Part I
Henry Naismith walked confidently into the hotel lounge. His smooth muscled chest rippled under the freshly pressed white button-down Polo shirt that was his trademark. With sleeves rolled up two turns and just so, the stainless Rolex Submariner on his right wrist standing in bold relief on his deeply tanned arm, he seemed a man on a mission. Outside the cobalt smokey-dim room, through darkly tinted windows, Diamond Head glowed in dappled purple-gold hues, bathed in the fading light of a tropical sunset. The warm glow of the fading light wrapped around Henry Naismith as he stopped inside the room, his eyes sweeping like a piercing blue searchlight. Women cast appraising glances his way; men cast a wary eye, sizing up their competition. Henry Naismith smiled within his mind's eye, very well aware that his appearance relayed a much greater presence than his 21 years would have otherwise allowed.
He casually surveyed the room, the single men and women at the long mirrored bar, the couples deep in conversation within the sheltering grasp of deep wine-red leather booths. It was, he knew, fairly early in the evening, perhaps too early for the type of woman he sought, yet circumstance dictated his actions. His parents demanded an early start to the day, tours to be endured, always a museum - and Honolulu was awash in museums extolling the Amerikan warrior ethos - followed by an early dinner and admonishments to get to bed early. "Sleep is the thief of time," his retired Admiral now Congressman father would bark. Henry Naismith would as always watch his parents as they walked away - always walking away - his eyes fixed on the ethereal elegance of his mother's receding form. Within the limited time frame of his Spring-break from Stanford University, he was determined to bed as many women - grown, mature women - as circumstance and opportunity would allow.
Henry Naismith was dedicated to the proposition that fucking women was good, and that not all men were created equal. He cast his gaze around the room, taking in the receding hairlines and expanded waistlines of the men in the room, and smiled with the casual arrogance of his particular form of youth. He admired his father, his command over other men, and the easy surrender of a woman's charms that had claimed more than one man's fair share of broken hearts. And yet, at the same time, Henry Naismith despised his father, despised him for the casual ruin he had visited on his wife, the ruin his careless disdain and moral superiority, that his manicured Presbyterianism, had so relentlessly bestowed over the course of their statuesque marriage. His fathers's bestowals had crafted a shallow hollowness on the otherwise joyous and carefree soul of his mother; only the visible remnants of his mother's inheritance remained. And it was with his mother's stately elegance and refined demeanor that Henry Naismith had for the first time fallen in love.
Moving slowly toward the kaleidoscope glow of the bar - with the vast array of noble spirits and with their carnival of folly beckoning - Henry Naismith made his way to the far end and sat on a tall mahogany stool. Several attractive women, girls really, obviously here on their school holidays, sat within easy distance. Appraising feminine eyes furtively sought Henry Naismith's glance, to little avail. He ordered a Tom Collins from the bartender as his right hand sought out Spanish peanuts in copper bowls lined up at casual intervals along the bar.
The heady scent of Chanel hit Henry Naismith squarely in his soul. He felt a tremulous disturbance in the air, a ripple in the fabric of time as a wisp of clothing slithered across his outstretched arm. A faint shiver took him by surprise as his eyes looked ahead deeply into the mirrored reflections within the forest of rainbow-hued bottles; he measured the woman who appeared beside him as she made her way to the adjacent stool. His calculations made in a heartbeat, he instantly stood up and helped the woman into the - for her - awkwardly high stool. The woman cast an appreciative nod, and with quiet assurance thanked the handsome young man for his courtesy.
Henry Naismith felt as though the air had been sucked from his lungsas he looked at the woman, so complete was his disorientation. He covertly took in the beautiful woman beside him as he re-took his seat. The woman wore a cream colored linen suit, adorned with a simple red rose, accented with bone colored stockings and very high-heeled pumps. Her fair skin was accented lightly by faint freckles, her face an angelic form that radiated simple confidence, and all crowned with simply ravishing strawberry-blond hair. She glanced down to the gleaming surface of the bar, her fingers softly appraising the highly polished wood, stroking the surface in a way that Henry Naismith found enchanting. Her fingers had not the inept carelessness of youth but, he thought, the studied countenance of refined experience. He could see the motion of her hand clearly in the mirror, and a faint smile curled his lips. His eyes drifted back up to take in her face; with a start he felt her eyes lock onto his. What he saw took his breath away. Her face - angelic was a word that did not do her face justice - was dominated by soft pools of blue-green light that were her eyes. Unable to look away from the overwhelming beauty before him, he simply nodded his head as if to say "Sorry, you caught me." She cocked her head to the side as she met his gaze, and returned the nascent smile that grew on the young man's face. Henry Naismith sat dazed by an elegance that seemed impossible in any woman save his mother.
And so it was that Henry Naismith felt every fiber of his being come alive with electric desire. He felt his skin flush, sensed the hammering of his pulse in his throat and temples, and a warm moisture clouded his now softly clenched hands. His easy confidence gone, a broken dream in the heady aura of her eyes, he felt as though his ability to speak had evaporated in the heat of her gaze. Magically, a Tom Collins appeared before him on the bar. He turned to look the woman directly in the eyes, hungry for the experience of the sight of her, and asked if he could buy her a drink.
"That would be nice," she said, meeting his eyes with studied elegance. "What are you having?"
"Collins, a Tom Collins," Henry Naismith whispered. "Sorry," he continued, "throats a bit dry." She nodded to the bartender, and smiling, asked for the same. Henry Naismith noted a faint french accent to her perfect English. He guessed she was in her thirties. Her breasts were perfect, her jewelry understated, her long pale finger refined yet elegantly polished.
"I've not seen you here before," the woman said. "Have you been here long?"
"Got in last night. Late. Here for a week or so. And you?"
"Ah, I come here frequently as part of my work. Perhaps you should have some of your drink." He nodded, and lifted the tumbler to his lips. He noticed that as he brought the drink to his mouth she looked at his lips, that her lips parted and the faintest tip of her tongue came into view. He took a sip, of course with disastrous consequence. He coughed, nearly launching his drink, but caught himself as he felt the woman's delicate hand reach out to steady his grip. Now Henry Naismith felt himself burning with embarrassment, a cool bead of perspiration forming on his forehead.
"Now that was pure fuckin' grace," he exclaimed before he could catch himself. He looked at the woman expecting to find reproach, but was surprised to feel her cool hand lightly stroking his cheek, followed by a damp cloth wiping the boiling shame from his forehead. She cocked her head once again as Henry Naismith's eyes returned to hers, and again he felt as though time had stopped. Her eyes widened, eyebrows arced slightly, the pupils of her blue-green eyes so large that to Henry Naismith he felt that surely all of his worlds hopes and dreams could within that gaze safely reside.
"What are you thinking?" the woman asked. "You look so serious." She looked expectantly at the young man, her eyes now a mirror of his seriousness. "Is this a night for such seriousness?" Was there a trace of irony in her voice?
Henry Naismith took another stab at the Tom Collins, this time taking a careful sip from the glass. He took an ice cube into his mouth, swirled it around with his tongue. He suddenly felt as though some infinite power had hold of his soul, that the depth in this woman's eyes was somehow a reflection of her pure lust. With this realization a gripping lightheadedness overcame him. 'How cool must this look,' he thought. He felt himself break out into a light sweat.
"Let me help you to your room," the woman said, now obviously concerned. She motioned to the bartender, gave a room number, and stood up next to Henry Naismith. She took his arm in her delicate hand, and helped the young man stand. Taking the drink from Henry Naismith's hand, she placed it on the bar and asked the bartender to have several bottles of mineral water sent to her room.
'My room, her room,' he thought, 'what's going on.' He felt intoxicated not from liquor but from some subtle force that streamed directly from this woman's eyes into his soul. She steadied him with unexpected strength and walked him out of the lounge. A couple of men shook their head and chuckled. As Henry Naismith and the woman walked together through the magnificent old Hawaiian lobby he felt his composure return, a spring return to his step. As they gained the elevator, he took her hand in his. Somehow, someway, a perilous bargain had been struck, but by whom, and for what?
