Chapter 1 The Cab Ride
Caveat: This is not a textbook. The reader should not look for authentic historical, geographical or other details. The truth of ‘THE EYE OF MEDUSA’ is in its emotions. Everything else is fiction.
This novel is dedicated to Holly Paschal
The rear-mirror reflects a delicate face, framed with ash-blonde hair. The taxi driver scrutinizes the woman reclining on the back seat of his car.
“You’re lucky to have found a cab at this ungodly hour, sweetie. What an idea taking a walk along Central Park in the dead of night! You’re asking for trouble, love. You aren’t American, are you? Where are you from?”
“Does that matter? Can you recommend me a nice little hotel?”
The cabbie examines his passenger: no luggage, strolling alone by Central park at night...
“You remind me of a song, sweetie,” he gives her a smile and starts humming “Strangers in the Night.”
“Do you like Sinatra, sweetie? We lived on the same streets as kids. Frankie doesn’t forget his old buddies. Have a peep at this watch! A gift from him! Can you guess the price of that toy?
My wife is grouching: “Put it away, Antonio! One day it will cost you life!”
“Nonsense! Who’d believe somebody like me could wear a genuine golden Rolex! You asked me for a hotel, sweetie. Cheap little places don’t take people without luggage. Better try something posh. A single woman should stay somewhere decent, anyway. Not that I’m prying, but how much can you dish out?”
“Whatever they ask. It’s just for one night,” Irene adds, noticing the cabby’s sharp-eyed glance.
“Then I have something really nice for you, sweetie. The “Tudor” by the United Nations. It’s a national heritage! And with cable TV! That’s where I usually drop the delegates.”
“Thank you. Is it far? I’m awfully sleepy.”
“We’ll be there in a twinkle. I know the desk-clerk. He’ll put you up.”
Irene is tossing in her half-sleep. Her head is locked in a rigid casket of blistering headache. Nausea is heaving her stomach and contracting her jaws. Her muscles are cramped.
The lights of passing cars seer her eyelids. City screams pound her nerves to pulp. The taxi trembles like a train madly rushing through an endless plain.
“Wake-up, sweetie, here we’re,” the cabbie touches gently her shoulder.
“Here’s your room-key. You can go up immediately to your room. You’ll have to pay in advance, though.”
“Of course. Thank you. Here’s your fare. Could you kindly settle my bill?” Irene hands him his purse.
He counts scrupulously the notes and hands her the purse back.
“Is there anything else I can do for you, sweetie?” He asks when coming back.
“Thank you, no. All I need is a good, long sleep. I don’t know how I could have coped without you. You were a true friend to me,” she thanks him gratefully before disappearing in the lobby.
