The Mermaid

This story was originally submitted and posted as The Photographer's Assistant. After the story was accepted, I realized that the file was incomplete (very much incomplete), so I am resubmitting the entire story under the title "The Mermaid." I apologize to those who wasted their time reading the incomplete version and hope you will take the time to read this completed draft.

*

"It was all Tia's idea." Django had written in his email. I reached into the side pocket of my briefcase, which was underneath the seat in front of me and pulled out the copy of the email. "Besides," Django had continued, "we need someone to help with our photography." I folded the paper and replaced it in my briefcase. I needed a cigarette, but the "No Smoking" light was on. So, I closed my eyes and leaned back in the big leather seat. I was not accustomed to flying first class, but the University of Munich was paying the bill, in addition to a generous stipend, so that I would teach a workshop entitled, "Character, Plot, Setting" as part of a global writing conference that they were hosting. Two years ago I had written a book that garnered critical praise, but little commercial success, as a result I had earned a reputation as a technical writer, who had little customer appeal. Perks came infrequently to such a writer. So, I intended to enjoy the experience. I had never imagined the comfort of first class and I wanted to sleep, but my mind kept wandering back to Tia.

We had only met a month earlier.

I was in New York to meet with my editor at Halton. Jonas, a long-time friend of my father, who owned a successful gallery on the west side, suggested I drop by the after my meeting so that we could go to dinner. Jonas had a meeting in the afternoon with an artist and his wife from Germany, but he was free afterwards.

My meeting was over sooner than I thought, and I arrived at Jonas's gallery just after 4:00 p.m. Chloe, Jonas's ice princess of an assistant was busy on the phone when I walked in and waved me without so much as looking up toward the back of the gallery in the direction of Jonas's office. Jonas's door was shut. So I occupied my time by looking at the paintings and photos on the wall.

Now I must admit. I'm not much into what passes for "art" these days. Colorful splatterings of paint on a canvas that looked like the work of a four year old, or simple abstract shapes tilted in "interesting" ways with a four or five figure price tag attached was not my idea of art. Give me dogs playing poker or Elvis on black satin any day of the week.

I pretty much exhausted my capacity for cultural edification after ten minutes. Jonas's door was still closed and I could still hear Chloe's self important, high pitched, nasally voice echoing back from the front of the gallery. I noticed a leather portfolio leaning up against a wall. The zippered opening had been left open and inside was a collection of photos. I pulled the first one out and was stunned. The picture was that of a naked woman shrouded by green and blue tinted scarves. Her head was turned so that her long dark hair fell across her shoulders. The effect of the scarves was tormenting as you could almost, but not quite, makes out the shape of the woman. I felt a familiar sensation begin to stir in my groin as I returned the picture and pulled out the next one.

Again, the hair, which I could see was just slightly damp hung seductively across the model's chest; seductively revealing the curve of her breasts. The picture seemed to have been taken through multiple layers of the same scarves. It had a dream-like quality as if you were seeing the model through the shallow depths of an ocean tide pool. The model was neither big, or what the one art professor I had in college would call rubenesque, nor was she brittle or waiflike, as so many models seemed to be nowadays. She was a real woman. Like the close encounter you have on the subway. The woman sitting across from you who you always want to say something to, but just when you get up the nerve the train pulls into a station and in a crush of people she is gone; so quickly you wonder if she was ever there at all. And then you lie awake at nights wondering if you'll ever have that moment again, and deep down you know that you won't.

I heard voices coming from the other side of the door. Jonas's meeting was wrapping up. I quickly replaced the second photograph and shoved my hands in the pockets of my pants and turned away as if intrigued by a particular picture on the wall. I was painfully aware of my erection that was straining against the fabric of my pants. With my hands in my pockets, I tried to position my stiffened penis in a way that maked my hard-on less obvious, but I knew that it was of little use.

Jonas came through the door first, continuing his side of the conversation and was followed by a younger couple. The man was handsome with sharp features and a sparse goatee. Then I froze. The woman was the woman from the photographs. Even though I have never seen her face, I was sure of it. She was medium height with long dark hair and her face was just as I pictured it would be. She was as beautiful as a fantasy. "Tim," Jonas said surprised to see me standing there. "You're early." Jonas was a big man and his voice loudly shattered the solitude of the previous moment. The couple smiled politely, while Jonas turned to lock his office door. It was an old building, and Jonas fumbled with the lock.

"My meeting got over early," I offered awkwardly. I could feel my face redden with the shame of my arousal. Jonas finally secured the lock and stood up. He regarded me warmly for a moment. Then, for the briefest moment, his eyes dropped down and there was the momentary understanding of my discomfort.

"Well, he said with a wry smile. "I see you've already become familiar with Django's work and most notably his wife, Tia. Django offered me his hand. His grip was strong and confident. Tia nodded her head; a slight smile creased the corners of her mouth. My humiliation was complete, I think to myself. "Hello," she said. And I will never forget that first sound of her voice. Her accent was clipped and unmistakably German, but her voice was crisp and clear like a perfectly plucked note on a violin.

"Hi," I said weakly and I immediately hated myself for sounding so pathetic. But really how much better could I sound with the Empire State Building of erections jutting out from the front of my pants. "I'm Tim Baxter. I'm an old friend of Jonas's."

"Yes, Yes, Yes." Jonas said impatiently and he waved his hand as if to dismiss with the necessities of congenialities. "What I want to know is what do you think of these." Jonas pulled a few of the pictures out of the portfolio, the first that I had already seen and two others, which were new to me.

"Well," I began tentatively, not really knowing what was expected off me. Django leaned in closer to hear my comments while Tia stood apart from the group. "I think this one," I nodded to the first picture that I had seen, "really draws your eye, you know? It seems to tell the promise of a story..."

"Oh, you writers." Jonas said dismissively. "You see a story in everything. Always about the story." Jonas leaned the three pictures at an angle against the wall, before pulling out two additional photos from the portfolio. Once the photographs were arranged to his liking, he squatted down in front of them to get a bird's eye view. "Now do you see the shadows in this one," he said over his shoulder to no one in particular, " the way they draw these imaginary lines – they are exquisite." Django hovered above and slightly behind Jonas's left shoulder and provided the narrative of his photographic technique. The two men began talking another language that consisted of angles, shadings, and F-stops.

I stepped back and gave Tia a shrug. "It is all Greek to me," I said.

"I'm sorry?" she said cocking her head slightly. "They are speaking Greek?"

"No, No." I say quickly shaking my head. "It's just an expression. It means..." I started to explain, but Tia stepped toward me and put her hand on my arm. "I am just, 'joking' you?" Tia said with a smile. "When Django begins speaking of his art, I usually try to busy myself to with other things."

Tia smiled lovingly at Django, who was know speaking very animatedly. The passion he had about his art was unmistakable as his voice rose in volume and he made a point about the lighting of one of the photographs. With Tia's attention on her husband, I took the opportunity to study her face. The pictures, although highly sensual and obviously well done, failed to even come close to capturing the real beauty of this woman. Tia had a strong, tight jaw line, and deep red lips that seemed to have been drawn on her face by the hand of an artist.

"So," she said, turning her attention back to me before I had a chance to look away. "You like the photographs?"

"Uhm, ah," I stammered and felt my face begin to glow. "Yes." I said, finally regaining my composure. "They are very beautiful." A flirtatious smile seemed to momentarily pass across the surface of Tia's mouth, but then it was gone.

"You are a writer?" She asked.

"Yes," I answer.

"Maybe some day you will write about the mermaid?" Her eyes twinkled and I almost got the feeling that she was enjoying my torment.

"I'm hungry," Jonas said suddenly. He stood up with Django's help. He had the knees of an old man. "There is a perfect Italian restaurant just around the corner. The maitre'd is a friend of mine. If I call him now, we can get a corner table with a window. We should celebrate new friendships as well as new business."

Jonas was right, the restaurant was perfect and the conversation was even better. I felt a natural connection to Django and Tia. And it seemed that they felt same. Django was both passionate and perceptive about life, and Tia could captivate the entire room with her beauty and smile. She sat across the table from me and would roll her eyes with mock constraint when Django would go on one of his rants about world affairs. At the same time, she was very affectionate toward Django and he with her. They were quite obviously a couple in love. After awhile, we found ourselves in a deserted dining room. Five bottles of expensive merlot stood guard at the end of our table. Around us, the other tables had been cleared and the chairs were flipped over, their seats resting on the tabletops so that the floor could be mopped as soon as we left. The staff hung in back and threw glances our way, hoping we would leave so that they could finish their duties and go home themselves.

"I think we've worn out our welcome," I said interrupting Jonas in the middle of a story about the mayor and his mistress. Despite his age, Jonas could outlast all of us.

"Yes, we must go." Django stood up. "We have a wonderful time, but our plane leaves in the morning early and this one," he said with a smile towards Tia, "does not wake up easily."

I felt a sudden inexplicable loss. This relationship, which had just started on such a promising note, was now ending. That is until Django, pulled me aside as Jonas was paying the bill. "Tim, we have both had such a wonderful time with you this night, that we would like to stay in touch if that is agreeable to you?"

I was flattered and of course agreed. We exchanged information and shortly afterwards began an almost weekly correspondence via email. Two weeks later, I was offered the opportunity by the University of Munich to participate in their annual writer's conference.

I emailed Django immediately and suggested that we try to get together. They replied that they would love to have me come and stay at their house for a few days when my conference was over. "We are working on a new series of photographs and would love to have your involvement," Django had written. My heart skipped a beat as I pictured the Mermaid series and I wondered if they new pictures would have anything in common with those.

A graduate student met me at the airport with my name on a cardboard sign. Sven explained in precise and flawless English, that he would be my guide during the trip. He would drive me where I needed to go and would also act as my interpreter while in the classroom. Sven had a narrow face that seemed to be fixed in constant scowl. It was obvious that his role as my guide was a serious imposition. I wondered who he had pissed off to draw this duty.

Despite Sven's overall disposition the week passed pleasantly enough. My days were basically my own as long as I met Sven promptly at one o'clock in the afternoon for the short drive to the university. The class was lively and full of graduate level students who were eager to write. Fortunately, everyone could speak English very well and Sven's services as an interpreter were not needed.

By Thursday, I had yet to hear from either Tia or Django and began to think that the offer of staying at their house for the weekend had been rescinded. The plan had been for Tia to pick me up at the University on Friday, the last day of the conference. I didn't have their telephone number and my email had been strangely silent.

On Friday, I packed my bags and checked out of the hotel. Tia was either going to show up as planned or I would catch a cab to the airport. I had called the airlines. There was a flight for London at five which would leave me with plenty of time to catch a connecting flight to New York.

I found my mind constantly wandering during the course of my class and my eyes kept looking out the window hoping to see Tia waiting for me. By the time the class ended without any sight of her, I'd reconciled myself to a long, lonely flight back across the Atlantic.

After the last of my students had cleared out of the classroom, I gathered my things and sought out Helmut Grunfeldt, the director of the conference, to thank him for inviting me. We met just outside the large lecture hall that was used as the central gathering place for the conference. He was just preparing to go in and give the final remarks to the participants, when we looked past my shoulder and offered a low appreciative whistle. "That, my friend, is the muse of a thousand stories," he said with a slight nod of his head. I looked in the direction he had just indicated and my heart nearly stopped. Quickly approaching us, in a long white overcoat and black high heels, was the most beautiful woman either of us had ever seen. From the long dark hair, I realized immediately that it was the mermaid – Tia. Recognizing me, Tia offered each of us a dazzling smile as she sidled up to me, hooking her arm in mine. Helmut's look of envy was unmistakable as I introduced the two of them. Through the fabric of Tia's coat, I could feel the swell of her breasts as she pressed against me.

"I'd given up on you," I said with a relieved smile after I said goodbye to Helmut.

"I know. I'm sorry I'm late," Tia apologized while we waited for a cab.

"That's alright," I said. "I would understand if the two of you had reconsidered having a house guest."

"Don't worry about that." Tia slapped my arm playfully. "Django and I have plenty of plans for you this weekend. "By Sunday night, you won't even remember I was a teensy bit late." Tia said with a wink. "I promise." With that, Tia bent over and picked up my shoulder bag by the strap. When she did so, her coat fell slightly open leaving me with a quick view of her breasts. She wasn't wearing anything under the coat. My heart began pounding a little quicker. Tia's tits were like two remarkably pert mangos with barrel shaped nipples that readily leapt to attention. Helmut was right. Tia was the muse that men had spent centuries trying to capture into words.

We had to take a forty-five minute train to a neighboring town. During the trip, Tia sat across from me. To my disappointment, another opportunity to test my theory of her being naked underneath that overcoat, never presented itself, but on a few occasions, as we talked. she would uncross and cross her legs briefly exposing the inside of her thighs. Her skin was milky white; almost like fine porcelain. I silently cursed Django for being lucky enough to lie between those thighs.

When the train reached the depot, Tia waved down a cab for the short ride to their house, while I gathered up my bags. By the time we finally reached their house, I was exhausted. Django came out to greet us. "I am glad to see you," he said with a laugh. "Tia has been climbing the walls all week waiting for your visit.

"That's great," I said. "I can't tell you how much I've been looking forward to this weekend. Django grabbed the suitcase and shoulder bag, leaving me with the briefcase and we followed Tia inside. Just as Tia reached the door, she let her coat drop to the ground revealing that my theory had been wrong. She wasn't completely naked underneath the overcoat. In fact, she was wearing a tantalizingly black thong that accented pure whiteness of her skin. Her perfect heart shaped ass was visible just for a moment before she disappeared inside the house, but it was enough to leave me weak at the knees. "See? What did I tell you?" Django said clapping me on the shoulder.

Inside, the house smelled wonderful. "I have been making spaghetti," Django said explaining the delicious smell. "In honor of our first meal together," he explained. We put my luggage in a small room off the dining room on which the table had already been set and when we returned, Tia now joined us wearing a short silky oriental dressing gown that was covered in butterflies and tied at the waist with a matching sash. The material hugged Tia's body appreciatively. It was either very cold inside the house or Tia was as aroused as I was because her nipples jutted out prominently against the thin, almost transparent silk.

The meal was excellent and the conversation was easy and well lubricated by wine. Much of our conversation fell to Django's new idea for a photographic series. "This will be an homage to the great American bimbo!" Django explained excitedly. "In honor of our guest and new photographer's assistant eh?" He smiled at Tia, who rolled her eyes playfully at Django's enthusiasm.

"What if I don't want to be an 'American bimbo'?" Tia pursed her lips out in a mock pout.

"Of course you want to be a bimbo. Secretly all women want that. Isn't that correct?" Django asked, soliciting my help by pointing a bread stick in my direction.

"Well," I began, trying to be diplomatic, "maybe Tia would be better suited being a German bimbo."

"Ach," Django groaned, flipping what was left of his breadstick in the air in resignation. "I give up." He said laying his head down on the table across his folded arms. We all laughed, and Tia lovingly ruffled his hair.

After dinner had been cleared from the table, Django handed Tia a bag of clothes, "Your costume," he told her.

Tia peered inside the bag. "Not much of a costume," she said.

"Never mind. Just go." Django said with a wave of his hand.

"Yes Sire," Tia smiled mischievously, before turning on her heel and heading down the hallway.

Django then began instructing me on how to set up the camera and align the studio lighting that he had borrowed from a friend. My job for this photo shoot was to angle the light according to his instruction. "The lighting is most important," Django said earnestly. "Photography is all about manipulation of light."

Within a few minutes, Tia returned, but she was still wearing her dressing gown.

"What is the matter now?" Django sighed as if working with a temperamental movie star.

Tia put her hands on her hips. She looked irresistibly seductive in that pose. Remember my rule, darling?" She asked while her eyebrows arched expectantly.

"Oh, schweisse." Django muttered and he began slipping off his shoes. "She has a rule, that however naked she gets, I must get equally naked."