Love Is Strange (A Paranormal Romance)

by Bruce Sterling

  “Stop shaking like that,” Rafael said. He reached out with his booted foot and kicked a rusty office chair into her direction.

  Farfalla sat down in the rolling chair. Her eyes were stinging.

  “Look,” said Rafael, “why don’t you stop inventing these fantasies? I know the score with you. I can see you’re in trouble. I’d like to help you. Even though you never, ever listen to one word of common sense from me! But why don’t you try that out, for once? Because I have a beautiful idea for you.”

  “What?”

  “Get the hell out of here, and run off with this millionaire! Go jump right into his pocket! Go be his girlfriend! Scram! Run for your life!”

  Farfalla said nothing.

  “What is stopping you? Is it Pancho? Pancho is forty years old losing his hair! He’s not some big sexy dreamboat, like your other lover here! Leave Pancho! Leave him today! He never misses you! He wouldn’t miss you any more than that castle in Milan misses ivy.”

  “The future of Italy is my story. Gavin Tremaine is not in my story.”

  “So it’s that again. Eh? It’s that. It’s always that! Farfalla — why do you even have a ‘story’? Nobody else that we know has a ‘story’! Look at me! Do I have a ‘story’? I make my life up as I go along! I am wild and free! I am a free spirit in this world! I am a rebel! Thank God, I have no ‘story’!”

  Farfalla said nothing to him. She had saved the life of her brother eleven times. That was why her brother still had any kind of story. Of course, he had never noticed that.

  “Your story is evil,” said Rafael, “You are killing yourself with these fantasies! Let me pull down my web bookmark here... See, look at this! See, look how happy you are in this picture! You look great as a Capri party girl who sleeps with some millionaire! That is your story. Look, it’s already your top hit in a Google search!”

  “That’s not true,” said Farfalla, sitting up straight. “I have a higher purpose in my life. At least, I have a higher purpose than a Google search.”

  “You make me sick! You have a ‘higher purpose’ than Google? With what, your magic wand? Go look into the mirror! You look like a witch now! Because you act like a witch.”

  “Being the witch, that is my story.”

  Rafael drummed his fingernails on the computer’s cheap touch-pad. “You are doing all this weird, crazy stuff to yourself, you know. You don’t have anyone else to blame. Even though you blame me all the time.”

  “If Gavin belonged in my story, he would tell me the words that complete my story. He didn’t tell me my words. All he gave me was a bunch of lectures about nothing.”

  “Why don’t you give up?” said Rafael.

  “What?”

  “Why don’t you give up and join his story? Maybe you are just the cute sex-appeal story in the awesome epic story of the Microsoft millionaire here.”

  “That’s stupid! That can’t be done.”

  “Oh, stop being such a hypocrite! You can do that! Of course, you can be the sex-bomb girl in this rich guy’s story! Hang on his arm and giggle a lot! Wear a miniskirt!”

  “I hate Gavin’s story! His story is sad and cold. He’s in debt. He worries all the time. His friends, his family, his business people, they tear at his flesh like dogs... Gavin is all alone.”

  “He’s not rich? He sure looks rich. This website says he’s plenty rich.”

  “He has the pretense of wealth, and the obligation of wealth, and the reputation of wealth. That’s all that he has now. That and his beautiful past. That’s all he has. It’s the truth.”

  “Well,” said Rafael, “I feel pretty sorry for him, now. Because that’s a very Italian story. No wonder this guy falls for Italian girls.”

  “When I am with Gavin, I am very, very happy, but in our hearts... When we are alone... I am in trouble, and he is in worse trouble. We are in terrible trouble.”

  “Well,” said Rafael, “maybe that’s even better. When it comes to eating beans in a ditch, you’re the perfect woman.”

  “Rafael, I don’t want you to hurt me like this. I love Gavin. I will never love another man like I love him. I am dying.”

  “Yeah, I can see that.”

  “I can’t sleep, I can’t eat. Anvils are falling on me. My jealousy is killing me, and my love is killing me, and I never even kissed him, I swear it. I am going to die from this. Maybe I will kill him, too. I could kill all his friends and his family. It’s that bad.”

  “All right,” said Rafael. “Thank you for finally, finally telling me the truth. Sometimes I can get the truth out of you, but it’s like pulling rusty nails out of a board.”

  “Also, I would really love to kill you.”

  “You are such a nuisance,” shrugged Rafael. “When will you get over yourself? You’re just a woman! This stupid business of the ‘One’ , your ‘One True Love’... There never was any such thing! The whole idea is absurd! A billion women love a billion men! That idea is a fantasy.”

  “No, it isn’t. Or rather, yes it is, because it’s the biggest, strongest story in all of space and time. It is cosmic.”

  “Look, Your Highness, even a nutty ‘witch’ like you with some big special ‘magic story’ can’t be all that special. If you’re so witchy, then do something witchy! Cast your spell on him, or something. Make him crawl back to you!”

  “That wouldn’t work on Gavin. Gavin is different.”

  “Why did you pick some weird American guy with a weird American name like ‘Gavin’? Can’t you find some superstitious fool who believes your crappy magic? Go back to Brazil!”

  Farfalla was weeping. Her nose was running. There were no tissues, no handkerchief, nothing. All she could do was sit, cry and feel bleakly sorry for herself.

  “You hit a dead end here, didn’t you?” said Rafael.

  She said nothing.

  “This situation makes me mad,” he said, at last. “I have tolerated every crazy thing that you ever did, but this is too much. Yes, it’s too much, even for you. I don’t mind that you decide your dinner menus by throwing your Tarot cards. But, you have finally crossed the line here. You say that you ‘love’ this guy? You are lying! If you loved him, then you would make him happy.”

  “You don’t understand. What can you ever know about real, true love? Nothing!”

  “I don’t know about love? I’m Italian! If your gorgeous guy had a sister, you wouldn’t see me sobbing and crying.”

  “Gavin does have a sister.”

  “He does? Allora! What’s her name? Never mind!” Rafael typed for forty seconds. “Wow! Look at Signorina Tremaine here! His sister is a hot Seattle Goth rave chick!”

  “Leave Eliza alone!”

  “Why? Elizabeth here is my kind of little girl!” Rafael stared at the laptop screen. “Wow... Look at those big, blue, hurt-me, emo-girl eyes... Hey, she’s even on Facebook!”

  “Stop being diabolical! You know nothing about Eliza Tremaine.”

  “I can find out all I want about the sweet little Gothic cupcake here. Wow. Look at all the hip coldwave kids on her Facebook page. I should drop by her favorite all-ages nightclub and buy her a double tequila. I can get to the American West Coast. I have friends who build robots at Burning Man.”

  “How dare you! Put down that computer! If you hack into my romance, I will chop you into tiny little pieces! I will burn you into white ashes and bury you in a chalk pit.”

  Rafael serenely ignored her.

  “Bing search is so business-like,” he said, at last. “Your poor, sad, lost little boyfriend just made twenty million dollars in a big Microsoft-Yahoo deal.” Rafael drew a heavy sigh and shoved the laptop aside. He knotted his hands over his black denim knee. “What a mess you are. You are your own worst enemy, ragazza. You must be the worst, mystical-saint holy idiot in the whole world.”

  “It’s no use. Our love is dead. We are dead to each other now. Yes, it was a beautiful miracle, for just one beautiful day... but he frightens me.”

  “So,
you are feeling scared about the boyfriend?”

  “Yes. I’m very, very scared.”

  “You really are in love with him. You’re afraid of yourself, not him! Look, your scary lord-and-master there doesn’t look very scary to me. I’ll protect you from big, bad blondie. Get me a shotgun, and I’ll wait till he turns his back.”

  “I hate it when you make fun of me! Can’t you see that this isn’t a game? He wanted to marry me. He told me that he loves me, and that was the truth. My God, I wish I was dead.”

  Rafael thought this over. He was full of keen personal interest. “Look. Maybe I’m just a simpleminded stoner guy who builds giant flaming robots, but how hard can this be? He says that he loves you? Go marry him! An insane, impulsive millionaire would be the perfect man for my crazy witch of a sister. That would solve every problem we have.”

  “Gavin is not crazy. Gavin is a visionary. There is something huge and cosmic and empty inside of him... He is terrifying.”

  “Well, go marry him, then. A husband is the most normal terrifying specter you can get.”

  Farfalla had gone blind with tears. Her voice was hoarse with rage. “You never help me, Rafael. Whenever I tell you how I feel, you taunt me and you ruin everything. You torture me, I swear it. You are the curse of my life. You are like the evil demon God invented to make my life impossible.”

  “Look, you can’t scold me like that any more. Never again. Because I’m all grown up now, and I feel sorry for you. Maybe, I’m stoned sometimes, but you are delusional. You are heading for a mental breakdown. You have never learned the most basic, simple lessons in how to live your life. Show some sense, for God’s sake! If you can never be happy, at least get some antidepressants!”

  Farfalla was choking.

  “I’ve never seen you so wrecked! You say you are dying from love? Well, I believe that! You are just the kind of idiot who would die! You are locked in the basement of your own fantasies! I need to talk to Mom and Dad about you. It’s time for us to do an intervention. Next thing you know, you’ll be covered with flies and pushing your grocery cart through downtown Milan.”

  Pushed to despair, Farfalla squeezed her eyes shut and shrieked aloud. “Cohibete lacrimas omne quas tempus petet, et ipsae vestra lamentabili lugete gemitu funera! Aerumnae meae socium recusant! Cladibus questus meis removete! Nostris ipsa sufficiam malis...”

  ***

  Farfalla opened her eyes again. Skype was loudly ringing on her laptop. A game of Warcraft was open on her screen, with a magic quest rolling right along.

  Somehow, Farfalla had swept and cleaned her dusty little room. All of her windows were open, a cold October breeze entering her room. Why was she lying on her futon, fully clothed? These were not the clothes that she remembered wearing... Why was it two in the morning?

  She reached out for the pull-down menu.

  Eliza flickered into life on the laptop screen. “Hi there,” Eliza said. “I saw that your Skype was open.”

  “Hello, Eliza.”

  “Why is some creep named ‘Rafael Corrado’ sending me endless YouTube videos of dorky coldwave bands?”

  “You look nice, Eliza.”

  “Oh, thank you.” Eliza offered a small smile. “You know, you were right about my parents. Every word you prophesied about them came true.”

  Farfalla had only the vaguest memory of what she had told Eliza about her parents. Farfalla had only the vaguest idea of what day it was, or why she was awake long after midnight, or why her Level 80 Undead Priestess was in so much trouble on Warcraft. It took a lot of effort to get a level 80 Undead Priestess out of her depth.

  “Every word you said to me came true,” said Eliza. “That was so amazing. Except, there was this weird twist... They think I’m great now, but they are totally persecuting my poor brother.”

  “Gavin is in trouble in Seattle?”

  “Yes. It’s all about money and politics — I don’t care about Gavin’s money or his politics. I only care about my music. But Dad gave him all kinds of trouble about some big business deal in Brazil.”

  “Gavin is in trouble with his father?”

  “Everybody is in trouble with my dad. My dad only sort of gets the Internet. My dad started looking up all his old enemies on Facebook. My dad picks big flamewar fights. It’s like my dad just discovered that people can talk about politics without his permission. Facebook is like his new drug, he’s getting all sweaty and manic... Farfalla, is Facebook the work of the Devil? Google is ‘not evil,’ but nobody ever said that Facebook was ‘not evil.’”

  “I don’t know what to say about Facebook,” said Farfalla.

  “Well, me neither, but I figured you would be a good person to ask.” Eliza leaned in toward her web camera. Eliza’s blonde hair was coiffed and she was wearing full makeup. Not her trashy Goth make-up. Sleek, professional make-up.

  “My dad gets surprised all the time now,” Eliza said. “He was surprised when Barack Obama was elected. He was surprised when this new mayor of Seattle got elected, too. He never thought those guys had a chance. They never had a chance in his kind of world. This world isn’t his kind of world. Because, you see, my dad got old.”

  Farfalla said nothing.

  “Farfalla, you told me to ‘make my parents feel old.’ But my parents are old. That’s the truth. My parents are old-fashioned people. I know a whole lot more about the modern world than my parents do. From now on, I’ll do what needs to get done.”

  Farfalla blinked grainy-eyed at the screen. “Do you know what you want to do?”

  “Yeah. I do know. It’s a new set of cultural interventions in a globalized world of non-commoditarian, heavily-networked, popular culture.”

  “What?”

  “I mean it’s my birthday party. I mean my 18th birthday party. I’m booking some Brazilians into a nightclub in Seattle. I made some very good contacts over in Capri, and I’ve got enough money and friends to make that happen here in Seattle. So, I’m doing that. As soon as I can. Because that work really needs to get done.”

  “Oh.”

  Eliza toyed with her volume control. “Which makes it kind of a small, minor drag that your sick weirdo brother is sending me Euro coldwave bands. I mean, I am totally over that old-fashioned, futuristic electronica. I’m way into some hot, modern, Abravanista, Brazilectronica.”

  “Abravanista,” said Farfalla. “Yes, those are some cool people.”

  “He’s kind of immature, your little brother.”

  “Yes. He is.”

  “I know about a million punky creeps like him. ‘Cause I used to be one of them. He says that he wants to come over here to Seattle. I don’t need him around here.”

  “I’ll be happy,” said Farfalla, “to tell Rafael that.”

  “Are you happy, Farfalla? You look sort of ragged.”

  “No. I’m not happy at all.”

  “Gavin can’t talk any sense to my dad. Gavin tried. He gave up. Now, he is going to do something stupid.”

  “You called me to warn me about the ‘Call Me’ girl,” said Farfalla. “The Golden Honey Girl.”

  “Yeah. You’re right. That’s why I called you. ‘Golden Honey Girl.’ That’s a good name for her. Because she is sticky and slimy.”

  “I think,” said Farfalla, “that your brother should never speak to me again.”

  “That’s exactly what Gavin said, too. My brother will never call you again. He will never call you. Never. Because he is proud and stupid. Because my brother is, like, the future. Okay? And you know what? Most of the future is stupid.”

  “Did you just say ‘the future is stupid’?”

  “Yes. ‘Cause it is. Most of the past was stupid, and most of the present is stupid. My poor brother doesn’t know the future, because he is the future. And he’s about to do a very stupid thing. With his future.”

  “Gavin is going to marry his girlfriend.”

  “She never loved him. Not like you love him. He thinks she is angelfood cake, and he’s hip-deep
in quicksand. She’s going to make him much stupider, because that’s her purpose in life. Now, listen. I’m not a witch who foresees the future. I’m not paranormal, like you. But, I kind of have some great ideas about this situation.”

  “Your great ideas won’t work, Eliza.”

  “Yes, they will. Check out how cool and trendy my great ideas are. Some Brazilians will show up here in Seattle, soon. Because, I arranged that myself. I can get you to fly over here to interpret for them. I can afford to fly you here. Almost. Sort of. I’ll pawn something out of the attic. My Mom does that all the time now, and nobody notices. I know some crazy Seattle steampunk guys who will buy anything.”

  “I will never fly to Seattle. Not now that I know that he is there. Never, never. Save your money. I don’t need your money.”

  “You’ll have to call him first,” Eliza persisted. “You two had this big, ugly fight, I know about that, but he’s not a mean guy, unless people are hurting his pride. Call him up and apologize to him. Tell him that you love him. Tell him you want to be with him.”

  “No. No, I won’t! I won’t do it. I don’t want to be with him. Gavin is a Swedish Methodist.”

  “So what? Hey, I’m a Swedish Methodist!”

  “We have differences of faith.”

  “But, this is Seattle! My church is full of tattooed geeks and lesbians.”

  “My parents are Communists.”

  “Gavin’s never even met your parents! I’m sure that your parents are very nice Communists.” Eliza blinked. “Are your parents really Communists?”

  “And my grandparents are Communists, too.” Farfalla drew a pained breath. “Gavin told me the truth. It’s very hard to marry a foreigner. He was telling me about realities of real marriage. I was acting like a prima donna. I was a fool.”

  “Gavin proposed to you? He asked you to marry him?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “That’s the most romantic thing I ever heard! Gavin? Mr. ‘Due Diligence’? And you got all coy? You did! You got cold feet! You are wicked!”

  Farfalla said nothing.

  Eliza’s façade of composure cracked. She began to get shrill. “Look, are you as stupid as he is? Are you totally doomed, like Cassandra? You’re smart! You’re pretty, you speak three languages, and you’re a great bargain shopper! I don’t have a lot of time to waste on any more stupid, doomed people! Besides musicians, of course.”