Roxanne, p.12
Roxanne., page 12
The front door of Dan’s house finally cracks open and a joyful brunette in a red corset with a short lace skirt greets me.
While I have no idea who she is, she, on the other hand, checks me out from top to bottom with lust in her eyes. “Welcome to the Red Light, Andries,” she says, her voice sleazy.
I frown at her answer. “How do you know my name?”
“Dan told me to take care of you,” she purrs, leaning against the doorway, a smile spreading across her red lips.
“Eh, thanks.” I return the smile awkwardly, not knowing what else to do.
She wets her lips, and in the blink of an eye, snatches my arm, pulling me inside. “Don’t be so shy,” she teases, locking her arm with mine once we get into the house.
There’s a difference between shy and uninterested, but I prevent myself from telling her that.
She closes the door behind us, then helps me to take my coat off, and goes to store it in one of the wardrobes.
As I take in my surroundings, sensual music plays across the hallway matching perfectly well with the intimate atmosphere created by the strings of red lights. Most girls I lay my eyes on are dressed in cabaret attire—red or black corsets, lace, froufrou dresses, with feathers in their hair, black heels, and fishnet stockings. It feels like I stepped inside the Moulin Rouge or something. Despite it being a private party, it still looks more tasteful and dignifying than our deplorable, real life red light district.
“Andries!” I hear Dan shouting from the other side of the hallway, he then leaves his guests and comes forward to welcome me. I give a quick smile to those gazing at me, most likely wondering who I am. “Good to see you, man!” He says as we exchange a quick hug and a friendly pat on the back. “Welcome to the best place to be this evening.” His cheerful tone makes me smile, although I’m not really in a festive mood. “What do you think? Pretty cool, huh?”
“Well, the vibe is really red,” I comment as I take in my surroundings.
“It’s burlesque, duh!”
“You told me it was burlesque but with poets in attendance, not courtesans.”
“Oh, relax, they are probably seated in the living room,” Dan brushes off. He then takes a glass of bubbly from a passing server and hands it to me. “Here, take some champagne to relax.”
I give a first sip, and a sudden question crosses my mind.“You didn’t invite Tatiana, right?”
“Flower-girl? Fuck no. But I did bring some really beautiful and experienced women for you to try your hand at.” He then leans slightly closer to me and pointing with his glass, he says, “You see those two women over there? They are dancers at Casa Rosso. Come, I’ll introduce you.” He's about to go and speak to them, but I grab his arm right away to stop him.
“I appreciate it but I’m just interested in meeting the poets and connoisseurs you talked about.”
Dan heaves a sigh, most likely in disappointment. “Ah, yeah. Well I’m gonna check on them regardless.” I release him and he just goes and mingle with the two women he was talking about. Shaking my head, I decide to ramble around the house and enjoy the scenery. I enter into the living room, which has been transformed into a small red theater. It’s entirely dark except for a few red lights flashing on and off. There are velvet tufted chesterfields spread across the room with matching red lamps on the low tables, creating an intimate, boudoir vibe, and at the very end, some sort of stage with a wooden chair in the spotlight.
“It's nice, isn’t it?” My attention turns to my right side and I find the girl I had met at the entrance, a glass in her hand.
“What’s going on there?” I ask, pointing at the stage.
Upon my question, the red lights turn off and the room becomes pitch black.
“Oh, let’s have a seat, the show is about to start,” she says, before snatching my hand and dragging me to the only available seat on a sofa, close enough to the stage. I sit tightly between two other women, and the girl I'm with sits on my lap without even thinking twice. At this point, I'm wondering if she’s being paid by Dan to entertain his guests. Truthfully, it wouldn’t surprise me.
For any other guy this would be heaven on earth, but I’m squeezed to the bone on this tiny sofa, and I’ve got no idea who this girl––her ass pressed against my crotch––even is.
All of a sudden, everyone starts clapping and cheering but my view is totally obstructed with her locks of hair to see what's going on. A new music starts playing and after a few beats, a female singer start singing the lyrics of “Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend” by Marilyn Monroe. At this point, I imagine someone must be on stage performing, so I lean slightly forward, turning to my right, and find an angle with unobstructed views to the stage. There’s definitely someone there dancing, but the position isn’t comfortable enough to stay like that for the whole show. After a while, I just give up and recline against the sofa, heaving a sigh. Fuck it. The show must be trash any way. The crowd starts singing along the singer when she reaches the chorus and some people even clap along. Mercifully, the girl gets up from my lap and excitedly goes on stage upon being invited by the main performer. My eyes widen in shock when I notice the female performer is actually wearing an under-bust corset, a matching choker necklace, and a thong covered with fake-diamonds. The two of them start chanting together and the guests keep cheering for more. I finish my drink and thank God there's a waiter passing by to give me a new one.
“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”
The voice sounds familiar and as I look at who’s sitting beside me more carefully, I can’t help but chuckle at the whole thing.
“You?” I ask, trying not to sound too stunned, but I can’t believe I didn’t see her before. “At Dan’s party? Now that’s a surprise….”
“Oh,” Roxanne utters, reveling in my astonishment. “Sorry, I didn’t know it was you.”
Yeah, right. I’m torn between staying here or trying to find another seat to watch the show from, but I don't want to give her the impression her mere presence is bothering me to the point I need to change seats, so I decide to suck it up and remain sitting beside the woman who bluntly rejected me just a few days ago. If there’s someone who has got to leave this sofa, it’s her, not me. “May I know who brought you here?” I decide to ask, my tone coming off more annoyed than expected. There’s the trace of a smile settling on her lips as if in amusement. “Let me guess—you came with Karl again?”
“I came with the girl who’s performing actually,” she answers, pointing at the stage. “And you?”
I feel tempted to ask her if she knew I was coming, but there’s simply no way in hell she could know about it. “I was told there would be poets and connoisseurs of literature in attendance, but looks like I was mislead,” I tell her, speaking close enough to her ear so that she can hear me.
“Not at all, I am here.”
It takes everything in me not to laugh. “Really? You?”
“Well, yeah, I have a degree in English, remember?” Despite her question, I can’t help but notice how close we are, to the point her legs are touching mine. I try to distance myself from her, but there’s barely any space left.
“That doesn’t mean you know about poetry,” I riposte, knowing perfectly well that the amount of people who know about poetry are quite limited, even for English graduates.
Since the music continues raging in the background, Roxanne keeps leaning close enough to my ear and says, “At the bookshop we have rare editions of books from poets you have never heard of.”
A quick chuckle escapes me at her overly confident assumption. “I’ve read nearly everything out there.”
“Really? What about Verlaine?”
“Of course,” I snap immediately. “He’s a classic figure of the symbolist and decadent movement!”
“We have one of the first editions of his complete work in display.”
My eyebrows rise up in surprise and I can't prevent my mouth from gaping. “You serious?” Roxanne just smiles, reveling in my complete astonishment. “And it's for sale?”
“I'm afraid it isn’t,” she replies, her face softening.
Fuck! A first edition of Verlaine’s work and it’s not for sale? What kind of bookshop does that? But I refrain myself from releasing my frustration on her, so instead I just say, “A bookshop with books that are not for sale, makes sense.”
“They are part of our display since they are over one hundred years old,” she explains.
“I’m sure we can reach an agreement.”
“Or maybe we can’t.” While she seems to be enjoying her little game, I just try to remain as nonchalant as possible. “We actually have a section of banned poets, those whose work was considered too rebellious or provocative. Ever heard of Bei Dao?”
“No, who’s he?”
“A Chinese poet who’s part of the Misty Poets from the twentieth-century. He was the founder of Jintian—an influential literary journal in China which was banned by the communist party. As the founder, he was then forced to leave China in exile.”
“Wow,” I utter, fascinated by everything she just told me. “How do you know all that?”
“I’m Chinese on my mom’s side and I enjoy reading classic works from the culture.”
“And you are also fluent in Chinese literature?”
“I’d say I know enough, Mama was a teacher before moving here and she loved reading everything from the classics to contemporary. Poetry included.”
I shift in my seat, trying to appease my excitement. But damn, it's hard! Chinese literature and banned poetry? How come we don’t have a banned poetry program in school? Just sign me up now! “What can I do to have access to those books?” I ask immediately, my heart rate already accelerating at the idea I could be reading banned poetry soon. “I really want to lay my hands on them.”
“Those poems are in Chinese anyways, so you wouldn’t understand anything,” Roxanne says, shrugging.
“Maybe you can translate them for me,” I tell her. “I can pay you for that.”
“This would take hours!” she points out just as fast, disregarding completely the last part. “I have other customers to take care of.”
“What if I pass by after hours?” I insist.
She blinks twice, her face laced with confusion. “Wait—You want me to open the shop exclusively for you?” she asks, surprised.
I shrug, not seeing what’s the issue with it. “Yeah, a lot of shops do private viewings. Just let me know the fee and I’ll pay you.”
“Um,” her eyes drift down for a moment and it seems like she’s assessing my request. “Fine, I guess that’s the least I can do after how I treated you last time we met.” Wow. I’m quite astounded that she admitted it herself. “I’ll text you the address and a date.”
I’m internally shaking my head at her last words. This seems more like an excuse to dodge having me at her bookshop, so I take my phone out and ask, “Do you mind giving me the the bookshop’s name and address now, in case you forget?”
She blinks twice, before scoffing at my question. “You don’t trust me, huh?”
I give a nonchalant shrug. “I just want to make sure I can go and check those rare editions and the banned poets. That's all.”
The show seems to be over and everyone is clapping, while the music becomes softer and less intrusive.
“Oh! I was looking for you!” Dan yaps as he steps in, and our attention immediately shifts to him. “There’s a writer I’d like to introduce you to. He’s not a poet but he writes short stories that have been published.”
“Can you give me just a sec?” I ask him, before giving a quick look at Roxanne.
“I just sent you a text,” she announces.
I frown in disbelief. Yet, as I check my phone, I see the new notification pop up. Wow. How come she retracted her decision to never see me again so quickly? “Okay, um, thanks.” I then stand up and looking at her, I simply say, “Well, it was lovely seeing you again.”
“The pleasure was all mine, Andries.”
My gaze locks with hers for a moment, and it feels like none of us truly wanted to stop the chat we were having, but Dan is quick to grab my arm, forcing me to turn around and walk away.
“Don’t tell me that woman was the one you had coffee with and asked you to delete her number?”
“Yep, that’s the one.”
“Fuck,” he mutters. “I swear I didn’t know she was coming.”
“That's alright,” I reassure him, following him.
We stop in front of a group of three people mingling between themselves, and Dan is quick to jump in and starts the introduction. “Patrick, this is Andries, the poet I told you about.” Dan then looks at me, putting a hand on my back. “Andries, this is Patrick—a published writer who also graduated from the same English program at the University of Amsterdam.”
We shake hands and start doing some small talk about his work, how he got published, and so forth. “I was also lucky to get an agent who had faith in me,” Patrick explains. “I can totally recommend his literary agency if you ever need.”
I thank him and we quickly exchange contacts. A few minutes later, when the conversation starts fading away, the group parts way, and I take this moment alone to unlock the screen of my phone and check the text message Roxanne sent me:
You can keep my number. Let’s meet up soon. X
Roxie.
* * *
Thanks, I look forward to it. X, I decide to say in return. It's short, polite but definitely not flirty, and that's exactly how I’ll behave with her from now on. I’ll go to her bookshop only and exclusively as a client and with zero intention of pursuing her like I did before. Speaking of which, from the corner of my eye, I can see Roxanne heading in my direction. A natural swing of her hips that is hard not to notice accompanies her, as well as a glass of bubbly in a hand and a charming smile gracing her face. I must say, she looks really exquisite in that red qipao dress. Maybe too exquisite… Seeing her approaching, I avert my gaze, take a quick sip on my drink, and turn slightly my back on her, ready to walk out of here.
But it’s too late—she just stops right beside me, and starts making conversation. “Hey,” she greets softly, “how has your evening been? Are you enjoying the party?”
“It’s been pretty good,” I say for the sake of politeness, my tone dry. The last thing I want after being rejected by her and forced to delete her damn number is to come across as too friendly. “And yours?”
“Great too.” I nod, then start glancing at my watch, ready to leave. “Are you…” she narrows her eyes on me as if searching her next set of words, “mad at me or something?”
“Mad?” I repeat, slightly surprised at her chosen word to describe my indifference. “No, why?”
“It feels like you are trying to avoid me.”
“I'm just keeping my distance,” I tell her sincerely.
And before I can inform her I’m going to go home, she says, “We can be friends, you know.”
“Oh can we?” I ask, my tone suspicious. “If you wanted to be my friend you wouldn’t have forced me to delete your number in the first place.” I couldn’t keep it to myself.
She frowns for a second, considering me, and then finally decides to open up. “Because I know all you wanted to do was have sex with me.”
I can’t help but burst out laughing at her shameless and pretentious statement. “That’s what you thought? Well, that’s where you are wrong,” I reply, still quite amused. “I just felt there was something between us and that’s why I wanted to see you again.” As I say those words our eyes lock for a quick moment and it seems like I can see her soul. “And I’m still convinced there is something between us since you never told me the opposite.”
“Maybe we can be friends then?” Her voice is small and slightly nervous, quite different from the self-assured woman of just a few seconds ago. “I can help you out with your English degree and, um, we can schedule an evening for you to go check out our collection of poetry?”
“Sounds reasonable,” I tell her as we start walking out of the living room.
We make our way toward the hallway and once there another question kicks in. "Can I ask you something?”
“Of course,” she says right before bringing her glass to her lips.
The hallway is less crowded, the music much lower, and it feels much better to have a conversation here. “Why did you change your mind about me?” My words hang in the air, crisps and sharps, and I catch a few by-passers, watching.
Her eyes widen in surprise and I know at this point she wasn’t expecting such a question to be made.
She heaves a long sigh, her eyes drifting to the floor as she processes what I just asked her. “Well,” her eyes meet mine again, and damn it, each time I look at them it feels strange and uncomfortable. “I didn’t like the idea of never seeing you again.”
Why her answer makes my heart race faster, I’m not sure, but I take it as a simple friendly compliment and smile. “I’m gonna have to go,” I say, opening up one of the built-in wardrobes to take my coat. “Whenever you are free to open the bookshop for a private viewing, let me know.”
I put my coat on, and close a few buttons while I pass past her, heading toward the front door.
Roxanne follows closely behind. “Okay, um, but you are already leaving?”
Reaching the front door, I turn around to face her, and I find the mix of disappointment and confusion in her gaze quite surprising.
“Well, yeah, it’s getting late.”
“Okay, sure,” she utters, forcing a polite smile.
While last time we met she gave me a hug and then walked away, now it's my turn to walk away first. Should I give her a hug like she did? A kiss on the cheek? Nah… After how she treated me last time we met, I don’t feel doing any of it. So I just take her free hand and give her a quick shake. “Have a good evening.” Then I open the door, and finally get out, leaving the noisy party and Roxanne behind.
