"Sonya," she murmured. "Is she there today?"
"Should be. If she's not in the shop, look in the bar next door. It's called Sappho's. Little Greek place she hangs out in."
As Brenda hurried out, Harl watched her go with a big grin on his face. It looked as if Brenda were more interested in Ginny than she was in him. He was disappointed; he wanted to ball with her again. He was also mad. If she figured a girl was more interesting than he was… well, then, fine.
He started to laugh. Sonya was the most famous lesbo in the Village, a lethal man-hater with enough sexual know-how to get Jane away from Tarzan. She had had Ginny, lots of times. If he knew Sonya, she wouldn't be able to keep her hands off of Brenda.
He got his mail and went back upstairs, still laughing.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The noise from four record shops poured out into the street, fighting the sound of horn blasts and the curses of taxi drivers. The narrow sidewalk was nearly impassable for the crowds of garishly dressed young people with bandanas tied about their foreheads and leather necklaces swinging as they jostled through the dense throng.
Where was the photo studio? Could she ever find it in this hanging garden of fire escapes and jutting placards? Sonya… Sonya. The name was exotic and foreign. Ginny's best friend, her closest friend. The name scurried along her veins like hot acid each time she repeated it to herself.
So many of the shops were basement affairs, tucked down into the teeming sidewalk so that she almost missed them as she passed by. She didn't know the name of the studio; maybe someone could tell her, but who? Each time she slowed her pace, thinking to ask a likely looking stroller, the people walking behind her bumped into her.
Finally she made her way down the steps of a basement book store and stepped into its cool recess. Taped acid rock blared through the premises, coming from four speakers, one in each corner of the room. She had never been in such a noisy bookstore but the browsing customers seemed oblivious to anything except the paperbacks they riffled.
A tall blond boy with mutton chop sideburns looked up from a huge catalog and let his eyes trail down her body.
"Ciao," he said, smiling. "Can I help you?"
She couldn't very well ask him where the dog studio was; it sounded so silly to her. The bar… Sappho's. That was more sophisticated.
"Do you happen to know where Sappho's bar is?"
His eyes flickered momentarily, then dulled.
"What a waste," he sighed. "Yeah, second from the next corner on the other side of the street."
She could not fathom his seeming hostility after the appreciative glance he had given her when she came in. She turned uncertainly and left the store, crossing the street to the opposite sidewalk. A greasy smell of chili struck her nostrils from a raucous parlor. Brenda broke out in a sudden crawling sweat that made her head swim as if she were going to be sick. Something was wrong, very wrong, but she did not know what it was. The street was hateful and evil even in the holiday glow of the warm Saturday sun. She hurried as best she could through the crowds until she neared the end of the block. She saw the bar, and next to it, a tiny store with photographs of poodles and schnauzers in the window.
She went in. No one was around but she heard voices from a back room. A shrill-sounding matron cooing to a yapping animal. "Poopoo, now sit still for the nice lady. She loves you just like Mama does, yes she does."
Brenda sat down in a rococo chair made of gilded wood and purple velvet and looked in tired amazement at the price list posted on the wall. How could people pay such amounts for a picture of a dog? She settled back as best she could in the uncomfortable chair and looked at the exquisite shop, remembering something from a novel she had read, about the waiting-room of a whorehouse. That's what it looked like.
The yapping dog had quieted. Someone turned a bright light on behind the draperies that hid the studio from the front of the store. She heard a series of clicks and saw a shadow move. Then a low, sultry voice spoke.
"There. That should do it. I'll have the negatives for you next week."
Footsteps came closer and Brenda turned in expectation. The dog-owner appeared, looking very much like the puffy-haired Maltese terrier she had on a leash. Both had snowy coiffures and mincing, nervous movements. The woman gathered up the dog and bustled out, and Brenda turned to the willowy figure that had appeared in the parted draperies.
"Good morning. May I help you?"
Brenda had never seen anyone so chicly beautiful and so thoroughly New York. It had to be Sonya; no other name could fit such a girl.
She wore a plum-colored satin shirt with matching knickers that followed faithfully every well-turned line of her long, gorgeous legs. The pants seamed snugly up into her crotch and plastered over her flat belly, fastening on the side in an invisible, beltless waistline that emphasized her svelte body. Brenda gazed at the flawless features of her face. Honey-toned skin and limpid hazel eyes with brushstroke brows as black as jet. Her hair was gathered simply at the ears and fell in a long cape to the middle of her back. It was a dark, dark auburn that gleamed like mahogany-colored satin.
As cool and contained as she looked, the girl did a double-take when she saw Brenda. Her thick lashes fluttered for a moment and the bronzed lips parted as if she had been about to gasp, only to catch herself just in time.
Brenda rose and walked over to the counter, her pulse beating thickly in her throat. Something about the girl unnerved her and yet captivated her at the same time. Instinctively she glanced furtively at the girl's small pointed breasts, then raised her eyes as she felt a flush stealing over her face.
"Are you Sonya?" she asked.
"Yes, I am."
The girl's mouth curved into an enigmatic smile and her perfectly glossed bronze lips parted and looked moist. She must use that new finger-paint lipstick, Brenda thought. The pearly brownish-pink color followed her natural lines in theatrical perfection.
Brenda rushed into an explanation in the face of this cool, self-possessed beauty.
"I sublet Ginny's apartment not long ago and I thought it would be fun if I dropped her a line. She sounds awfully nice, I'd love to meet her when she gets back. Do you have her new address?"
Sonya leaned on the counter, drawing closer in an intimate body gesture. The top of her unbuttoned blouse fell open to reveal two small mounds of flesh.
"I don't have it. She didn't tell me where she was going, except she said something about California. I haven't heard from her, though." She smiled confidently. "Though I'm sure I will."
A sugary scent rose from the open blouse. It was too powerful for perfume; it must be sachet or bath oil. Brenda met the hazel eyes head-on and saw their pupils widen with a repressed excitement.
"What's your name?"
Brenda told her. Sonya nodded slowly as she studied her.
"What a coincidence," she said. "You look so much like her, and now you have her apartment."
The terror that her words evoked in Brenda was mixed with an odd sort of relief. At last, someone had come right out and said it! This time, she would not have to beat around the bush to find out; would not have to blurt out the question as she had done with Leo and Harl.
She tried to be matter-of-fact, and found suddenly that she was.
"A couple of other people have said that. Yes, it is a coincidence, isn't it?"
"It's a groovy apartment," Sonya said. "Or it could be if Ginny had been home long enough to do anything with it. Are you doing anything interesting to it?"
"No, I haven't changed a thing." Brenda breathed deeply, her fear vanishing. "I like it this way. In fact, the reason I wanted to write to Ginny and eventually meet her is that I feel we're exactly alike. I feel as if I'd lived there all along." How easy it was now! The fear was gone, the panic, the sense of splitting off from the world. She was happy now. She had screwed two of Ginny's men, and now this exotic friend was gazing at her with bright, watchful eyes. She felt as if she had always been a New York girl; all of her provincial past was falling away under the hazel gaze. She knew a warm, sun-drenched comfort as though she had shed an old skin for a new one, like a snake in the hot, bright desert. I don't care anymore… it doesn't matter now.