Thomas H. Cook
What She Offered
Sounds like a dangerous woman,” my friend said. He’d not been with me in the bar the night before, not seen her leave or me follow after her.
I took a sip of vodka and glanced toward the window. Outside, the afternoon light was no doubt as it had always been, but it didn’t look the same to me anymore. “I guess she was,” I told him.
“So what happened?” my friend asked.
This: I was in the bar. It was two in the morning. The people around me were like tapes from Mission Impossible, only without the mission, just that self-destruction warning. You could almost hear it playing in their heads, stark and unyielding as the Chinese proverb: If you continue down the road you’re on, you will get to where you’re headed.
Where were they headed? As I saw it, mostly toward more of the same. They would finish this drink, this night, this week… and so on. At some point, they would die like animals after a long, exhausting haul, numb with weariness as they finally slumped beneath the burden. Worse still, according to me, this bar was the world, its few dully buzzing flies no more than stand-ins for the rest of us.
I had written about “us” in novel after novel. My tone was always bleak. In my books, there were no happy endings. People were lost and helpless, even the smart ones… especially the smart ones. Everything was vain and everything was fleeting. The strongest emotions quickly waned. A few things mattered, but only because we made them matter by insisting that they should. If we needed evidence of this, we made it up. As far as I could tell, there were basically three kinds of people, the ones who deceived others, the ones who deceived themselves, and the ones who understood that the people in the first two categories were the only ones they were ever like to meet. I put myself firmly in the third category, of course, the only member of my club, the one guy who understood that to see things in full light was the greatest darkness one could know.
And so I walked the streets and haunted the bars, and was, according to me, the only man on earth who had nothing to learn.
Then suddenly, she walked through the door.
To black, she offered one concession. A string of small white pearls. Everything else, the hat, the dress, the stockings, the shoes, the little purse… everything else was black. And so, what she offered at that first glimpse was just the old B-movie stereotype of the dangerous woman, the broad-billed hat that discreetly covers one eye, high heels tapping on rain-slicked streets, foreign currency in the small black purse. She offered the spy, the murderess, the lure of a secret past, and, of course, that little hint of erotic peril.
She knows the way men think, I said to myself as she walked to the end of the bar and took her seat. She knows the way they think… and she’s using it.
“So you thought she was what?” my friend asked.
I shrugged. “Inconsequential.”
And so I watched without interest as the melodramatic touches accumulated. She lit a cigarette and smoked it pensively, her eyes opening and closing languidly, with the sort of world-weariness one sees in the heroines of old black-and-white movies.
Yes, that’s it, I told myself. She is noir in the worst possible sense, thin as strips of film, and just as transparent at the edges. I looked at my watch. Time to go, I thought, time to go to my apartment and stretch out on the bed and wallow in my dark superiority, congratulate myself that once again I had not been fooled by the things that fool other men.
But it was only two in the morning, early for me, so I lingered in the bar, and wondered, though only vaguely, with no more than passing interest, if she had anything else to offer beyond this little show of being “dangerous.”
“Then what?” my friend asked.
Then she reached in her purse, drew out a small black pad, flipped it open, wrote something, and passed it down the bar to me.
The paper was folded, of course. I unfolded it and read what she’d written: I know what you know about life.
It was exactly the kind of nonsense I’d expected, so I briskly scrawled a reply on the back of the paper and sent it down the bar to her.
She opened it and read what I’d written: No, you don’t. And you never will. Then, without so much as looking up, she wrote a lightning-fast response and sent it hurtling back up the bar, quickly gathering her things and heading for the door as it went from hand to hand, so that she’d already left the place by the time it reached me.
I opened the note and read her reply: C+.
My anger spiked. C+? How dare she! I whirled around on the stool and rushed out of the bar, where I found her leaning casually against the little wrought-iron fence that surrounded it.
I waved the note in front of her. “What’s this supposed to mean?” I demanded.
She smiled and offered me a cigarette. “I’ve read your books. They’re really dreadful.”
I don’t smoke, but I took the cigarette anyway. “So, you’re a critic?”
She gave no notice to what I’d just said. “The writing is beautiful,” she said as she lit my cigarette with a red plastic lighter. “But the idea is really bad.”
“Which idea is that?”
“You only have one,” she said with total confidence. “That everything ends badly, no matter what we do.” Her face tightened. “So, here’s the deal. When I wrote, I know what you know about life, that wasn’t exactly true. I know more.”
I took a long draw on the cigarette. “So,” I asked lightly. “Is this a date?”
She shook her head, and suddenly her eyes grew dark and somber. “No,” she said, “this is a love affair.”
I started to speak, but she lifted her hand and stopped me.
“I could do it with you, you know,” she whispered, her voice now very grave. “Because you know almost as much as I do, and I want to do it with someone who knows that much.”
From the look in her eyes I knew exactly what she wanted to “do” with me. “We’d need a gun,” I told her with a dismissing grin.
She shook her head. “I’d never use a gun. It would have to be pills.” She let her cigarette drop from her fingers. “And we’d need to be in bed together,” she added matter-of-factly. “Naked and in each other’s arms.”
“Why is that?”
Her smile was soft as light. “To show the world that you were wrong.” The smile widened, almost playfully. “That something can end well.”
“Suicide?” I asked. “You call that ending well?”
She laughed and tossed her hair slightly. “It’s the only way to end well,” she said.
And I thought, She’s nuts, but for the first time in years, I wanted to hear more.
* * * *
“A suicide pact,” my friend whispered.
“That’s what she offered, yes,” I told him. “But not right away. She said that there was something I needed to do first.”
“What?”
“Fall in love with her,” I answered quietly.
“And she knew you would?” my friend asked. “Fall in love with her, I mean?”
“Yes, she did,” I told him.
But she also knew that the usual process was fraught with trial, a road scattered with pits and snares. So she’d decided to forgo courtship, the tedious business of exchanging mounds of trivial biographical information. Physical intimacy would come first, she said. It was the gate through which we would enter each other.
“So, we should go to my place now,” she concluded, after offering her brief explanation of all this. “We need to fuck.”
“Fuck?” I laughed. “You’re not exactly the romantic type, are you?”
“You can undress me if you want to,” she said. “Or, if not, I’ll do it myself.”