“Oh no,” she says immediately. “I could never. Not only because I wouldn’t leave, but… playing is private. The cameras aren’t real people. They’re just recording. Not watching.”
An interesting distinction, but I’m not convinced. There are thousands of people watching those videos. Bea may tell herself she’s alone, that she prefers it that way, but it hurts her. And for some reason I think I can help with this problem. A foolish idea, probably.
You’re falling for her, asshole.
“Has it always been like this for you? Creating new songs from what you hear?”
She shakes her head. “I mean, I always heard the music in my head. I thought that was normal. My mom was the same way. She was a concert pianist.” I hear the pride in her voice. “She played in Carnegie Hall.”
“That’s incredible.”
A shaky breath moves her. “She died, when I was ten. My dad, too.”
Everything inside me goes still. This is huge. An earthquake in the middle of afternoon tea. What she’s revealing to me splits her world apart. It’s splitting mine.
“It was…pirates, actually.” This time her laugh is pained. Bitter. The kind that slices through my defenses. How many people has she told this to? Not many. Maybe no one. “They were on a yacht. A party with a hundred people but the pirates only took them.”
“Why?” I breathe, but I already know the answer. It’s folded around us. Money.
“They wanted a ransom. At least that’s what they usually did, but something must have gone wrong. They usually would have only taken my mom, made my dad pay the ransom. But for whatever reason that day they took them both.”
And they didn’t come back. “Bea. You don’t have to continue.”
Her eyes are mournful. “But I do, because you do something to me. Make me feel open and vulnerable. Scared, but like I want to keep feeling it. How do you do that?”
You do that to me, too. I don’t say it.
“They never found out exactly what happened on that boat. Probably my dad fought them. There was a struggle and both of them died that day, before they even asked for anything.”
“I’m sorry, Bea.” More sorry than I can put into words. More sorry than I thought I could feel for someone. On the streets of Tangier I saw more tragedy than should exist, but it moves me beyond bearing, her suffering.
She gives a little shake of her head. “Most of the time I don’t think of it.”
“Why now?” I ask softly.
She scrunches her nose. “This is embarrassing but I guess it’s talking to you. I mean, using words. I go downstairs and chat with people but it’s always on the surface. Anything deep, anything important, it happens through music.”
“It’s beautiful,” I tell her, when what I mean is, you’re beautiful.
“When they died I stopped speaking.”
“You mean… entirely?”
“For a couple years, yeah. There were therapists and doctors. I could make a sound, if I was startled or scared. But I didn’t form words. I already played piano before that, but after that it was the only way I would communicate. Anything I wanted to express, it happened here.”
I understand that she means more than the piano. She means this room.
God.
Chords of longing and loneliness fill the air, her expression dark.
“Hotel California,” I say softly.
Then her eyes brighten. “For you.”
This one I recognize immediately. Castle on a Cloud. It’s a song that’s part of the Les Misérables musical. My face turns to stone, but inside there’s a clamor.
The notes slow and then stop.
“Sorry. Was that weird? Because your name is Hugo. And the author was Victor Hugo.” She looks crestfallen. “Of course that was dumb.”
I force myself to speak through the chaos inside me. “Not dumb.”
“Then why do you look like you’re going to throw up.”
Moving stiffly I manage to sit next to her on the bench. She scoots to the side to make room for me. “I’m sorry,” I say.
“No, don’t. I’m the one who can’t interact with regular people.”
“I hope you aren’t categorizing me as regular,” I tell her, managing to find some wry humor in this situation. I want to shut down, to push her away, but she opened herself up too far for that. “The truth is that my mother named me for that author.”
Green eyes widen. “Did she?”
“I’m not sure why I’m named Hugo instead of Victor. Perhaps because it was easier to spell.” Then I admit something that always pained Mama. “She couldn’t read.”
She couldn’t read, so she never knew the irony of a book about a man starved enough to steal bread and a revolution he wouldn’t need. About a whore who sacrificed for her daughter and a grand love she would never know.
“But she liked the story?” Bea asks, too innocent to realize that there was no one else on our street who could read either. No one knew the story, but Mama kept the large book as a sad little tribute to our French heritage. Only when I moved to America did I learn what it was about.
“She liked that it was long and important.” Perhaps she thought it would help me become important, instead of an illiterate maid. I never knew what my father did for a living. My skin is darker than Mama’s, my hair a rich black. So my father was probably native to Morocco, one of the transient workers who appeared and disappeared like ghosts haunting the harbor.
“I’m named after an author too,” Bea says. “But her books were less long. Less important, too.”
“Who?”
“Beatrix Potter.” At my look of bemusement she explains. “She wrote Peter Rabbit. It’s a children’s book about a rabbit who gets into trouble.”
“It sounds less tragic, at least.”
She laughs a little, but sadly. “That’s true. Will you come back next week, Hugo?”
I have the feeling this question is about more than money, but that’s the only way I know how to answer. “Of course, darling. Call the agency and get on my schedule.”
Chapter Nine
At the beginning I worked most nights. I shared a one-room apartment with Sutton, who arrived in Tanglewood more broke than myself. Every cent I earned went into investments, some throughout the city in real estate, others in the stock market. As my portfolio grew and my hourly rate got higher, I stopped working—except for Saturday nights.
Even with a large nest egg, the money I make in a single evening is worthwhile. My services are only for the elite women of the city, those who can afford to throw thousands of dollars at pleasure.
And I enjoy my time, usually.
The arrangement suits me, but not everyone is pleased. When a knock comes on my door Sunday morning, I know who it is before I check the security camera on my phone.
It is with great reluctance that I press the button to let her in.
I take a final swallow of espresso before I get up to meet her at the door. We exchange kisses on the cheek, superficial pleasantries before she attempts to stab me in the back.
“Come in,” I tell her genially, because I have much experience with pretending.