I look out from the helicopter and watch how the landscape scenery changes gradually. It is like layers. And I wonder if I am putting them on or taking them off. I realize it is change that I want and seem to crave after the months locked away, locked down, locked up
yes, I think, I want and crave change and .... freedom.
I sometimes wish I could fly and wish to know how it is to feel the freedom of spreading your wings and soaring with the wind. I used to have flying dreams all the time. For one year of my life, every time I dreamed, I was flying
I think it was always freedom I craved. Not in the way people talk of freedom, I mean it in the wild way, the way mustangs run wild. Sometimes it has felt I could almost know it on the back of a horse. I think that is my problem with society. My mother always told me I was too wild.... I don’t like restrictions, I would have detested wearing corsets and riding sidesaddle. I would have detested that life —but it might not have been too bad as a peasant, out on some misty moor
It is when things I look at from the window become congested with closer houses and the highway roads that are visible like a road map and are staggered with highway signs and dotted by more and more cars, that I realize it is putting on layers but sometimes it is easier to hide that way and have the distraction of static to absorb the blows in place of speech and conversation
I would not want to face a New York City crowd right now though, but I don’t mind observing it from far away.
This last year has jaded people. I wonder if it is just time for a new Renaissance. A birth of beauty. This world is in sad need of beauty. And not the kind manufactured, it needs to come from somewhere raw, somewhere real, from a place that has been exposed to the worst brutality and emerges like a shining star
And this I think about as I long to run away
****
It is the landing that jolts me. I look around and see Willem leaning over talking to the pilot. He turns to me
“You fell asleep,” he tells me as the engine dies down
And my head is still fuzzy when we get out. I have trouble comprehending all he says. Something about tomorrow, the body guards, Ilya....
“She said she left things for you in the fridge. Things you like,” he is saying
“Oh, that’s sweet,” I say as we walk, “she’s very nice, I’ve missed her.”
“Well, don’t get too comfortable, you’re leaving tomorrow,” Willem reminds me as we get into the waiting car with tinted windows. It is not a flashy car, but the kind that would go unnoticed, black and of some nondescript make which I know was the intention, and I’m grateful it’s comfortable inside when he says,
“this is Michèle, you’ll be driving out to Southampton with him tomorrow in this car,” Willem refers to the driver who is dressed like a chauffeur with the hat and uniform, “he is one of our French recruits, so don’t be fooled by his sweet face —he’s a trained lethal weapon.”
“That’s good to know. Hello, Michèle,” I shake his hand as he reaches back from the front driver’s seat
He smiles and tips his hat,
“I promise not to be too terrifying, it will be a pleasure. Do you like the Hamptons?” and his accent gives whatever he says and the name a more romantic sound, he says, “‘amptons” and stresses the second syllable
“It’s been awhile, it will be nice to see it again,” I say and sit back
But for now, this is just a short drive and once we head down city streets, with the sun beginning its descent overhead, I soon recognize, we are nearly there .... but how different Manhattan looks —and feels; like a plague has passed through and with it a civil war; it is a different vibe somehow
“Are you coming with us tomorrow?” I ask Willem when he goes up the private elevator with me
“I’ll meet you here before you leave, but there are still things I need to do. We’ll talk. And I need an excuse to get to the beach,” he says
I shake my head,
“I’m not sure about the beach, I remember it being closed to the public.”
“Then I think you’ll like the safe house you’ll be staying at,” Willem smiles with a wink and we get out. Outside the penthouse door there’s someone waiting, dressed in black, tall and muscular, “this is Patch, he’s on first watch.... oh, I almost forgot—your keys,” Willem hands them to me and then digs in his pocket, “and your phone charger. Make sure you plug it in. I’ll leave you here.”
And once through the door and closed behind me, I lean against it and look around.
It looks as if I never left it. Everything remains exactly how it was. I notice my suitcases have been left right by the door. I pick them up and walk towards the bedroom and once there look around at the old Art Deco styled room from Ethan Rhys-Jones’ era. Exactly how I left it. I put the suitcases down.
I walk through the main hall and through to the large living room that leads to the dining area where I know the kitchens are, but something first catches my eye. Not everything is exactly how it was. Something that had not been there ....now is...
The antique secretary that belonged to my mother.... and remember why it’s there. I go over to it and stare at its magnificence and —find myself thinking of who brought it there.... I touch the high polished dark wood, its rich stained color as lovely as I remember it.... but I don’t want to think of him
Remembering what Willem said, I go towards the kitchens and find the stainless steel all shined immaculate. I open the refrigerator
“Clever girl,” I say aloud when I find what she left for me. There’s a kale and quinoa ginger salad with chick peas and tofu wrapped in a porcelain bowl for me with a note that says, “welcome home”
I take it with me to the dining room and go to the excessively long walnut table and sit down, suddenly aware of how hungry I am and, as I eat, from the shadows —it seems, an apparition appears…. standing just a few feet away from the window
“Hello, duva.”
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