by Lindsay Griffiths
Propped up against the wall, I delicately swirled the olive inside my cocktail glass. In my old life, I was unaccustomed to being a sexy thing, but my new line of work required some acting. In the elegant ballroom, I stood straight like a model, overcompensating for my five feet of height with an erect spine and face that insisted, “I’m the shit.” My blood-colored dress embraced me tightly like a long lost lover, and accentuated my unmistakably confident hips. The neckline plunged deep as sin, revealing the valley between my breasts that I had carefully glittered and powdered just an hour earlier. I knew that I wouldn’t be a lonely wallflower for long, that my assets would attract the perfect gentleman who would unknowingly reveal the information I needed, between flirtatious inflection and flattering adjectives, and eventually walk away none the wiser. Every person in the room, from DiMaggio himself to the tuxedoed waiters carrying ornate platters, was a suspect.
The quartet began a new number, entertaining as wealthy guests wandered from the ice sculpture to the desserts to the artwork. I was overwhelmed by the beauty of the space and also by the realization that I, the real me, would have never been allowed near such a venue. But for the past three months, I had been Laura, and lately I was truly becoming Laura, and Laura, me. I didn’t look twice at my old cardigans anymore, or reminisce about quiet solitude in library corners. I grabbed crimson lipsticks like greedy infant fingers grab toys. I even wore real jewelry. This assigned identity was soaking into me and blotting me out, and, honestly, I didn’t mind.
Just then, Mr. Velasquez from yesterday approached me, his wife’s gloved hand hooked onto his left elbow. His black hair was smoothed over with gel, gleaming almost as brightly as the gold and silver chandeliers above our heads. He was the kind of person that was uncomfortable to interact with, always feigning sincerity, but his ruse was thin as rice paper to me. Still, he seemed more like a porcupine than a vicious alligator, so I decided to indulge the conversation I knew he was about to start with me, thinking I could glean something from him. I only needed the proper incriminating words to spell the demise of the serial killer I had been seeking, whoever they were.
“Laura,” he greeted me with a tight smile and a squeeze of the hand, “Qué bueno que usted vino.” I smiled back demurely at the two of them, suddenly conscious of my cleavage. The old me tugged up on Laura’s neckline. I replied, “Cuando Señor DiMaggio tiene una fiesta, todos vienen.” The distracted look on Mrs. Velazquez’s face reminded me that she only spoke English, so I switched languages to accommodate her presence.
“Any plans for the upcoming holiday?” She thanked me with her blue eyes, but kept silent, almost shrinking into her pale, thin frame. Her husband, with a voice like friction, responded for the both of them. “Well, Margot had suggested something like a cruise, and I think it could be a good time.” When he raised his left arm to place it on her waist, Mrs. Velazquez flinched sharply, a quick flash of fear visible in her eyes. I instinctively raised my eyebrows, noticing the signs that I had learned to recognize in my distant past as a social worker. Noticing that his wife’s practiced reflexes had revealed too much, his eyes tightened, and he took my hand, saying there were others he had hoped to speak to tonight. “Encantado,” he said, more rigidly than when he had greeted me. “Encantada,” I responded, my smile more forced than natural. And they parted from me, a couple only beautiful for their formalwear.
Intrigued but wary of causing any suspicion, I stepped away from the wall, my only friend at the event so far, and wandered over to the sculpture. Laura found these heels easy to glide in, but I stumbled on the length of the dress. Examining the ice phoenix with my arms crossed, I felt a presence to my right. The stranger placed a hand on my bare shoulder and introduced himself. My persona was working. “Good evening,” he greeted, saying his name was Stephen. “Laura Morales. Nice to meet you.”
Between small talk about the phoenix and how it miraculously did not melt in the warm ballroom, he asked, “So where did you get your riches from?” I looked at him, puzzled, the corner of my mouth slightly raised. He explained. “Well, everyone here is wealthy beyond belief. Believe me, I wouldn’t be here if that weren’t that case.” I gave him a playful look that said, I don’t want to share my business with a stranger, but he insisted. “Here, I’ll tell you my story first. How about that?” I nodded, almost enjoying his confidence and the way his long eyelashes announced every blink, like making way for a king.
“I’m part of a long legacy, and have a great inheritance. I hope to put some of it towards that painting over there tonight.” He pointed to a work of Post-Impressionism, hailing from one of the French artists I never took care to read up on. “And yourself?” he asked again. My mind quickly grabbed at Laura’s backstory that I had initially seen in Times New Roman on one sheet of paper in a manila folder at the office. That’s all Laura was- a sheet of paper in a manila folder. That’s all I was. “Well, I too have an inheritance,” I responded, looking at the sculpture, “from my family in Guatemala.” I waited for his face to light up, for him to be impressed by my natural riches from a faraway country. But instead his tanned face twisted into confusion.
“I’m from Guatemala. I’ve never heard of you, ” he asserted. I tried to remain calm, and I raised my eyebrows slightly, acknowledging the horrifying coincidence. He asked, “where specifically?” And I nervously recalled the words in the file, avoiding eye contact, “Guatemala City.” Shifting his jaw, he remarked, “Funny. I’m also from there. I lived there almost my entire life, and I have never heard of you.” I looked away uneasily. When I looked back, our eyes met.
He could see the lie in my dilated pupils. He could see the way the creases in my skin around my awkward smile formed parentheses that enclosed what I was not saying. I panicked and, for the first time, so did Laura. I opened my mouth and began stuttering meaningless chatter and, without even acknowledging my attempt to change the subject, he remarked, “Huh,” and strode away from me. Watching him walk away with urgency, I fought back tears and fear that I had compromised the entire mission. Afraid to do any more damage, I fled the ballroom as calmly as I could.
