The young man dressed in full torero regalia is on the bed, grasping the poles on the headboard for dear life, a red satin pillow muffling his cries of pleasure. Prostrate on the mattress, his ass raised, the man behind him, naked save for a montera, aggressively penetrates him anally through a hole cut in the seat of the torero’s taleguilla. Victor wonders what the fuck he got himself into and gives Lorelei a questioning look.
Don’t mind them, Lorelei says. That’s Alejandro. He gets off on that sort of thing. The one fucking him is a friend of his. He has a thing for toreros. Whatevs… My room’s down the hall. We’ll have more privacy there.
Lorelei walks with purpose, leading the highly confused Victor toward the large white doors with gilded trim at the end of the hallway. Her dirty black hair swings about her bony shoulders when she walks, her feet stomping along the scuffed parquet floors with the force of an elephant. She’s somewhat unkempt, emaciated, and dresses like a Punk Rock girl from the eighties with her dirty Crass T-shirt, faded tight black jeans, and well-worn Doc Martens. She wears no makeup and her little button nose is pierced, a small silver hoop through her left nostril, and a small stud adorns her chin just below her bottom lip. It’s as if she stepped out of another era, one she isn’t old enough to remember.
Alejandro’s cries of ecstasy echo around the sparsely decorated apartment, which is rather large, much larger than one would imagine from out in the hallway. Victor is having second thoughts now.
She opens the door to reveal a spacious room with a four-poster queen-sized bed, a Moorish-styled area carpet, and old-world Spanish furniture.
Alejandro lets me crash here, she says. I don’t think there’s been a day where he hasn’t brought someone home with him. He’s always with some guy or another. He doesn’t always do the torero thing but his friend gets off on it. We’ll be all right in here. They won’t bother us. He does his thing, I do mine. We don’t really socialize. He runs with a different crowd.
Her heavily accented English is near perfect, which is a good thing because Victor’s Spanish is virtually non-existent save for a few words and expressions.
She brushes her hair back with her fingers, taking a moment to scratch her scalp, leaving behind a shower of dandruff as her hair falls about her shoulders. Her arms are thin, somewhat pale and covered in tattoos, the most prominent being the encircled ‘A’ on one bicep and the Crass logo on the other. She digs a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket and places one between her lips, which are full and attractive, though slightly chapped. She gazes at him over the flame of her lighter with her big dark eyes which seem too big for her face, like a Margaret Keane painting, though not as innocent. More probing and curious, and perhaps a hint that no one is home.
You’re a lot older than me, aren’t you?
Probably, he says.
I’m only twenty-eight. You must be at least forty.
Closer to fifty, he says.
Jesus…, she says, then takes a deep pull from her Gauloises.
I don’t mean that like it sounded, she says. You don’t look that old.
It’s all right. I don’t feel that old either.
I guess that’s all that matters.
Alejandro apparently achieved orgasm, his cries echoing around the apartment. Lorelei laughs, an odd little cackle, that of a little girl’s.
Alejandro is a decent guy, she says. A little eccentric, I suppose. Can I get you something to drink? A cerveza?
No, thanks, I’m good.
He lights a cigarette of his own and watches her sitting on the edge of the bed, her big dark eyes probing him. There’s something about her gaze which disturbs him. To ease his discomfort, he walks over to the window and parts the curtains to see the view. It isn’t much of a view, just a line of cars parked along the street, a café, a tobacco shop, and the apartment building across the street. Lorelei walks over to the window and opens it, allowing some fresh air in to rid the room of the stench of body odor and sex.
Lorelei sprawls out on the bed, ashtray at her elbow, and studies Victor’s confusion as he looks around the grand room.
You’re wondering about the apartment, aren’t you, she says, and how I don’t seem to fit.
She takes a long drag from her cigarette, stubs it out in the ashtray.
This is Alejandro’s apartment, she continues, or his parents’ apartment, anyway. Or used to be. They left it to him. He allows people to crash here, mostly his boyfriends, but he lets me stay here whenever I need a place, which is usually all the time. This is essentially my room now.
You’re very perceptive, Victor says.
I have to be. I’ve been living on my own for years, since I was a teenager. You learn a lot of things, learn a lot about people. You’re having second thoughts about me, aren’t you?
Victor doesn’t say anything and walks over to the bed to stub out his cigarette in the ashtray. Lorelei pushes it aside and lays down on the bed, twirls a strand of hair around her finger.
You’re wondering if I’m dirty, is that it?
I didn’t say that.
I can see it in your expression. I’m not, you know. In fact, I find that a bit insulting.
Victor sits on the edge of the bed and looks down at her, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her chapped lips, twirling her hair, her eyes probing him again, trying to get inside him. He can almost feel it, as if she had the ability to get inside him.
There’s a knock on the door, then it slowly opens. Alejandro peers in, now shirtless, and flashes a smile at Victor before turning his attention to Lorelei.
Va a salir un rato, he says. ¿Estas bien?
No te preocupes por mi — es un guiri inofensivo.
Alejandro laughs, nods, waves goodbye, then closes the door behind him.
He’s always looking out for me, she says. He’s a good guy.
Was he worried?
No, he isn’t worried. He knows I can take care of myself. If anything, I worry more about him. He’s not too discerning as to who he brings home. Like that guy he was with when you came in, with his bullfighter fetish. If you ask me, Alejandro debases himself by doing that but… He’s going out, so we have the place to ourselves now. Why are you just standing there? Come here.
She pats the mattress and moves over to give him room. He hesitates for a moment, then lies down on the bed beside her.
See? I don’t smell, she says.
What’s with you?
I don’t know — you keep looking at me like I’m some sort of street kid. You didn’t look at me that way the other night. You were kind of sweet, actually. What’s gotten into you?
He doesn’t have an answer for her, nor does he know why he’s having second thoughts about being there, about being with her. Something’s different but he can’t quite place his finger on it.
I mean, you’re only going to be here for a week or two, am I right? Am I not good company?
Why are you so defensive? I didn’t say or imply any of those things.
It’s your behavior. It’s different. The other night you were talkative, relaxed. Now you seem… I don’t know. Nervous, uptight. Afraid, really. You don’t have anything to be afraid of. I’m not looking to marry you, if that’s what you’re worried about. Besides, I wasn’t the one taking photos of random girls with their cellphone in the Plaza Mayor. We wouldn’t have met if I hadn’t caught you.
I wasn’t taking photos of random girls.
You did with me, she says. I was just minding my own business, drinking a bottle of water, trying to cool down from the oppressive heat we’ve been having lately, and the next thing I know some man is taking my photo. I didn’t mind, really. It’s just how things are now with cameras and phones everywhere. Had I not caught you, we never would have met.
True, he says, a little embarrassed.
Is it the age difference? Is that what’s bothering you?
Let’s take it easy, he says. There’s no reason to argue.
A slight laugh slips through her lips as she sits up and reaches for another cigarette.
I enjoyed spending time with you the other night, she says. What happened to that guy? It’s like you’re a different person.
Am I making you nervous?
She pauses a moment to light her cigarette. A little, she says.
I don’t mean to, he says.
Then what is it? Why don’t you relax? We have the whole place to ourselves. I thought, well, you know…
She places the cigarette in the ashtray, moves the ashtray to the nightstand. Victor watches a tendril of smoke, which hovers in a ray of sunlight coming through the open window. All it takes is Lorelei’s kiss, far more tender than he expects. She gazes down at him with those black doll eyes and again he feels she’s penetrating him, reaching deeper than anyone ever had before. It unnerves him, so he closes his eyes and gives in to his desire.
. . . . . .
It’s early evening now, and the sun has been replaced by the glow of the street lamps below, casting an oblong shadow of one of the open windows on the wall. Lorelei sleeps face down, her head turned towards the window, her matted black hair a mess. Victor lights a cigarette and watches her sleep. He’d never seen anyone so skinny, bordering on malnutrition. He hadn’t expected her to be so gentle, so fragile, as if he were handling a mummy. It was the scar on her abdomen that bothered him, running across her entire lower torso, nearly from hip bone to hip bone. It wasn’t surgical. An unwanted memento from a savage act of violence. She didn’t say anything about it, didn’t even let on she noticed he saw it. The pieces are starting to come together now and he doesn’t know how he feels about it.
He gently runs his fingers through her hair. It’s soft, despite its dirty appearance, and that’s when he realizes the look is deliberate, brought about through some sort of cosmetic product. He leans down and smells her hair. There’s an airy fragrance to it. He brushes her hair back away from her face, gazes down at her, this stranger, this young woman he doesn’t even know but now knows intimately. He kisses her softly on the forehead, then stubs out the cigarette and cradles her in his arms, his fingers gently stroking her hair. It soothes him, helping to alleviate whatever hesitancy he initially had in getting closer to her.
A little smile pulls at her lips. A slight chill runs down the length of her neck. Half-awake now, she can’t remember the last time anyone paid so much loving attention to her. At the same time, it saddens her because she knows it’s temporary. They still have a week, or maybe two, ahead of them and she plans to make the most of it, hopes he’s willing to make the most of it as well. She doesn’t get the impression he’s going to be a one night stand. His touch is too gentle, too warm. She feels she deserves some genuine affection for once, even if this moment is as long as it lasts. This strange man, twenty years her senior, this specter who emerged from nowhere, who just happened to take her photo in the Plaza Mayor, who found her beautiful enough to even want to.
Julian Gallo is the author of ‘Existential Labyrinths’, ‘Last Tondero in Paris’, ‘The Penguin and The Bird’ and other novels. His short fiction has appeared in The Sultan’s Seal (Cairo), Exit Strata, Budget Press Review, Indie Ink, Short Fiction UK, P.S. I Love You, The Dope Fiend Daily, The Rye Whiskey Review, Angles, Verdad, Modern Literature (India), Mediterranean Poetry (St. Pierre and Miquelon), Borderless Journal (Singapore), Woven Tales, Wilderness House, Egophobia (Romania), Plato’s Caves, Avalon Literary Review, VIA: Voices in Italian America, The Argyle, Doublespeak Magazine (India), Bardics Anonymous, Tones of Citrus, The Cry Lounge, and Deal Jam.