Lone Star

by Paullina Simons

  “Is that all we have?” she said, flinching from the sting of regret. “Not even three days? And it’s raining.” We would’ve had more, she thought. We would’ve had one more day, one more night had you not taken it from us by your mystifying absence.

  “There is that. But Trieste is a great city for music lovers. You’ll see. Rain or shine, they come. And you’ll help. Let’s get some hot coffee for the road, with some butterscotch whiskey in it, and we’ll be all set.”

  “Whiskey? Won’t that hurt your voice?”

  He grinned like Johnny Vaudeville. “You mean won’t that make it better? Fret not. Wasn’t it Mason’s favorite philosopher Bart Simpson who said that whiskey was the solution to all life’s problems?”

  “Um, you’re misquoting both Mason and Bart,” Chloe said. “Bart said alcohol was both the cause and the solution to all life’s problems.”

  Johnny laughed, almost back to his old self.

  “Very wise is Bart,” said Johnny. “Like a little Yoda is he.”

  The unrelenting downpour continued the evening Johnny sang to take Chloe to a cliff by the sea. There was an ugly wind, whipping the rain into a circus of misery. She still hadn’t seen the waters of the Adriatic.

  The streets were empty, but they found one near Piazza Unita that was only a quarter empty and made their perch under a partial enclosure. She held the red umbrella over his head and guitar. With her green sweater, she thought she looked like a Christmas tree. She felt the shiver in her veins even before he began to sing, before he reached for the notes he reached only by birthright.

  Where was Van Gogh to paint them in their ragtag threads, with the red umbrella over Johnny and his Gibson, Chloe a small green trembling stalk? The air cold cold. He sang. Without an amp, without a mic, without incompetent Chris on the drums, without electric strings or Robert Plant. She was wrong about that. Acoustic Robert Plant was channeled through Johnny’s electric throat all the way to heaven. Did Chloe get what she came for? Joe Cocker unchained his heart. Springsteen was blinded by the light. Radiohead was high and dry, Bryan Adams got his six-string at the five-and-dime, and Freddie Mercury wanted to live forever. Johnny wanted to be young the rest of his life. And all the stars were shining. E lucevan le stelle. Yeah, yeah, yeah, he said. Come and get me. I said come get me. And you got me. Yeah, yeah, yeah. You got me.

  “Where do we go now?” she asked, after he finished counting the change and the bills in his bucket of tears.

  “Do you see how well we did?” He was himself again and happy. “We made nearly three hundred more euro. That’s enough for food and a fairytale.” Crouching, he smiled up at her. “They give more for the effort it takes me to sing in this weather and for them to stand and listen.”

  “I liked when they begged you for an encore of ‘You Can’t Always Get What You Want,’” Chloe said.

  Jumping up, he took her by the hand. “But when you try real hard, you get what you need.” Pulling her close, he lifted her face to his. “Now I take you to see some magic.” They kissed under the red umbrella.

  “Does the ferry operate in a storm?” she asked in a croaky voice.

  “Ha. This isn’t a storm. It’s a little rain. We can always take a taxi now that we’re flush. But let’s bounce and see if we get lucky.”

  They ran. And the ferry still ran. They got lucky. The lights of the boat lit up a swathe of black stormy water, but that was all. The fog had come in over the cliffs, and no matter how they peered ahead, they couldn’t see anything in the night, not even shore lights.

  “How far are we going?”

  “Just ten lousy kilometers,” Johnny said. “A half-hour ride at most. Not tonight of course. Sad you can’t see it in its splendor.”

  “See what?” she said. “You’ll just have to paint me a picture with your words, Johnny.” They huddled on the deck of the boat. She hoped that wherever they were going had a shower and some blankets. Though knowing him, they might be camping out in the woods, in the pre-Alpian mountains. “Tell me about bus 136, the bus we’re not taking.”

  He smiled. “We’re forging our own way to enchantment,” he said. “But many years ago my grandparents fell in love on a bus, and the number of that bus was 136.” He paused. “Don’t you find that remarkable?”

  “It’d be remarkable, yes, if we were actually taking it,” Chloe grumbled, cold, wet, seeing nothing in front of her.

  His spirits high, he kissed her damp neck. “Despite the snowy fog,” he whispered, “there will be time for you and me. I wish the seas were silent, but alas. We’ll put on flannel pajamas another day when we are old. There will be plenty of time then for Ovaltine by the fire. Right now, our bodies rage with disquiet. It’s as it’s supposed to be. Because in front of us, on a peak above the sea, stands a white Gothic castle.”

  “Is that where we’re going to? A castle?”

  He chuckled. “No, because when you’re in it, you can’t see it, and I want you to be able to see it from our balcony. We’ll stay in a room with a view.” He grinned at his own literary allusions.

  She gazed into the darkness and tried her hardest to make out a shape, a shadow.

  “Can you glimpse it? It’s made out of limestone, and it’s been bleached by the sun and the Adriatic. It’s white and it juts out into the blue waters.”

  Her discomfort faded. “I can’t see white nor blue, or jutting.”

  “Yes, but I’m painting it for you with my words, as you wished. Do you know a guy named T.S. Eliot? Of course you do. Well, a long time ago, the dude wrote a poem called, I can’t remember, something about Alfred Prufrock, great name, right, and the poem was one of those weird jobs like he was on acid when he wrote it, but I never forgot the first lines.” Tonight Johnny frowned, struggling to remember. Nothing came. With a little laugh, he shrugged. “Never mind. But around the same time, maybe a little earlier, a besotted archduke of Austria named Max built a castle for his young beloved named Charlotte. And he called it Castello di Miramare. A view by the sea. A Lovers’ Castle. Where the peerless prince, or is it the pauper, brings his flower girl of Barcelona to show her what beauty is, though he is sure she already knows.”

  33

  The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

  WHAT WORDS DO YOU USE TO EXPRESS THE INEXPRESSIBLE? The white mystery in the insistent rain, the empty hotel on a hill, the blurred headlights of cars racing through the tunnel and around the curve of the black road, red tail-lights vanishing around the bend. And across the road, downhill on a promontory into the sea, the lit-up silver walls of an enormous castle with towers and battlements, only slightly blurred by the rain. What a sight it must be during the day. What a sight it is now. Everything went flying flying the moment he stepped into her life, squeezing himself between her and the hefty Latvian.

  He calls her into the hot shower after he drops his things on the floor. She has no things. Just her little bag, and him. The room is a small square with two large twin beds pushed together to make a king, brass headboards, red satin bedspreads. A bed is all the room has space for.

  Trust me, he whispers as he pulls her in under the running water and lathers clean her body and his body. His long-fingered hands, pliant and chord-progression-ready, soap her back in circles, her breasts in circles. She didn’t realize her breasts needed to be so clean. Trust me, there really is a castle outside our balcony door.

  How does she tell him she’s seen it, but also that she doesn’t care about the view? Only what’s inside the shower is real. The rest is myth. Even what’s inside the shower is myth. But myth forcefully alive. He stands naked, hard, tall, too thin. He can’t wait until the bed. Drying off is too long to wait. Even the conditioner is not yet washed away from his hair. Rinsing the conditioner is too long to wait. He lifts her up onto himself under the hot water. She grabs on, threads her arms around his slippery wet neck. Her back is pushed against the tiles.

  They stay until the water runs cold.

  Still damp they pull b
ack the bedspreads and fall onto the white sheets. The beds can’t sustain the toil of their efforts. The frames glide apart on the wooden floor.

  Nothing in Chloe’s life has been like this. She is dazzled not only by the kiss and the endless assault on her good senses, but by the alarming awareness that she has no sense left. There is nothing she won’t do. There is nothing she doesn’t want him to do. She marvels at the sweat of the labor of love that drips from his body, his hair, his face, onto her. What man has ever been so overcome for a girl?

  They hope the water tank has had time to reheat. It has not. But they’re burning up. They let the water run cold over their sticky breathless bodies to cool down. Wrapped in sheets they step out onto the wet balcony. It’s misty. The visibility is Johnny.

  Isn’t it beautiful, he says.

  It is, she says. I wish we had more time.

  We have more than we ever thought we’d have, he says. We thought Warsaw would be all we’d have.

  And even that was stolen, she says.

  Yes. He kisses her deeply, their ghostly bodies pressed together. Had Mason not gone back for the statue … When you see him, will you please thank him for his idol worship?

  You mean bimbo worship, says Chloe, and Johnny laughs, pulling her back inside.

  Look how lush and fertile you look, how amazing, he murmurs, cupping her, fondling her as she straddles him. I can’t believe you tried to hide your body from me.

  Please don’t call me fertile, she says. Last thing in the world I need. Look at Hannah.

  Ah, he whispers, pulling her over him, his mouth closing in on her breasts, but if you had my child, I’d have to marry you, wouldn’t I?

  If I had your child, she replies in a moan, you’d have to tell me your real name, wouldn’t you?

  He laughs, his palms sliding down over her hips. Yes. The boy would be called Johnny Junior.

  Seconds, minutes, hours. She caresses him endlessly with her hands, with her mouth. She keeps persuading him with her own immoderate desire to answer her need in the affirmative.

  Please don’t stop, she pleads in whispers. I don’t want this to ever end.

  I am only one man, he mutters. I can only do so much. Give me five more minutes.

  She tries not to emit a wretched cry. She doesn’t want him to think she is not in bliss. But she can’t help it. Will there be another five minutes for you and me, she whispers, bringing his soaking body to lie flat on top of her, gripping his wet loose hair.

  Yes, Chloe. We made this happen. We’ll make other things happen too. You’ll see. That’s what love does. It makes possible impossible things.

  She cradles his head to her face.

  Is this what it feels like to fall in love?

  Then why does it feel so much like dread?

  Nothing but hunger and terror.

  Is it being abandoned by God, or aflame with God? And what is so wrong with her that she can’t tell the difference?

  Everything else vanishes. Not a speck remains of her old life, her old priorities. Nothing else matters.

  That’s what it feels like, he says in assent. Love comes in and reorders the furniture. Love comes in, Chloe, does it not?

  She moans. She can barely speak. But I always have everything under control.

  Even this?

  Yes. In this I am like my mother. This thing that’s happening, it isn’t me. This isn’t how my mother taught me to be.

  And all the while Chloe is speaking, Johnny is a smiling pendulum.

  You think your mother has it under control? he asks.

  I’d prefer not to talk about my mother at this precise moment, but yes.

  Really. Then tell me, how often have you seen your mother’s family?

  Not often, she replies, her arms around him. Almost never.

  How many times have you been to North Dakota?

  Never.

  Hmm. Sounds to me as if your mother ran off the tracks the day she met your father. So much so that she was willing to forsake all five generations of her family. Your mother was willing to sever her ancestral ties to follow her heart to the lake in Maine.

  What are you talking about, Chloe says dumbly, staring up at him.

  Sounds as if the Red River flooded Pembina, no?

  Johnny, that can’t be!

  Why?

  They’re my parents. They can’t feel this way. Not this way.

  He shakes his head, perspiration dripping from his hair. The fire that brought them together made you. My mom and dad made me. My grandparents made my dad, and my dad changed the world.

  What? She can barely listen.

  Yes. My father altered the world as it was, and made it into a new thing that it is.

  What are you talking about?

  Nothing, nothing. A story for another time maybe.

  Are you going to change the world, Johnny Rainbow? She almost sobs right then and there. Crush it with your mammoth glittering cry.

  He kisses her. You want me to sing you songs of love? I’ll sing until I shred my throat. I’ll sing until you feel it.

  He sings until she feels it.

  He does everything until she feels it.

  She doesn’t know what time it is. They’ve unplugged the hotel clock, hidden his watch in his duffel. They don’t want to know. Soon, it might be dawn. And then tomorrow. A whole life is waiting to be lived in these brief days. There is no time for time.

  It’s still raining and black out. It’s been night for so long, it feels like winter in Maine, and yet nothing like it. It’s warm. And there is a naked boy in her bed, under red satin covers, as if they’re on a parade in a bordello. He has closed his eyes, finally, the last love having drained his vital powers.

  Sitting up in bed, she huddles around her knees. They’ve pushed the beds back together, and she wants to turn her head to look at his beautiful sleeping body but can’t. His motionless form in her periphery prompts her to imagine what it might be like if he was dead. If he was the un-Johnny.

  He is joining the army. He plans to become a Ranger. Rangers jump out of airplanes. Go behind enemy lines. Men die when they go to war. She puts her hands over her face.

  A few minutes later he is up too. What’s the matter, he says. She has rings under her eyes, puffiness from the salt of her afflictions.

  Perhaps she can love him six or seventy more times before she answers him. I’m afraid I’ll never see you again after these three days when you tell me that you will love me forever is what she wants to say but can’t.

  Gray morning comes. It has stopped raining.

  She notices his hands shake as he bends over the bed to tie his army boots. He’s having trouble making a knot. Can’t hold the ends of the laces together.

  “What’s the matter with your hands?” she asks from the pillow.

  “Nothing, why?”

  The fact that he pretends it’s not happening worries her more. She sits up. “Johnny, your hands are shaking.”

  “No. They’re fine. I just need coffee and a croissant.” He hops to his feet. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Wait, I’ll get dressed. I’ll come with you.”

  “No, you stay.” He smiles. “Stay naked in bed. Just how I like you. Chill a bit. I don’t think you slept at all. I felt you frantic next to me. Was I dreaming?”

  She demurs from replying.

  “I’ll be back in a flash with breakfast in bed.”

  And sure enough he is back in a flash, chipper, delightful, and his hands don’t shake anymore. His eyes are bloodshot. She’s a fine one to talk, her own eyes not exactly Miss America ready either.

  “Do you see how it’s cleared up?” he asks. “The sun is out. You don’t have any Visine, do you? My eyes get super bloodshot when I don’t get enough sleep.”

  She had packed all kinds of weird nonsense in her cosmetic bag. Which is now with her former friends. Or in the trash somewhere. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t care.

  “What do you want to do today
?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Do you want to eat? Look—jam, croissants.”

  “No.”

  “You are so foxy cute. Come on, you need some sustenance. Those breasts of yours aren’t going to grow themselves.”

  “No.”

  “Chloe!”

  “Johnny.”

  Low low he sings. In between love, he sings to her. Like it is love itself.

  “It is actual love,” he says when she remarks upon this. “I’ve been trying to seduce you with song since the first moment I opened my mouth.”

  That can’t be. First time he opened his mouth was on the smelly train.

  He says nothing.

  “You didn’t sing.”

  “I thought you’d call for the conductor, have me thrown out. I wooed you in other ways.”

  “Wooed me? Hardly.”

  “Are you here with me now, or aren’t you?”

  She laughs at him as if he’s the main act at the Comedy Store. “You think I’m here because of the things you said to me on the Liepaja train?”

  “Did you abandon your life and come with me to Miramare, a thousand miles away from dumb Barcelona, or didn’t you?”

  They nestle, marry, join, conjoin, smelt and melt, solids, liquids, air, all material things, all ephemeral things, the spirit and the flesh in the hillside hotel with the castle outside their open door, the rippling sea, the marble clouds, and inside, their enraptured entwined bodies.

  If I didn’t sing, he asks, would you still love me?

  She is half-conscious, her heart fractured, her mouth parched; she doesn’t answer, not because she doesn’t know, but because she can’t speak.

  I think you would, he says. Do you know how I know? His fingers trace the outline of her breasts, circle her raw nipples, caress her neck, her hips, her lips.