The Mirror By FireWire

Story No. 6

A woman is standing at an airline’s international departure gate in New York City’s JFK airport. Her cell phone rings.

“Steve where are you? The plane is boarding.”

“Sorry dear. I need one more signature before this merger is legal. That signature is in the elevator, so I should be out of here within a half an hour. I’ve booked a seat on the flight following yours.”

“I can wait for you; we can fly together.”

“I tried that, but there was only one seat left.”

“What is the flight number, I’ll wait for you at the airport when I get there.”

“The odds of us missing each other are too high. The Nice airport is crazy these days. I’ll meet you in the hotel lobby at nine. Wear the green dress and pearl necklace I gave you. We’ll head straight for the casino. If there is a delay I’ll call you. I have to run. Have a safe flight. Love you.”

In the lobby of a hotel in Monaco’s Monte Carlo quarter, five men are discussing plans for the afternoon.

“Does anybody know how to get to this place?” one of the men asks. “Harry, you come here a lot, do you know where we are going?”

“We could walk,” Harry says, “but I prefer to take a taxi.”

“Lighten up Harry,” another man says. “Enjoy your moment of glory. Sign a few autographs. Shake a few hands. Hug a few women. It’s not every day you are a national champion.”

“That may be,” Harry says, “but the spotlight is not for me.”

“You should have invited Vivian along, Harry. She tagged you the minute you walked into the hotel.”

“I don’t speak French,” Harry says.

Another man says, “What’s to talk about? Use sign language! She’s a supermodel. She knows what to do.”

“I’ll get one at the party,” Harry says. “One that speaks English.”

Losing interest in the conversation, Harry glances into a large gold-framed mirror which is tilted slightly forward on the wall above him.

A chill sweeps through his body. Reflecting back from the mirror and coming directly at his heart is a bolt of emotional lightening traveling 186 thousand miles per second. It strikes deep. Its shockwaves render him oblivious to his surroundings. He is conscious of only one thing: The mirror is now offering him the moment of opportunity.

One of the men says, “Let’s hit the road.”

The men arrive at the party.

“Woo Wee!” one of the men exclaims. “Look at the women! Did I die and go to heaven or what!”

“Harry says, “Fellows, I’ve going back to the hotel. Take care of things for me will you.”

“Harry, you can’t leave. You are the only reason we were invited to this party. This party is for you. People want to meet you.”

“I know, but I have to get back to the hotel right now—before it’s over. I may already be too late.”

“Are you coming back?” one of the men asks.

“I hope not. Say that I left some medicine at the hotel and went back to get it.”

Outside, in the street, Harry is running as fast as he can.

An anxious Harry enters the hotel lobby.

She’s not here. I’m too late. What’s wrong with me? I made the same mistake as the other guy, but I should have known better. I knew what was going to happen. I knew not to leave. The concierge probably knows her. For a couple of bills, they know everything.

Harry walks to the concierge’s desk and is surprised to see the concierge stand and extend his hand.

“So good to see you Mr. Blake.” The concierge takes a picture from a folder and puts it on his desk. He offers Harry a pen. “Would you please be kind enough to sign this picture? My name is Paul.”

Harry looks at the picture.

Paul says, “This picture of you was taken at the precise time the television commentator said, ‘In a few moments, we will be recapping the tournament highlights and interviewing Dieter Shuman who will go down in history as the winner of the first Monaco Invitational.’” Paul points to the picture. “You can see the spectators walking out of the stands. Little did they know.”

“Harry signs the picture, hands it to Paul, and says, “About thirty, maybe forty-five minutes ago, a woman in a green dress was standing by that column over there. She was wearing a string of white pearls and . . . very good-looking . . . beautiful.”

Paul says, “I saw the whole thing.”

“What thing?”

“The woman was standing by the column when a messenger walked into the lobby, approached her, asked her name, and gave her an envelope. I saw the messenger look at a picture before he approached her.”

Paul pauses.

“What happened?” Harry says.

“She opened the envelope and read the note that was inside.” Paul looks down at his desk. “She was struck in the heart by a terrible blow. My impulse was to go to the lovely young woman and offer sympathy, but while I wavered, she was able to flee before the tears came.”

“Any idea what the note said? Do you know the woman? Is she married?” Harry reaches for his wallet.

Paul holds up his hand. “No need for that Mr. Blake. This afternoon, I saw you reverse fortune’s tide. If anybody can help this unfortunate woman, it’s you.” He reaches into the trashcan by his table, takes out a crumpled, yellow paper, flattens it out, writes room number 414 on the bottom, and hands it to Harry.

Harry reads the paper,

There is another woman.

Steve

"Scumbag Son of a Bitch” Harry says. He tears the note into small pieces and drops them back into Paul's trash can.

Harry is standing in front of room 414.

Now what? I can’t just knock on her door and say, “Hi. My name is Harry Blake.” She would slam it in my face—if she even opened it. I need a plan.

He sees the floor-maid’s cart and walks to the open door in front of the cart. Seeing the maid inside the room, he knocks on the open door and gets her attention. “Hi. My name is Harry Blake.”

She smiles. “Monsieur Harry, everybody knows who you are. You are famous, and you are in room 610.”

“I have a favor to ask. Would you please deliver a message to Ms. Travis in room 414 for me?”

“Of course, Monsieur Harry. You want to help her, no? When I saw her crying, I told Paul, the Concierge, and he told me what had happened to her.”

Harry nods and takes a hotel notepad from her cart. After a moment, he asks, “What should I write?”

“Write ‘Jane, I am flying to San Francisco tonight and will be leaving for the airport in two hours. Before I go, would you care to join me for desert in the hotel’s L'Hirondelle restaurant? The maître d' knows my table. Harry Blake’ I will do the rest.”

“Is she from San Francisco?”

“She is from New York.”

Harry writes the note and hands it to her.

“You have a nice smile Monsieur Harry.”

Harry stops by his room, then goes to the lobby. As he gets off the elevator, the maid walks quickly up to him.

“Monsieur Harry, she does not answer my knock. She may be asleep.”

“Or took an overdose,” Harry says. “Can you go into her room and make sure she is OK?”

“One moment please,” the maid says.

She walks to Paul’s desk. After a brief conversation, Paul lifts the phone and presses a button.

The maid returns. “Monsieur Benet, the Chief of Hotel Security, will meet us at the room of Mademoiselle Travis.

Monsieur Benet is waiting for them in front of Jane’s room.

“I rang her room, but there was no answer,” Benet says.

He knocks on the door. “Miss Travis, this is Monsieur Benet, Chief of Hotel Security, are you all right?”

He puts his ear against the door. After a moment, he knocks on the door again. “Miss Travis, this is Monsieur Benet, Chief of Hotel Security. Please come to the door.”

Benet reaches into his pocket and takes out a pass card. “Let’s take a look.”

He opens the door, walks into the room, stops for a moment, and goes to the phone.

Harry sees Jane on the floor. Kneeling, he puts his hand on her wrist. “She’s got a pulse—barely.” Getting on his knees, he puts his ear on her chest. “Her heart is beating—barely.”

He puts his mouth on hers.

Don’t fold on me Jane. You have one chip left on the table, and he’s going to pull you through.

When Jane regains consciousness and opens her eyes, she finds herself in a bed with a nurse looking at her.

“Where am I?” Jane asks.

“You are in The Princess Grace Hospital Center,” the nurse says.

“What happened?”

“You collapsed in your hotel room. We believe you had the beginning of a pericarditis infection, which, when compounded by the stress of the trip caused you to collapse.”

“How would I get such an infection?”

“It’s impossible to know. Several organisms can cause it. We gave you intravenous antibiotics earlier which appear to have cleared you up, but you will have to take the antibiotics orally for seven more days to insure whatever it was does not return. The doctor will be by shortly to confirm you are well and release you.”

Jane says, “The last thing I remember was standing in my hotel room. How did I get here?”

“Monsieur Blake found you and gave you artificial respiration until the ambulance came. He saved your life.”

“Monsieur Blake? I don’t know any Monsieur Blake.”

“You don’t? Well then, Mademoiselle Travis, your luck is about to change. Monsieur Blake is handsome, rich, and extremely concerned about your health. Would you like to meet him? He is pacing the hallway.”

Jane hesitates.

“What should I do?” the nurse asks.

“The very thought of another scheming, rich, handsome man makes me want to throw up. Having one is no more than a mere, short-lived boost to the ego. Nothing of real or lasting value. The next one—if there is one—is going to be decent, honest, and hardworking. It doesn’t matter how much money he makes. I already have more money than a hundred people could spend in a lifetime. All he has to do is come home to me at night and wake up beside me in the morning.”

The nurse looks puzzled. Monsieur Blake is a nice man,” she says.

“You might as well bring him in,” Jane says. “He did save my life.”

The nurse opens the room door. “Monsieur Blake, Mademoiselle Travis is awake now and would like to meet you.”

Harry walks into the room. The nurse says, “Mademoiselle Travis I would like to introduce Monsieur Harry Blake. Monsieur Blake has had a busy day. Today, he won the first Monaco Invitational Tournament, then he saved your life. Now please excuse me, I’ll let the doctor know you are awake.”

Putting her pillows against the bed headboard, Jane props herself up. She extends her hand to Harry. “My name is Jane. Please take a seat won’t you.”

Harry sits down. “How do you feel?” he asks.

“Tired. How long was I unconscious?”

“Since around ten last night.”

“I really was in bad shape wasn’t I? Thank you for saving my life.”

Harry nods. “I consider myself a fortunate man for being able to save your life.”

“Why is that?” Jane asks.

Harry studies her face for a moment before saying, “Not long ago, I read a poem in the New Yorker magazine. The poem was “Mirror” by Mark Strand. In the poem, a man is at a party with friends when he glances at the mirror on the wall above him and sees a beautiful woman in a green dress. She is rubbing her necklace with one hand. The woman seems distracted, nervous perhaps. She, too, is looking at the mirror. But not at the man, but past him into a space that might soon be filled by someone yet to arrive.”

Harry pauses. Jane is staring at him intently. “Go on,” she says.

“At that moment, the man’s friends take him away to another party. As the years go by, the man continues to recall the moment of seeing the woman staring into the mirror, into a place he could only imagine, but each time he eagerly steps out of the mirror into that room, he finds she is not there.”

He looks at Jane. She says nothing; her eyes still on him, waiting.

“Last night, I, too, glanced at a mirror on a wall and saw what that man saw. Like him, I was abruptly taken to another party by friends. I tried to get back into the room before it was too late because, like him, I wanted to be with her—to go with her to that place she was dreaming of.”

He stops.

After a few moment she says, “I was the woman you saw in the mirror wasn’t I.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve never heard a story like that,” she says, “so I’m not sure what the proper response should be. I can assure you; however, nothing so dramatic was happening on my side of the mirror. If I was fidgeting with my necklace, it was only because I was trying to decide where to go for dinner . . . that’s all . . . there was.”

Harry looks around for a tissue. He finds a towel and hands it to her. “Here, wipe your eyes with this. I’ll get you get a glass of water.”

He returns with a cup of water and hands it to her. “Thank you,” she says.

He sits down.

She drinks the water and puts the cup down. She clasps her hands tightly together.

“That was a lie about dinner. I was waiting for somebody to come. My fiancé, Steve. We were supposed to fly here together, but, at the last moment, he said he was delayed at work and would be on the next flight. When you saw me in the mirror, I was uneasy because the flight he was supposed to be on had landed, and he wasn’t on it. I tried to call him, but he didn’t pick up which was unusual.”

She pauses.

“We were to be married in June. I was thinking of how nice the wedding would be; how nice it would be to be with him in the evenings.”

She pauses.

“After you left, a man came up to me and said, ‘Are you Jane Travis?' I said, ‘Is there anything wrong?’ He said he had a message for me, asked me to sign a receipt, gave me an envelope, and walked away.”

She pauses.

“The message was on a scrap of lined, yellow office scratch paper. All it said was ‘There’s another women. Steve’ He didn’t even write my name on it. Steve was the only man I ever loved, and I loved him in every way a woman can love a man.”

A doctor walks into Jane’s hospital room.

“I’m Dr. Dujardin. The nurse told me you were awake. How do you feel?”

“I was feeling tired when I first awoke,” Jane says, “but I’m starting to perk up.”

Dr. Dujardin reads her chart and asks, “Did the nurse give you the antibiotic tablets?”

Jane nods and points to a plastic bottle on the table.

“I discussed your case over the phone with Dr. Station this morning. He wants you to stop by his office when you get home. I also talked to your parents several times and told them you were out of danger and would call them when you awoke.”

“Thank you so much Dr. Dujardin. I do appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

“You should thank Monsieur Blake. If he hadn’t applied artificial respiration from the moment he found you until the ambulance came, you would not have made it.”

Jane smiles at Harry. “Thanks again.”

Taking a picture from a folder on his clipboard, Dr. Dujardin says, “Monsieur Blake, would you please favor me with an autograph.”

“Sure,” Harry says. “What’s your first name?”

“Henri.”

Harry autographs the picture and hands it back.

Dr. Dujardin says, “This picture is in all the European papers. I also heard it’s already on eBay. More than ten thousand Euros if your authenticated autograph is on it.”

“I’d better start numbering these pictures,” Harry says.

Jane and Dr. Dujardin laugh.

“Have you seen the picture Mademoiselle Travis?” Dr. Dujardin asks.

“No.”

He hands her the picture. Her smile turns into a frown.

“The picture is not what it seems Mademoiselle Travis,” Dr. Dujardin says. “In a few hours, the man across the table, Herr Shuman, will not be smiling.”

“I was under the impression Mr. Blake was a tennis player. Looks can be deceptive.” She hands the picture back to Dr. Dujardin. “When can I leave?”

“As soon as you dress. I have checked you out of the hospital.”

“What about the bill?” Jane asks.

“Monsieur Blake paid it. Is there anything you need before I leave?”

“Nothing except to thank you again for your help.”

After Dr. Dujardin leaves, Jane looks at Harry.

“What do you want Mr. Blake? The usual?”

Harry looks at the floor for a few seconds.

“No. I was thinking more like dinner this evening.”

“I won’t be here this evening. As soon as I leave the hospital, I’m going to book a flight back home. My first solo show at a major gallery is on Thursday, and I haven’t completed preparations.”

Harry stands up and begins to slowly pace the room, looking at the floor, his hands clasped behind him.

“You have every right to be bitter and cynical after what you’ve been through. You are probably thinking that I’m a good-for-nothing, scheming, low-life who couldn’t hold down a steady job, so I became a gambler. You are probably thinking I’m after your body, and once I get it, I’ll fold and run. You are probably thinking, ‘Just get me out of here. I want to go home.’”

He pauses.

“When we leave this room, we will never meet again. If I don't speak now, you will never know the truth about me. High-stakes professional poker is a demanding business, and I consider it nothing but a business. It wasn’t until college that I became aware I had been blessed with the skills to become a top-tier, professional poker player. I have a house in Buffalo where I grew up. The Methodist Orphanage in Buffalo receives a large annual donation from my earnings as a professional poker player. I play three sets of singles tennis three or four times a week, even on the road. In the evenings, I read both fiction and nonfiction. If I watch television, it’s the history channel. I have a dog named Kramer and a cat named Muffin.”

He stops pacing and looks at her.

“I’m sorry,” she says softly. “I can’t.”

He pauses, hoping. Finally, he takes a card case out of his pocket, takes out a plastic card, and puts it on the table next to her bed.

“This is a priority, first-class airline ticket to anywhere in the United States. Any airline will accept it. It’s good until used. Waiting outside for your use while you are in Monaco is a limo with a driver and a nurse. Both are bilingual and will assist you as you require. If you want to buy something, they will pay for it. On my way out, I will tell the nurse to wait for you at the hospital's discharge desk. Good luck with your show.”

Harry turns and walks out of the room.

Harry returns to the hotel and goes to the L'Hirondelle.

“Monsieur Blake, you are dining later than usual,” the waiter says handing Harry a menu.

Harry is looking over the menu when his phone rings.

“Hello”

“Monsieur Blake?”

“Yes”

“This is Star Limousine.”

“Yes”

“Mademoiselle Travis has boarded the plane.”

"Are you certain?"

"Yes Monsieur Blake. Both employees reported seeing her board the plane.”

Silence

“Where shall I direct the limo Monsieur Blake?”

“That will be it.”

“Thank you Monsieur Blake and good night.”

Harry looks up at the waiter and says, “I’ve suddenly lost my appetite. Make it a large coffee—black. I’m not going to be able to sleep tonight anyway.”

The waiter returns with the coffee.

“Thanks,” Harry says.

The waiter nods and takes a picture from inside his jacket. “Monsieur Blake, would you be kind enough to autograph your picture?”

“What’s your first name?”

“No need for that Monsieur Blake.‘Warmest regards, Harry Blake’ will be satisfactory.”

Harry autographs the picture and hands it back.

“Monsieur Blake, pardon me, but I was wondering what you were thinking when this picture was taken.”

“What was I thinking? There is only one thing I could be thinking. I was thinking, ‘I have one chip left.’”

The waiter stands silently, without expression, staring into the distance. Then he smiles. “Awesome.”

When the waiter leaves, Harry crosses his arms and contemplates the coffee cup. The mirror said, “It’s your turn,” but I couldn’t change the outcome. I knew all the cards and still couldn’t win. Maybe it’s some kind of mysterious cycle that plays over and over with an outcome that can’t be changed. I could call her in a couple of months, but if the connection isn’t there now, it never will be. The guy in the poem was lucky — only having to imagine what might have been. I’ll have to live with knowing what might have been . . . and knowing it never will be. I would give all I won today and more just to have that one chip back—just one more chance. Damn!

He takes a sip of coffee and puts the cup down. A hand softly touches the back of his shoulder. He looks up.

“The limo service reported you had boarded the plane,” he says.

“I had. In fact, I was seated in the plane with my seatbelt on, looking through my pocketbook, when I found this in a zippered compartment.” She holds up the note he had written. “I hope the invitation is still open.”

Her eyes hold his.

“I want to be in that room when you step out of the mirror.”

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