Blood Test

There was loud music in the background — synthesized drums, screaming guitars, and a heart-stopping bass. I could barely hear her.

“What’s up?”

“Can’t talk about it here — using the bar phone. Are you busy right now?”

“No. Where are you calling from?”

“The Unicorn. In Westwood. Please. I need to talk to you.”

She sounded on edge but it was hard to tell with all that noise. I knew the place, a combination bistro-discotheque (bisco?) that catered to the upscale singles crowd. Once Robin and I had stopped in for a bite after a movie but had left quickly, finding the ambience too nakedly predatory.

“I was just about to have dinner,” I said. “Want to meet somewhere?”

“How ‘bout right here? I’ll put my name down for a table and it’ll be ready when you get here.”

Dinner at the Unicorn wasn’t an appealing prospect — the noise level seemed likely to curdle the gastric juices — but I told her I’d be there in fifteen minutes.

Traffic in the Village was heavy and I was late getting there. The Unicorn was a narcissist’s paradise, mirrored on every surface except the floor. Hanging Boston ferns, half a dozen fake Tiffany lamps, and some brass and wood trim had been tossed in, but the mirrors were the essence of the place.

To the right was a smallish restaurant, twenty tables draped with parrot green damask, to the left a glassed-in disco where couples boogied to a live band, the glass shimmying with the backbeat. In between was the lounge. Even the bar was covered with reflective glass, its base a display of trendy footwear.

The lounge was dim and packed with bodies. I edged my way through the throng, surrounded by laughing faces in triplicate, quadruplicate, unsure what was real, what was illusion. The place was a damned funhouse.

She was sitting at the bar next to a chesty guy in a body shirt. He alternated between trying to make time with her, guzzling light beer, and visually trawling the crowd for a more hopeful prospect. She nodded from time to time but was clearly preoccupied.

I elbowed my way next to her. She was staring at a tall glass half-filled with foamy pink liquid, lots of candied fruit, and a paper parasol. One hand twirled the parasol.

“Alex.” She wore a lemon-colored Danskin top and matching satin jogging shorts. Her legs were sheathed from ankle to knee with yellow and white warmers that matched her running shoes. She had on lots of makeup and plenty of jewelry — at work she’d always been conservative with both. A glittery sweatband circled her forehead. “Thanks for comin’.” She leaned over and kissed me on the mouth. Her lips were warm. Body Shirt got up and left.

“Bet that table’s ready,” she said.

“Let’s check.” I took her arm and we wedged through waves of flesh. Plenty of male eyes followed her exit but she didn’t seem to notice.

There was a bit of confusion because she’d given the maitre d’ the name ‘Luke’ and hadn’t told me, but we got it straightened out and were seated in a corner table under a colossal Creeping Charlie.

“Damn,” she said, “left my zinger at the bar.”

“How about some coffee?”

She pouted.

“You think I’m drunk or somethin’?”

She was talking clearly and moving normally. Only her eyes gave her away, as they focused and unfocused in rapid succession.

I smiled and shrugged.

“Playing it safe, huh?” She laughed.

I called for the waiter and ordered coffee for myself. She had a glass of white wine. It didn’t seem to affect her. She was maintaining as only a heavy drinker can.

A while later the waiter returned. She asked me to order first while she scanned the menu. I kept it simple, choosing a small spinach salad and broiled chicken, because trendy places usually have lousy food and I wanted something they couldn’t ruin too easily.

She continued to study the menu as if it were a textbook, then looked up brightly.

“I’ll have an artichoke,” she said.

“Hot or cold, ma’am?”

“Uh, cold.”

The waiter wrote it down and looked at her expectantly. When she didn’t say anything he asked if that was all.

“Uh huh.”

He left, shaking his head.

“I eat artichokes a lot because when you run you lose sodium and artichokes have lots of sodium.”

“Uh huh.”

“For dessert I’ll have something with bananas because bananas are high in potassium. When you up your sodium you have to up your potassium to put your body in balance.”

I’d always seen her as a level-headed young lady, if a bit too hard on herself and prone to self-punishment. The dizzy broad across the table was a stranger.

She talked about running marathons until the food came. When the artichoke was set down before her she stared at it and began picking delicately at the leaves.

My food was unpalatable — the salad gritty, the chicken arid. I played with it to avoid eating.

When she’d dismantled and polished off the artichoke and seemed settled, I asked her what she wanted to talk about.

“This is very difficult, Alex.”

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“I feel like a — traitor.”

“Against whom?”