She flips my business card through the fingers of her right hand in the same way a poker player spins a $50 chip. Index, middle, ring, then around her pinky for another loop. Not lengthwise, but rather along the narrow side, leaving the length of my card to stick out past her French-manicured nails. It’s uncanny, mesmerizing, and I struggle to pull my eyes away and focus on her face.
It’s not a bad face, as far as faces go. A bit harsh around the eyes and mouth, which is telling, but unsurprising. Many men would call her beautiful, and many have, only to be dashed on the rocks by her siren song. A long trail of male detritus still follows her; washed-up mariners clinging to the bowspit of their wrecked lives. I can see the attraction. It’s a bit like a moth to a flame, which, now that I think of it, begs an important question: Does a moth really know it is headed for certain destruction? Or is it just compelled by its deeper, baser instinct? Either way, this woman is the flame.
My business card stops moving, suspended between her middle and ring finger like a thin slice of nothingness. I look at the card, then into her hazel eyes.
“You want what?” She asks languidly. Or is it harshly? I’m having trouble reading her. Her voice says one thing, but her face another entirely. She pulls my business card from its wedged position with the thumb and index finger of her left hand, turning it slightly to re-read my information. “John Stillman.” It’s a declaration, not a question, as if she chose my name for me.
“I want to interview you,” I repeat, for what seems like the third time.
She laughs–or chuffs, I don’t know–and smiles broadly, leaning against the pillows lining her overstuffed silk chaise lounge. Bright orange fabric, by the way. Not my first choice, but it accents well her slitted cerulean dress and long legs, which she crosses as she reclines, leaving a strip of tanned skin exposed to her mid-thigh.
“Moi?” She protests falsely, placing her long fingers on the rise of her chest. “Little ol’ moi? And why would I do that?”
“Because many people have written about you, but the truth is, if I may speak boldly, no one has ever told your story.”
“You do speak boldly.” Again, that chuff. “You think twenty years of interviews missed the mark? You think my biographer fell short?”
“They asked the wrong question.”
She raises her eyelids, revealing the full white circle of her eyes. “And what is the right question?”
I pause, because how I play this will decide how this story goes. One breath, two. Lean forward, forearms on my thighs. Full eye contact. Open my mouth slightly before I speak.
“Why.”
Her full lips purse, then frown. “Why?’
“Yes. Why.”
“Why what, John? Why this?” She sweeps her hand around the expansive room, her gesture taking in the grand piano, the bookshelves, the statues and priceless vases, and, outside, the manicured gardens.
“No, that’s actually a how. I know how you got all of this.” You stole it from your lovers, used them to climb into their power, and destroyed them, I didn’t say.
She doesn’t skip a beat. “Then perhaps why I chose to successfully–and single-handedly, mind you–pull a backwards country into the twenty-first century.” No agitation, no concern. She’s clearly used to this type of conversation.
“Perhaps,” I say. “But that’s not the story I want to tell. Everyone knows the storyline. You saw your impoverished homeland being manhandled by imperialistic countries and wanted it to have a voice on the world stage. You’ve done that. I want to know your personal why.”
At the corner of the room, framing the ten-foot mahogany doors, two security guards eye me closely, watching her every move for the slightest hint of discomfort.
Her brows scrunch. Not too much Botox, I see. She leans forward in what appears to be thought, focusing on the hand-stitched Persian rug resting directly beneath my slightly scuffed brown oxfords. Too long, though. Two, three seconds? Then suddenly she pulls upright, laughs again, and reaches for a small, hand-carved box on the side table to her right.
“Here.” She places the box in my hands, her long fingers brushing in a hint of contact against mine. “Open it.”
I look closer at the box, inlaid with abalone set between intricately carved patterns, then twist the small latch and lift the lid. It is filled with fingernails. Not clippings. Fingernails.
There are times when playing a lot of poker proves helpful. Not when I’m underwater and still owe $20,000 to some very bad people. It’s not helpful then. But now, as I look into this box of dozens of fingernails, some still caked in dried blood, I’m grateful I know how to hide my emotions. I shut the box and hand it back to her, expressionless.
“Those are my lovers’ index fingernails,” she says, her fingertips circling gently on the abalone inlay. “Do you want to know why I have them?” She pauses, but not long enough for me to answer. “First,” She straightens her back, sets the box back on the tea table, and pushes her blonde hair off her shoulder. “I despise being scratched. I can’t abide it.” She shudders at the thought. Sincerely? Duplicitously?
“But here’s the real reason why.” She leans forward, her elbows on her knees, pressing her breasts into deep cleavage. “Every other woman that they touch, they will think of me. For the rest of their lives.”
I push back. “So you’ve got a kink. Lots of people have those. That doesn’t answer my question.”
Her eyes smile, and she doesn’t break eye contact. “Yes, I do have preferences,” she replies smoothly. “As do you, I am sure.”
“Of course. We all do.” I feign agreement.
She reaches forward, tracing an index finger around the circle of my kneecap. “Yes, we do.”
I slide her fingers into mine, resting my other hand over them. Her hands are soft, delicate, almost fragile. She’s looking at my fingernails now, her long eyelashes flicking as they hide and reveal her large eyes.
“I’ve been lonely, John.” She says softly. “It’s been a long time, as I am sure you know.”
I don’t let go. “I’ve heard some stories.”
“So you know my why, then.” She places her final hand on mine, and we sit there, hand upon hand upon hand upon hand. I make no sign of consent or dissent. “I need passion to survive. I need beauty to create. I need desire to rule.” She looks closely at me, her eyes softening. “Without love, I am nothing.”
I look back into her eyes and smile a half-smile. “So, tell me the real reason why.”
“What?” She leans back abruptly, pulls her hands from mine, and looks baffled, but one can never be sure. One of the guards takes a step forward from the doorway, but she waves him back, blinks twice, holds her breath for a second, then looks at me once more. “You don’t make sense, John Stillman. You don’t make sense at all.”
“That’s alright.” I stand, brushing my now wrinkled Dockers with the flat of my hands. “I’ve got everything I need.”
