Flightless Bird || l.s. ✔︎

ACT II: CHAPTER TEN

Beauchamp's building had one of those tiny elevators with a metal cage that you only see in old movies. I crammed inside with him and he grinned when I asked if I could close the grate behind us.

The building must have been hundreds of years old, with crown moldings, vaulted ceilings and intricate brass latticework running through the marble floors and walls.

When we got to his apartment door I straightened my jacket to look presentable for Irina. If the lobby looked so grand and beautiful, I could only imagine what their apartment looked like.

But when he opened the door there was only one room.

And one bed.

He entered the room and I walked tentatively behind him. I glanced around the space to see if I was missing something. I wasn't. In addition to this room there was just a tiny bathroom.

"Is your wife coming home soon?" I asked.

"Oh," he said dismissively, checking the messages on his phone. "She's staying at our other apartment."

Other apartment? Did he want me to stay in this apartment alone, I wondered. Maybe he and his wife didn't want to be disturbed. I was disappointed but it was understandable.

However, Beauchamp began to unpack his suitcase and hang his shirts up in the wardrobe. "It's late. We should go to bed so you can get up bright and early to go sightseeing."

I shifted uncomfortably by the door then opened my duffel bag. I hadn't packed any pajamas. I took the small bag with my toiletries and went into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I brushed my teeth and flossed and washed my face. The fluorescent light above the mirror buzzed and flickered like a dying firefly. I heard the sheets rustling in the next room. I sat on the edge of the tub for twenty, maybe thirty minutes, toeing the cool white tile.

Quietly, I unlocked the bathroom door and turned the tarnished brass knob. The room was dark so I had to feel my way around. When my eyes adjusted, I could see that Beauchamp was still awake. His hands were behind his head and his glasses on the nightstand. His face looked naked without them. He wasn't wearing any clothes, or at least none that I could see since he was under the covers. His grey hair looked like quicksilver in the moonlight. I could tell that he had been a dancer. His muscles looked painfully sharp and hard from decades of strain and overuse, retaining none of the softness of youth.

I picked up pillow next to him. "I'll take the floor."

"There's mice," he said. "Get in bed."

Still wearing my t-shirt and trousers I got in bed next to him and stared up at the ceiling.

"Aren't you going to get undressed?" he said. This wasn't a question, but a sharp order like the orders he gave in the studio.

I pulled off my shirt and lay back down, stiff as a board.

"Your pants too."

I don't know why I took them off. A part of me thought leaving them on would be rude, like I was implying he might try something. He was such an important man and he had been so kind to me by bringing me on this trip, I was terrified of insulting him.

I took off my pants.

I tried very hard to ignore him and fall asleep but whenever I glanced in his direction I could see that his eyes were still wide open.

I turned away from him and curled into a ball. That's when it started. He began to rub my back. His fingers trailed down my spine with the sickening slowness of a centipede.

"You're such a sweet boy, Harry. I'm glad I brought you on this trip. I made the right choice."

When I didn't respond, he added, "You're happy I picked you, aren't you?"