of it went through Eric’s body in waves.
She held his hand, her other hand on his chest, face close. He thought he saw sparkles of green in her eyes as she looked up at him.
“I felt it,” he said softly. “It was very nice, but I’m wondering why you did it.”
“I wanted to. I always do what I want to do. And you kissed me back.”
“Yes, I did.” Eric put his free hand over hers on his chest. “Nataly, you don’t really know anything about me.”
“I know what I need to know,” she said quickly, “and I like what I see.”
“So do I, but I have a history—”
“No need to talk about that, now. We’re attracted to each other. For now, let’s keep it simple and enjoy being together. No pressures, no expectations.”
“Okay,” said Eric, then leaned down to look more closely at her. “I could swear that the color of your eyes keeps changing. I thought they were brown, but now they’re deep green.”
Nataly smiled. “I’m just drawing energy from the portal here. Maybe someday we can go through it.”
“And do what?”
“Visit with the angels, of course, or whatever creatures there are on the other side.”
“I think maybe one of the angels is standing right here.”
Nataly’s eyes seemed to glow. She lifted up on her toes, and gave him a quick, but firm kiss. “That was sweet. Now let me show you the view on the north side.”
He followed her down around the central rock spire to the edge of a steep slope where there was a wide view of Bell Rock and Courthouse Butte in the distance. They looked at it for several minutes, Nataly’s head resting lightly against him, and his arm around her waist.
“There is an energy here,” murmured Nataly. “People come here from all over to meditate, to create, to find peace. Some come here to find their souls.”
“Or to make a lot of money,” said Eric.
“Is that why you’re here?”
“No. Well, that’s part of the reason. This is a nice place. I’m going to like it here, as long as I stay. I get moved around in my business.”
“Not for a while, I hope.” Nataly’s head pressed harder against his shoulder.
“Not for a while,” he said.
They enjoyed the view and their closeness for half an hour, then scrambled back up the scree slope and picked their way down from the saddle on rough-grained rock that gripped the soles of their shoes. They met several people coming up, faces bright with expectation of adventure, and waited for four of them before descending the steep crack down to the low terraces of rock.
In minutes they were back at Nataly’s shop, and Eric was unlocking his car.
“Don’t forget dinner. I’ll call to remind you,” Nataly said brightly.
“I’ll be there. Thanks for today.”
She smiled, and was gone, and Eric drove home. When he entered the house the phone was ringing. It was Leon, returning him to reality.
But that night, Eric had a wonderful dream about Nataly.
CHAPTER TWELVE
OPPORTUNITY
Eric got to The Coffee Pot at seven, but tourists already filled the little parking lot. He had to park across the street and risk his life in a sprint back across again in morning traffic. A tall man in western garb and a black Stetson identifying him as a big city dude watched Eric approach, and smiled.
“Good broken-field-running, Mister Price. Sorry we have to meet so early.” The man extended a hand. “John Coulter. Let me buy breakfast for your trouble.”
Coulter’s grip was firm, but his hand was smooth, and he’d used a musky and probably expensive after-shave that morning.
“Thanks,” said Eric. “We’ll probably have to wait a while.”
They went inside, and were fortunate. The first wave of diners was just finishing, and the second wave had not yet arrived. In ten minutes they were seated at a corner table, ordering coffee and three-egg omelets. The waitress brought coffee, and left them.
Coulter leaned forward and spoke softly. “Did Leon give you any hints about what to expect in this meeting?”
Eric made steady eye contact. “He said you’re a good source of business contacts, and he’s worked with you in the past. On the phone you said something about markets for a lot of things, including art and guns. I presume we’re here to talk about art, Mister Coulter.”
“That’s John, please. If we can do business together, I can provide you with dozens of markets for western art: scenics, cowboys, Indians, you name it. Europeans eat this stuff up, and I have a lot of contacts over there, west and east.” Coulter raised an eyebrow. “Eastern markets are tougher, but the right person can make a lot of money with them if he has the right product.”
“You could make more money if you worked directly with the artists. Why choose a middleman like me? I get my commission before you get yours.”
Coulter smiled. “The people I represent have wealth beyond our imagination, Eric. Money has no meaning to them. I am convenient, and so are you. I buy in bulk, and distribute what my clients desire. It is done privately, without fanfare. In the eastern block, a show of wealth remains impolite in elite circles. Money exchanges hands for many things without public knowledge, and not just art, as you well know.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Eric.
Coulter blinked slowly, and leaned closer. “Everything is for sale: art, ancient artifacts, weapons, nuclear material, state secrets, it’s all the same. Occasionally a thing is sold in error, but again, money is not an object, and that thing can be bought back for twice the price paid, or even more, if one deals with the right people.”
“I don’t see what this has to do with contemporary western art,” said Eric, and the waitress arrived with their breakfast.
They sat in silence until the waitress left. Coulter breathed in the odors of his food. “Let’s eat first. I’ve heard the meals here are excellent.”
“Yes, they are,” said Eric. He was surprised by the turn of the conversation. John Coulter did not sound like a corporate representative at all. Embassy staff, maybe, but what embassy? There was no detectable accent in his speech.