Love Is Strange (A Paranormal Romance)

by Bruce Sterling

  “‘Butterfly,’ how sweet, I might have known! And you two have your map of Capri here. Look at that! How clever you people are.”

  “We futurists specialize in directions,” smiled Gavin. He gracefully snagged a loose chair from another table, and gently slid the chair under the professor’s tweedy rump. “Let’s get you some fresh coffee, ma’am. If you’re just in from America, I’m sure you need it.”

  “I’m Sandra Milo. I’m not a futurist, like you two. I’m just a humble little humanities professor. I came to Capri to do research on American expatriates.”

  Gavin beckoned at the waitress. “Professor Milo, please, tell us all about your research project.”

  Professor Milo looked doubtfully at Gavin, then at Farfalla, then at Gavin again. “Well,” she said at last, “Americans love Capri. American tourists played a major role in developing this island. Before the tourists arrived – and that was a hundred and fifty years ago – this island was miserably poor. So poor, they’d forgotten their own history! But, the Americans changed Capri, and brought it a past, and a future.”

  “So,” said Gavin, gazing at the historian with rapt ice-blue eyes, “you’re researching the history of the Americans in Capri who were researching Capri history?”

  “Yes. In fact, that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

  “Terrific. That concept does not surprise me,” Gavin announced. “Are you surprised by what our friend here is saying, Farfalla?”

  Farfalla shook her head. “I’m never surprised.”

  “You’re never surprised?” said Professor Milo, blinking at her politely. “Never surprised by anything?”

  “Well, Americans never surprise me. Brazilians surprise me sometimes.”

  The professor turned back to Gavin. “I admit, I have a special interest in one woman in particular. She was a famous American writer. A writer of romantic novels – Princess Amelie Troubetzskoy.”

  “A princess,” Gavin repeated.

  “Yes, an American princess. She lived here in Capri a hundred years ago, but she came here from Virginia. And my University has all her literary papers, so...”

  The waitress arrived. Gavin, Professor Milo, and the waitress conferred, at length, over items on the hotel’s menu that might suit elderly American ladies with special dietary requirements.

  Farfalla watched Gavin in growing amazement as he carefully worked his way through every possible menu option. He was tireless about it: so polite, so persistent. Very ‘puntiglioso’7.

  The waitress left at last, shooting a ‘how-can-you-bear-this’ look at Farfalla, but Farfalla gazed back at her blandly. Yes, waitress, I can bear the craziness of foreigners because I’m a professional.

  “So, Professor,” Gavin said, “you were telling us about this writer of romance novels who was also an American princess.”

  The Professor basked in Gavin’s male attention. “So, my subject of study was a long-time resident of Capri. I know that Princess Troubetzkoy left some important material here. Now that I’m retired from active teaching, and able to travel, I have the opportunity to search for that material myself. And today, I start my search for the secret treasure of Princess Amelie Rives Troubetzkoy.”

  “So, you’re on a quest, then,” said Gavin.

  “You have such a perceptive way of putting things, Mr. Tremaine. That is very true!”

  “As a futurist, I try to frame things simply, so that they make sense to my clients,” said Gavin. “Your story makes sense to me, because I’m on a quest here, myself.”

  “Me, too,” Farfalla asserted. “I have quests every day!” Farfalla translated computer role-playing games for the Italian gamer market. Farfalla had seen quests by the thousands.

  “Specifically, I’m looking,” said the professor, “for a statue of Cupid.”

  5 “Could I get you something to drink?”

  6 “Please, a real Italian coffee for my husband. A double espresso. And an American breakfast. Bacon and waffles.”

  7 Punctilious.

  Chapter Five: The Bohemian Loves of the Scapigliati

  Gavin yanked the laptop from his travel bag. Normally, he never used his laptop when eating with others. He vastly preferred to listen to table talk. Gavin learned a lot about the future from people’s passing, unguarded remarks.

  But this business about a mysterious bronze statue had the smell of a hustle to him. Gavin wasn’t the kind of guy who looked around for dishonest people. Still, the tech investment biz had plenty of crooks. Too many to miss.

  Gavin felt sort-of okay about the cute, curly-haired Italian translator. Somehow, the translator had managed to marry him before breakfast. That was a freak occurrence. But, it wasn’t hurting anyone.

  However, when an older woman also arrived — and these two women knew each other, somehow? They wanted to work together, searching for mysterious treasure statues of Cupid? How likely was a set-up like that? High time for a major fact-check.

  “So, professor, I’m sure that Farfalla and I can help you out,” Gavin said smoothly, waiting for his computer to connect to the hotel’s wireless. “In Seattle, we have this Microsoft service called ‘Bing.’ In comparison tests, it works better than Google. Did you ever try ‘Bing,’ Farfalla?”

  Farfalla shook her tousled head. Farfalla Corrado had intense, almost frightening dark eyes, but beautiful glossy, black hair. Splendid Italian fashion-girl hair.

  “I never use computers,” declared Professor Milo, primly.

  “Really? You don’t use computers?”

  “I assure you it true, young man. I don’t even own a computer.”

  “How do you even survive? How is that even possible?”

  “I have a typewriter. It’s a very nice Olivetti ‘Valentine.’ It has worked for me since 1968.”

  “Okay, how do you spell ‘Amelie Rives Troubetzkoy?’”

  Professor Milo spelled out the name of the female Virginian novelist. This effort took her quite a while. To his surprise, Gavin quickly discovered that the “Princess Amelie Rives Troubetzkoy” had been a real person. She was not a ghost, phantom, or Internet fake. Amelie Rives Troubetzkoy was an actual historical personage.

  The Princess had once lived in historic Castle Hill, the home of the aristocratic Rives family near Charlottesville, Virginia.

  Gavin tapped at the hotlinks and rapidly clicked on the resulting pop-up boxes.

  “There was a soughing rain asweep that night,” Gavin read aloud from his screen, “with no wind to drive it, yet it ceased and fell, sighed and was hushed incessantly, as by some changing gale.”

  “That’s the opening line of Amelie’s most famous novel!” said Professor Milo. She turned to Farfalla. “That novel was called The Quick or the Dead? With a question mark.”

  “Well,” asked Farfalla, with a practical tilt to her glossy, tangled head, “was the princess quick or was she dead?”

  “She’s dead,” said Gavin. “Born in 1863, died in 1945. Her books are in the public domain now. So, Professor, you’re saying this famous novelist once lived here on Capri? Along with this Russian prince that she married?”

  “Yes. Amelie lived here, on Capri. But it’s not a simple story. Amelie was a princess, because she married a prince, but Prince Pierre Troubetzkoy was not just any Russian prince. Pierre was Russian and also American, because his mother was an American actress. The Prince’s father was Russian. But in his heart, Prince Pierre Troubetzkoy was Italian.”

  Gavin thought this over. “So, this charming Prince was Italian, American, and Russian? A hundred years ago? How was that supposed to work? That’s unbelievable.”

  Farfalla spoke up. “I’m an Italian-American-Brazilian.”

  “You’re not believable, either.”

  Farfalla tugged at a lock of her witch hair. “Well, I don’t think you are believable.”

  “Come on, I’m believable! I’m plausible, even!” Using his Bing image search, Gavin found a picture of Amelie Troubetzkoy. He turned his screen aro
und to his companions. “Look, here she is, your princess, big as life.”

  Professor Milo pulled tortoise-shell bifocals from her handbag. “That tiny little picture isn’t as ‘big as life!’ I saw that painting at the National Portrait Gallery. The painting is four feet tall.”

  “But this is a real image of Amelie’s portrait. I just found it on the Internet. This proves that she’s real.”

  “The Internet is virtual,” said Farfalla. “The Internet isn’t real.’”

  Gavin had to smile. It was fun to get a witty zinger from a pretty Italian girl. Italy was a pretty country, and the prettiest things in it were pretty Italian girls with their look-at-me attitudes.

  He caught her eye. She looked back boldly as if to say, “Yes, American guy, you’re looking me over now, so what?” This sexy little exchange woke him up all over. Suddenly, Gavin felt very alive. This was a smart cookie, here. The world didn’t bake any cookies smarter than a smart Italian cookie. Wait a minute, he thought, this is actually happening to me. I’m not at home any more. I’m nine time zones away on the other side of the world.

  At last, something refreshing and fun to distract him. His suspicions about a rip-off melted away. That was not what was going on here, they weren’t trying to steal anything from him. Something weird was going on.

  The fuel of black Italian coffee hit him. It sent Gavin’s jetlag fleeing headlong. He was in the zone, deep in the moment.

  The dining room glowed with Capri sunlight, gleaming off silver and crystal. Life seemed glorious suddenly. Life was sweet, funny, entertaining, and full of the unexpected. The sense of adventure touched him.

  “So,” he said, finding his voice, “what did they do, this Princess and her Prince, here on Capri? How did they live?”

  “Well,” the professor allowed, “they did so many things! Painting, of course. They were both painters. Writing poetry, playing the piano, riding horses, sailing the Blue Grotto, and exploring all the ruins. Capri was half-abandoned then — very wild and free.”

  “Wow!” said Gavin. “That sounds so idyllic.”

  “Idyllic and romantic,” said the Professor. “Romance was their way of life. Before they came here, Capri wasn’t romantic, but after they left, it was romance itself. And Capri’s been romantic ever since!”

  Gavin glanced at Farfalla. “Do you ever do things like that?”

  Farfalla shrugged. “Me? I came to Capri to work.”

  “Same here,” Gavin said, glancing at his watch. “And I have an important session I can’t miss today, at half past ten.”

  “I don’t work, not anymore,” said Professor Milo, “because they told me that I’m retired! For me, to hunt in Capri for some old statue, that must seem silly to you people, but I have to do it. I feel the obligation! No one else is looking out for it.”

  “You could use some help,” Gavin decided. “We can help you out with your quest, can’t we, Farfalla? At least till our future gets started.”

  “Maybe. Yes.” Farfalla dug into her chamois-leather purse and pulled out her iPhone. “We can try to help.”

  The Professor picked at her bowl of muesli, which brimmed over with nuts, fruits and flakes. “I have to tell you two that the statue has been lost since 1911. The ‘Cosmic Cupid’ was a gift from Prince Troubetzkoy to his wife. They bragged to the press about it, so it’s in the historical record. But, quite likely, that statue never existed. It was all romantic talk. It was never a real object. Not in the real world.”

  Gavin consulted his laptop screen. “Bingo! I just found your ‘Prince Pierre Troubetzkoy’! He’s an artist, a mystic, and a vegetarian. He had three brothers and two sisters, all children of this Russian Prince and this American actress. They were all artists, members of the ‘Scapigliati Movement”. Gavin tapped at his keyboard. “The ‘Scapigliati Movement.’ Good Lord, they’re really a ‘movement, ‘ the links lead all over the place.”

  The Professor winced. “I can’t believe that computers know anything about the Scapigliati Movement. The Scapigliati were romantics, they hated technology.”

  “The Prince’s sister knew Rudolph Valentino. They say she was Valentino’s lover.”

  “How do you know about that?” said Professor Milo, blinking.

  “Well, it’s right here on Wikipedia! The hotel has broadband.”

  “I know about that Valentino rumor, but that took me years!”

  “Ma’am, even Wikipedia can’t keep this Scapigliati story straight. These Italian artists were a pack of weirdos. Why is history so complicated?”

  “The past is never past,” said Farfalla darkly, “Because the present is always present.” She drained the last drop of her cappuccino.

  Gavin gazed at her for a few silent heartbeats. Where had that dark remark come from? What the heck was going on with her? That was not some cute-Italian smart-cookie thing to say. That was a fortune-cookie thing to say. Very out-there and ominous.

  Farfalla Corrado suddenly looked feral to him. The triangular head, and those too-bright clothes. She was like a technicolor alley cat.

  “Farfalla, have you ever heard of this ‘Scapigliati Movement?’”

  “Oh yes, of course, the Scapigliati,” said Farfalla, twitching itchily and scrunching her shoulders. “Their revival show in Milano was a disaster! What a scandal.”

  “These Scapigliati artists sound pretty wild and crazy. All kinds of drugs and free love.”

  “Sex and drugs are old and boring,” declared Farfalla, rolling her big dark eyes. “The Italian Futurists had cars and airplanes. Not Scapigliati sex and drugs.”

  “You like the Futurists, Farfalla?”

  “I adore the Futuristi! The Futuristi are exciting! The world is still afraid of them! They were always ahead of their time! They are still ahead of our time. The Futuristi are ahead of our time right now.” Farfalla scratched at the air with flying hands.

  Gavin was instantly charmed. What a wonderful Italian-girl attitude. Italians had strong opinions about art and culture — because those things really mattered to Italians. Italians would kill over art.

  “Obviously, you’re our local expert, then,” he told her. “So, tell me something now. This is the big question. If you’re this Prince Pierre Troubetzkoy, and you claim you are going to make this fancy statue of Cupid for your wife — do you actually create a statue of Cupid? Or do you blow it all off, because it’s just a publicity stunt?”

  “Oh, he made the statue,” said Farfalla, at once. “I know that he made the statue.”

  “I totally agree with you,” said Gavin, leaning back. “I’m certain you’re right. He had to do both those things. He promised her the moon in public, but then gave her a single red rose.” He turned to the professor, twitching with insight. “Your statue of Cupid existed. Maybe it was just made of clay, maybe it’s long-gone, but I’d bet anything that he made it. That’s the Italian way.”

  “You know the Italian way?” said Farfalla. She wasn’t flirting with him. She thought he was being an idiot.

  “No, no, I could never claim such a thing! Nobody knows the Italian way. Not even Italians themselves. But, I do have a lot of business dealings with Italians. Practically speaking — cash on the table — the Italians are not all that hard to figure out.”

  “I’m Italian,” said Farfalla. “Maybe it’s true... I can never understand Italians. Too much past, never enough future.” She shrugged, and tugged at her bright, patterned sleeve. “I can understand Brazilians.”

  “How about Americans?” prompted Professor Milo. “Do you understand the Americans?”

  “Oh, the Americans are no problem!” said Farfalla. “Any fool can understand Americans!”

  “What a sweet thing to say,” said Professor Milo. “I guess that’s all settled, then. Now, I need to find my museum on that handy map of yours.”

  Chapter Six: Modern Dentistry

  Farfalla excused herself to find the ladies’ room. The hotel dining room didn’t have one, so Farfalla had t
o wander around, absurdly, past numerous tall doors marked “Privato,” past emergency exits that led to nowhere, past a limestone wall festooned with flowering ivy, down a half-circuit of a shiny spiral staircase... This hotel was colossal, and its architecture was crazy.

  Most attendees at the Futurist Congress would never escape this big posh hotel. It would never occur to them to try to escape.

  The pitch-black ladies’ restroom had a hidden light-switch behind the door. When the chilly fluorescents flicked on, the ladies’ room was an icy marble shrine, with stone sinks the shape of jet-propelled kidneys, and faucets like swan’s necks.

  Farfalla crept into a stall to call Babi.

  “Get yourself over here,” Babi demanded. “You’re supposed to be translating for the 10:00 opening session.”

  “I can’t make the opening. It’s already too late. What’s my next session?”

  “That’s ‘Italian Historical Guilt and the Somali Relief Effort.’ The speaker is Zeta Starlitz.”

  “Which one is ‘Zeta Starlitz’? I don’t remember any Zeta Starlitz.”

  “Zeta was the winner of the LOXY ‘Youth Ideals’ website contest. Zeta’s a Swiss altermodern philosopher who works in emergency relief. Twenty years old! I just met Zeta. She’s very sweet and really quite brilliant.”

  Idealistic emergency relief. Ugh. This was the most poisonous topic in the world for Farfalla. Farfalla’s parents had worked in emergency relief. Farfalla would rather trudge a hundred kilometers in a burning African desert than listen to lectures about emergency relief. “Listen to me, Babi,” she said, “what’s the deal with this American guy, Gavin Tremaine?’ He’s one of my speakers, and he’s giving me the big owl-eyes. I think he’s coming on to me.”

  Farfalla heard the light, swift rustle of Babi’s laptop. “Oh yes, him, Gah-veen Tre-ma-ee-neh,” said Babi. “Did you know he paid full price to get his sister into the conference? He’s either a complete fool or a really nice guy!”