The Quality of Her Tears

I gasped when we entered. It made Jean-Luc chuckle. "Pas mal, eh?" he whispered, pulling my shoulder into him.

There were only five men in the beautiful ballroom; no women. They varied in age from maybe forty to fifty-five, sixty – their hair went from pepper-and-salt to silvery white. They were all wearing tuxedos.

One of them cut loose from the group and walked over to us. He held his arms wide until he closed them around Jean-Luc. I stepped aside to watch them embrace. Then Jean-Luc freed himself and gestured to include me.

"Papa," he said. "Please meet Mia. She means the world to me." I felt a blush at what he said. Yes, I guess he meant the world to me too.

I smiled and placed my hands in the older man's, now noticing the similarities of father and son. Papa was heavier set than his son and his hair was totally white, but the eyes were the same and so was his voice. His hands felt warm and dry – they were strong too.

"Let me wish you a cordial welcome, mademoiselle," he said in French, his voice booming. "My son is a very lucky man." As he talked, he brought my right hand to his lips. The old-fashioned gesture gave me shivers.

"Merci, monsieur, je suis honorée," I stuttered in my best French, having no clue as to what might be proper phrasing.

I was tickled pink that Jean-Luc would present me to his family this soon, but I would never have agreed to dress like this had I known.

The old man smiled and kept looking me up and down. My virtual nakedness gnawed at my confidence. The way my nipples poked into the soft jersey didn't help either. Hot flashes crept up from my throat.

He winked, touching my shoulder lightly to steer me towards the other men. What followed was a round of hardly understandable introductions. No one reached out for a handshake; we just all nodded and smiled a lot. Their eyes made me feel as if I were pushed through a scan. The men were all very distinguished and fit for their age. One of them was Asian.

Jean-Luc handed me a glass of sparkling wine, whispering in my ear how I impressed them. My smile was as weak as my knees.

"Who are these men?" I whispered back, urgently. "And aren't there others? Women?" But he'd already turned away.

Papa lifted his glass and proposed a toast in French that I could only partly follow. There was the obvious santé, there were flattering phrases concerning my physique and compliments for Jean-Luc. And then he ended by wishing everything would go as satisfactory as he expected.

I wanted to ask Jean-Luc what his father might mean by that, but Jean-Luc took my glass away from me and told me he'd be back soon. As I watched him walk out of the room a mild panic got hold of me. It didn't help that five pairs of male eyes stared at me when I returned my gaze. Somehow they had formed a circle around me.

I felt very naked again.

Papa bared his teeth and stepped closer. His big hand reached well into my private sphere, touching my hair. I tried to step back, but the man behind me did not yield.

"Jean-Luc didn't lie," the old man said, now caressing my face. I said: "I...," too stunned to find words for the growing turmoil inside my head. Hands touched my back and the slopes of my ass, through the dress. I cursed its flimsiness, overwhelmingly aware of my nudity below. I turned around, crying out. Hot waves of panic engulfed me. All I saw were smiles.

"Jean-Luc!" I screamed. "Where are you? What is this? Jean-Luc?!"

The men chuckled. My flaring nostrils caught the acrid smells of cigars and garlic. Fingertips grazed my neck. I lifted my arms and mowed with them to push the men away from me. I needed space. I needed to run.

"I don't want this!" I cried out, repeating it in French. "Je ne veux pas... pas! Non! Laisse-moi!" But there was a solid wall of male bodies around me now. Papa's face came in close, his ringed fingers caressing my cheek. He smelled of cognac. His smile made me feel sick.

"Be a good girl now and show us what my boy has been bragging about," he said in badly accented English. "Get out of that dress, please."

I just stared at him. He repeated the question, but I could not move. The air was closing in on me, crackling with the mute aggression surrounding me. I could only gasp and stare; the casual question had chased every last thought from my mind. Fingers were touching me, bodies pushing. But even if I had been free, I wonder if I would have moved – I couldn't even scream.

I guess I was in shock. Papa's face swam in and out of focus. I felt hot, numb and fuzzy, not even noticing how the hands let go of me. The lips in the blurry face started moving again.

"Deshabille-toi," they said.

I was too dizzy to understand. "Get that dress off, girl," he repeated, once more in vaudeville English. His hand rose. I shrunk away. Then I felt fingers at the hidden zipper behind my back. The fabric slithered off my body. It pooled around my heels, allowing the cool air to kiss my skin. I automatically tried to cover my nipples with one arm, my crotch with the other. Hands came from behind, pulling them down and holding them. A whiff of well-known cologne hit my nostrils. It took the last resistance out of me. With no bra and my panties taken off earlier, I was completely exposed. Panic choked my throat; the ultimate humiliation made my face burn.

"W-why... what? Pourquoi, Jean-Luc?" I stammered as tears trickled down my cheeks. My lips trembled. The old man never answered, nor did his son – and I couldn't find words to go on. I just stood there naked, my arms held back – not able to meet his or anyone's eyes.

It must have been the overwhelming suddenness. One moment I felt perfectly safe; the next instant it seemed as if the floor was pulled from under me. The sheer sense of treason brought sickness to my throat. Confidence had been like breathing to me; I'd never had to live through a situation like this – not even remotely. My shoulders sagged. The hands let go of my wrists. I just let my arms dangle, defeated, powerless. I couldn't handle this.

I had no defense.

Closing my eyes, I shivered, swaying on the pins of my heels. Murmuring voices were all around me, as were clouds of smoke. My mind screamed 'flee!' but my feet were glued to the floor. I lived in a stifling cloak spun of shame and humiliation. Foreign words were hissed. They were void of meaning, but left their sticky dirt everywhere. I felt disgusted. I felt outraged. I did! Didn't I? But if so, why just stand there with trembling thighs, a treacherous glow in my belly? I had to run. Why couldn't I run?

Someone moaned "no, no" – it was me. Male voices conversed around me, businesslike; I caught fragments concerning my ass and my breasts – tits, "tetons." I also heard "vache" and "salope." There was a lot of chuckling.

I opened my eyes again, blushing like a torch. The hands had gone; the spell broke. Jean-Luc stood in front of me, holding up the dress. The men had moved to a distant corner, chuckling as they looked in my direction. I wanted to slap his face, to spit in his eyes. I could only whisper.

"Why are you doing this to me? He, your father touched me – they, they all... And you took off my dress!" He smiled, raising a hand to silence me.

"Put it back on, chérie, we are leaving."

I slapped his hand away and started running on my stiletto heels. Even before I reached the entrance, the slick leather slipped on the polished floor and I fell down, sliding towards a huge marble pot that held a palm tree. All I saw was the black stone looming in front of me – then all was darkness.

***

I must have been out for a bit, for when I came to I was in a different place. It hummed and floated around me, definitely moving. A car? My skull hurt and there was a bitter taste in my mouth. I looked up and, yes, I was in a car. The only light came from outside – fleeting neon and traffic lights, mostly.

I lay on the backseat. A man's head and shoulders were silhouetted against a screen of multi-colored lights. He was the driver and he looked familiar. I pushed myself up from under a pile of clothes – blankets?

"Jean-Luc," I croaked, but all I produced was a groan. The man turned shortly to me.

"How's the head?" he asked; then he turned back to the traffic. His voice made me shiver – it was as warm and sweet as ever. I didn't answer.

"Mia," he went on. "Don't be mad with me. Je suis fier de toi, so proud of you. You made a very good impression." Everything came back to me, soaked in bile: the disgusting men, the humiliation – the treason... I rose to my knees, reaching for the door handle. It didn't budge.

"Let me out!" I screamed. "Let me go. Let me, please... please let me..." My hands hit the glass. My nails scratched the door to no avail. I collapsed, my cheek sliding down the windowpane. Rage melted into despair.

"Why, Jean-Luc?" I asked, turning back to him. "Why did you bring me there? Why did you let them? It was rape, Jean-Luc, goddamned rape, and you let them! You helped them!"

The car hummed; traffic-noise filtered in. Jean-Luc didn't answer. I flung forward, grabbing his shoulders – shaking him while I repeated my questions.

"Arrête!" he cried out. "Stop this, you are killing us both, Mia!" But I didn't let go. A blood red rage had come over me and I didn't even see how the car swerved, spawning a wave of angry claxon sounds and screaming tires. I pulled at his hair now, scratching the skin off his neck.

"You took me to those bastards!" I cried. "Half-naked. You just handed me out to be... to be raped."

At last he found an empty lot to park and as soon as the engine died, he turned around, grabbing my hands and pushing his face into mine.

"Stop, Mia! Stop and listen!" I didn't stop, I didn't listen. I fought him furiously, spitting in his eyes.

"Let me out!"

The slap stung my face, making my ears ring. Another slap followed. I stopped, stunned. I stared at him, wide-eyed and wide-mouthed, panting.

"Mia," he said. "Ecoute! Je t'aime. N'oublie-jamais, c'est moi, Jean-Luc et je t'aime. Repeat what I tell you: I love you!" I was speechless. He went on, tightening his grip.

"Répète, Mia: je t'aime. Tell me you love me too!" I just stared; this was all too crazy. His fingers now closed around my jaw. He pulled me close and kissed me – hard. "Tell me you love me." I gulped air. Then I felt my head nodding; my lips moving. He smiled.

"I am proud of you, chérie. They were so impressed." He closed his mouth around my open lips again, invading me with his tongue.

Bizarre confusion struck me, followed by frustrated anger. How could he tell me he loved me after all he did to me? How could he slap me, then kiss me as if everything was all right? How could he embrace me and praise me for making a good impression after throwing me naked to a bunch of perverts? How on earth could he expect me to love him still?

I smelled the treacherous familiarity of his aftershave, the corrupted intimacy of his scent. I tried to scream, but all sounds were strangled by the intensity of his kiss. And when he at last stopped, I couldn't speak for lack of breath.

"C'est rien, chérie," he said, still panting from the kiss. "It is just a tradition. I take pride in showing my girls to my father." His eyes sparkled in the streetlights. "You should feel honored; he was very, very complimentary. He agrees that you are so much more than just another beautiful girl." He stopped but held my gaze with his hungry eyes.

"Mia," he whispered. "I bombarded him with my praise for you, so he had to see you; all of you, and show you off to his friends." He pulled me even closer, forcing my lowered eyes back to him.

"Please understand, Mia. I need papa to be proud of me. I need the appraisal of him and his friends. I need them to know how important you are for me. That is why I took off your dress and held down your wrists." A wave of sickness touched her stomach as she watched his face. It glowed like... like a schoolboy's.

"They were flabbergasted, Mia," he went on, mauling the word. "Your beauty stunned them all."

My panic abated – replaced by a chill that made me shiver. He was a schoolboy, yes, I thought, proud of showing his dad how well he did. Holding me, stripping me, putting me on display. I felt numb. My hurt skull pulsed with muted pain. Half-forgotten images of a story flashed before my eyes – a silly porn book, a movie. A chained woman with a blindfold.

Jean-Luc reached out and caressed my face. It shook me out of my stupor. I yanked my head away, bumping it into a headrest. He tried to stop me, but I climbed halfway over the right front seat, grabbing for the handle of the door. It opened, but before I could struggle out, his strong hands pulled me back by my dress. I heard it tear. Falling into him, I suddenly struck out with both elbows. Maybe I hit his face, I don't know. But he cried out and let go, so I fell forward through the open door. My knees scraped on the concrete and the heel of my right shoe snapped. I kicked both off and ran.

The treacherous dress hung in tatters, exposing me to the cool night's breeze. I felt more naked than ever.

Carl.

Sitting at my desk I studied the envelope a courier delivered that morning. It was large and well stuffed. It had the letterhead of Jones and Callahan in its left hand top corner. I could guess what might be in it, but as long as I didn't open it I wouldn't know for sure, I told myself. It would be a report, no doubt, but what about? There would be pictures, maybe, but of what? I suppressed the urge to open it. Fooling yourself for just a while longer can be soothing – something to hang on to, like the guy falling from the sky scraper saying "so far, so good."

I turned the envelope in slow circles. My finger pushed at one corner. Then I propped the thing against the photograph of Mia on my desk, covering her smile.

I worked for a while, struggling through the life of an obscure Italian early Renaissance painter. He didn't even have a name; he was known as the Master of the Suckling Madonna of Assisi. A rich Azerbeidjani recently bought a painting he thought was by the famous Ghirlandaio. He wanted to lend it to the new art museum in his native Bakoe that would gratefully name an entire wing after him. It was an old friend at the museum who consulted me, and I had good reasons to think he was a bit late with that The painting showed all the signs of being by the Master from Assisi. In which case the poor rich owner would lose quite a few millions.

Work, especially dull work, proved to be a great way to chase off the nagging ghosts occupying my skull. But today the envelope kept distracting me. Ah, how a crisis befuddles the mind – at one point I even praised myself for holding out.

Around twelve I left the house to have lunch with an art historian friend to get his opinion on what I found out about the Italian master. The man also was a wine connoisseur, so the lunch had a way of stretching into the afternoon. I hurried to get his sober insights before the first bottle was empty. After that I stuck to mineral water. We decided the painting couldn't be a Ghirlandaio. We even doubted it being by the suckling master. And after a feeble pun about "the poor sucker having to suck it up," I knew my time to leave was way overdue.

When I returned home, the envelope was still there, of course. I picked up my paring knife. It was an antique and had been a gift from Mia. How appropriate, I thought, as the sharp edge split the paper.

A report fell out, together with a stuffed smaller envelope. It probably contained pictures. I started reading.

There was a short list of times and places. There also were transcripts of phone calls and text messages. Mia was toast. So was I, in a way. A tremendous sadness weighed down on my shoulders.

The photos were of two people meeting. They kissed most of the time and one of them was always Mia. The other was always a man, but not always the same, as far as I could see. I knew none of them. I found close ups of a woman sucking cock – fat, dark cock. And of a woman on her elbows being fucked from behind by a man who was just a silhouette. That woman too was Mia. And her face showed delight. I was past anger, even past sadness. I just wondered how they'd been able to get the pictures.

I pushed them away, making them slide over the shining surface of my desk. I looked up, straight into Mia's framed smile. I wondered what she'd say when confronted. I supposed I'd hear all the known clichés. "I can explain. It meant nothing. We have to talk. I am sorry. It isn't what it seems. It was just sex. Please forgive me. I love you. Only you."

It was a week before our anniversary. I had already bought her a present – jewelry, as was our (all too short) tradition. I opened the drawer and took out the gift box. I saw how the pictures would fit inside, once I removed the large and intricate Art Nouveau broche that was in it. It gave me an idea about when and how to confront Mia. No need to waste more jewelry on her, anyway.

I knew it would be hard to wait for another week and not explode. But I also knew she would be busy and I'd find ways to be gone a lot as well, thanks to the suckling master. Time would fly, surely, even if I might not have much fun.

***

So I confronted her at our anniversary dinner. Thank God she spared me the cliché reactions. She never said she could explain, nor did she insist that it was meaningless sex – so far so good. But she didn't say she loved me, either. Well, it would have been a hollow phrase anyway, but it stung that she didn't. She did cry, however, I had to give her that. And she said she was sorry, but her reason for being sorry wasn't at all what I expected.

"I am sorry to have stolen four years from your life," she said. "Time you could have spent with a better woman." She'd understand if I wanted a divorce and she would go with whatever I proposed.

That was fast, especially since I had never even mentioned the D-word yet. Her voice sounded businesslike when she said it. I had to admit this was more in line with the Mia I knew than the crying had been, but it felt awkward; and yes, a bit disappointing.

I'd put the lid back on the open box and said I would get the papers tomorrow. She gathered her things and we left the restaurant. Back home she wished me good night after a very long shower, and went to our spare bedroom. Without make up her face looked childlike and open. The rims of her eyes were red, ah well, reddish, maybe.

I guess she didn't get more sleep than I did, but that may have been wishful thinking. I lay in the dark wondering what her feelings were, if any. I knew mine, having lived with them for a fortnight already. Her response wasn't at all what I had expected. Maybe the cool efficiency hurt me more than her cheating.

When I returned home the next afternoon, she was gone. Her wedding ring was on the kitchen table – with a note telling me that her solicitor would call me. There were no good byes, nothing even remotely personal.

She took very few things with her – her laptop, of course, but none of her toiletries or even her beauty case. As far as I knew hardly any of her shoes or clothes were missing, and none of her jewels. I did see that she'd taken the locked diary.

I supposed she'd be back for her things, but she never was. She also never called, texted or e-mailed. Apart from her remaining stuff and the faint perfume that lingered on her pillow, it seemed she never existed.

I found a friend of a friend who through sad experience knew a good female divorce lawyer. When I visited her, she told me things would be simple as long as Mia didn't object to anything. The apartment was rented; the pretty MG was hers, so I only would have to split our money 50/50 and give her all her own stuff. Then we waited for the attorney who would call us, according to her note. But he never did.