Fantastic. Unprecedented. Surreal, even. Gavin had heard of Carla Bruni, but he had certainly never heard about the orphanage in Haiti for the children of the AIDS victims. He stared in raw disbelief at his laptop screen.
This showed a mastery of human events that was, frankly, supernatural.
That was European soft-power at its most fierce. That was like being shot from a drone aircraft flying at a vast cultural height. That was terrifying.
Then, Carla’s romance story became even more surreal. And, in some sense, even more romantic. Carla Bruni’s gay brother had died of AIDS. Carla came from a stricken AIDS-victim family. Carla had fled from Italy at the age of seven because bloodthirsty Italian Communist terrorists were trying to kill her. Carla Bruni-Sarkozy was an AIDS-afflicted terrorist-refugee supermodel pop-star who married the President of France.
How could those bizarre words appear in newspapers? How could that possibly be the truth? Way, way too true to ever be fiction. Every single word of it true. You could look that up. On Wikipedia.
There were no objective metrics for this kind of contemporary weirdness. Could there be anything more to it, any further leap of fantasy to break the final limits of human disbelief? Yes. Carla Bruni had once been Mick Jagger’s girlfriend.
Gavin shut his computer and shoved it inside his shoulder bag. He wiped his sweaty brow with clammy hands. Then, he left his front-row chair to say hello to Fabio Mascherati.
Gavin knew Fabio rather well. Gavin had ‘discovered’ Fabio Mascherati. That was to say, Gavin had known, for a long time, that some speculative guy like Fabio Mascherati just had to exist. Web e-commerce was destined to move into haute couture, into the world’s most elite consumer goods. Gavin had known about this because his Futurist guru, Dr. Gustav Y. Svante, had told him that the trend was inevitable.
All the Amazon guys around Seattle were also aware of the trend. They all knew that, someday, European haute couture would sell online. The problem was that feat couldn’t be done by anybody from Amazon. Because Amazon guys were hacker geeks and cheesy hicks. Amazon had been invented to sell sci-fi books. The least chic thing in the world.
The European couture biz would never go anywhere near a dorky sci-fi geek like Jeff Bezos. As for Jeff himself, Jeff would much rather conquer outer space with his private rocket than ever dress the First Lady of France.
So, a serious Web retail couture outfit would have to be European. This was pretty obvious. It could be financed with money from Amazon founders, because they plenty of cash to spare, but it had to be run by a European fashion geek. Someone who understood both Amazon and European chic. And, somebody had to find that individual.
Gavin got his VC firm of Cook, Bishop & Engleman to send him over to Milan to sniff around for this hypothetical European fashion geek. And, Gavin found him. He was real.
Statistics didn’t lie. Fabio was not imaginary. Fabio Mascherati really existed. In fact, there were a small tribe of Fabios living in northern Italy. However, Fabio, himself, was the best candidate for the job.
Fabio was the right age for a tech start-up — just under 30. Fabio had website design experience — he had worked with a Milanese marketing firm. Fabio spoke excellent English. And most importantly, Fabio Mascherati just had the look-and-feel of a tech start-up guy. That was a quality Gavin knew well.
So Cook, Bishop & Engleman had hooked deep into LOXY — way before the new start-up was even named “LOXY.” But the Seattle boys had gotten out early, too. Cook, Bishop & Engleman got cold feet about the ugly downturn in Seattle venture capital. So, it had seemed like a shrewd idea to cash out fast from their European adventure, and turn a quick, solid, 35 percent return on the LOXY investment. Especially, when so many other VC houses in Seattle were slamming and bolting their doors.
Gavin had no position or leverage around LOXY anymore. Gavin had to sit and watch from the sidelines as LOXY grew and grew. Gavin was just a Futurist. The guy who had been there for LOXY ahead of the curve.
In Italy, though, that kind of friendship counted for plenty. Gavin dried his sweaty hand on his cargo pants, and hopped up on stage, his hand outstretched.
Fabio Mascherati was genuinely glad to see him. Fabio was not just being business-associate cordial, but was truly happy about meeting Gavin again. It was like meeting an old pal from a high-risk mountain-climbing team.
Gavin cleared his throat. “So, you put together quite a panel there, Fabio. Really eye-opening. The crowd loved it.”
“Thanks! I had my doubt about this strange mix of guests here — a bit confusing, perhaps. But today, this Congress...” Fabio did something odd and Italian with his hands. “The future is opening-up!”
“This crowd is loving the ‘Bruni Factor.’ Oh wait — I mean the ‘Carla Effect.’”
Fabio laughed in delight. “That little songbird! Our angel! You know who else is from Italy? Like Carla? Sonia Gandhi! Sonia married a Gandhi, and now Sonia runs India! The boss of India is a pretty Italian girl!”
“I didn’t know that,” said Gavin. “That is one crazy piece of trivia.”
“Are you coming to this Futurist Congress next year? Because it’s all settled — next year, we’re having another one. Capri loves us!”
“I might very well attend that gig. A lot is happening in Capri. Your venue is quite the happening place.”
“Are you doing LOFT in Geneva? How about ESPRIT in Amsterdam?”
“I heard those scenes were both good.”
“You must go, Gavin. You must! The tech scene in Europe is breaking open this year. You saw that Brussels woman on my panel here? It takes years to get Brussels to act! But when Brussels finally moves, that is an elephant walking the earth! You and I, we need to talk! How are our good friends at Cook, Bishop & Engleman?”
“They’re hanging on.”
“I heard about Puget Ventures.”
Gavin nodded somberly. “It’s way cheaper to sit on the money than put it into tech in Seattle right now.”
“That is so crazy, Gavin. Why? There’s so much tech talent in Seattle! The euro is crazy high, and our website needs programmers... You might be just the man I need for that, because...”
An apparition grabbed Fabio’s arm. She was tall and bony, lean yet busty... She had that look. That fashion-girl look. That plastic look his girlfriend Madeleine called “balloons on a stick.” Madeleine worked in the health-care industry and knew a lot about elective surgery.
Also, Seattle girls were never on very good terms with L.A. girls. This L.A. creature clinging onto Fabio screamed “Los Angeles.” She had the all-over tan, the long straw-blond hair, the cleavage down to there...
She turned to look Gavin right in the eye, and he could tell that she was scary, scary, scary smart.
“This is Brixie,” said Fabio, tenderly. “Our world-famous Brixie the Blogger.”
Gavin liked to hang out at Microsoft, so he knew the look in Brixie’s eyes. Brixie was brilliant. Brixie was off-the-charts-high-SAT-geek-smart. These were Microsoft guys with eidetic memories who spoke in complete sentences, semicolons included. Guys who did algebra in their sleep. And, some of those Microsoft guys were women. This Brixie the Blogger was one of those women. And yet, she was dressed like an airhead.
“Fabio, I loved your gay French friend with his AR,” lisped Brixie the Blogger. “But, he was blowing it on those 3-D registration issues. Any idiot knows you’re gonna get drift and jitter if you overlay fabric on a human form in realtime.”
“Allora, Jean-Luc was just speculating,” said Fabio, patting Brixie’s narrow hand. Brixie’s suntanned mitt had sharp, gleaming talons in five different shades of fuchsia. “This is a Futurist conference. Jean-Luc is ahead of the curve!”
“I just embedded his Vimeo clip in ‘Bad Girls, Great Shoes.’”
A damp, warm, sticky look passed between Fabio and Brixie. Gavin felt his heart souring in his chest. Brixie had just done... what? Brixie had just done his Italian friend some sexy, intimate favor.
Brixie’s blog was huge. That had to be it. Brixie had a monster fashion blog. All those Los Angeles girls with their feet on the pedals of daddy’s sports car... Speedometers twitched in Milan whenever those girls changed their shoes... And Brixie knew how to make the girls in L.A. change their shoes.
Dr. Gustav Y. Svante had warned him about this. This was an Internet thing: “disintermediation.”
As Brixie the Blogger glared like Medusa, Fabio dealt with his fans, associates from the Congress crowd. These Italians were asking Fabio silly questions, and respectfully pressing his flesh. Somebody passed Fabio a copy of a glossy, Italian tech magazine, where LOXY owned a big two-page center-spread. Fabio, with a tight little smile, showed this promo around, and posed for snapshots.
Last time Gavin had checked, Fabio had a very sweet Signora Mascherati and two cute pre-school Mascherati kids. Not that this liaison with Brixie was a deal-breaker or anything, because, this was, after all, Capri... Some people thought that brilliant, geeky woman couldn’t be voracious, vampy sex-bombs. They were ever so wrong.
Brixie the Blogger was all over Fabio like a sunburn. And Fabio was basking in it. Everyday prudence, due-diligence, would tell a smart guy to stay away from a man-eater like that. But, well, no. Not here in Capri.
Until this moment, Gavin had not understood that Italian guys might have a serious yen for American girls. Italian girls were always relentlessly working it. Italian girls were 105 percent hair, heels and fiery lingerie. Everybody on the planet knew that Italian girls were gorgeous girls. So why would Italians go for American girls?
Because Italian men were Italian. That was why. For Italian men, all those Italian female sex-bombs were pushy and the same. They lacked exotic appeal. While Brixie here, who looked like she had a purse full of Viagra pills and had memorized the Kama Sutra — Gavin would rather jump in a deep Los Angeles tar pit than wade-in with Brixie the Blogger — but for an Italian man, Brixie was an It-girl. Italian girls were plain, old Italian orange juice, and Brixie was a big, green, Kiwi-lotus-pineapple Jamba Juice.
As for Brixie herself, she was vamping all over this married Italian fashion web-mogul. She was settling into the crook of his neck for a nice hot feast off his blood.
Nothing was going to save Fabio from this unearthly web-creature, thought Gavin in awe. Except for one thing — Capri. Fabio would leave Capri soon, and Brixie would leave Capri, too. What happened in Capri, stayed in Capri. It had been that way on Capri for two thousand years. The island’s long, sacred tradition.
Gavin stuck his hand out and smiled. “Gavin Tremaine,” he announced. “It’s good to meet a fellow American over here, Brixie.”
“It’s good to meet a YAWN,” smirked Brixie.
“What?”
“You’re from Seattle, dude. You’re a YAWN, ‘Young And Wealthy but Normal.’ Your shirt is from REI, and those pants are from Patagonia. Those are Timberland shoes. You’ve got white Nike socks.”
“You’re impressing me,” said Gavin. “I know I kinda dress like crap but... well, I like to wear stuff where I can... roll around inside museums and brush off the spiderwebs.”
Fabio was pained to overhear this exchange. Italians hated to see Americans being rude to other Americans. Americans commonly blurted rude and awful things that would cause Italians to stab each another. “Gavin, my friend,” Fabio said, “are you enjoying your time in Capri?”
“You betcha!” said Gavin.
“You came a long way to be with us. Thank you for that.”
“I’m thrilled by your get-together here.”
“Perfetto. Let’s do lunch tomorrow, Gavin. Everyone has to eat lunch... A catered event on the LOXY yacht, and the weather will be fine tomorrow... A big, pretty boat, in the Grand Harbor, easy to find... Will you join us? Tomorrow?”
“I would love it, Fabio.”
“Bring a guest! Are you able to make our music events? Beautiful Brazilian music, Gavin! The Minister of Culture is in Capri.”
“I’ve been keeping an eye on that situation,” said Gavin.
Fabio blinked at him limpidly. “LOXY wants to see you happy here, Gavin. You’re a true friend of LOXY.”
Gavin’s phone rang. “That’s my little sister,” he told them, and that ended that.
Chapter Eight: Prada Goth
Farfalla’s hostess had gotten all chummy. Eleonora had been stuck on the rock of Capri for ages. She had a ton of petty, local gossip to share. And share she did.
Farfalla took advantage of this fit of confidence to borrow her hostess’s car.
It was difficult to use a car on Capri, as Farfalla soon discovered. Finding any parking spot was a major ordeal. But Farfalla would not let that defeat her – she murmured a prayer, and found one.
Eliza Tremaine was slouching on a garden bench outside her decrepit hotel. The teenage American girl was groggy and half-dozing in the bright sun. Gavin’s sister looked like a black lace lizard. Her pale hands were tinged pink with sunburn.
Eliza looked up, drowsy and red-eyed, as Farfalla stood before her.
“Buongiorno,” Farfalla stated. “Are you ready to go shopping?”
Eliza lurched stiffly to her combat-booted feet. “I left my purse up in my room. Let’s go and get it now.”
“Are you having a good time in Capri?”
“No. I went out last night with those Brazilian electronica guys. We were drinking Guarana Night Owls. I’ve only slept a little, here on this bench. I feel pretty awful.”
“You have jet lag.” Farfalla passed over a pair of brown pills from the depths of her purse. “When you need to sleep, try these.”
They climbed into the hotel’s ancient elevator, which shrieked with iron dismay as it rose two stories. “Are you turning me on to narcotics?” said Eliza. She brushed shreds of lint from Farfalla’s pills.
“Melatonin is not a narcotic. Our grandparents had ‘narcotics.’ Narcotics never work! Melatonin works.”
Eliza thought this over as she shuffled down the gloomy hall toward her hotel room. “What else works?”
“Ritalin, caffeine, alcohol, and ‘meow-meow.’ Vitamins work. Don’t believe what cops and junkies tell you. Those are made-up horror stories.”
Using a rusty key on a wooden tag, Eliza pried open her door. The hotel room stank of fear.
Farfalla stopped at the doorjamb. “What happened?”
“There’s a ghost in here,” said Eliza.
“Where is the ghost?” said Farfalla.
Eliza pointed solemnly at a brightly-colored Capri souvenir beach towel.
“You bought a big towel with pretty rainbows and sailboats? You threw that over the cold spot?”
“Yeah. I did.”
“You had a good idea,” said Farfalla. “What did the ghost do?”
“The ghost just kept moaning,” said Eliza.
Farfalla opened all the windows. She threw back the brocade drapes. The day was partly cloudy. Odd hazes of filtered sunlight ran over the warped wooden floor.
Farfalla removed the beach towel.
“It’s here,” she said. “I see it.”
For the first time, some color touched Eliza’s face. “You can see it?”
“Yes. I can see it.”
“What are we supposed to do about it?”
Farfalla shrugged. “We could get a priest. Here in the South, they have a million priests. Here in the South, they have more priests than cats.”
“What would a priest do?”
“A priest would take all day! This is a haunted hotel! Everyone in Capri knows it’s haunted. Except for the tourists. They just think it’s haunted.”
“Well, I didn’t know any of that! I could rent a priest, maybe. Are priests expensive?”
Farfalla shook her head. “Oh, that’s no good! The hotel staff would talk to the priest, when you weren’t looking... They wouldn’t let him chase away their ghost... We could be here all week!”
“But you could get rid of the g
host. That’s what you said. Isn’t it?”
“Brazilians,” nodded Farfalla. “Brazilians are here in Capri. Maybe, if they brought veve chalk from home... That ritual takes a long time— You have to draw the patterns, you need rum and a sacrifice...” Farfalla spread her hands and shrugged. “Why don’t we leave now? I have four translation sessions today.”
“Wait,” said Eliza, brightening, “I’d much, much rather see you do Brazilian voodoo in my room, than go shopping! I hate shopping. Can you really do voodoo, Farfalla? That just sounds so fantastically great!”
“Bring your brother,” said Farfalla. “Your brother would see nothing here. No more ghosts.”
“Oh.” Eliza thought this over. “I’m sure that’s right.”
“Let’s leave. Never mind your ghost. Don’t tell anyone. Everything will be fine.”
Eliza Tremaine narrowed her blue eyes. She recognized the truth of what Farfalla was telling her, but she chose to rebel. “What if I don’t want to shut up and say nothing? What if I don’t want things to ‘be fine?’”
“You mean you want things to get bad?”
“No, no! Not that! I just... I just want you to tell me about what happens next. That’s all.”
“You want to know about when the future gets bad? You want me to tell you the ‘worst-case scenario?’”
“Yes. Please!”
“I am great at those,” said Farfalla. “I love those. I am the best at those. Worst case scenario? The Brazilian Culture Minister comes here. Have you ever heard of him?”
“Of course. He’s a Tropicalista musician — like Caetano Veloso, Os Mutantes, Gal Costa — I know all of them. I know more about them than even Gavin.”
Farfalla nodded. “The Brazilian Culture Minister is a high priest of cannibal voodoo.”
Eliza Tremaine showed a twinge of doubt. “My brother knows a lot about him. Gavin never said that he was any ‘cannibal.’”
“That’s real life, it’s not a fake story. He is a cannibal. The Minister of Culture is the music prince of the Antropofago Movement. Those Brazilian culture-cannibals, they want to make voodoo the Brazilian state religion. That Minister would come in here, and he would see this ghost of yours, just like I do... All his bodyguards would come, too, and the band’s girlfriends from Bahia... They’d have a big, cool jam session in here… they’d be throwing chairs out your windows... smoking a lot of pot... they would wreck this hotel. That would cost a fortune.”
Love Is Strange (A Paranormal Romance) Page 9