Michal

 

We drive in silence, no sound but the rushing air of the occasional car that passes on the other side of the road. My home is out in the suburbs, so it's a little bit of a drive. I put on some Brahms in hopes of creating a calming mood in the car, but Alina still seems tense. I've done this routine with enough girls to know that it takes them a week or so to be fully acclimated to their new circumstances, so I decide to give her space to think as we drive.

 

I do a little thinking of my own. As we make our way to my suburb, I can't help but feel something strange towards Alina—something like a longing, as odd as that might sound. A protective urge comes over me and I want to place my hand on her shoulder and tell her that everything's going to be all right, even though I know that statement would be as far from reality as it can be.

 

There's something different about this girl—something that makes me feel as though I have to do something about what's going to happen. I need to warn her, shove some money into her pocket, put her on the next flight to California, and tell her to never come back to this city. This is ridiculous, I realize, as the consequences of such a thing would be catastrophic. But it's how I feel sitting in the car next to this small girl with beautiful, gray eyes.

 

We arrive at the entrance to my community, a black, wrought-iron gate with brick pillars on both sides. It opens with a slow rumble, and soon we're driving through the quiet, curving roads of my neighborhood, the stately mansions of my neighbors on both sides of us.

 

"Nice place," she says, finally speaking up, her eyes on the houses around us, which are mostly century-old brick homes, tall and imposing.

 

"It's a great neighborhood," I say, pleased that she's breaking the silence. "I lived in the city for a while, but after a time you just want some space. Not to mention peace and quiet."

 

She's scanning the houses ahead, wondering which one is mine.

 

Soon, we pull into the curving driveway in front of my home. My mansion is a two-story home of gray brick, an old-fashioned style that appeals to me. There are lampposts of black steel along the driveway, and the inside of the house is illuminated in low, orange light.

 

"This is you?" she asks.

 

"Yes. Why? surprised?"

 

"I don't know …just seems old-fashioned."

 

I can't tell if she's impressed or put off.

 

"I'm an old-fashioned kind of guy."

 

"An old-fashioned kind of guy who puts girls into drug-running operations."

 

"Careful, girl," I say, secretly tickled by her gall.

 

She makes the right choice to hush up, and I bring the car to a halt in front of the tall, double doors of dark wood. I kill the engine and walk around to Alina's side, opening the door and letting her step out.

 

We approach the front doors and I unlock and open them, revealing the open space of the entry hall. Alina lets out a little gasp when she lays eyes on the room, her eyes tracking from the marble floors, to the walls and columns of dark, rich wood, to the classical art placed here and there. Her shoes echo on the floor as she steps in and looks the room over, her mouth slacking slightly.

 

"Wow," she says, and I'm happy; this place is meant to impress.

 

"Like we said—plenty of space for you. Come this way."

 

I lead her up the spiral staircase to the second floor. We walk slowly down the hallway, past the many doors that lead to extra bedrooms, offices, and various other spaces that don't really get much use. I remember buying this place and being so excited for all of the extra room. But now, a year or so later, I barely use any of it.

 

We stop in front of one of the bedroom doors down at the end of the hallway. A small window to our right looks out over the green span of my backyard, the fountain bubbling silently.

 

"This will be your bedroom," I say. "I'm all the way down at the other end of the other hall, so you'll have plenty of privacy."

 

"Sure," she says, her voice far away.

 

I can tell that she's over her initial awe of the house and is now thinking about how this place is going to be something not too far off from a prison. Despite how accustomed I am to this process, something about Alina is instilling in me a feeling of …sympathy for her. The urge to tell her not to be scared and that I'll do everything I can to make sure that she's safe—and mean it—is still lolling in my heart. It's a strange feeling and I can't seem to shake it.

 

Opening the door to the bedroom, I lead her in. It's a nice room, and definitely one of my favorites in the house. The bed is a four-post piece made of glossy, cherry wood with soft, floral-printed covers and a pile of pillows. The floor of the room is covered in a deep-red tapestry and there's a small reading chair in the corner. A large TV is hung above the dresser and the wide windows afford a great view of the backyard. The room faces the east, and when the sun comes up over the property, it's quite a sight.

 

But Alina doesn't seem to be concerned with any of the finer points of décor. Instead, she stumbles towards the bed as if drunk and collapses on top of it, her face pressed against the covers. Soon, her body begins gently wracking with sobs, her crying muffled through the sheets.

 

I realize that, as brave as she's being, there's a point where the gravity of the situation finally sinks in. The first night is when that typically happens for most girls, and in my opinion, it's good for them to get it all out sooner than later.

 

As I watch her cry, however, I can't help but feel that same sense of concern. Normally, I'd be content to leave the room, shut the door behind me, and hope that the girl hurries along with the business of getting used to the situation that she's now in. But this girl is different. As she sobs, I feel sympathy, even some measure of responsibility, and a sense that it's now my duty to make sure that she gets through this safe somehow, even though I know how unlikely that is.

 

Then, as though my body isn't my own, I find myself walking towards her, my eyes fixed on the girl, her body appearing small and delicate. I sit down next to her on the bed, her face buried in the pile of pillows. She doesn't notice that I'm sitting there, and I watch her for a time, trying to come to terms with the strange mixture of emotions running through me. I've never felt about any of these girls the way that I'm feeling right now, and I don't like it one bit.

 

"Hey," I say, my voice low.

 

She continues to weep, not noticing my words. I place my hand on her shoulder, and she quickly turns over, her big, gray eyes wet with tears and her mouth opened slightly in surprise.

 

"What do you want?" she asks, her eyes flicking over to my hand where it rests on her shoulder.

 

"I …ah," I say, realizing that there was nothing specific that I wanted to say to her; I just wanted to offer some kind of sympathy—some kind of support.

 

"I think you've done enough already," she says, her voice that uneven tone that one has when their throat has gone raw from crying. "Just leave me alone."

 

Her tone is stern and she pulls her legs up close to her chest, tucking herself into a ball, and moving herself away from me. She looks both surprised and shocked by my touch.

 

I want to say something more, but no words come to mind. Instead, I simply get up and leave the room.

 

"Let me …let me know if there's anything I can get for you," I say over my shoulder as I shut the door behind me.

 

I walk down the hall with quick steps, eager to put distance between me and Alina. I open the door to my study and step in, shutting the door behind me, turning the stereo to a random classical piano station, and making myself a stiff drink.

 

Sipping the whiskey as I stand by the window, I reflect on the events of this evening. I'm struck by how odd my behavior has been towards Alina. I'm finding myself looking at her with an unusually lustful eye, thinking of her when she's not around, and feeling protective towards her. All of these feelings are counterproductive to what my father and I have in mind with her, and to whatever girls come after.

 

The drink disappears slowly, and as I let the whiskey work through me while I stand near the window, my eyes on the silver disc of the moon in the inky sky above and the gentle melody of the piano a gentle swirl around me, I begin to feel a new sense of resolve.

 

I realize that it's silly to feel this way about a girl who's just another in a long line of young women. Sure, she's gorgeous and sure and she has a certain way about her that I find myself very attracted to, but feelings such as these have no place in this business.

 

By the time my drink is finished, I feel back to my old self. A smile crosses my face as I prepare another measure of whiskey, now taking a seat at the baby grand piano in the study and placing my glass on the small table next to it. I listen to the music playing—a a simple Debussy piece by the sound of it—and after spending a brief moment finding the key by listening, I begin to play along, the cool of the ivory pleasant against my skin. Within moments I'm fully engrossed in the music, thoughts of Alina now pushed out of my mind.

 

I'm focused and clear in what needs to be done.

 

This is business, I think. Nothing more and nothing less.

 

The song concludes and I press down on the keys for an A minor. A heavy silence then fills the room.