‘Business?’
‘Indirectly. We’ve done a lot of gambling together.’ Inspired, he added, ‘That’s why we’re meeting at the Wildwood – there’s supposed to be a rather promising poker game there. Poker, you see, is my business.’
‘A gambler! How fascinating. You must tell me more.’
Daniel started to oblige when a black limousine hushed to a stop beside them. A chauffeur ushered her inside, inquiring, ‘And how was your trip, Miss Haruh?’
‘Work, as usual.’ Then, indicating Daniel, ‘This gentleman will be riding into the city with us, Phillips. Please drop him at the Wildwood Hotel.’
‘Of course, Miss Haruh.’
The limo was opulently appointed. ‘You travel very well,’ Daniel said as they pulled away.
‘When you travel as much as I do, luxury becomes a necessity.’
‘I can appreciate that, though in my business forsaking luxury is more often the necessity, especially if you play badly. My name, by the way, is Daniel Pearse.’
‘Mine is Imera Haruh,’ she said, bowing her head slightly.
There was something about her that Daniel suddenly didn’t trust. Her speech and gestures seemed too self-consciously graceful or formal – as if rehearsed. ‘Haruh?’ he said. ‘Is that Pakistani?’
‘Close. Indian.’
‘Your English is exceptional.’
She smiled. ‘It should be. I was born and raised in Madison, Wisconsin. My parents were Brahmins who did not like Gandhi any better than the British.’
‘So, what takes you on these travels where luxury is a necessity?’
‘I’m a model with the Sebring Agency. I just shot a spread for Elle with Raoul Villela – it seems only an hour ago I was in Madrid – and next month I’ll be on the cover of Vogue. Look for it. I’ll be wearing Oriental make-up, a bamboo hat, and halter-top pajamas. It’s their Vietnam Remembrance Look or something equally tacky.’ She arched her lip in distaste. ‘The editors, the advertisers, even the photographers – none of them have souls.’
Daniel said, ‘You don’t have to do it.’
‘Mr Pearse,’ Imera said tartly, ‘the world gives women very little of financial value other than their beauty, which it then wastes. I intend to – how do you gamblers say it? – cash in while I can.’
Daniel thought, That explains the brittle, practiced grace. A model, a Brahmin, and a pound of righteous feminine bitterness. ‘Miss Haruh,’ he said gently, ‘please don’t mistake my intentions, but after I’ve finished making arrangements with my friend at the Wildwood, would you be my guest for dinner? And not merely to reciprocate the generosity of this ride, but to sustain the pleasure of your company.’ That was good, Daniel thought, impressed.
Imera’s smile seemed more relaxed. ‘As long as it’s no place where I’d usually be recognized by the fawning flesh-dealers of this city.’
‘Anywhere you choose.’
She cocked her head slightly, a gesture that would have seemed coy if not for the strength in her voice, ‘And please, Mr Pearse, don’t mistake me.’
‘I won’t,’ Daniel assured her, thinking, I dreamed; now maybe I can make love to the same woman twice.
They ate at a small Greek restaurant, then, having dismissed Phillips earlier, took a taxi to her Upper East Side apartment. He didn’t wait for her to turn on the lights. Taken with the sudden dizziness of desire, he put his arms around her.
‘Daniel,’ she warned, breaking away. ‘Don’t. You’ll be disappointed, I’m afraid.’
‘More likely, that would be your complaint, not mine.’
‘I doubt that sincerely,’ she said, flipping on the lights.
Daniel, whose attention had been riveted on her, was startled to see her apartment was more like a small warehouse, most of it devoted to makeup tables and racks of clothes. He looked at her, the intimation of betrayal like a weight in his lungs. But before he could even imagine what it was he hoped she could explain, Imera swept off her wig and hung it on a nearby rack. She was bald.
And when she spoke, it seemed her voice had dropped thirty-nine octaves. ‘Daniel, allow me to introduce myself properly. I’m Jean Bluer, Master of Disguise.’ Jean Bluer smiled hugely at his little joke.
‘I’m going to kick your ass,’ Daniel promised, taking off his coat.
‘I seriously doubt that will occur. Besides being a master of disguise, I am also a master of Tao Do Chaung, the almost extinct art of Ninja foot fighting, and I will defend myself.’
‘I think you’re the master of bad jokes and bullshit.’ Daniel lunged.
Jean Bluer spun sideways, whipping his right foot around into Daniel’s thigh with an excruciatingly precise force. Daniel went down screaming.
Jean Bluer looked at him as he writhed in pain. ‘Daniel,’ he said, vaguely disappointed, ‘you must develop a larger appreciation for the essential humor of identity.’
Since Jean Bluer was never entirely himself, any description was provisional. His eyes most often were blue, but through the adroit use of contact lenses and the application of special drops he prepared himself, they might be twenty shades of hazel, brown, or grey. His hair color, length, and style were a function of whatever wig he chose for the day, just as his nose and ears depended on putty and makeup for their shape. He altered his body with girdles, lifts, padding, postural changes, and the warehouse of costumes, many of which he’d sewn or otherwise assembled himself. When Smiling Jack had called Volta’s attention to Jean Bluer, Jack had claimed that given enough preparation time, Jean could pass for any adult from twenty-nine different cultures – and Jack was notoriously frugal with exaggeration.
Daniel received his daily lessons in the warehouse where Jean dwelt among his manifold identities. Jean was a passionate and exacting teacher. Study began at seven in the morning and lasted till nine in the evening. At Daniel’s insistence, instruction in Tao Do Chaung was added, beginning at 5 a.m. After the smoky rancidity of the gambling life, Daniel embraced the physical exertion of Tao Do Chaung’s dervishlike exercises.
Daniel had revered – even loved – Wild Bill. Mott Stoker he’d admired for the exuberance of his excesses. He’d hated and adored Aunt Charmaine’s glacial grace and piercing mind. He’d respected Bad Bobby’s skill, style, and raptor’s eye. He was enthralled by Jean Bluer. The warehouse, like Jean’s psyche, was a hall of mirrors, and while Jean, like his student, examined each image for its elemental accuracy, teacher and student were both compelled to look into themselves for who they might possibly become.
Jean Bluer distinguished four stages of disguise: the photograph; the dance; the poem; and the person. The photograph, as the label implied, centered on visual accuracy. Under Jean’s severe tutelage, Daniel learned how to use skin tints, crepe beards, putty, sponges, false eyelashes, contact lenses, paint-on tooth enamels; a variety of wens, warts, and beauty marks; and molded latex masks which, worn overnight, pulled his features to their designs.
Initially they worked from a file of photographs. When Daniel finished his makeup, Jean Bluer inspected the face, offering a barrage of criticisms and suggestions.
‘The seal between the nose putty and lip line is faulty – use a bit more glue, and mix a touch of Max Factor Number Nine in with it.
‘The beard is inept, much too sparse below the jaw. The powder on the cheekbones is excessively dark, thus exaggerating the hollow; in sunlight you’d look like a zombie. And smear the lip gloss; it’s blinding. Small amounts, smoothly applied – that’s the proper application. Small and smooth. Suggestion, not statement. The harmonious integration of details.’