Madam Zira & the Henderson Affair

"Now what do I want with a wife who is in love with another man and is so submissive she would marry me just because her family wanted her to?"

Obviously, Edo was a very progressive man when it came to feminism. Or, he was just one of Sony's best bullshitting public relations men saying whatever he could to get me in bed.

Frankly, I didn't care which it was. I'd been on the road for five years, and in just two months I'd had two men pursue me. One had even gotten as far as the futon with me. My life was changing, and while Harry was always in my heart, I knew I had to keep living. He would want me to, I knew. But should I accept Edo's offer?

I kept thinking of Rolf. Rolf Henderson who was AWOL and probably in Las Vegas trying to make a million at the Craps table and seducing every woman in sight. Though our interaction had been brief but intense, I felt myself beginning to have real feelings for him. I knew better than to, but I could not help myself. I was tough, but I was still a woman.

And here was this lovely, intelligent, wealthy young Asian man who wanted me. Me – Edie Rosenberg, 60-year-old Jewish immigrant making her living travelling around like a gypsy pretending to be a fortuneteller as "Madam Zira". Spending her days in outdoor tents fighting off mosquitoes and ants as a cross-section of America appeared and disappeared from her rented moth-eaten tent – leaving with the hope of a better tomorrow, and leaving without the $20 they had given her to assure them of that better tomorrow. And sometimes, with a crystal necklace and without the $15 she charged for it. I suddenly found myself facing it; I was just like Rolf. A second-rate gypsy selling third-rate wares living in a trailer on wheels – lying and conning just hoping to make enough money to get to Florida for the winter. The thought of that white cotton hammock, pink fruity drink and ocean breeze had been what kept me going. Now…now….

Rolf Henderson enticed me with an incredible sexual encounter and mysterious hints at something far more important that had to do with Las Vegas. And across from me was Edo – who wanted me to be his 'kept woman'. Or at least, 'kept' for as long as he was in town with the convention. His talk of 'honor' did not totally impress or convince me. While I knew Asian men did rate honor highly and were not easy to lie about it, Edo was a young man of the 'new school'; not to mention in public relations for one of the most powerful corporations in the world. His word, therefore, was very suspect. But his perfect smile was engaging, his conversation intelligent and flirtatious, and his young face framed with dark straight hair greatly attractive. And Rolf was no where to be found. And probably never would be again.

I smiled at Edo and said – "I've never seen Chicago by sunrise…"

***********************

Edo Akuzu had not lied to me. Not only was he a fine lover, he was a very gentle and courteous young man. We stood in front of the large plate glass window of his luxurious suite at Chicago's downtown Hilton hotel and watched the rising sun slowly making the skyline a silhouette. And as promised, I held a Mimosa drink – hand-squeezed orange juice and champagne – in one hand, and held his large, soft hand in my other hand. We wore matching terrycloth robes, courtesy of the Hilton, and I felt Edo put his arm around my shoulder and bend to kiss my cheek.

"You are a wonderful woman, Zira," he audibly whispered after he'd kissed my cheek and nibbled on my earlobe.

I sipped the Mimosa, watching the sunrise and trying to take in every aspect of this beautiful experience, because I knew it would not really last.

"You know my name is not really, Zira," I asked, curious to his response. It would tell volumes.

He hugged me to his side affectionately.

"You will always be Zira to me," he said with a soft smile, bent to kiss my lips, then moved to sit on the side of the bed and light a cigarette.

I was left standing alone in front of the window. Chicago was now becoming a city of light as the shadows of night faded. The bright late summer sun was hanging over this now-teeming metropolis in the eastern part of the sky – its warm rays felt even through this high-rise hotel room's panoramic window view. I set down the champagne glass and moved to Edo's side. The Marlboro dangled from his lips as he frowned in the dim light discerning which buttons to push on the TV remote control.

I took the cigarette from his lips and took a long drag, just like in some old Bogie-Bacall film noir. Edo gave me a quick smile at my gesture.

But I now knew the truth, which I deep down had known all along. Yet a haggard 60 year old woman does not turn down the sexual offers of any man – especially those of an almost handsome, wealthy Japanese man who had a suite at the Chicago Hilton. I did not feel like a whore…I just felt old. And desperately wanted to feel as young as my agile mind still did.

I got up from the bed and left him to his playing with the TV – a Panasonic he was clear to acknowledge and state with disgruntled prejudice – and went into the large bathroom for a long, luxurious shower.

One of the best things about five-star hotels was not only the great room service, but the little amenities few probably took into consideration. It was the lovely array of shampoos, soaps and skin moisturizers that sat in the silver coated basket on the sink counter that delighted me. How could one not appreciate such conveniences? I certainly appreciated them and was now taking advantage of them. There was one day left of the convention, and I wanted to feel and look my best. The last day of any fair or convention proved to be the most important and profitable. Local folk trying to fit it in their busy schedule scrambling to make it to the last day; businessmen knowing they could do better business with their counterparts on the last day of the convention when the exhibitors were desperate to drum up business they could report back to their superiors if even in name. And then there were those like me. The 'third class citizens' of the convention/fair circuit. The old women who made afghans…the old, toothless men who carved cuckoo clocks during the winter to sell at the summer fairs…and the old gypsy fortune tellers travelling in their Winnebagos around the country to make a living lying and conning the 'great unwashed', as Harry used to call then.

Edo and I parted amicably enough. We even exchanged cell phone numbers, but I knew I'd never hear from him. It was a lovely one-night stand, and that was all it was. And Edie Rosenberg – despite her upbringing – did not care. And she knew Harry Rosenberg would not care either. And that was all that mattered.

**************************

I skipped Wichita. After Chicago not only did I have more than enough money to quit the circuit and head straight to Florida (and yes, I declined the rather ample wad of cash Edo offered me as we parted and I left his hotel room), but it now seemed a very boring two days in a very rural boring town. It was not that the town was rural; I had been to Wichita several times and had found it to be a rather large yet unsophisticated town. It was the population I found 'rural' in demeanor and manner. And after the wealthy and sophisticated Chicagoans, I frankly did not want to face my 'past'. After Chicago – and Edo – I felt as if I'd moved up in the ranks, and – surprising even to myself – felt ready to face and conquer Las Vegas. Even if Rolf were not there, I had never done the Vegas convention but now felt like taking it on and making a small fortune. The idea of retirement had long been in the back of my mind, but now with the great success in Chicago I felt perhaps maybe Vegas would allow me a permanent apartment on the Florida coast. That white hammock and fruity drink could possibly be a daily indulgence instead of a rushed month-long delight.

I have to admit I played Rolf's tape as I made the long drive to Las Vegas. The song "Viva Las Vegas" became a new favorite for me. I actually now knew all the lyrics from repeated listening. It was not a badly written song. Frantic, hyped and frenzied, it was Elvis – via two songwriters – encapsulating his take on Vegas. Presley had probably only spent two weeks of his entire life in Las Vegas – that is, coherent and aware of his surroundings - but even if he didn't really know the true essence of the song, he interpreted and executed it well.

Rolf Henderson's "Jerusalem Jewels" on the other hand, was a revelation. I'd given it a perfunctory listen when first obtaining it; when I was smitten with him and he'd seduced and made love to me on the futon in the back of this 'gypsy travelling show'. Now, as I drove the long stretch of desert, I had nothing else on which to concentrate but the story audible in the tape deck.

"Jerusalem Jewels' was a tale of intrigue and mystery about a man seeking his Jewish roots. A journey to Israel to find his lost relatives, many taken and killed during the war. It was in essence the story of a man in search of his long-lost father.

I could relate, but could not believe Rolf Henderson truly understood what it was actually like to lose loved ones during World War Two. Or "The War" as Papa – and many others – called it. I imagined Rolf to have grown up in an upper-middle class suburb somewhere and to have never known the horror and loss so many knew who'd been in Nazi Germany during those evil days. Yes, I had gone so far as to ponder Rolf's past, his youth. And I could conceive nothing of him in this story I now listened to on the tape. So, I had to admit he was not a bad writer. His voice was pleasant enough for recording, and he inflected emotion into the reading of his writing with sincerity I found slightly surprising. I knew him as a scheming cad. But, of course, I then considered, a scheming cad would have to know how to be convincing in his 'sincerity'. It was what had first conned me. And I grew angry again. Angry with him and with myself for falling for him.

Yes, as smart as I was I had been dumb enough to fall for a cad like Rolf Henderson. Maybe it was my loneliness. Harry had been gone five years, and in those years my life had drastically changed. I'd never imagined I would find myself doing what I was doing. Papa – and even Harry – would be surprised. But I also think they'd be proud of me for the courage it took to take to the road and make a living, albeit paltry, with such melodramatic flair.

As a child I'd always wanted to be an actress, and Papa had always encouraged me. As an adult, even Harry told me that my talent was Broadway's loss. I had to laugh to myself at the memory. Harry had been such a wonderful man. He'd worked so hard, been very good at what he did, and took pride in his craft as a tailor to some of Manhattan's 'elite' as well as the 'common man' who came to his shop for a new suit. It was indeed honorable work and I was proud to be his wife. He had given me a good life, and I was grateful every day for my good fortune and for the love Harry showed me. After the initial hardship of my upbringing with Papa – who had started out as a 16 hour a day factory worker to rise to managerial level with an office – I appreciated the comfortable home and life Harry gave me.

Papa had died only a year after I'd married Harry. But Papa had greatly approved of Harry, and they had had a wonderful relationship. Harry had lost his father quite young, so I think my Papa was a substitute father for Harry. Whatever the reason, I was pleased that Papa and Harry came to truly love one another. At Papa's funeral I think Harry cried more than I did.

Being alone on the road in the middle of the desert made one think of such things. Reflection on life seemed about the only thing to do to divert the monotony of the barren landscape. And I had thought of Papa, Harry, and Rolf.

The latter I tried not to think about, but his quite nice voice emanating from my stereo tape player forced me to. Yet I could not turn it off. It was a sweet and intriguing story, and his voice was comforting to me in the loneliness of the Nevada desert.

At sunset I stopped at one of the few, rare roadside truck stops and gas stations existing on this desolate highway. It was like a bright star amid shadowy dark sand dunes set in the middle of nowhere. So undoubtedly they did great business.

About a half-dozen 'big rigs' sat parked in a neat row to one end of the sandy parking lot. A few cars were parked in front the luminescent white stucco building, and out to the west were the remnants of what once were cars. Now, they created a desert animal shantytown.

I parked the Winnebago along side one of the huge semis and dusted myself off as I entered the diner/gas station/oasis.

I'd been on the road for hours and it was nice to be around people again. No doubt the staff was used to dealing with people who'd been alone too long, and they were very friendly and chatty.

The waitresses were almost something out of a movie or TV sitcom. Dressed in matching pink uniforms with crisp but stained aprons, topped with little white caps in their overly teased hair, nametags became instant friends as they served the long-haul truckers, travelers and gypsies like me.

I took a seat at the counter near the cash register, and was approached by an older, overweight bleach-blond woman whose nametag said "Bubbles". I had to take a second look to make sure I was not suffering from 'desert lag.' Yet, indeed, her name seemed to be "Bubbles". Of course a nickname, but no doubt what everyone had called her for years.

"Hi honey – been on the road long?" she asked with a friendly smile. It seemed sincere.

I took the menu she handed me as I replied.

"Too long. Bet you get a lot of us in here."

"That's all we get," she laughed. "We are the last stand before you hit The Strip."

"So I'm that close to Las Vegas?" I asked hopefully.

"Yeah honey, you are almost there," Bubbles smiled.

I released a relieved smile. I was tired of the drive and hoped to make it to the city in time to just find a decent parking place and sleep.

"Good," I smiled at Bubbles, and noticed the cook through the counter in the back, seeing the dark smoke of burnt burgers and the scent of scrambled eggs wafting around the kitchen section of this old diner.

The menu had anything and everything you could want. Of course, there was no guarantee it would be any good. But it was at least a place to stop, sit down and be among others. Any food at this point would be devoured. I think they banked on that.

"What'll it be, Hon?" Bubbles asked in the typical truck stop 'hurry up we got people to feed' manner.

I glanced at the menu.

"How's the meatloaf?" I asked.

Bubbles put the pencil behind her ear and continued to chew her pink bubblegum.

"It's like everything else," she responded quickly in a no-nonsense manner;

"It's cooked."

I put the menu down and said, "I'll have the meatloaf plate."

Bubbles instantly yelled toward the kitchen –

"One meatloaf and sides!"

Then she turned back to me –

"Want some coffee, honey? You look beat."

"That'd be great, Bubbles…cream and tons of sugar," I told her with a tired smile.

"Got all the cream and sugar you need, honey." Bubbles said encouragingly, glancing down at the ubiquitous diner counter contraption holding a vial of ancient "Coffee-Mate", little plastic containers of liquid cream and a sugar shaker looking just recently filled.

Before I could even say thanks, Bubbles was back with a steaming carafe of black coffee. She turned over the cup in front of me and filled it with very aromatic, thick coffee.

It was surprisingly good – after adding three containers of artificial cream and 4 teaspoons of sugar. No doubt the brew was three days old, but I was not in any mood to complain. And it also was a good excuse to smoke a cigarette. Bad coffee overly dressed with condiments to sip and a slightly crumpled Marlboro while sitting at the counter of a Nevada desert truck stop diner awaiting the meatloaf special seemed somehow very comforting. And gave time for serious reflection.

It had been an incredible summer. Even an incredible week. And here I was, near the end of my fair circuit and headed toward Las Vegas. There was a kind of 'road trip romanticism' to it, if looked at in a certain way. But I had to admit to myself, I was getting too old for this. I was ready to stop. Five years on the road on the grueling fair circuit was enough. In that noisy but pleasantly aromatic desert diner – as Bubbles placed before me a plate of sliced meatloaf, mashed potatoes sprinkled with paprika, green beans and a seemingly fresh dinner roll – I decided that if the Vegas convention was a success I was going to cash in the last of Harry's small CDs and retire to Florida. Sell the Winnie, get a small efficiency apartment, and spend my days on the beach reading and maybe writing the story of my life. Every life was a story – maybe mine would be of interest to someone.

The meatloaf was wonderful, the mashed potatoes freeze-dried but with enough margarine palatable, and the green beans from a can. The previously fresh-looking dinner roll had sadly turned out to be granite. But then, I wasn't much of a bread eater.

I was watching the selection of sliced pie and cake in the slowly spinning display by the cash register – having my third cup of coffee and another cigarette – when I heard a strangely familiar voice speak to Bubbles the waitress.

"Coffee, Bubbles, and a slice of your wonderful cherry pie."

I glanced up and saw Bubbles grin and tug at her apron as if wanting to be more presentable, wink at the double entendre, and take the pencil from her ear and scribble quickly upon her pad.

"Sure thing, handsome! Haven't seen you in here for a while."

I felt the man sit next to me and stiffened a bit. My calm, quiet hour of reflection before hitting Vegas was now suddenly interrupted.

"Been travelling," said the man next to me, whose body heat was palpable and whose faint cologne was too familiar.

I set down my cup of coffee and casually turned to see who he was.

Rolf Henderson sat next to me, gazing deep into my eyes with a sincere but somewhat bemused smile. No doubt he inwardly delighted in surprising me. It seemed his goal in life.

"Good Evening, Madam Zira," he spoke as if serious and cordial when he knew it was an intimate con; "How was Chicago?"

I decided instantly to be business-like. Inside I was reeling, knowing now that it all was going to 'hit the fan' here. I'd finally made it Vegas; and here was Rolf Henderson, out of nowhere after more than a month's absence tracking me to a lonely roadside diner. And one that he seemed to have patronized enough to have Bubbles the waitress grinning and straightening her rumpled uniform.

"Chicago was very successful," I told him casually, trying not to look too deep into his dark eyes.

Bubbles was just setting a small plate adorned with a slice of 'pie in a can' beside his steaming cup of coffee as he responded.

I'm glad." He took a sip of the black coffee, daring to drink it straight which I had to momentarily admire, and played with the slice of pie with his fork.

"I heard Sony drummed up some great business there," he said calmly.

My shocked glance at him was not quite quick enough for him to not notice. I saw him glance down at the pie and fight the smile burgeoning underneath his thick moustache.

"I suppose so," I replied. "It was a huge convention."

I was not going to do this again…go through this again. But I also knew deep down no matter how I looked at this I would have no choice but to follow on with Rolf to the conclusion of the mystery he'd so unexpectedly dumped into my lap. And maybe – just maybe – afterwards I could get away from the madness inherent on 'The Road' and retire to quiet contentment in Cocoa Beach. I'd always had a fondness for astronomy…and astronauts.