Love Is Strange (A Paranormal Romance)

by Bruce Sterling

  “I don’t like that, Brixie.”

  “I would love to see you sue me, you loser. All the dirt you tried to hide would be all over the world in ten minutes.”

  Gavin drew a deep breath. He slowly counted to ten. It was the sensible thing to do, but didn’t help at all. He stared into Brixie’s deranged eyes. Her eyes were glittering with narcotic battery-charge. “Okay, look here, Brixie. You are insulting me. On purpose. You are high on drugs. Knock both of those things off. Or else, I will throw you overboard. See all that salty water down there? You will be splashing around in there. That’s my prediction.”

  “I would love to see you try. My hit counts would go through the roof.”

  Gavin looked around himself. The yacht did not lack for people with video.

  He and Brixie seemed to be in full strategic agreement. Something snapped in Gavin’s impulse-control, and a half-blind ecstasy ensued. A heave, a scrape, a yelp and then, lots of splashing. A woman down in the sea. Yelling, drowning maybe.

  Look at that. How could things like that happen to people? What a disaster.

  Look at that. Other girls were jumping off the yacht. Lots of girls. Pretty girls jumping to port and starboard. Pretty girls screaming with glee as they jumped from the beautiful yacht.

  Blood pulsed in Gavin’s temples. He rubbed the scraped side of his neck.

  Fabio was at his side. Fabio looked crisp, cool, and collected. Fabio looked down, thoughtfully, over the side of the yacht. Then, he looked back up. “So, what happened here?”

  Gavin had nothing to say.

  “So,” said Fabio. “That was inevitable, wasn’t it?”

  Fabio pulled off his shoes. He cast aside his yachting jacket. Since people were watching him, handsome Fabio made a little production of this effort. He waved his white shirt like a sail. Fabio had a nice tanned torso and shaved chest-hair.

  Gavin coughed. “Look, man, don’t do this. When a mermaid grabs your ankle, down you go. That’s not how it’s done! You know that as well as I do!”

  “Over I go, my friend.” Fabio vaulted from the rail of the boat.

  Chapter Ten: Old-Fashioned Bossa Nova

  This day was one of those days. A day with too many things for any woman to do. So many events going on, so many people to please and promises to keep, that Farfalla couldn’t keep up.

  It was impossible. The clock would burst at the rate she was living. Yet, Farfalla was doing all of it. Every last bit. She was doing it with ease, flair, and grace. Farfalla had a sweet, loose, perfect rhythm, like a bossa nova.

  The estate sale in Anacapri went beautifully.

  The dead woman owned closets stuffed with Prada gear from the early 1990’s. The dead woman owned dot-com boom clothes. Dark, severe, weird, super-pricey, corporate-psychedelic outfits, in black and gray and silver. These dot-com clothes were going for peanuts. Nobody wanted to touch the relics of that haunted time.

  Eliza Tremaine knew nothing about that, though. Eliza was just an innocent, young, foreign girl. So, Eliza was in an Italian auction wonderland.

  Farfalla knew better, or rather, Farfalla knew worse. Farfalla’s hostess on Capri, Eleonora, was also a former television star. Just like this dead woman. Eleonora naturally took a cruel, feline interest in the awful fate of her rival. A tall, glossy, willowy Italian beauty, who had once been a TV news presenter.

  This woman had died broken-hearted at age 47. In the 1990’s, she had been the living jewel of Channel Rai Due, inside every household in Italy, a goddess adored by the camera and trusted by millions. Then, her pink-slip came, and her glamour faded. Another showgirl versus the clock.

  Day by miserable day, this once-svelte TV goddess had become a ghost. A washed-up female relic, a human husk, gone fat, old, ugly, bald, and lonely. Eaten up inside with alcohol and chemotherapy. A ghastly, tragic tale of sordid feminine decay. Vengeful and terrifying, and of course, deeply satisfying to her former fans. As her last days loomed, this showgirl’s glum, sordid nightmare filled the tabloids. Breakfast fare for stolid Italian housewives. “Oh look at her. So pretty once. What a dirty shame. Not like me.”

  But, for Eliza Tremaine, that unknown and awful story was a bonanza. It was a brilliant stroke of luck for Eliza. It was life-changing. The dead woman’s clothes fit Eliza’s tall, scrawny build almost perfectly. The clothes were scarcely worn. Some never pulled from their plastic-wrap.

  Most of all, these beautiful clothes transformed Eliza. A girl who had looked sullen and ridiculous became a woman who looked fierce.

  Eliza Tremaine was a Prada Goth. A scary Goth. The kind of Goth, who could destroy an empire.

  They stuffed Eliza’s loot into a new suitcase, a chunky roll-on, also owned by the dead TV star. Then, the estate auction shut down for lunch. In Capri, everyone and everything stopped for lunch.

  For lunch, Farfalla sought out a nearby café — she chose a place at random. Of course, this choice was also perfect. For today, everything was perfectly perfect. It was a lovely Capri café, warm, compact and sunny. Everything in it, the awnings, the little storefronts, were just-so.

  A civilized woman could live in a place like this, thought Farfalla, perching an elbow on the table. She could lazily wait for the man of her dreams to amble by, to find her, to become her One. If he never came, there would always be this pretty café.

  And who else should be here, sitting in this pretty café, in a discreet corner, but Professor Milo. There she was, in an over-sized hat and discreet sunglasses, very tête-à-tête with a silver-haired, mustached gentleman. A soldier, wearing full uniform.

  And what a soldier. The sturdy, ultra-dignified general had to be a NATO grandee. He had to be an ultra-high-ranking Euro-Atlantic super-diplomat military brass. He looked powerful, fantastic, even divine. A soldier so high-level that he didn’t even belong to a nation.

  Farfalla found great satisfaction in seeing this. What luck to stumble over such a mystery! She had wondered why Professor Milo, a woman clearly pushing seventy, would get hot and bothered over a man. Now, Farfalla understood. Because this old man was the kind of man who could really get under the collar of a woman of seventy. He looked suave, cool, and self-contained — totally accustomed to command. He looked like he’d arrived on Capri on a private aircraft carrier.

  The General’s sword-sharp eyes swept over Farfalla. He knew that he was being watched. Ogled by some feeble female civilian. He did not care for that. He did not care for her.

  Farfalla dropped her eyes, and shivered.

  The waiter arrived then, by more good luck. Farfalla busily ordered lunch for two. Eliza seized this opportunity to leave their café table and scamper to the restroom to play dress-up. Eliza jauntily wheeled her new bag behind her, like a three-year-old’s red wagon.

  Farfalla’s phone rang. It was Babi again. “Come over to the conference center when you finish lunch,” said Babi, breezily. “I can pay you.”

  “You can pay me?” said Farfalla, stunned.

  “Yes! The Archbishop came by our event!” Babi exulted. “His Grace was the surprise guest on our panel on ‘Creative Resort Cities’.”

  “That sounds like good news,” said Farfalla. She hadn’t known that Capri had an Archbishop. To have an Archbishop showing up, that seemed miraculous.

  “That sounds like good news?’” scoffed Babi. “That is complete victory! There is nobody left to doubt us! When the Archbishop came to see us, the Capri government settled all our bills! Right on the spot, they paid for everything, without another word! So, come on over, and I’ll slip you some of the needful. I know that you can use it.”

  What astounding good fortune, thought Farfalla. Was it astrological, was Venus in conjunction with Mars? To be paid in advance was unheard of. Yet, somehow, Farfalla felt no urge to rush across the island to hastily grab her loot. Let the money sit there!

  That was very unlike herself, she realized. She could not remember the last time she hadn’t hustled for cash.

  What could ha
ve happened to her? Was it something in the air here, or the water? Why did she feel so relaxed, so pleased, so useful to the world?

  “Is the Archbishop a Futurist?” she said into her iPhone.

  “He told us so many wise things!” Babi rejoiced. “About Capri’s spiritual heritage, and Catholic social justice — less shopping and more worship every Sunday! His Grace was the hit of that panel! Everyone was so impressed! I love him.”

  The cafe’s waiter — a solemn, brainy, good-looking guy in his forties, who could have been a rocket scientist — arrived from the kitchen, his white-sleeved arms laden with plates. Without missing a beat, he swiftly deployed an aromatic banquet. Then, he took his leave.

  Farfalla stared at the cafe’s brimming tabletop, with its bounty of gourmet nibbles and its gently fizzing drinks. “Babi, are you still there?”

  “Sì, certo.”

  “Babi, I feel so happy now. Babi, I’m so joyful. I’m having such a good time here! I never want to leave this beautiful island! Capri is like paradise!”

  “Women say that all the time,” Babi warned her. “I used to hear Eleonora saying that.”

  “Babi, why did Eleonora stay in Capri? I never asked her.”

  “Her boyfriend parked her here in Capri. Her married boyfriend. Eleanora got her car, her apartment, and all her pretty clothes. She won! Eleanora still thinks that she won.”

  “You are right. That stinks. I’ll never be that kind of woman. When do we leave this crazy place?”

  “We leave the day after tomorrow. The event crew is always first in, last out.”

  “Yes, great, please be sure to give me a wake-up call.”

  Babi hung up. At that moment, Professor Milo waltzed past Farfalla’s café table. To Farfalla’s intense surprise, the old woman dropped a handkerchief.

  Farfalla leaned down from her squeaky café chair and plucked up the dropped square of fabric. Dropping a handkerchief? How strange. She had never seen this ancient, feminine gesture performed by anyone.

  But, when a lady needed to leave a discreet signal, and a lady had never used a computer, never even owned a cellphone... what else was a lady to do?

  Tucked inside the handkerchief — it was scented, made of sleek peach-colored cambric, and embroidered, too — was a lined strip of torn notebook paper.

  Come and meet me at the bookstore around the corner.

  Farfalla braced herself with a gulp of white wine and hastened to obey the summons.

  “What are you doing here in Anacapri?” said Professor Milo, shifting from foot to foot, as if her red stilettos pinched her corns.

  “I was shopping here,” Farfalla told her, meekly.

  “Who is that girl dressed like the Angel of Death?”

  “That girl is Gavin’s sister! She’s just a kid.”

  “Did that girl see me here? Did she see me with him? You mustn’t say that you saw us together here.”

  “Look, Eliza doesn’t know about you. Eliza never notices anything,” Farfalla said. She lowered her voice. “What’s wrong?”

  Professor Milo said nothing.

  “He has a wife, is that the problem? Why are you so worried? This is Capri!”

  “It’s because I have a husband,” mourned Professor Milo, in an anguished whisper. “My love life is such a tragic story... You see, my husband is in technology...”

  “Is it that bad?” said Farfalla.

  “He’s in a wheelchair!” said Prƒofessor Milo, hot tears staining her wrinkled face. “Really, I did not invent that, it’s not romance fiction! It is my own personal tragedy! Sometimes, in the real world, real women have disabled husbands! I am not inventing some wild story, just to have my tawdry love affair!”

  Farfalla silently returned Professor Milo’s dainty handkerchief.

  Professor Milo mopped at her wrinkled eyes. “I swear, between men and women, it’s so strange,” she muttered. “Since the beginning of time! Even the people who know the most about it can never make it work!”

  “Your General is very handsome,” Farfalla consoled her. “He must have the world at his feet!”

  “You think that helps me? Oh, for heaven’s sake, you’re very young, aren’t you?” Professor Milo rummaged inside her clutch-bag. “Look, there isn’t any time left. Something has come up now — he’s very insistent... so I’m leaving Capri. I have to go, right away. Today. But I need that statue. That little bronze statue, I need you to find it and get it. I’ll give you a big reward.”

  “Who, me?” said Farfalla. “I can’t do that!”

  “Yes you certainly can! I know that you can do it, you are just the type. Here.” Professor Milo handed over a crisp paper rectangle. “This is the business card of my literary agent. She works in New York. She’s just like you, because she has a lot of computers. So, call my agent, and have her put you on a retainer. Find the Cosmic Cupid. No matter how long it takes.”

  Farfalla gaped at the business card. “So, you want me to steal that old suitcase inside the museum? I guess, I can try, but...”

  “No. The Cosmic Cupid is not in that suitcase. He was, but he got out somehow, and now he’s loose in the world.”

  “How do you know all of this?”

  “Look, of course, I know! Can’t you see my emotional pain? I have to leave right now, before he gets suspicious again! Don’t you dare look at our faces. Don’t look at us, and don’t tell anybody about our affair. You don’t know me. You never knew me.” Professor Milo began to sidle off.

  “Wait, wait, you said there was some reward...?”

  “If it’s about money, talk to my agent!” yelped Professor Milo. She hurried back toward the cafe. Farfalla’s phone rang.

  It was Eliza. “Farfalla, where are you? Our lunch is getting cold!”

  Farfalla returned to the table. Eliza was eagerly crunching through the cafe’s arugula salad.

  “Wow, I adore these leisurely Italian lunches,” gabbled Eliza, guzzling from her wineglass. “It’s so great that under-eighteens can drink around here! Order us another bottle!”

  Farfalla adjusted her spindly chair so that her back was turned to the Professor’s café table. She looked Eliza up and down. “You look better in Prada. But your buttons are wrong.”

  “This little Prada suit top is kind of asymmetric.”

  “Yes it is, but it can’t be like that.”

  “Okay,” squinted Eliza, “okay, so what else is so wrong with me? Go ahead, just tell me! Anything to get that look off your face.”

  “Well, your big ugly boots are very bad, of course... but, please, Eliza, that hair.”

  Eliza patted her snarled and matted head. “What, my ‘Black Ruin’? Whatever could be wrong with my hair, darling?”

  “Everything. But we can fix that. The conference hotel has a wonderful salon,” said Farfalla. “It is one of the best salons in Italy. Two hours, three hundred Euros.”

  “You want me to spend three hundred Euros on my stupid hair? What, are you crazy? That’s more money than I spent on all these clothes! And the suitcase, too!”

  “Some things are worth three hundred euros. It is worth it to be free of your parents,” Farfalla told her. “You want your parents to leave you alone, in the future? Never look like ‘their little girl’ again!’”

  “I thought I had that kinda handled, since I am covered with skulls.”

  “No. You don’t. To be free of your parents, you have to make your parents feel old. That’s the magic secret.”

  “I have to make my parents feel old?”

  “Yes. That is the secret. That’s when a child is grown-up. That is when your parents finally let you go.”

  Eliza understood this truth, but she was stubborn. “But my hair, my black hair looks exactly like your black hair!”

  “No, no, no, no, no! I have Brazilian beach-girl Ipanema hair, and you have Gothic punk hair that was dyed in your sink!”

  “Come on, come on, do I really look that bad to you? I don’t look bad! Because I have
my own look! A look that is me! All the Seattle kids think I look awesome.”

  “You don’t look bad, but you look like a Seattle kid! Your parents know how you look! You look like a kid! You are not trying.”

  Eliza’s thin face wrinkled as the truth struck home, but she hadn’t run out of fight yet. “So, what are you going to do? I hate salons. You get to have all the fun.”

  “I am translating for your brother while he talks to the Culture Minister of Brazil.”

  “Okay. So, that was a pretty cool, grown-up thing to say to put me down with,” Eliza admitted. “So, tell me. What color am I, when I get out of your big, fancy salon torture chamber? Am I red? Am I green? Am I blue?”

  “You are blonde.”

  “No way! I’m already a blonde. Blonde is my natural color.”

  “Not your kind of blonde. Not teenage Seattle girl blonde. Viking Goth blonde. Blonde like Karin from ‘Fever Ray.’”

  Eliza’s eyes widened. “You know about Karin from ‘Fever Ray’?” She paused. “Uh, I didn’t think you’d much like Karin from ‘Fever Ray’.”

  “I can’t stand that woman. I hate her music. But this is Europe! Every European Goth loves Karin from ‘Fever Ray.’”

  “But, how do you know that?”

  “Because I am a Futurist, of course! Karin from Fever Ray is a global fashion trend. Her trend is strong, and your parents don’t know that. They already know about your Goth, but when you hit them with that Goth, a high-fashion Goth from Viking Sweden, they won’t even know you’re still Gothic! Then, you win.”

  Eliza thought this over. A new world dawned in her young mind. “Wow. Now, I get it. Of course. That is so amazing! That could be, like, my new motto in life. ‘What Would Karin From Fever Ray Do?’”

  “You can do that, but you need to learn to do what you want, Eliza. Stop acting dead.”

  “Farfalla, please tell me something. You have useless, awful parents, just like me, don’t you? I mean, you must have some parents.”

  “Probably.”