Noel Hynd - Hostage in Havana

“Paupers,” she said.

“You’re familiar with Credit Suisse, I’m sure,” he said. “Foremost, we have protected the wealth of our clients for nearly a hundred and fifty years. During the American Civil War, our headquarters in Geneva stood on the same spot where it stands now. Before the Suez Canal was completed, before man flew the first airplane, we were doing business. Continuity and security, Madame LaDuca. That’s what we stand for.”

“Yes, I’m familiar with the bank,” she said, bemused.

“You know much about us?”

“I know that like most Swiss banks, ninety-nine percent of your private clients are wealthy law-abiding citizens. Another three quarters of one percent are tax evaders, bribe takers, and arms dealers. The rest are drug traffickers.”

“You have a delicious sense of humor,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said. “And don’t worry. I’ll leave the money here for a while.”

“Let me explain the possibilities for investment,” he said. “Do gold bars interest you? Certificates of deposit?”

“I just want it in one insured account right now, earning interest. Nothing exotic.”

“Very well.” His tone conveyed a sigh of exasperation. He looked down and put his own signature on the documents. “Please wait for a moment,” he said.

Officiously, he was on his feet and out of his office, leaving the door slightly ajar. For several minutes Alex sat alone, surveying Chatton’s lair, the teak of the desk, the signed Miro print on the wall, the standing plant in the corner. Then Monsieur Chatton was back with all her documents fully executed and a book of temporary checks. “All done,” he said. “Your deposit is complete. Again, my congratulations on your new wealth.”

Alex smiled. If only she knew what to do with it.

Friday evening arrived. At Carnegie Hall, Alex and Ben sat in the fifteenth row of the orchestra and watched in awe as violinist Itzhak Perlman played seemingly two concerts. The first half was remorselessly formal, as Perlman delivered the music, nodding but otherwise not saying a word to the audience between pieces.

The concert opened with one of Handel’s violin sonatas. In this work, Perlman’s tight musicianship came across to Alex as a lovely, chaste melancholy. Already fatigued, she felt her spirits dimmed from the sadness of the music.

But after intermission, the formal virtuoso was transformed into the casual, accessible violin player, a man who, in his fifty years of performing, had not only performed in every great concert hall but had also easily joked with the Muppets on Sesame Street.

“The good news is that the piece is not very long,” Perlman quipped from the stage about Messiaen’s modernist Theme and Variations. “Just pretend you’ve heard it ten times before and maybe you’ll like it.”

Ben and Alex laughed. Ben gave Alex’s hand a squeeze and then pulled it away, awkwardly and self-consciously. After that, Perlman played six short pieces. At the end, he was rewarded with a roar of acclamation from the audience.

Alex and Ben emerged from Carnegie Hall into a balmy June night. They walked up Seventh Avenue to 61 stStreet where Alex lived. They chatted amiably, enjoying the evening. She felt relaxed with him in a way different than any man she knew. His body felt strong, his gait smooth, even with the prosthesis.

“Hungry?” he asked as they maneuvered the crowds. The New York Philharmonic and the theater where a revival of South

Pacific was playing had let out from nearby Lincoln Center. The sidewalks were busy.

“Yes. A bit,” she said. “What are you in the mood for? Italian? Greek? Pub grub? Coffee and pastry?”

“You choose.”

They looked at various store fronts. Then the answer presented itself to her. “Know what would be good?” she said.

“You tell me.”

She motioned to her neighborhood pizzeria, Raimondo’s, a bright place that sold pies whole or by the slice. “Let’s just get some slices and take them home,” she said. “I’ve got drinks in the fridge.”

“Works for me,” he said, “if it works for you.”

“Works perfectly for me,” she said. “The place is owned by an Athenian named Chris who grew up in Calabria and is staffed by people who barely speak English,” Alex said. “That’s always a good sign for pizza in New York.”

Ben laughed. “You always break me up with stuff like that,” he said. “How do you know all that? You just moved here.”

“I’ve been here five months. This is my neighborhood. Raimondo’s is open late. I stop by sometimes when I don’t get home till midnight. I talk to the owner in Italian. He grew up in Sicily. He likes me because I speak Italian.”

“Does he know you’re a Fed?”

“Of course not,” she grinned. “If he did, he probably wouldn’t like me anymore.”

They stepped into the crowded pizzeria. They bought half a pie to take out, four generous slices with various toppings. Ben paid.

They were back at Alex’s apartment in ten minutes. They entered. Alex dropped the blinds in the living room. At night she could see hundreds of windows, and they could see her. Ben loved the nighttime view of Manhattan and spent a few minutes peaking around the blinds, looking downward onto Seventh Avenue where traffic moved southbound toward Times Square and the theater district. She loved her view, but one never knew when one was the target of a voyeur with a telescope. It was New York, after all: plenty of weirdoes out there.

Alex went to the kitchen. She put the pizza slices on a cookie sheet and warmed them in the oven. She grabbed two bottles of pop from the refrigerator and set them on her small kitchen table. Ben wandered back to the kitchen a few moments later and sat down.

“Want a glass?” she asked.

“Nope.”

“Me neither.”

They clicked their bottles and talked about times they had shared in Washington. Ben told her again how much she was missed by the gang at the gym and how no one before or since could sink a three pointer from that particular spot, two feet beyond the three-point line, like Alex could.

She laughed. It was a good memory. She got up, retrieved the pizza, and put it onto plates. “Knife? Fork?” she asked.

“For pizza? You’re kidding, right?”

“I’m kidding,” she said.

They ate and laughed some more over old times.

As they sat in the cozy kitchen a seditious thought came to Alex’s mind. It occurred to her that she and Ben were acting like a couple, a man and a woman who might already be lovers or who might be lovers in the future – or even husband and wife someday. She didn’t know whether to embrace the idea or reject it. She felt she was ready to move on romantically – except for the fact that she wasn’t. In some ways, she was as confused as she had ever been. Eventually, Alex looked at the wall clock; it was nearly 1:00 a.m.

“Hey,” she said, “I have to put in time at the office tomorrow.”

“Saturday?” he asked.

“And Sunday too,” she said. “More of a pain than anything, if you want to know the truth.” She stood. “Anyway, I need some sleep.”

“Yeah,” he said, looking at her.

“Well, look,” she said. “You know where everything is. Towels. Bathroom. Let’s just leave the dishes in the sink. I’ll deal with them tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” he said again. There was an awkward moment and he stood.

“Did you enjoy being together tonight?” he asked. “The concert?”

“Of course.”

“I really enjoy it when we’re together, Alex,” he said.

“Ben …”

He stood before her. Their eyes locked. “What?” he said.

“I thought we decided … I thought we agreed,” she said. “There were some places we just weren’t going to go. Not now.”

“We decided, we discussed, we agreed,” he said. “But I want to know something, Alex. I need to ask.” He paused, then asked, “Do you have feelings for me?”

Her heart banged and felt as if it had gotten stuck somewhere between her throat and the pit of her stomach.

“Tell me if you do or if you don’t,” he said, “because I think it’s obvious by now that I have feelings for you.”

It was not a conversation she was ready for. Ben was a decent, kind man, a pillar of strength who, with his tough love, had pulled her back from the abyss of suicide less than a year before. Deeply, she did not want to let him go. And yet she didn’t even know how to phrase her answer, or, for that matter, what her answer was.

“Yes,” she admitted, “I have feelings. And they’re strong feelings. But maybe they’re not the right ones just yet. Or maybe the time just isn’t right yet.”

“When will the time be right?” he asked.

She looked into his eyes, set as they were in a rugged, strong, kind face. Her instincts told her not to say anything, but to take him by the hand and kiss him.

She did not know what to say, didn’t even know what was right to feel. She could keep her feelings inside her, bury them, suppress them, but sometimes her physical desires had the pull of a runaway horse. Bubbling beneath the surface, she realized, were feelings that she was struggling to keep inside; she was afraid to fall in love because the last time she did, she had fallen hard and then everything had been taken from her.

“I don’t know,” she said. She felt as if she had muffed her response. “I mean, I do know. But I don’t know if I’m ready for another relationship yet.”

“It’s been a year,” he said. “More than a year. I understand your loss. I can’t replace Robert. We both know no one ever can, but – “

“Sorry,” she said. “It’s not something that I can put a clock on. I hope you understand, Ben, because the last thing I’d want to do is lead you on or hurt you.”

She sensed his disappointment. Meanwhile, her mouth had gone dry, her heart hammered, and her knees felt weak. She was shocked but not surprised. Everything was turned on its end because a friend was suggesting that he might now become more. A couple of uneasy seconds went by and she couldn’t figure out how she could be so on top of things at work and so adrift in her personal life.

He released her hand. “Okay,” he said quietly. “I asked. It’s been driving me crazy, this attraction I have for you, unable to do anything, afraid to even say anything. At least I asked.” He paused. “I hope I didn’t wreck our friendship.”

“Of course not,” she said. She drew another breath. “I’m just not ready to pour out my emotions again. It doesn’t feel right yet.”

He nodded. “It’s okay. I understand. But then there’s something else I want to tell you about if you and I aren’t going anywhere.”

“Go ahead.”

“One reason I came to New York was not just to do those interviews but to see if, you know, maybe we could start going out. I wanted to know because, honestly, you’re the most terrific woman I’ve ever met. And I wanted to see if something would spark between us.”

“Where are you going with this, Ben?” she asked.

“I was at an interview the other day in D.C. One of the big firms. Very politically connected. And I met this woman,” he said. “Her name’s Carol. She’s smart. Like you. I guess that’s my type. She went to one of those prestigious colleges up in Boston; you know, one of those places that bankrupt you if you’re not rich.”

They shared a smile. Hers was nervous. So was his.

“She’s blonde, about five-seven. Beautiful figure. Working on her master’s degree in public affairs at Georgetown.”