Missing Pieces
Part I
"Now boarding first class passengers...first class passengers, please step up to the gate."
Helga G. Pataki picked up her briefcase and her purse and walked towards the gate.
"Maintenant, premier classe, s'il vous plait..."
"'Elga! Wait!"
Helga sighed and turned around. "Jacques. I told you not to follow me."
The darkly handsome man's liquid eyes looked pleadingly into hers. "I am sorry, 'Elga. I could not help it. Je t'aime...I love you." He fell to his knees, taking her hand in his. "Please...reste avec moi...s'il vous plait..."
Helga gently removed her hand from his. "Jacques, I don't love you. You know that. I told you I would never love you. I don't love."
He looked crushed. "But 'Elga...all those poems...I thought..."
"They're just poems, Jacques. Just words. I'm going to miss my flight." The last was a lie. The flight attendents were no longer checking tickets, as everyone at the gate was far more interested in watching this little saga unfold. Helga didn't even blush at the eyes on her. She was used to it.
Oh, well. Suck it up, Helga, old girl. Time to send him off.
She pulled Jacques to his feet. "I don't love you, Jacques. I care for you...very deeply." The lines were so old she didn't even have to think about them anymore. "I'll never forget you. What you've shown me. What we had together." Gently, she pulled his head down to hers and kissed his trembling lips. His face was streaked with tears when she pulled back. "I have to go, Jacques."
He released her. She stepped away from him, backing away slowly as if reluctant to leave. "I'll write a poem for you," she promised. "About our time together."
He nodded slowly. "I will always love you, 'Elga."
She smiled sadly. "Good-bye, Jacques." Turning, she walked onto the plane as the crowd erupted into applause.
Once she was out of sight of Jacques, she switched over to her normal walk, her woman-with-a-mission stride. Would this never stop happening? Well, she had wanted the glamorous life of a writer, complete with ardent lovers throwing themselves at her feet...she had gotten it. Her charm had worked on every young man who caught her eye, who had something...something that reminded her of...him.
For Jacques it had been the smallest thing--the ears. He had pursued her for her first few days in Paris, but she hadn't really payed him any heed until she noticed his ears. They were shaped exactly like the ones she remembered...the ones that she still dreamt about, ears and everything attached...
She shied away from the name. The name was forbidden. Like an anorexic staring at pictures of food without partaking, she was teasing herself from afar, seeking out qualities that reminded her of him without letting herself remember him in anything more than the corner of her mind's eye. Sure, it was messed up, and neurotic, and self-punishing. But hey, she was an artist. Besides, with her parents what else could she expect?
Not that she had seen her parents in the past...what was it now?...four years. Or spoken to them, for that matter. She remembered the last time she had spoken to them, when she had called them her sophomore year at Stanford to tell them she wasn't coming home for Christmas.
"Not coming home? But Helga..." her mother had started to say, trailing off when the effort of standing and speaking at the same time overwhelmed her.
"Listen, Olga, Christmas is a time for family!" her father had bellowed from another extension. "Whether you like it or not, you're coming home in three days and that's final!"
Helga sighed gustily. She was getting good at that, lately. "One, my name is Helga, Bob. Not Olga, Helga. H-E-L-G-A. Number two, we are not a family. We're a selfish workaholic, an alcoholic, a perfect overacheiver, and a bitter and angry young woman who never felt loved." She could hear her mother and father gasp, while Olga's sweet little voice wondered aloud which one she was.
"I will not stand for that kind of language, little lady!" Bob had thundered.
"I don't care!" she had screamed back, shocked by her own anger. "You never loved me! You loved Olga! You always have, and you always will! And I don't care to come home to that, not anymore. I'm free now, and you can't break my will anymore!"
"FINE!" he had shouted back. "I hope I live to see the day you eat your words, girl!"
"Then you'd better live an awfully long time, Bob, because I meant everything I said," Helga hissed.
"That's it! Until you apologize, you are no daughter of mine!" Bob yelled.
Helga heard her mother and sister gasp, and Miriam spoke up, timidly. "B, don't you think you're being a little harsh...?"
"Stay out of this, Miriam," he had snapped. "As of now, the girl is no longer a Pataki."
"Then stop wasting my money on this phone call," Helga had said icily. Then she hung up.
She knew Big Bob expected her to call any minute and beg forgiveness, but she was as good as her word. The next day she had gone down to City Hall and gotten her name changed, dropping the Pataki and becoming Helga Geraldine. Since she had (wisely) been unwilling to depend on Bob to put her through college, she had been working since she was twelve, and had no problem staying in school, especially with her writing scholarship. Then the first book was published, and money was no longer an issue...
Lost in these thoughts, time slid by quickly, and Helga slid into sleep. She awoke when the plane touched down in Cairo. The second she was off the plane, she called for a limo, and within minutes it was there, earning admiring glances from other travellers as the driver held the door open for her and threw her small duffel in the trunk.
The hotel was very near the airport for logistical reasons, and soon Helga was tossing her bags on a neatly-made bed. She did the first thing she always did when she got to a hotel room, regressing slightly into her childhood--she went for the mint. The scent reminded her, as always, of her childhood...Harold and the time they got stuck together at the Yahoo factory, all because of Chocolate Boy...even though they all thought he had kicked the habit for a while, because of Arn--
She clamped down on the thought. Drink time, she decided, heading towards the minibar. Nothing looked promising, so she checked her watch. Eight o' clock...that was late enough. She decided to head down to the bar.
She unzipped the duffel. Ah, Helga Geraldine, Queen of Packing. Lacy bras and panties. Pantyhose. Bikini. Shoes. Killer jeans. Ah, here it was...the legendary first-night-at-a-hotel bar-hopping little black cocktail dress. Cut low and high and snug in all the right places.
She changed quickly and looked at herself in the mirror. Dress, still fitting perfectly, and suggestively. Four-inch stilletto heels. Pearl choker, silver watch, silver and pearl earrings. A touch of eye makeup and fire engine red lipstick. Sunbleached blond hair in a sleek French twist.
Same old, same old.
Grabbing her miniscule purse, she strutted out of her room and down to the bar. She felt all male eyes in the bar fasten on her immediately upon her entrance. Damn, she loved that feeling.
She sat down at a bar stool, letting her already short skirt hitch up over her thighs an inch or two more. Soon the vultures would start swarming. Then to pick out one that reminded her of...him. A torrid love affair while she was in Cairo. An outpouring of poetry. Then a tearful good-bye at the airport and it was on to Madrid.
"What'll you have, miss?" asked the bartender, who was clearly British.
"Vodka. Plain," Helga replied. She had read about it in The Bell Jar and tried it once. Since then, she'd been hooked.
Of course, when she tried it, she'd been with Ar--
Strike that. Think of something else. Like the man making his way towards you right now.
This one was another Brit, dressed in some snazzy threads, light brown hair combed neatly back. Well, that was one thing he didn't have-- unruly golden locks. She checked the eyes as he sat down. Brown. The lips--no. The ears--no. The walk--definitely not. Disappointed, she wrote him off. He was handsome, and looked like he might have been fun. But no resemblance, no go.
"Hello there, miss," he said in that liquid accent, lifting a glass of amber beer in a toast to her. "Where did you fly in from? Heaven?"
Helga let loose with an unladylike short. "That probably would've been easier on the winds. I'm more likely to come from the other place."
He laughed, and Helga froze. The laugh...there was the similarity! Well, that was quick. He would do.
He sensed her relaxation and began to talk in earnest, introducing himself as Edward Niles. Soon they were having a real conversation, and she was struck by his intelligence. Other men in the bar, sensing this, lost interest, and soon Helga had relaxed enough to become sufficiently drunk as the hours flew by.
"Is it a full moon tonight?" Eddie asked, sipping gingerly at his beer. Helga was just sober enough to wonder how he'd only had about two beers when she couldn't count the number of drinks she'd had.
"I don' know," she had replied, blinking owlishly at him. "I haven' been keepin' track." She laughed uproariously, as if that was the funniest thing anyone had even said.
"Let's go outside and see," he suggested.
"Okay," she agreed immediately. She got up from her stool and nearly collapsed as the full weight of her inebriation hit her. He caught her and held her up as she staggered towards the small balcony outside the bar.
"No. This way," he said, pushing her towards the back door of the hotel. She was too out of it to question why.
Soon they were out on the street, in the hot, sultry night. Helga looked up. "I can't see the moon," she giggled, her eyes closed. She opened them and looked back at Eddie to see whether he could find it.
She found herself staring down the barrel of a gun.
"Wh...what..." she stammered. Her stomach turned, and Eddie lowered the gun to let her throw up. As she stood up, groaning and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, he nudged her with the cool steel of the gun.
"Come on. Let's go." His voice had lost all its earlier friendliness, and his face was harsh and cold.
"Eddie, what's going on? What are you...doing?" Helga asked, forcing her way through the alcohol.
"I said come on," he snapped. "Don't you listen, girl?"
Maybe if she had been sober, she would have reacted differently. As it was...
"No," she refused. "I won't go."
He shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said. With that, he brought the butt of the pistol down on her head, sending her into a thick, heavy blackness.
He shook his head. Pocketing the gun, he lifted the crumpled rag of a girl lying on the sidewalk and headed towards a car where three other men lay in wait for their next victim.
Part I
"Now boarding first class passengers...first class passengers, please step up to the gate."
Helga G. Pataki picked up her briefcase and her purse and walked towards the gate.
"Maintenant, premier classe, s'il vous plait..."
"'Elga! Wait!"
Helga sighed and turned around. "Jacques. I told you not to follow me."
The darkly handsome man's liquid eyes looked pleadingly into hers. "I am sorry, 'Elga. I could not help it. Je t'aime...I love you." He fell to his knees, taking her hand in his. "Please...reste avec moi...s'il vous plait..."
Helga gently removed her hand from his. "Jacques, I don't love you. You know that. I told you I would never love you. I don't love."
He looked crushed. "But 'Elga...all those poems...I thought..."
"They're just poems, Jacques. Just words. I'm going to miss my flight." The last was a lie. The flight attendents were no longer checking tickets, as everyone at the gate was far more interested in watching this little saga unfold. Helga didn't even blush at the eyes on her. She was used to it.
Oh, well. Suck it up, Helga, old girl. Time to send him off.
She pulled Jacques to his feet. "I don't love you, Jacques. I care for you...very deeply." The lines were so old she didn't even have to think about them anymore. "I'll never forget you. What you've shown me. What we had together." Gently, she pulled his head down to hers and kissed his trembling lips. His face was streaked with tears when she pulled back. "I have to go, Jacques."
He released her. She stepped away from him, backing away slowly as if reluctant to leave. "I'll write a poem for you," she promised. "About our time together."
He nodded slowly. "I will always love you, 'Elga."
She smiled sadly. "Good-bye, Jacques." Turning, she walked onto the plane as the crowd erupted into applause.
Once she was out of sight of Jacques, she switched over to her normal walk, her woman-with-a-mission stride. Would this never stop happening? Well, she had wanted the glamorous life of a writer, complete with ardent lovers throwing themselves at her feet...she had gotten it. Her charm had worked on every young man who caught her eye, who had something...something that reminded her of...him.
For Jacques it had been the smallest thing--the ears. He had pursued her for her first few days in Paris, but she hadn't really payed him any heed until she noticed his ears. They were shaped exactly like the ones she remembered...the ones that she still dreamt about, ears and everything attached...
She shied away from the name. The name was forbidden. Like an anorexic staring at pictures of food without partaking, she was teasing herself from afar, seeking out qualities that reminded her of him without letting herself remember him in anything more than the corner of her mind's eye. Sure, it was messed up, and neurotic, and self-punishing. But hey, she was an artist. Besides, with her parents what else could she expect?
Not that she had seen her parents in the past...what was it now?...four years. Or spoken to them, for that matter. She remembered the last time she had spoken to them, when she had called them her sophomore year at Stanford to tell them she wasn't coming home for Christmas.
"Not coming home? But Helga..." her mother had started to say, trailing off when the effort of standing and speaking at the same time overwhelmed her.
"Listen, Olga, Christmas is a time for family!" her father had bellowed from another extension. "Whether you like it or not, you're coming home in three days and that's final!"
Helga sighed gustily. She was getting good at that, lately. "One, my name is Helga, Bob. Not Olga, Helga. H-E-L-G-A. Number two, we are not a family. We're a selfish workaholic, an alcoholic, a perfect overacheiver, and a bitter and angry young woman who never felt loved." She could hear her mother and father gasp, while Olga's sweet little voice wondered aloud which one she was.
"I will not stand for that kind of language, little lady!" Bob had thundered.
"I don't care!" she had screamed back, shocked by her own anger. "You never loved me! You loved Olga! You always have, and you always will! And I don't care to come home to that, not anymore. I'm free now, and you can't break my will anymore!"
"FINE!" he had shouted back. "I hope I live to see the day you eat your words, girl!"
"Then you'd better live an awfully long time, Bob, because I meant everything I said," Helga hissed.
"That's it! Until you apologize, you are no daughter of mine!" Bob yelled.
Helga heard her mother and sister gasp, and Miriam spoke up, timidly. "B, don't you think you're being a little harsh...?"
"Stay out of this, Miriam," he had snapped. "As of now, the girl is no longer a Pataki."
"Then stop wasting my money on this phone call," Helga had said icily. Then she hung up.
She knew Big Bob expected her to call any minute and beg forgiveness, but she was as good as her word. The next day she had gone down to City Hall and gotten her name changed, dropping the Pataki and becoming Helga Geraldine. Since she had (wisely) been unwilling to depend on Bob to put her through college, she had been working since she was twelve, and had no problem staying in school, especially with her writing scholarship. Then the first book was published, and money was no longer an issue...
Lost in these thoughts, time slid by quickly, and Helga slid into sleep. She awoke when the plane touched down in Cairo. The second she was off the plane, she called for a limo, and within minutes it was there, earning admiring glances from other travellers as the driver held the door open for her and threw her small duffel in the trunk.
The hotel was very near the airport for logistical reasons, and soon Helga was tossing her bags on a neatly-made bed. She did the first thing she always did when she got to a hotel room, regressing slightly into her childhood--she went for the mint. The scent reminded her, as always, of her childhood...Harold and the time they got stuck together at the Yahoo factory, all because of Chocolate Boy...even though they all thought he had kicked the habit for a while, because of Arn--
She clamped down on the thought. Drink time, she decided, heading towards the minibar. Nothing looked promising, so she checked her watch. Eight o' clock...that was late enough. She decided to head down to the bar.
She unzipped the duffel. Ah, Helga Geraldine, Queen of Packing. Lacy bras and panties. Pantyhose. Bikini. Shoes. Killer jeans. Ah, here it was...the legendary first-night-at-a-hotel bar-hopping little black cocktail dress. Cut low and high and snug in all the right places.
She changed quickly and looked at herself in the mirror. Dress, still fitting perfectly, and suggestively. Four-inch stilletto heels. Pearl choker, silver watch, silver and pearl earrings. A touch of eye makeup and fire engine red lipstick. Sunbleached blond hair in a sleek French twist.
Same old, same old.
Grabbing her miniscule purse, she strutted out of her room and down to the bar. She felt all male eyes in the bar fasten on her immediately upon her entrance. Damn, she loved that feeling.
She sat down at a bar stool, letting her already short skirt hitch up over her thighs an inch or two more. Soon the vultures would start swarming. Then to pick out one that reminded her of...him. A torrid love affair while she was in Cairo. An outpouring of poetry. Then a tearful good-bye at the airport and it was on to Madrid.
"What'll you have, miss?" asked the bartender, who was clearly British.
"Vodka. Plain," Helga replied. She had read about it in The Bell Jar and tried it once. Since then, she'd been hooked.
Of course, when she tried it, she'd been with Ar--
Strike that. Think of something else. Like the man making his way towards you right now.
This one was another Brit, dressed in some snazzy threads, light brown hair combed neatly back. Well, that was one thing he didn't have-- unruly golden locks. She checked the eyes as he sat down. Brown. The lips--no. The ears--no. The walk--definitely not. Disappointed, she wrote him off. He was handsome, and looked like he might have been fun. But no resemblance, no go.
"Hello there, miss," he said in that liquid accent, lifting a glass of amber beer in a toast to her. "Where did you fly in from? Heaven?"
Helga let loose with an unladylike short. "That probably would've been easier on the winds. I'm more likely to come from the other place."
He laughed, and Helga froze. The laugh...there was the similarity! Well, that was quick. He would do.
He sensed her relaxation and began to talk in earnest, introducing himself as Edward Niles. Soon they were having a real conversation, and she was struck by his intelligence. Other men in the bar, sensing this, lost interest, and soon Helga had relaxed enough to become sufficiently drunk as the hours flew by.
"Is it a full moon tonight?" Eddie asked, sipping gingerly at his beer. Helga was just sober enough to wonder how he'd only had about two beers when she couldn't count the number of drinks she'd had.
"I don' know," she had replied, blinking owlishly at him. "I haven' been keepin' track." She laughed uproariously, as if that was the funniest thing anyone had even said.
"Let's go outside and see," he suggested.
"Okay," she agreed immediately. She got up from her stool and nearly collapsed as the full weight of her inebriation hit her. He caught her and held her up as she staggered towards the small balcony outside the bar.
"No. This way," he said, pushing her towards the back door of the hotel. She was too out of it to question why.
Soon they were out on the street, in the hot, sultry night. Helga looked up. "I can't see the moon," she giggled, her eyes closed. She opened them and looked back at Eddie to see whether he could find it.
She found herself staring down the barrel of a gun.
"Wh...what..." she stammered. Her stomach turned, and Eddie lowered the gun to let her throw up. As she stood up, groaning and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, he nudged her with the cool steel of the gun.
"Come on. Let's go." His voice had lost all its earlier friendliness, and his face was harsh and cold.
"Eddie, what's going on? What are you...doing?" Helga asked, forcing her way through the alcohol.
"I said come on," he snapped. "Don't you listen, girl?"
Maybe if she had been sober, she would have reacted differently. As it was...
"No," she refused. "I won't go."
He shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said. With that, he brought the butt of the pistol down on her head, sending her into a thick, heavy blackness.
He shook his head. Pocketing the gun, he lifted the crumpled rag of a girl lying on the sidewalk and headed towards a car where three other men lay in wait for their next victim.