Trompe-l'oeil (eBook)

Or, the Old In and Out. Of Love.

Russell Bittner (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2014 | 1. Auflage
448 Seiten
Createspace Independent Publishing Platform (Verlag)
978-1-4781-5105-0 (ISBN)

Trompe-l'oeil: the title of this work is as much a description of the principal female character as it is of the work itself. Although a work in the genre of 'Modern Romance,' this novel is unusually explicit -- hence, not for the young. (The target-audience for this novel is female, college-educated [at least], not prudish. No, not prudish! That said - and given the number of erotic scenes -- this is NOT a work in the genre of 'Erotica.' If there were such a category in Fiction, this work would fall under complicated genre of 'Chick Lit/Modern Romance/ Erotic/ Psychological. Why? Quite simply because the work is about a modern-day woman who works out her Narcissistic Personality Disorder through sex. Nothing new there. Tolstoy's Anna did it in ANNA KARENINA. Flaubert's Emma did it in MADAME BOVARY. I know. I've read and critiqued them both. That said, neither Tolstoy nor Flaubert had the freedom of expression we have today. They may've thought the same thoughts, may've known the same kinds of characters, but the times in which they both lived didn't allow them the same freedom of expression. We have that now -- for better or for worse. I've taken advantage of these liberal times to describe something I think borders on an epidemic. I could well be wrong, but I don't think so. Whether or not I've achieved my objective in describing a modern-day plague is something only you as a reader can decide. In any case, I invite you to read and decide for yourself -- and very much thank you for the opportunity to present my argument. I look forward to reading your comments -- be they positive or negative, but at least honest. Russell

Caveat lector. If you're looking for a quick fix, an easy source of titillation, TROMPE-l'OEIL is not for you. Following the erotic hook of Chapter One (1,200+ words), this novel requires almost sixty-five pages of character development. In other words, not for the weak an weary. 'Just warning. If E. L. James (of FIFTY SHADES fame) was in any way a disappointment to you as a reader, TROMPE-l'OEIL may be a suitable antidote-maybe even an elixir. Its author, Russell Bittner, finished this book in 2004-years before the FIFTY SHADES trilogy was born. It's not the product of fan fiction or of any such collaborative effort; rather, it's the author's own work-start to finish-conceived, developed and executed in his own Brooklyn, New York garden. As is every work of fiction, it's in part the product of his imagination, in part the product of his experience. The languages (with English translations), he feels, are integral to the story and are his own-the product of ten years' study on the Continent. They're not meant to impress or annoy, but rather-he hopes-to enhance. And, he feels, they will bear up under the scrutiny of any native speaker. DANEKA SRENSEN is a Danish transplant to NYC, where she manages her life from an Upper East Side apartment building by night and from the top floor of a mid-town skyscraper by day-ostensibly, all under tight control. KIT ADDISON is a fashion photographer with a sideline penchant for flora and poetry who lives on the Lower East Side. The distance between them, however, is about much more than a mere hundred city blocks. The first sixty-five pages (other than the "e;erotic hook"e; of Chapter 1) are devoted to setting and character development. From that point on, all hell breaks loose. That said, Russell has always believed that a woman's most erogenous zone is between her ears. Whatever hell breaks should break only between each such pair of ears. That's as much as you need to know about the two principal characters and about the "e;nature"e; of this book. The rest will reveal-and unveil-itself in the eighty-two chapters of the story whose journey, incidentally, takes us from New York to Paris, to Lisbon and the coast of Portugal, to Rome and Positano, to Copenhagen and to Bornholm (an island in the Baltic Sea), then finally back to New York City. The thirty-three reviews (as of today, September 11, 2013) should tell you the rest. Caveat lector! This is not a story for lovers of the work of Jane Austen-except for what MIGHT have existed in that author's imagination. Unfortunately for her, however, Jane Austen didn't live in our more liberal times.

Chapter 3

Kit descended into the subway at Eighth and Broadway just as an “R” train arrived at the platform. The noise of its arrival was deafening, the cars packed. He waited patiently to the side as several passengers got off, then edged his way in and found little more than breathing space. To the extent he was able, he looked around for interesting faces or situations. Today, however, there was apparently nothing of note. And so, he studied the ads over the subway seats—some well done; most, just cheap rip-offs of someone else’s creative efforts. With little of interest to look at and nothing to read, Kit was happy the trip to Twenty-third Street would be quick.

He was out and back up to street-level within minutes, then walked four blocks south from Madison Square to his studio located near the corner of Nineteenth Street and Fifth Avenue.

The neighborhood was home to bibliophiles and photographers alike. For their mutual benefit, daily and throughout the day, droves of drop-dead gorgeous women descended—if already successful—from cars driving down from the Upper East Side or in from Westchester County. Others ascended—if just starting out or only of catalog beauty—on foot from the Lower East Side or from subways coming in from Brooklyn, Queens, the Bronx or New Jersey. He’d never heard of a model from Staten Island, but he’d been in the business for only ten years. He figured almost anything was possible in the fashion world: ‘anything’ might even one day include a lovely from Staten Island.

Kit knew that few of these women had grown up on the Upper East Side or in any of New York’s five boroughs for that matter. The supermodels might be from Stockholm, Milan, Paris or Tokyo—even, on rare occasions, from somewhere like Boise. They looked like a masterfully stirred martini of genes, nutrition and personal hygiene. Education didn’t necessarily figure into the mix, though some of them had an extra olive or onion’s worth of that, too. They promoted their bodies and their faces quite simply because they could. Nobody forced them to—though in Kit’s experience, very few could’ve managed on brains alone. If they were at least street-smart, or had a good manager, they might have a few years’ run and never ever have to work a titty-bar, the street, or a hotel room by the hour. They could simply retire on their savings and dividends—or land themselves a part-time gig as a trophy wife, hang out the rest of the time with the girls at the Club playing cards or just toying with a tan.

If they weren’t smart, didn’t have a good manager, or simply liked to burn or snort through the cash, well, then—it might be another story altogether, and usually not a very pretty one. From New York on a jet stream to L. A. or Vegas. To Atlantic City or points on an even less desirable compass if nature or bad habits had been unusually swift—then off to Miami, to one of the lesser Keys, or simply off the end of some isolated pier as soon as younger, fresher recruits could be hired, saddled and giddie-upped off to profits.

In any case, life on the modeling circuit was not gracious. You cut through it like a knife and claimed victory, or it cut through you and eventually cut you out. There were no mercy medals, VA hospitals or quiet retirement homes for those who’d been scarred in battle. Battered hearts were the fashion model’s equivalent of the soldier’s Purple Heart. But unlike a war hero’s medal, a Hallmark paean to a model’s freeze-dried heart wasn’t something that might find a spot on the mantle back home in Hoboken or even in the family’s annual Christmas card. A model’s Miss Lonelyhearts secret simply died—and died with her alone.

Kit was up the stairs to the first floor studio and in. The room already stirred as production jocks, make-up artists, and a whole crew of personal assistants readied the set for a shoot. He was happy to know it wasn’t his shoot today; he had more interesting things in mind than beautiful faces and bodies. He was here only to pick up film and an extra couple of lenses.

Mission accomplished, he headed back towards the front door. A step or two away from a quick exit, he was stopped by the arrival of a model. It was easy to spot them—even without make-up: glassy-eyed, flawless teeth and hair, usually tall—though not always—and casually dressed in designer skimp-ware. This one was no exception. He let her pass like a will-o’-the-wisp; ran down the stairs taking two or three steps at a time, then walked out of the building and back to the subway.

When he arrived at Columbus Circle and came up to ground level, he passed by a familiar scene on the way into the park: camera lights and production people; oceans of cable; big vans parked along Central Park West. Probably a film shoot or maybe just a TV commercial, he thought. In any case, he was no more interested in their activity than he was in the pigeons hustling about underfoot for breakfast crumbs.

He walked into the park and headed in the direction of The Mall and Poets’ Walk.

Just as Kit was entering the park seventeen blocks further north, limo, driver and woman arrived at midtown from an earlier errand.

“Thank you, Ron. I’ll see you again this evening at the usual time.”

Ron reached up to tip his imaginary cap. The gesture was automatic with or without a cap, which she’d long ago given him the option of wearing—or not—as he saw fit. The woman collected her coat tightly against her, then flung a purse-strap over her shoulder as she made her way from limo to the front door of one of Manhattan’s more modest mid-town skyscrapers several blocks west of Grand Central Terminal. She was about to enter the building through revolving doors when two suits simultaneously opened adjacent doors to let her pass. She gave them a token nod and swept through, then continued straight on to the elevator. When she arrived, the elevator doors opened almost as if by remote control. She entered and pushed the button for the top floor.

Seconds later, the same doors opened again to another pair of glass doors fifteen feet across the foyer. She pushed one open and walked through.

“Good morning, Daneka.”

Daneka nodded and smiled. “Morning, Susan.” The receptionist handed her a small stack of phone messages—something of an anachronism in this day and time, but Daneka had insisted upon it when she’d taken the position. No voicemail, no cell phones, no beepers. She liked to do things face-to-face—occasionally by telephone when face-to-face wasn’t an option or it didn’t matter. But with the telephone, she couldn’t see what she needed to know; she could only hear what the other party wanted her to hear. Daneka liked to engage all of her senses with people when they mattered in any way to her well-being—which was to say, she liked to understand the other party’s motives. She understood that people only seldom revealed their true motives in language—perhaps because she was an expert at concealing her own. But her real talent lay in being able to decipher others’ motives within seconds if she could just see their bodies talk. Once she had her read of them, she could control them and bend their motives to serve her own.

It was rare that something didn’t become immediately clear to her, or that she didn’t get what she wanted. Her position at work certainly allowed her to expect obedience, though she never commanded it. By virtue of her wealth and status in the neighborhood, she could count on others’ respect, though it was not in her nature to cajole or coerce. She simply won. She won obedience from the one, obeisance from the other—even from perfect strangers—because she knew how to watch, how to listen, how to interpret, how to bend. Quite simply, she knew what made people tick. And she applied her knowledge with the skill of an expert watchmaker, first in tinkering with—then in winding—their clocks.

“Morning, Kay,” she announced with a well-manicured smile the moment she entered the reception area to her office and saw her Personal Assistant.

“Morning, Daneka.” Kay returned an equally well-polished smile.

Daneka walked to her office on the other side of a pair of heavy oak doors leading off from the far corner of the reception area, then to the coat closet to hang up her coat, then to her desk. She glanced at a single portrait mounted in an antique walnut frame sitting on the desk, opened her calendar, picked up the phone and dialed a number by heart. Two brief rings later, the other end picked up.

“Hello, darling. Yes, I just arrived.” Daneka’s speech was precise, slow. Then, following a pause during which she stared again at the picture—”As we agreed, I’ll bring dinner at seven”—followed by another, longer pause. “Okay. I love you, too. Play well.” She hung up the phone and studied her calendar: first meeting in five minutes. Easy enough—just a pro...

Erscheint lt. Verlag	4.1.2014
Sprache	englisch
Themenwelt	Sachbuch/Ratgeber ► Gesundheit / Leben / Psychologie ► Partnerschaft / Sexualität
Themenwelt	Geisteswissenschaften ► Psychologie ► Sexualität / Partnerschaft
ISBN-10	1-4781-5105-6 / 1478151056
ISBN-13	978-1-4781-5105-0 / 9781478151050

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