CHAPTER 34
NICHOLAI
By the time the Gods poured out of the club entrance like a bunch of clowns falling out of a Volkswagen, I’d ditched the old lady disguise, changed into a hotel uniform and was pretending to sweep up trash next to a group of slot machines. I watched them with a wide smirk as they searched the length of the casino and hotel lobby with increasing frustration.
It was such a pleasure making these guys look like fools. Their incompetence is astounding, and they’re playing right into my hands. The erection that had formed when I touched Lucky’s hand still lingered in my trousers. Being that close to her was exhilarating.
Although, I was deeply disappointed in her, I still loved her. I was still attracted to her.
Maybe I’d have to kill her.
It didn’t mean I didn’t love her.
It didn’t mean I didn’t still want her.
It didn’t mean she wasn’t always going to be mine.
To think that way, to give up, to walk away and leave her be? Well, the idea never occurred to me. Why would I ever do such an absurd thing?
I’d created her, as if she was my own child.
I’d molded her into a star, put my heart and soul into my creation.
I’ll never walk away.
And neither will she.
Oh, let her gallivant like a brazen hussy, slumming with that biker. Let her have her fun. Because by the time I’m done with her, fun will be a distant memory, just like our time together, before she’d jilted me at the wedding, making me look like a fool in front of everyone.
Nobody does that. Not to me.
Not ever again. Embarrassing me in front of others had been my mother’s favorite hobby. I’d endured mind-bending shame at her hands. Years of that had resulted in a vow to myself that I’d never allow someone to get away with it again.
I’d stopped my mother eventually.
I’d stop Lucky, too.
If I had to do it the same way, in the same violent manner, so be it.
My mind drifted away, just as it did every time I thought of the last time I’d seen my mother, her eyes bulging from her head before all the life drained away in a blissful absence, leaving nothing but me, without her. Oh, but I’m getting ahead of myself, because to appreciate the true pleasure I felt, the genuine gift that evening brought to me, then you have to understand the beginning of the end, when I began to realize I’d had enough…
Like fireworks, beams of light bounced off the cobblestones of the rainy Paris street, the headlights of passing cars breaking through the frigid darkness, leaving the stream of people on the sidewalks appearing as dark silhouettes, ghosts window shopping along the brightly lit windows, strolling beneath dripping umbrellas down the boulevard, languishing in front of window fronts sporting designer clothing many of them may never afford.
Mother loved them so.
She longed to lift the fine fabrics, feel the weight of the threads, sliding her fingertips along the perfect seams in deep appreciation for the seamstresses skill. She’d ooh and ahh at the hand-beaded couture gowns, admiring the cut and lay of the silks and satins until she was shooed out by the over-attentive and haughty store owners.
They took one look at her and knew she’d never be able to afford a gown like that.
Outright stealing one was out of the question with the hawks that worked the stores. Breaking in wasn’t easy due to the intense security they employed. Even at night when they were shut for the evening, guards would roam up and down the Avenue Montaigne at all hours of the night.
No, for my mother to obtain one of those coveted gowns, she’d have to utilize a nontraditional method.
She hated thinking of herself as a thief, or a criminal of any sorts, but that’s exactly what she was, through and through. Of course, she usually sent me to do the dirty work, so perhaps I’m the true criminal, but I never would have done any of it had it not been for her insistence and guidance.
What ten year-old says no to his mother?
What ten year-old doesn’t want to make his mother happy?
If I could give her the gown of her dreams, who was I to say no?
So I tried any and every hare-brained scheme she thought of. Sometimes they worked. A lot of the times, they didn’t. And other times? Other times I was caught red-handed.
Of course, these times were always my fault, and never hers. She’d never take the blame. Instead, she berated me. She didn’t care if she did it when others were watching, but I sure did.
The summer I turned ten was a summer I’ll never forget.
I developed early. My voice began to change shortly after my birthday and my legs stretched almost ten inches that year. What my mother called ‘peach fuzz’ began to pop up under my chin, making me look more like an aging billygoat than a growing boy.
So when she dressed me up like a teenaged girl again to help her get a dress she’d had her eye on for over a month in the Yves St. Laurent window, I’d never felt more awkward.
“Remember the plan, Nicholai?” she asked, hovering outside the shop’s front door, herself dressed as my wealthy father.
“Yes, Mother,” I said.
“Father!” she reminded me.
“Right,” I shrugged.
“Shoulders back, chin up,” she said. “Remember, you’re filthy rich and spoiled rotten.”
“Yes…Father,” I replied. She grabbed my hand and we walked inside like we owned the place.
“Good evening!” A tall, svelte blonde greeted us with a frosty smile, her eyes quickly glancing down at our shoes. Mother had stolen the fancy shoes to go with our new ready-to-wear a week ago, explaining that was always the most important part of a disguise. When I saw the woman glance down, then smile again as she rushed over with an eager gleam in her eye, I knew Mother had been right.
“Evening,” Mother replied, her voice low with a slight lilt in her voice that she used whenever she wanted to appear wealthy. “My daughter’s looking for a ball gown. She insisted on coming here.”
“You’ve come to the right place,” she replied. By now, I’d left them alone, walking over and perusing the gowns hanging against the wall. I picked through them with disapproval, clicking my tongue and shaking my head.
“These won’t do,” I said, raising my voice a few octaves higher.
“We have some others in the back,” the woman said. I ignored her completely and walked over to the window, eyeing the one my mother so desperately wanted.
“I’d like to try this one on,” I said.
“Of course,” she replied. “Size two?”
“I’m not sure. Could I try it in a few different sizes? Two, four, and six?”
“Absolutely,” she replied.
“And that one,” I pointed to a mannequin in the corner wearing a stunning black-beaded number that was very sexy, with a low cut neckline and sheer skirt.
“That might be a little too….mature…for you,” she suggested.
I lifted my chin higher and glanced over at my mother-father.
“Daddy,” I said, letting a tiny whine enter my voice.
“Let her try on whatever she wants,” he growled, with a dismissive wave.
“Of course,” the woman relented, “I’ll collect them all. It will only take a moment.” She disappeared behind heavy curtains and I turned back to smile at my mother.
“So far, so good,” I said.
“Yes, darling,” she replied, with a serene smile. My heart swelled knowing I was making her happy. When she was happy, she was amazing. She was kind and funny and loving. It was the times she wasn’t happy that made loving her so difficult. And I wanted to love her. Desperately, I wanted her to love me.
In my mind, if I kept her happy, then I kept the love flowing my way.
So often it was tainted with disappointment and anger and all the other things that can tear through my gut in an instant.
When it was pure like this?
There were no words for it.
The woman returned and led me to a dressing room in the back, with a lush white chaise lounge in the middle, a huge, gilded, three-way mirror in the corner and the biggest bouquet of white lilies I’d ever laid eyes on sitting on a marble table next to it.
“I’ve placed all the dresses in your room,” she said. “Do you need any assistance?”
“I’m sixteen, I think I can dress myself,” I said, doing my best to sound snooty.
“Of course, I’ll be right around the corner if you need me.”
“Thank you,” I said, rolling my eyes and making sure she saw me. When she disappeared, I walked into the dressing room and locked the door. The dress Mom wanted was a white chiffon dress, with tiny blue beads sewn into a floral pattern that stretched down the side of a long, flowing skirt. Stuffing it under the navy blue shift dress I was wearing was going to prove difficult, but I assured my mother I could do it.
I struggled for a while to find the right way to secure it. I’d worn stockings under the dress and I tucked most of the beaded dress into them, shaping it just right so it wouldn’t bulge out and give me away and using extra care not to snap any of the beads off.
A knock on the door made my head snap up from my work. I’d not realized how much I was sweating, and the realization that I might ruin the dress with my sweat hadn’t occurred to me until now. Now that I’d hit puberty, it seemed all I did was sweat.
“Doing okay in there?” The woman called out.
“Yes, thank you,” I said.
“Did you find the right fit?” she asked.
“Not yet, still working on that,” I replied.
“Just yell if you need me.” The click of her stilettos on the marble floor told me she’d walked away and I sighed with relief. Taking a deep breath, I went back to adjusting the dress. Once I had it the way I wanted, I steeled myself for the rest of the plan.
All I had to do now was make it out the door.
Gingerly, I opened the door, and with the utmost care, began slowly walking. The woman was over by my mother, talking animatedly about the rain. They both looked up as I approached.
“They didn’t fit,” I said. “Thank you anyway.”
“They didn’t?” she asked, raising a brow. “We can try some other sizes.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “I’m going to shop around. Let’s go, Daddy.”
Mom rose to her feet and politely smiled at the clearly disappointed woman.
“Thank you for your time,” she said.
One foot in front of the other, I moved towards the door. With each step, the dress moved, the heavy beads weighing down my stockings. With one hand, I moved to discretely tug at the waistband to pull them up.
I felt them before I heard them.
First, a small snap of thread under my fingertips, then the cascade of tiny beads falling around the outside of my stockings and landing on the ground in a store so silent you could have heard a pin drop, let alone the echoing sound of hundreds of tiny beads spilling out of my crotch and onto the marble floor as my stocking then completely fell down around my ankles.
With wide eyes, I froze, my glance immediately darting over to my mother. She’d gone white with anger.
“Thief!” The woman yelled, running over to me like she’d just discovered some amazing secret.
And me? Well, I tried to walk again, in fact, I tried to trot out of that store like a prized thoroughbred, with no regard for the fact that I was tied up in the stockings and dress like I was in a three-legged race, or the fact that hundreds of little beads lay at my feet, waiting for me like an audience waiting for a jester to take the stage.
When I fell, it wasn’t just a quick thump on my ass. No, I fell in a heap of flailing, tangled limbs and flimsy fabric, the delicate couture gown ripped to shreds at this point, the beads still flying in the air like confetti. And when I finally landed, it wasn’t pretty.
Legs akimbo, I exposed all the parts of me I’d struggled to keep hidden, and that doesn’t include the dress I was stealing. The woman stopped over me, her eyes glued to my adolescent maleness, which was no longer encased in the nude stockings I was wearing due to the weight of the dress pulling them down, but rather completely on display for her wide eyes to feast upon.
Up to then, my genitals had been virgin territory, never even gazed upon by anyone other than my mother. Heat burned my cheeks as the woman gaped down at my crotch, her hand flying up to her mouth as she burst out laughing and pointed.
“It’s a boy!” she cried, as if she was the doctor announcing the sex of a newborn to her mother. “A boy! A boy!”
As the other store clerks joined her, pouring from the back at the sound of the ruckus, they gathered around me quickly, laughing like a bunch of surprised hyenas, the entire lot of them pointing and laughing for what seemed like an eternity before my mother intervened.
And by intervened, I mean she stood up and calmly walked out of the store, leaving me lying there alone and humiliated, which at least broke the spell and caused the first woman to stop laughing and try to go after her.
Of course, Mom was out of sight, blending in with the other ghosts on the sidewalks, long gone into the night.
After the laughter died down, the women took pity on me after I told them I was only ten and they let me leave after making me promise to never step foot in there again. It took hours for me to find my mother after that, and we didn’t speak to each other for a week, each of us blaming the other for our failure. Eventually, we went back to our routine, never speaking of the incident again.
Shortly after, we moved away from Paris and we never went back to that store. I’d fantasized about going back someday, about maybe taking Lucky there, but it never happened since we were always too busy when we were on tour to stop for shopping.
That feeling, though? That deep-seeded embarrassment?
That’s the kind of thing that stays with a young man, the kind of thing that molds you into who you’re to become later.
Five years went by, that memory burned into my soul, into my gut, stabbing me each time I remembered it like a dagger that twisted harder inside of me with each passing day. My anger built up like a dormant volcano, waiting to blow, until finally, one day, it did.
I’d had enough.
Enough of the humiliation, enough of helping my mother fulfill some sick fantasy she had of us as some mastermind crime team. I longed for a normal life, a stable life, a life free of anxiety and constantly moving.
I wanted roots.
I wanted to know who I was without her influence.
I could have waited until I was old enough to be on my own. It was only a few years time. But that anger? It was bubbling just under the surface, and it had waited long enough to rear its ugly head. Waiting any longer wasn’t an option.
The abuse kept piling on. The jobs she forced me to do. The dressing up as a girl, the dresses she chose for me to wear becoming more and more feminine, with lace and ruffles and loud, floral patterns, because she knew it humiliated me even further.
She took pleasure in my pain, of that I have no doubt.
I knew it, even back then when I was just a boy. She didn’t even try to hide it, which of course, made it hurt even worse, creating a vicious, evil cycle that she relished in.
The night I snapped was a night eerily similar to the cold, rainy night in Paris at Yves St. Laurent. In my mind, the two evenings are connected with each other, as if one were borne from the other like some inevitable twist of fate.
Paris was a distant memory, but one I kept close as we strolled down the Via Monte Napoleone, in the Centro Storico district in Milan, Italy. Mother was up to her usual tricks, drooling over the couture gowns in the windows of the designer fashion boutiques — ‘The finest in all of Italy’, she liked to remind me repeatedly.
I’d grown bored with her, having just turned fifteen and yearning desperately for that normality I craved. My facial hair was growing out of control and to appease Mother, I was forced to shave it off every day. My voice had deepened to a masculine growl that was increasingly impossible to raise the few required octaves to transform into the young girl my mother favored for her heists and hustles. My attitude had changed, as well, my willingness to go along with whatever she suggested decreasing daily. As a result, we fought constantly.
All my life, it had just been the two of us. I never knew my father, and from the bits and pieces of information I’d extracted from her over the years, I’d come to believe she barely knew the man at all. She didn’t even know his last name, just that he went by the ominous moniker of Damien. For all I knew, I was spawn from the devil. I made that joke once, but she didn’t laugh. She resented any mention of the man, insisting I didn’t ‘need’ a father figure in my life, that she was enough.
And for a while, maybe she was.
But not any more, not on that cold rainy night in Milan when the changes that had been simmering inside of me burst through like a broken dam.
“Darling, I have a client for us,” she said, her arm threaded through mine.
“What’s the job?”
“It’s thrilling, really,” she said. I cringed when she said that. To my mother, thrilling meant dangerous. Dangerous for me. “There’s a very rare, Fourteenth Century urn in the Museo Bagatti Valsecchi, just down the boulevard here.”
“You can’t steal from a museum,” I shook my head.
“I have some inside knowledge,” she said. “I think I can pull it off.”
“The security alone,” I replied.
“Surprisingly, there is only one security guard at night,” she replied. “And I am privy to some very useful information about his proclivities.”
“His what?” I asked.
“Nicholai, listen,” she said, stopping in the middle of the street and turning to me, her hands gripping my arms, her eyes imploring me. “You’re getting older, son. Soon you’ll be a man. Look at you! You’ve grown so handsome, darling. And you’re getting so strong.”
I shifted uncomfortably, pulling my arms away.
“Our usual methods won’t work much longer. Your feminine looks are falling away with your youth. We need to change course, employ new methods, using the tools we have now.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I know you don’t, darling, and that’s okay,” she said, pausing before reaching out to touch my cheek. She smiled, her lips moving but her eyes growing darker. “This guard at the museum, he likes boys. Young men. Just like you…”
Confusion filled my eyes as I stared at her.
“What do you mean?”
“For just a few moments, if you…distracted…him, then it would give me time to sneak past and grab the urn.”
“You mean talk to him? What makes you think he’ll talk to me long enough?”
“I’m not suggesting a talk, sweetheart,” she whispered.
Searching her eyes for some inkling of an explanation, I came up empty.
“You’re a beautiful boy, Nicholai,” she said. “We have to use the gifts that God gave us.”
“What do you want me to do, Mother?” I was becoming exasperated and I was tired and hungry. It was nearly ten at night and we’d still not stopped for dinner.
“You don’t have to do a thing, Nicholai. Just let him do whatever he wants.”
“Mother! Are you talking about sex?” The fact that it just dawned on me was ironic because lately sex was all I thought about. Being a fifteen year-old boy who was never out of his mother’s sight was already hard enough, but add puberty to the mix and it was terrible. And now she was suggesting — what? That I let this guard have his way with me?
“Yes, Nicholai,” she said. “I know it might surprise you, but women do it all the time. In fact, I’d do it myself if I could, but as I said — this man isn’t interested in what I have to offer.”
I grew quiet, the enormity of what she’d just said sinking in hard and fast.
“How much?” I asked, finally.
“How much what?”
“How much will you get for the urn?”
“Nicholai, that’s just the thing! It’s a lot, darling. More than any job we’ve done before.”
“How much?” I demanded.
“Two million euros.”
I nodded, slowly. That was indeed a lot of money.
“I knew you’d understand,” she whispered, patting my arm. We began walking again, a satisfied smile lingering on her face throughout dinner.
It was the same smile that seemed to cling to her lifeless face hours later, after she’d fallen asleep, after I’d risen from the bed we shared in the dusty motel room, after I’d placed my long, thin fingers around her throat and squeezed for as long and hard as I could.
She woke. She struggled.
But I held on.
Until she was still.
Until she was gone.
Until that eerie smile that would haunt me for the rest of my life was the only thing left of her.
Using everything she taught me and cursing her every step of the way, I made it on my own after that. It wasn’t easy, but with the skills I possessed, I had it easier than if I had been that ‘normal’ boy I so desperately wanted to be back then.
Those embarrassing memories still stung, but my vow to never let another woman get away with treating me like that? I’d kept my promise so far and I intended to continue with it.
Do you understand now?
Do you understand why Lucky can’t just get away with this without paying?