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Story beginning
- Thread starter novella
- Start date
novella
Active Member
Good morning! Here's another installment:
I turned a quick about-face, praying that neither had seen me. Oh, stupid stupid stupid, I thought, knowing how silly it would look if they had. They were probably laughing, saying, “essere un po' di fuori” or some other Italian thing.
I ducked into the drugstore on the corner and fumbled around the French soaps. When I had my head back, I picked up a few Roger & Gallets and paid for them on account.
“How’s everything with you, Miss Novella?” the owner said politely.
“Fine, thank you,” I said in turn. Give nothing away. No information.
I decided to run the gauntlet, as it were. In the drugstore my panic had slowly turned to anger. This was my home. These men, this driver and Bruno, who were they anyway? I was not beholden to them.
I turned the corner, only to see just Jerry, the driver, standing at attention under the awning. Strangely, I felt sinking disappointment. I had unconsciously steeled myself to face Bruno, perhaps to speak with him, and he was gone again. Jerry turned toward me and nodded solemnly. He was very proper. My father liked that.
“Hi Jerry,” I said. Instead of heading into my building, I went over to him.
“Your father would like you to come to dinner,” Jerry said. His half-heartedness indicated his expectation that I would decline.
“Who was that guy who was just here?” I asked him.
“Which guy, Miss Novella?” he asked.
“The guy you were just talking to. A few minutes ago.”
Like me, Jerry did not like to give information away. It was not just his habit, it was his mandate. It made our conversations rather difficult.
I turned a quick about-face, praying that neither had seen me. Oh, stupid stupid stupid, I thought, knowing how silly it would look if they had. They were probably laughing, saying, “essere un po' di fuori” or some other Italian thing.
I ducked into the drugstore on the corner and fumbled around the French soaps. When I had my head back, I picked up a few Roger & Gallets and paid for them on account.
“How’s everything with you, Miss Novella?” the owner said politely.
“Fine, thank you,” I said in turn. Give nothing away. No information.
I decided to run the gauntlet, as it were. In the drugstore my panic had slowly turned to anger. This was my home. These men, this driver and Bruno, who were they anyway? I was not beholden to them.
I turned the corner, only to see just Jerry, the driver, standing at attention under the awning. Strangely, I felt sinking disappointment. I had unconsciously steeled myself to face Bruno, perhaps to speak with him, and he was gone again. Jerry turned toward me and nodded solemnly. He was very proper. My father liked that.
“Hi Jerry,” I said. Instead of heading into my building, I went over to him.
“Your father would like you to come to dinner,” Jerry said. His half-heartedness indicated his expectation that I would decline.
“Who was that guy who was just here?” I asked him.
“Which guy, Miss Novella?” he asked.
“The guy you were just talking to. A few minutes ago.”
Like me, Jerry did not like to give information away. It was not just his habit, it was his mandate. It made our conversations rather difficult.
novella
Active Member
Today's continuation . . .
Jerry shrugged, putting his hands in the air as if testing for rain. “First time I seen him,” he said. Could be true, I thought. Probably not.
“Where’d he go?” I asked.
“I dunno. Maybe across the street.” Jerry was a sphinx.
“I can’t go tonight. Tell him I’ve got a date.” My father, I meant. Jerry knew. This was part of our routine.
Jerry smiled. It was polite, but edged with a shadow of slyness. “Yes, miss,” he said, touching his hat. He didn’t believe me. But I did have a date, in a manner of speaking. That is, I had a definite something to do.
Jerry shrugged, putting his hands in the air as if testing for rain. “First time I seen him,” he said. Could be true, I thought. Probably not.
“Where’d he go?” I asked.
“I dunno. Maybe across the street.” Jerry was a sphinx.
“I can’t go tonight. Tell him I’ve got a date.” My father, I meant. Jerry knew. This was part of our routine.
Jerry smiled. It was polite, but edged with a shadow of slyness. “Yes, miss,” he said, touching his hat. He didn’t believe me. But I did have a date, in a manner of speaking. That is, I had a definite something to do.
StillILearn
New Member
This woman is clearly a major big nut case, but I'm stickin' to her like a wad of spat chewing gum to a new spike heel.
StillILearn
New Member
The Ira Levin-style twist? (I'm thinking Sliver here.)
novella
Active Member
Today's continuation . . . so sorry for the delay!
Which is how I found myself, just after dark, standing halfway down the block in a hooded jacket, my eyes on the front doors of Number 27. It was a busy time of night, with people getting home after long days at the office or evening drinks or picking their kids up. Though I had lived on the block for years, I felt anonymous and unrecognizable. I was known by a few, according to my usual movements, but at this hour I was often resting after a day out. I had acquired the habit of napping through the melancholy hours when ordinary people pick through the sad vegetables at Gristedes and stare blankly from bus windows. But here I was, warily awake.
The block was wet with recent rain, and the reflections confused my eyes. A man emerged from 27, hurrying toward me. I flushed. Bruno. Not Bruno. He was nothing like him. In a flood of foolishness, I realized that I had no idea what I would do if, or when, I saw him. Still, I did not move. I felt something like determination, though the goal I was determined to attain was unclear.
The doorman at 27 stepped out, holding the door open for two men. They stood under the awning, not hurrying at all, but talking. Yes, one of them was definitely Bruno. The other was shorter, a bit fat. Was he waiting for me? Would he go over to my building?
They lit cigarettes, the curls of smoke drifting luxuriously in the slanted light from the streetlamp. Their voices were soft and impossible to understand. I stood still, afraid that any movement would catch their attention.
Which is how I found myself, just after dark, standing halfway down the block in a hooded jacket, my eyes on the front doors of Number 27. It was a busy time of night, with people getting home after long days at the office or evening drinks or picking their kids up. Though I had lived on the block for years, I felt anonymous and unrecognizable. I was known by a few, according to my usual movements, but at this hour I was often resting after a day out. I had acquired the habit of napping through the melancholy hours when ordinary people pick through the sad vegetables at Gristedes and stare blankly from bus windows. But here I was, warily awake.
The block was wet with recent rain, and the reflections confused my eyes. A man emerged from 27, hurrying toward me. I flushed. Bruno. Not Bruno. He was nothing like him. In a flood of foolishness, I realized that I had no idea what I would do if, or when, I saw him. Still, I did not move. I felt something like determination, though the goal I was determined to attain was unclear.
The doorman at 27 stepped out, holding the door open for two men. They stood under the awning, not hurrying at all, but talking. Yes, one of them was definitely Bruno. The other was shorter, a bit fat. Was he waiting for me? Would he go over to my building?
They lit cigarettes, the curls of smoke drifting luxuriously in the slanted light from the streetlamp. Their voices were soft and impossible to understand. I stood still, afraid that any movement would catch their attention.
novella
Active Member
Second addition of the day.
A dogwalker with a small, white lapdog appeared from behind. The guy seemed miffed that I was blocking his puppy’s pee spot, which presumably was the base of the scrawny flowering pear that I’d been using for cover.
“S’cuse me,” the dogwalker said, clearly expecting me to walk somewhere. He looked down at my feet aggressively, as if that bit of pavement belonged to the two of them.
“I’m waiting for someone,” I whispered, wishing he would evaporate. The furball sniffed the toe of my boot. It was an ugly little thing, with rheumy eyes and fur the yellower side of white.
Under my breath, I growled at the man and looked away, just in time to see Bruno and his companion disappear into Coco Valazzo, the boutique Italian boite on the corner. The restaurant was precious. It had one tiny window looking into the intimate, golden bar area. The larger windows in the dining room were covered with heavy, tawny linen, ceiling to floor, protecting the privacy of the privileged. I had been there countless times, dragged by my father when I refused to be taken somewhere else. Salvatore, the maitre d’, knew my father’s taste for vitello tonnato and obsequious service.
I approached the small window, sure I would not be able to see the men at their table. But I could see them. They had stopped at the tiny bar, and the barman was serving them a specialty grappa from a large jug. I could go in and sit right there, maybe order a Manhattan. I’d done that very thing before, two or three times, on nights when a drink out seemed right. But I was all wrong, in my hooded jacket and nondescript pants. I would not feel right, dressed so plainly.
A dogwalker with a small, white lapdog appeared from behind. The guy seemed miffed that I was blocking his puppy’s pee spot, which presumably was the base of the scrawny flowering pear that I’d been using for cover.
“S’cuse me,” the dogwalker said, clearly expecting me to walk somewhere. He looked down at my feet aggressively, as if that bit of pavement belonged to the two of them.
“I’m waiting for someone,” I whispered, wishing he would evaporate. The furball sniffed the toe of my boot. It was an ugly little thing, with rheumy eyes and fur the yellower side of white.
Under my breath, I growled at the man and looked away, just in time to see Bruno and his companion disappear into Coco Valazzo, the boutique Italian boite on the corner. The restaurant was precious. It had one tiny window looking into the intimate, golden bar area. The larger windows in the dining room were covered with heavy, tawny linen, ceiling to floor, protecting the privacy of the privileged. I had been there countless times, dragged by my father when I refused to be taken somewhere else. Salvatore, the maitre d’, knew my father’s taste for vitello tonnato and obsequious service.
I approached the small window, sure I would not be able to see the men at their table. But I could see them. They had stopped at the tiny bar, and the barman was serving them a specialty grappa from a large jug. I could go in and sit right there, maybe order a Manhattan. I’d done that very thing before, two or three times, on nights when a drink out seemed right. But I was all wrong, in my hooded jacket and nondescript pants. I would not feel right, dressed so plainly.
novella
Active Member
A little addition . . .
I watched the two at the bar. A man and a woman went in, casting a suspicious glance my way. The man ushered her under his arm through the door, as if protecting her from me. Surely I would not be able to stand here long without attracting attention. Bruno was nursing his grappa, clearly not going anywhere soon. The fat one was hunched thuggishly over his glass. He did not have Bruno’s manners. The pale, almost whitish, lavender of Bruno’s shirt flattered his mild, effortless tan and the gentleness of his movements. I wished I could go in and sit with them. Was it cleverness on Bruno’s part that brought me to this moment, or was it craziness on my own?
I crossed the street to my building. Brendan was in the lobby, cozy and dry, his evening beginning to slow down. I stood under the awning as though waiting for a cab. He came out to assist.
“Cab, Miss Novella?”
“No thanks, Brendan. Just standing here.” He was at a disadvantage. It was unseemly for me to hang out with the building employees, yet it would seem rude of him to walk away. This all we both knew.
“Do you have a cigarette?” I asked him. He wasn’t really supposed to smoke on the job, but I knew he did sometimes.
“Certainly,” he said, offering me the pack of Marlboros from inside his fancy jacket. With it came a lighter. I felt like Greta Garbo for a moment, under the awning, leaning toward the cupped flame in my modest disguise, with the swish of wet traffic filling the air.
I watched the two at the bar. A man and a woman went in, casting a suspicious glance my way. The man ushered her under his arm through the door, as if protecting her from me. Surely I would not be able to stand here long without attracting attention. Bruno was nursing his grappa, clearly not going anywhere soon. The fat one was hunched thuggishly over his glass. He did not have Bruno’s manners. The pale, almost whitish, lavender of Bruno’s shirt flattered his mild, effortless tan and the gentleness of his movements. I wished I could go in and sit with them. Was it cleverness on Bruno’s part that brought me to this moment, or was it craziness on my own?
I crossed the street to my building. Brendan was in the lobby, cozy and dry, his evening beginning to slow down. I stood under the awning as though waiting for a cab. He came out to assist.
“Cab, Miss Novella?”
“No thanks, Brendan. Just standing here.” He was at a disadvantage. It was unseemly for me to hang out with the building employees, yet it would seem rude of him to walk away. This all we both knew.
“Do you have a cigarette?” I asked him. He wasn’t really supposed to smoke on the job, but I knew he did sometimes.
“Certainly,” he said, offering me the pack of Marlboros from inside his fancy jacket. With it came a lighter. I felt like Greta Garbo for a moment, under the awning, leaning toward the cupped flame in my modest disguise, with the swish of wet traffic filling the air.
novella
Active Member
Brendan stood next to me, almost at attention. He was waiting for a cue.
“You know everyone on the block, don’t you, Brendan?” I asked him, taking a drag on the cigarette.
“Some people,” he said diplomatically. It was part of his brief to refrain from gossip.
“You know that guy who was talking to my dad’s driver the other day?” I watched his face to see if anything registered.
“I don’t think I do,” he said. But I was pretty sure he did know.
“He goes in and out of 27. I’ve seen him. He’s in Coco, at the bar, right now. Italian, longish hair.”
Brendan’s eyes widened ever so slightly. He was surprised at me but couldn’t say so. “I’m sorry. I didn’t notice.”
“Hmm. Well, if you do notice, can you tell me who he is? I’d really appreciate it.” He stared straight ahead as if repressing a smile.
“Yes, of course,” he said.
“Look,” I said, “You know the deal with my father. I just want to know who the guy is. It’s not what you think.”
Brendan looked at me, straight for a change, and nodded. I believe he understood.
“You know everyone on the block, don’t you, Brendan?” I asked him, taking a drag on the cigarette.
“Some people,” he said diplomatically. It was part of his brief to refrain from gossip.
“You know that guy who was talking to my dad’s driver the other day?” I watched his face to see if anything registered.
“I don’t think I do,” he said. But I was pretty sure he did know.
“He goes in and out of 27. I’ve seen him. He’s in Coco, at the bar, right now. Italian, longish hair.”
Brendan’s eyes widened ever so slightly. He was surprised at me but couldn’t say so. “I’m sorry. I didn’t notice.”
“Hmm. Well, if you do notice, can you tell me who he is? I’d really appreciate it.” He stared straight ahead as if repressing a smile.
“Yes, of course,” he said.
“Look,” I said, “You know the deal with my father. I just want to know who the guy is. It’s not what you think.”
Brendan looked at me, straight for a change, and nodded. I believe he understood.
StillILearn
New Member
novella, do I remember your saying that you're not a fan of Barbara Vine? The reason I ask is that this story is, to me, reminiscent of her writing, and that (coming from me) is the highest praise. I'm feeling that there's a world of untold information just beneath the surface story, and that all will become clear -- but only after something horrific happens. And happen it will. And soon.
StillILearn
New Member
This person appears to admire Vine almost as much as I do:
link
The Minotaur is Vine's latest. I haven't read it yet, but I will. When Ruth Rendell is writing as Barbara Vine, she is irresistable. I sense the same 'flavor' in "Story Beginning".
Sample review:
I hope you don't mind this interruption. I'm enjoying your story very much.
(If this post seems intrusive to anybody, I can ask a mod to move it. I just keep thinking that Vine's writing is so much like what I see novella doing here.)
link
The Minotaur is Vine's latest. I haven't read it yet, but I will. When Ruth Rendell is writing as Barbara Vine, she is irresistable. I sense the same 'flavor' in "Story Beginning".
Sample review:
I hope you don't mind this interruption. I'm enjoying your story very much.
(If this post seems intrusive to anybody, I can ask a mod to move it. I just keep thinking that Vine's writing is so much like what I see novella doing here.)
novella
Active Member
Novella gets a message . . .
There were three messages on my machine. Two were from banks offering to be my new best friend. The third was my father.
“Honey, it’s Daddy. I think you’re taking this thing a little too far. I’m going to be in the neighborhood tomorrow. About seven. See you then, honey.” He paused. “It’ll be okay,” he said, then hung up.
What the ****. Taking things a little too far was his department. I was so agitated by the call, I couldn’t sit down, but paced around the apartment. Then I realized I was talking to myself, aloud. I had to get out of there. I looked at the clock. It was only 9:15.
I stripped off my dark clothes and tore through the closet, looking for something right. I threw on a short chiffon skirt, a pale blue cashmere sweater, and heels. Put my hair up. I put on a large Bulgari ring—men noticed things like that—and left the apartment.
Brendan’s sidekick Harry was running the elevator. All he did was ask what floor and push the button for you, but he was essential to a proper building. I got in.
“Hi Harry,” I said.
“Hello, Miss Novella,” he said. He pressed L and stared at the door the whole way down.
Brendan bowed slightly as I passed, no sign that we had shared a moment earlier. Sometimes it was hard for me to believe I even existed, so faint was my impact on the world.
There were three messages on my machine. Two were from banks offering to be my new best friend. The third was my father.
“Honey, it’s Daddy. I think you’re taking this thing a little too far. I’m going to be in the neighborhood tomorrow. About seven. See you then, honey.” He paused. “It’ll be okay,” he said, then hung up.
What the ****. Taking things a little too far was his department. I was so agitated by the call, I couldn’t sit down, but paced around the apartment. Then I realized I was talking to myself, aloud. I had to get out of there. I looked at the clock. It was only 9:15.
I stripped off my dark clothes and tore through the closet, looking for something right. I threw on a short chiffon skirt, a pale blue cashmere sweater, and heels. Put my hair up. I put on a large Bulgari ring—men noticed things like that—and left the apartment.
Brendan’s sidekick Harry was running the elevator. All he did was ask what floor and push the button for you, but he was essential to a proper building. I got in.
“Hi Harry,” I said.
“Hello, Miss Novella,” he said. He pressed L and stared at the door the whole way down.
Brendan bowed slightly as I passed, no sign that we had shared a moment earlier. Sometimes it was hard for me to believe I even existed, so faint was my impact on the world.
StillILearn
New Member
pontalba said:Now this ^^^^ is an interesting turn of events.....could go a number of ways. Can't wait!
I'm noting a hint of humor here. The writer is obviously having fun with these characters.