Tabula Rasa. White’s move. Territory of Seduction - Chapter #3 - Free To Read

Polina

Max was very interesting to talk to. So much so that while we were walking in the park, I forgot about time. He easily switches from topic to topic, he is erudite, well-read, and the talent to explain briefly if the other person doesn't understand something, as I do, for . The only obstacle is the inner fear to look him in the face and meet his eyes, so I am on his moving hands. Is that even decent? I force myself to raise my eyes to the level of his and now stare at them. Hands-lips, hands-lips, hands-lips, as long as it's not his eyes and hands- again. But he doesn't seem to notice, and the awkwardness of the morning, caused by my curiosity, is over.

He is happy to talk about his work. It turns out that he has customers to whom he paints the in the house, right on the plaster. Max showed me a couple of photos on his smartphone and to show me more tomorrow on his laptop. I really want to see his work, because even he showed on the small screen of the phone is impressive - the riot of colors, the mix of and the transfer of dynamics of movement are unlike anything I've seen before.

I was even sorry when our walk came to an end and it was time to head to the gallery.

The work is boiling, we are already expected, the installers are just adjusting the hangers and , measuring the height for each of the canvases.

Max immediately changes - he becomes strict and focused. His instructions are clear, , we agree on the place to place the canvases, he explains why it needs to be changed, he directs the installers, showing the qualities of a manager. The organization in the gallery is at very high level and the coordination is quite fast. We have a member of staff working with us who with all issues offline and discusses all key issues with Max. I follow them relentlessly. My is only necessary insofar as the gallery manager is fluent in English.

I note to myself that Max is a pleasure to work with: he gives me time to translate, he doesn't too much, he waits for me to pass information from him to the performers and back again.

While he is controlling the process of placing the paintings, I offer him a coffee right here, so that doesn't get distracted and finishes his work in the gallery as soon as possible. In the café I take coffees for us, a black one without sugar for Max and a cream and sugar for myself.

In the hall, in this bustle, like a big anthill, filled with a working atmosphere, with and workers scurrying back and forth, my eye immediately catches his figure. Max is in the middle of the room, giving comments on how to center the painting, gesturing to the height. His appearance, his demeanor, his movements give me aesthetic pleasure. I want look at him. I stop at a great distance to watch him without interference. Who would have that my ward would turn out to be the kind of guy you want to look at. Apparently, he feels gaze in his back, turns toward me, and our eyes meet. I pretend like I just walked into the gym look for him, he nods at me and I walk over to him. I hand him both cups of coffee, pull a bar out of my bag, wink, and seem to blush at my own frivolity. He takes a sip, breaks off piece of chocolate:

- Good thing it's sugar-free, - he smiles, pointing to the glass.

- I noticed in the Kav-ka which one you prefer. It's time for lunch, - I glance at the screen of smartphone.

- I want to make sure that everything is done to the highest standards, Polina, - Max says , accenting my name correctly for the first time.

To summarize:

- You're a perfectionist.

Hand on heart, I like that quality of his character. He shrugs his shoulders in agreement:

- Yeah, I guess so.

In three quarters of an hour everything is ready. I look at the result: everything is well out, it looks perfect, I am amazed by his paintings - they are full of color, they attract the with their depth, the play of tones, I want to look at them. "Just like their creator, - - flashes in head completely unnecessary thought, I try to quickly brush it off. I'm left with the feeling that Max wrote his paintings, he put a piece of his soul into each one. Max takes out his and takes a few pictures of the result of his work. We say goodbye to the manager and out into the courtyard of "Arena-City", here they are mounting the stage for the upcoming . The "Arena" space is filled with the noise of a large number of visitors. I suggest having at one of the many restaurants that are located around the perimeter of the center. Max agrees:

- You pick where you want to go. I don't care.

I suggest going up to the restaurant of the NeboIskusstvoEda art gallery, located on the sixth . In the white, light-filled space, choose a table by the panoramic window overlooking the city.

My phone's ringing. It's Igor. Second time in one day and in such a short period of time?

Doesn't sound like him.

- Hi, - I reply.

- Where are you now? - he asks, as always, without introduction.

- I want to have lunch. I'm not alone. I'm working.

He is silent. The pause drags on. "Oh, don't come here, Igor, - I mentally plead with him. His is nearby, and he's about to tell me he wants to join us.

- Can I have lunch with you?

- Igor, I don't know how long it will take us. You might not make it, - I answered quickly.

My reaction surprises me; in fact, he could easily have lunch with us. The answer is obvious-I don't to introduce them, Max and Igor; I'd feel uncomfortable in the company of two men so .

- Okay, well, I'll see you tonight. I'll pick you up at eight. I hope you'll be free by then, - he , making it clear that it was more of an ultimatum than an offer.

Max looks over the menu and raises his eyes to me, his gaze piercing through:

- Your boyfriend called? - The corners of his lips lifted slightly, as if he was trying to hide a . What a look he's got! It's piercing, deep, and it's like he knows everything about me. It's and-- oh, my God! It turns me on! I'm squirming in my seat. This is just what I ! Dropping my eyes to the menu, I nod my head.

- He wanted to have lunch with us? You turned him down? - That's too much! I stare openly his gray-blue eyes. The bastard doesn't even think about changing his pose, and he still stares at with his ironic, penetrating gaze. And I feel all too clearly the rising tide of something unknown me, something so strong that I can hardly breathe, and yet at the same time, something so , so tantalizing, that I want to savor it.

- Have you learned Ukrainian yet? - I parry back, as if we were having a verbal duel. Max his lips in a smile. "Oh no! Don't look at that mouth!" - I command myself, but I can't - I'm at the most charming smile in the world!

- Are you mad, Baby? - He rubbed his chin with his fingers. Did he decide to gauge my to the full complement of his seductive moves? Or has he not started yet? And what the hell a "BABY"?!

- Anger suits you very well, Paulin, - he looks at the menu again. He continues smiling and to the waitress, who speaks English quite well:

- For the girl, please bring a gazpacho on the rocks, lots of ice. I hope you don't mind if I you to my favorite? - he nods at me, grinning. Are you trying to cool my crimson cheeks? Or I giving off a wave of heat like an open flame? Either way, anger and that "something else" through my veins, filling my blood.

After lunch, I notice he looks tired.

- Max, let me take you to the hotel. There are no events today, and you can get some sleep.

You need to get used to your new biorhythms, - I suggested peacefully, pushing my irritation at his taunts deeper.

- Yeah, I guess so, - he agreed.

I turn on the music, my favorite Muse overlapping our deafening silence. I park the car at Hyatt. Looking at the fancy guy next to me, I realize he chooses the best and looks it for granted

- he wants the best and takes it. Max slides a head-to-toe glance at me before getting out of the car, I turn on a business-like tone to stop this empty game:

- We have a press conference scheduled for tomorrow. The venue is the Intercontinental

Hotel. It's close by. I'll pick you up at noon.

- Okay, - he nods, still clarifying. - Isn't that late?

- You need sleep, and I'm not sure you're going to fall asleep right now and sleep until . Your biological clock will probably go off. You're not going to want to sleep right away, -

I shrugged.

- You gave me your phone number. What time do you go to bed? - He looks at me again with trademark direct gaze, his head slightly lowered.

- You can call until twelve at night, - I said. - In fact, if you need anything, call me right . I won't turn off my phone.

- Bye, - Max gives me an air kiss with just his index finger as he gets out of the car. - I'll see later.

- I'll see you later.

I'm burning up inside. What is wrong with me?! He's just a guest and I'm just his translator, more. All I need is an office romance. An affair? What am I talking about? "Stop thinking that guy! And more importantly about any relationship!" - I'm polishing my thoughts with a . He'll fly back to the States in ten, even nine, days and hell. But what an effect he has on me!

I'm pissed off at him for treating me like a baby. "Baby." It's his sweet, lingering "baby"! I don't like word and my reaction to his irony! Damn it! I'm hitting the steering wheel. I turn the car around go shopping - I need to buy some kind of dress or blouse for lunch with my boss tomorrow.

Maybe I won't be invited, the boss speaks perfect English, I may not be needed there, but it's better be armed just in case and look older. I need something... prim! Even if I don't attend the dinner,

I'll get a break from Max's smirks and sarcasm. I don't want to be a child in his eyes, I don't want to "Baby, - I want him to see me as...a woman.

STOP!

I have Igor. What does this have to do with another man? There's something wrong with me.

Why am I so annoyed? Apparently, because I got what I wanted: a handsome, young and interesting for ten whole days. I'm laughing at such an obvious discovery!

Now I know exactly what he has in him besides a beautiful shell and a mass of other virtues.

It's his unconcealed sexuality, which is so bulging that you can touch it with your hands. I laughed loud again, the thought "sounding" ambiguous in my head.

Before Igor, the concept of "sexuality" was a blurred and ephemeral concept for me. Not do I not believe in strong feelings, my mother always repeated to me the phrase: "Polina, you the heartiness that people capable of love carry in themselves, - I am completely cold, both and sexually. I'm not even ashamed to admit it. Well, we can't all be passionate

Bacchantes. Or maybe it's directly related to my inability to love.

I don't want to. I am comfortable in the state I have always been in until now. I have given love to my father - he is the ideal man for me, although I know very well that he was never ideal my mother.

I grew up in a well-to-do family.

Dad is a businessman by vocation, successful, and built his business empire quite quickly.

From early childhood, I remember how all the relatives - far and near - sang dithyrambs to him, his specialness and talents. Since childhood, I had the feeling that my dad was looked as an icon - a man who made himself. For me, as for my daughter, he was always something .

Dad grew up in a wholesome, loving family. His parents - my paternal grandparents - were exemplary family, raising three children, each of whom became a very successful person in their . Therefore, I, as his daughter, did not see any special merit in the fact that my dad became he became. To me, he's the best because he's my dad. I can talk to him about anything. He will and give me advice. He never scolded or punished me. I punished myself. He always the stamina and wisdom to point out my blunders and mistakes, forcing me to think logically analyze on my own. We had a "discussion rule." If I did something wrong, whether I wanted it not, we sat down at the negotiating table and discussed in detail my successes, misdeeds, and bad grades, among other things.

Dad always supported my endeavors and aspirations. He defended my right in front of my to give up music lessons in favor of dancing, found arguments for her not to give me to the school, where I did not want to go under any circumstances. But in turn, he demanded that I responsibility for my choices. Since childhood, I was hired the best tutors: I studied languages, , biology - everything I chose. The only thing my dad insisted on was math. That was our : I can count on his support, he will defend my position in front of my mother, but for this

I promise to learn math. And I did, because I gave my word.

Dad was unique to me not because of what others saw in him. I admired the fact that, having the heights of business, he always remained an approachable and easy-going person with different people. His friends from his high school and college days have remained his friends this day. It is easy to communicate with him on any topic, he is a humorist, and in my mind that what a real man should be. Even his shortcomings I perceive as the shortcomings of a real man.

But our family was perfect only at first glance.

My perfect father is not perfect at all - he's a living person too. I found out pretty early on he had a mistress. In fact, it was his second family, just without children. He was always tossing turning between us and the love of his life, as I learned from him. I never judged him for this because my love for him was in a state of Absolute. I tried to understand and enter into situation.

There was always an invisible connection between my father and me that felt like an cord. It was as if he, not my mother, had given birth to me. We still understand each other the level of gestures and glances, without words. He was and still is for me the ideal of beauty a real man, maybe that's why all the men I met on my still short path lost to my father in charm charisma.

When he wanted to introduce me to his mistress, I agreed, although in my heart I felt like a to my mother.

I remember this meeting. I asked for it. There were reasons for it. I was amazed that the he loved was the complete opposite of his mother in everything: in appearance, in her of communication, in her energy. But before that meeting, there was a story that affected , revealing my true nature - I was incapable of love.

For weeks at a time, my father would come home from work late at night and was always , which had rarely happened before. He would collapse on the sofa in the living room and without undressing. Every morning he would wake up early, clean himself up, drive my sister me to school, and then leave for work. His condition shocked me. He wasn't himself.

Sometimes I could hear him, standing under the living room door, calling someone in the middle of night and whispering affectionate words into the receiver that were impossible to make out, but was enough to hear the tone of his voice.

My mother was also drinking alcohol during this period of time. Only she did it at home, , locked herself in the kitchen, probably hoping that my sister and I would not see or . Once I heard our housekeeper lamenting in a conversation with the cook, "The rich cry ." I remember how painful it was at that moment, and that's when I decided that I would talk to dad in the evening.

He arrived very late. That day mom had drunk more than usual. When he arrived, she was awake. They had a verbal altercation that turned into a scandal. I don't know what was really on, but I could hear dishes breaking, chairs falling, shouting, so loud that I covered my sister Lisa's ears and closed my eyes, as if I was afraid I would see this scandal through the . Soon it was quiet. I crept out of Lisa's room and walked to the kitchen door and peered the crack. Mom was sitting on the floor among the shards of dishes, with a broken chair and other pieces of furniture lying nearby. She was crying, hugging her knees and swaying from to side. I slipped quietly toward the bedroom, the door to which was still open, but the room empty. I looked all around the house-Dad was nowhere to be found.

Lisa and I calmed Mom down as best we could, and I cleaned up the kitchen and threw out the trash. I didn't want the servants to find out in the morning what had happened here last night.

I walked my mom into the bedroom and waited until she was asleep before dialing my father's . He didn't answer, even though the call was going through. For three hours I sat on the in the living room, looking out the window and not knowing what to think. My heart not calm, everything was breaking inside at the thought that something might have happened to .

I dialed his number again as the sky began to lighten.

He replied.

- I'm in the parking lot, - was all he said to me. I remember that I threw on his jacket, which hanging on the coat rack, right over my pajamas and rushed to the elevator. I found him in the , standing in his usual parking spot. Dad was sitting with his head on the steering wheel, frozen a motionless pose. I ducked into the passenger compartment, sat quietly beside him, and silently his shoulder.

- Dad, do you want to leave us? - was all I could squeeze out of me. It was the worst thing could happen to me, because he'd always been the person I cared most about.

He lifted his face and I realized he had been crying.

- No, Polina, not at all, - he answered, and took my hand in his, then kissed my fingers. -

How could I leave you?

- Then why do you come home, but you're somewhere else? You... You have..." I swallowed.

- Do you have someone?

I was twelve years old at the time, but for my age I was already well versed in life. It was in our generation to grow up and learn the intricacies of adult relationships. He was quiet for a , and he let go of my hand and massaged my temples. Then he looked me straight in the eye answered:

- Yes, Polina, I'm in love with another woman.

It was said in such a mundane and simple tone that I realized the depth of his distress, which the space immediately as soon as the words were spoken.

I guess from then on I decided that love was not for me. My father's condition was so piercing that that very night on, love became something destructive to me.

- She's special, - was all I could say. - If you love her.

At that moment I felt sorry for my mother, because she loved my father. That's what I .

- I'd like to introduce you someday, - he said. This prospect seemed absurd and terribly to me at the same time. On the one hand, I had already realized at that age that such an would be of no use to me, and it was not at all clear why my father did not understand . On the other hand, I wanted to look at the woman who was more charming and important to my than my mother, to understand what was special about this woman.

- Introduce me, - I said simply, horrified by my words. He looked at me very carefully. He silent for a long time, and then he said only

- Let's go to bed, Polina.

I rolled around in bed, but I couldn't sleep that night. In the morning I went to school as , but I decided not to go to class. I lied that I wasn't feeling well and asked the class teacher to me. But I didn't go home. I went to the botanical garden and sat all day on the bench at the , counting how many happy couples would pass me by.

Then I finally decided for myself that I would not love under any circumstances. What's the of a mother's love for her father? And he'd no doubt loved her once, too. At least in the photos Lisa and I appeared, they looked more than happy, and could easily be characterized by the "in love."

"Love is merciless, - I decided. 'It doesn't choose. Otherwise my father would have always my mother. She was a rare beauty, always well-groomed and always looking flawless, even she was sick. The impression that she could have gone to a social gathering any minute and have been the most gorgeous woman there. But there was something about her that didn't my father, and I didn't want to find out why or why not. That day I forever buried the concept "love" and decided to live with a cold head and a cold heart. Since then, the near-love nonsense me has become nothing more than a cover for the vices of people who are looking for an excuse their actions. From then on, I openly made fun of everything that was connected with this .

Igor was also far from this bravado, and we didn't need to play onanism in front of each , playing high feelings.

I pushed away the childhood memories. Why did I even remember it?

Now I will go home, relax and spend a rousing evening with my lover, putting Mr.

Cameroen out of my mind with his penetrating, mocking gaze and sensual mouth that is impossible look at indifferently, and finally finding myself for the day.

"It's lust, Polina. A wedge drives out a wedge” - I summarized my condition, putting Max

Cameron out of my mind.