“Because they make you comfortable.”
“So why did you take them off?”
“One question too many.” And now Justine’s hand was over hers. The American continued in a whisper. “I would answer if I could.”
Vienna felt the heat of a rising blush. “Will you try?”
“I don’t know, Vienna. It might be because I am tired. Or because I am so alone tonight. Or because it’s taboo back home and I am sick of rules. Or because what goes around comes around and this is a settling of accounts. Or maybe even because you are you and tonight I want to take the long way home.”
Vienna spread her fingers under Justine’s, letting them weave together. Was that being too forward? Or maybe not enough?
“What about you?” Justine asked.
“Me?”
“Why did you let me take them off?”
“I am like half the world.”
“Now it is your turn to explain.”
“I am like half the world, thinking I’m in love with Justine Am.”
Justine nodded and Vienna felt the fool. How many times has she heard people say they love her?
“Why would you be in such a questionable state?”
“Because you are beautiful?” She hadn’t meant it to sound like a question.
“So I’m told. Why do you find me beautiful?”
At least that was easy. “Symmetry.”
For some reason that made Justine smile. “You lost me.”
“Facial symmetry is the number one indicator of beauty. Followed by youth and clear skin.” She looked over what little she had on the subject. “Though in the last decade, a flat belly has become more important.”
“And here I assumed it was my ass.”
Vienna considered this and decided to risk a less safe answer. “You read too many books by lonely old men.”
That made Justine laugh aloud. “You’re a little witch, you know that?”
Vienna couldn’t make anything of that, except witches were bad, weren’t they? Instead of explaining, Justine asked another question. “There were plenty of beautiful people at Holler that night. You said so yourself. So why me?”
Vienna felt the conversation slipping away. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t know anything when you’re like this.”
“See? You understand perfectly.”
That made no sense at all except just like that Justine was kissing her, her lips cool and soft. Vienna flinched back. “I don’t—”
Justine held her index finger in front of Vienna’s lips. Vienna expected her to say something, but Justine remained silent. After a few seconds, she leaned forward again and kissed Vienna a second time. Her teeth soft on Vienna’s lower lip. Below growing confusion, Vienna felt a shift of intent. Justine edged closer. It was no longer a friendly kiss. It was insistent and pressing and filled with heavy, hungry tension. Vienna fought rising panic.
Here, invisible yet strong, was the taboo of the old life. That was William Golding.
The taboo of the old life.
I’ll mess up again.
Justine shifted forward, pushing into Vienna. She felt herself turn to face Justine, as if Justine had her on a string. As if she had no choice but to answer.
To answer …
In an instant, Vienna knew why Grant had died in the bathroom. How his last desperate attempt to stay alive had failed. But there was no way she could stop what was happening. The lust of the goat is the glory of God.
Justine’s hands undoing the back of her dress. Was this how it was supposed to be? She moves and I respond without control? Does this mean something?
“Shh,” Justine whispered, even though Vienna hadn’t said anything. “Sometimes you have to let the night breathe.” The dress slipped off Vienna’s shoulders. Justine’s hand moved across her stomach. “Let me show you something,” she said. Her other hand went behind Vienna. Once again, Vienna’s body responded on its own, rising to meet Justine’s touch.
Justine’s hands moved further, and suddenly Vienna felt exposed. Should I fight this? Female lovers in books often did. Maybe it was expected, to prove she wasn’t a harlot? Did it make a difference that she was with another female? She felt her muscles pull tight.
Justine pulled away. “Vienna? Do you want this to happen?”
Wasn’t it a little late for questions? “Okay,” she said, and that was all wrong. “Yes.” Before she even had a chance to think about it.
“So much for going back to the States,” Justine said. And that was sad and happy at the same time. Justine leaned forward again, her fingers shifted barely at all but it was enough to catch Vienna’s breath.
Vienna closed her eyes, felt herself being pushed back. And at least that seemed right. She tried to hear music, because Cecile said she always did, but she couldn’t hear anything except the susurration of fabric over skin and her own breathing.
Her clothes piled up at the foot of the bed, where they would get wrinkled. Justine’s lips on her stomach. Warm and wet. Stimulus and response. All of her nerves suddenly running down instead of up. Vienna closed her eyes. Justine’s lips trailing across her skin.
And that seemed right, too.
Let the night breathe. She repeated it to herself as a gentle mantra. Let the night breathe. And she was in that dark band of violet sky that always appeared between double rainbows. A place of profound quiet and light all around. And it was a little scary because there was so far to fall, but maybe that was how it was supposed to be. Time slipped away in a sensuous trance.
The feeling stayed with her even after movement slowed and ended, fading only as sleep came on. A soft voice there. “What you did was very brave, Vienna.” It sounded somehow like love. “No worrying about tomorrow.” But there was no way to know if it had been a dream or not.
Later, the clock moving through the small hours, Vienna seemed to catch the scent of sun-warmed pine trees. Her first visit to the Cart House, deep in the Austrian forest. The limestone mantel over the entry carved with the image of Nerthus, Mother Goddess of the World. The goddess was standing in a cart pulled by cows, surrounded by the young maidens who would drown when Nerthus returned to her lake. There was a Latin phrase below the carving, written by Tacitus. Uncle Anson said it meant days of celebration and happiness and that the estate should be called Nerthum Something Something but it was fine to call it Cart House, just as Gisella had a century ago. Whoever that was.
Then Vienna was inside the Cart House and there was fog everywhere. Pictures and paintings and diagrams covering the estate’s endless hallways. They told her that David Andries, dead on the bathroom floor, had never been the target. It was Justine. And just like that, Justine was in Vienna’s bathroom, shot in the face and so much blood streaming across the pure white floor. And Vienna had a pencil and she kept drawing lines around the invading red because lines helped her understand shape but there was so much blood and there was no way to stop it and there were girls in the lake, screaming as the water closed over them, and Vienna screamed too but there was no sound at all.
Vienna’s eyes opened. Nothing but the shallow rasp of her own breathing. She reached back, her hand brushing low across Justine’s side. She’s still here. Vienna rolled to face her. In the clock’s dim light, she watched Justine breathing. No sinister forest. Only the fading urgency of a nightmare.
It wasn’t even a proper nightmare. It wasn’t about how Vienna couldn’t talk to people the right way or how the world made her sick. This dream had been about Justine.
Justine, who misquoted Shakespeare. Vienna closed her eyes. William Shakespeare was baptized on April 26, 1564 …
Othello to Desdemona: “‘She loved me for the dangers I had passed and I loved her that she did not pity them.’”
It all has to fit together. Vienna’s fingers clinched tight around her pillow. It was impossible because even before they had sex, Justine had already done a million things differently than anyone else. Most of them wrong.
“‘I loved her that she did not pity…’” Vienna moved the words around, looking for a safe place to put them. She was still looking when sleep caught her again.
Vienna awoke at five. Justine was sprawled across the bed, her lips slightly parted in sleep. It took some effort to slide off without waking her. Off to the bathroom to take care of the morning. She took a long shower, not having any place to go. Nothing to think about except what had happened last night. Did I do better? Does she hate me now? Am I a whore? Will we ever do that again? Was making love supposed to make you anxious?
Thirty minutes in front of the mirror to get her hair looking right. At least that solved the mystery of why it took Justine so long to get ready every morning. Having only her old clothes and the new ones Justine bought, she slipped into her old ones, banging her arm painfully on the side of the sink when Justine’s BlackBerry startled her with some internal alarm.
Justine was quickly there, shutting it off. “I have to work out, hun. Can you wait for breakfast?”
I’m starving. “Okay.”
Justine was in her sweats and at the door before she looked back at Vienna. “I enjoyed last night, Vienna.”
I need to tell her that I enjoyed last night, too. But different words came: “You can’t quit because of me.” Why was that important? Vienna looked away. Justine couldn’t quit because the nightmare forest was somehow real and if Justine tried to walk away, the evil hidden there would lash out and find its true target. But there was no way to say that without sounding stupid.
Justine remained silent until Vienna turned back to her. “Contrary to available evidence,” the model said, “I won’t do anything reckless. Speaking of which, you better stay here. I imagine the press is still lurking around.”
“Okay.”
Justine paused as if to add something, but with a quick turn she was gone.
Alone, Vienna wandered around the perimeter of the suite, trailing her hand along the wall. When she reached Justine’s closet, she pulled the double doors open. Four racks of clothes. There were the khaki capris she had been wearing at the gelato stand. The photographer’s pictures!
Vienna reached into the pocket and grabbed the camera chip. Justine’s Sony had a slot for it. Pictures filed onto the screen. Justine in front of the Atomium. Justine walking in the Grand Place. Justine entering the Cosmopolitan. Justine with her flawlessly handsome boyfriend. Vienna frowned and came up with his real name, even though she had never seen it written. David Andries. So what if he had been handsome? He was likely a killer so his looks didn’t mean that much. Anyway, he was dead, which was just fine with Vienna. She returned to the images. Justine eating dinner. Justine with Mr. Hargrave. Justine at an interview. Justine up close. Justine midshot. Justine against a foreshortened background, likely caused by a telephoto lens. Justine topless with blue hair. Vienna noted that Justine’s left breast was a tiny fraction smaller than the right.
That made her feel better.
Justine with blond hair. With brown hair. With black hair. Justine. Justine. Justine. And two final pictures of Vienna at the gelato store, looking dull and flat-chested and scared. The final three files were hiding behind icons Vienna didn’t recognize. She was still trying to open them when Justine returned, a fine sheen of sweat on her throat.
“The man’s pictures,” Vienna said, rationalizing her uninvited use of Justine’s computer.
“I’d forgotten them.”
“There are three files I can’t read.” Vienna pointed at the icons.
“Video clips—use Cyberlink. I need a quick shower and then we’ll get something to eat.”
Vienna tried to ignore the growling in her stomach. Might as well see the videos.
The first one was of Justine striding on a catwalk. She had that walk, placing her leading leg unnaturally across the center of her stride, causing her hips to swivel with each step. Vienna was certain it wouldn’t be easy in high heels, but Justine skated smoothly down the stage.
The second video was of Justine eating dinner with David Andries. A restaurant with cream walls and Art Nouveau woodwork. The third was of Justine posing next to a skipping manikin. Wet concrete below her, reflections of lighted buildings smeared across its surface. Vienna searched her memory and found the building’s shape as a sketch in an architecture book. The Národní Muzeum in Prague.
The manikin was wood, old but exquisitely done. Justine had struck a pose mimicking the manikin, her hands locked behind her back, her shoulders tilted, her left leg forward, toes pointed. Both were dressed in the same short, lemon yellow skirt and cobalt blouse. Justine’s stockings had a white chevron pattern with a white line down the back.
“Chianti Twor. First night of shooting in Prague.” Vienna flinched and turned.
“I didn’t mean to scare you.” Justine laughed.
Vienna looked back to the computer. “It’s very bright.”
“Chianti loves her colors, but she pulls it off. I love her designs.”
“You’re beautiful,” Vienna added.
“I know.” Justine’s voice was wrong, somehow. “Anything of interest?”
“He seems obsessed with you—the photographer.”
“First line of the job description. What were the other movies?”
“Nothing important.”
Justine started the second video before Vienna could close the window. David Andries and Justine eating. Vienna glanced back. Justine’s face was frozen. Does she still see him as her lover?
They were seated at a table, looking away. Andries held a sliver of a cell phone to his right ear. Justine was stabbing at a pineapple dessert.
“Comme Chez Soi,” Justine said.
“What?”
“The restaurant. Here in Brussels. That creep must have been sitting right beside us.”
Justine pushed a key and the sound came up. Andries talking on the phone, barely heard above other conversations. “Weather isn’t bad, and the food can’t be beat…” His voice sounded unnatural in the laptop’s tiny speakers. “Yes, that’s it … inalienable artifact…” He laughed. “… how should I know? The advantages of being wealthy.” He paused and then: “Right, we can do lunch next time.” He hung up.
Vienna glanced back at Justine and saw she was quietly crying. But the image was already far away.
Inalienable artifact.
Follow the shape of the words.
9
Afternoon hours bled into melancholy haze. Justine called the American embassy for her passport, but hung up the first time she was put on hold. However bad things were here, they would be worse in the States. No reason to drag her family into this. Even if they would stand by her. Even if she would be safer there. Even if she looked at Vienna every few seconds.
An e-mail from Hargrave contained documents for severing their business relationship. A lengthy attachment showed legal forms from canceled contracts. As Hargrave had foretold, Justine lost all seven of her endorsement deals. The possibility that she was involved in murder was of no concern. The possibility that she was sleeping with an Unmarketable Person of the Female Persuasion was too dodgy. Vogue made new plans for their summer feature. Bernoulli no longer required her for his show; Paris bleaching away like a distant dream. Friends evaporated as fast as delete keys could be pushed.
Except Igor Czasky: “My intention is to retain you for the Clay to Flesh project. Three sessions left. Everyone else can go to hell.” Justine saved the note and moved on.
On the bright side there was a slew of new offers. Hustler. Penthouse. Vivid. Digital Playground. The offers were impressive if she appeared with Vienna. Dear God, Vienna in a nudie shoot. “I don’t understand. Why would I put my hand there?”
Martyrdom being the order of the day, Justine went to Jordan Farquar’s site. The picture of her laughing while Vienna cried was predictable, but Farquar had plenty to add.
Justine glanced at Vienna, sitting on the bed, slowly rocking back and forth. She’d spent th
e morning whispering to herself. Justine had caught a few minutes of dreary monologue concerning the fractional distillation of aldehydes.
“Have you seen this Vienna?”
Vienna blinked her eyes open. “Seen what?” Justine was certain Vienna would spend the rest of her life indoors if she had the chance.
“Jordan Farquar’s rant.”
“No.”
“Come look.”
Vienna unfolded from her crossed-legged perch and glanced at the computer before turning back to the bed. “Why are you bothering?” she asked.
“Aren’t you going to read it?” Gotcha.
Vienna froze, her stance rigid in dawning panic. “I see,” Justine said. She turned the screen away from Vienna. “Read it to me.”
Vienna retreated to petulance. “You’re making fun of me.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Don’t be mean.” Her voice brittle.
Justine shook her head. “Not going to work, Vienna. Read it to me.”
Vienna’s voice went hollow, her eyes scanning across empty air. “‘From where I stand, Justine Am’s true colors have finally shown, and let me tell you, darlings, they are not at all in fashion this year, assuming they ever were. That she would let a troubled young lady speak for her indicates reprehensible cowardice at worse, and a complete lack of moral fiber at best. I am certain her erstwhile promoters are scrambling to disassociate themselves from this shameful—’”
A loud bang on the door cut her off. “No one’s home!” Justine answered. Vienna performed her most theatrical sigh and went to the door. At least she was smart enough to look through the peephole. Not that it helped. The Furies in the guise of Lord Anson Davy.
I should have gone back to Georgia.
Davy possessed the immaculate fashion sense of truly powerful men. Justine couldn’t guess the designer of his black and ash-gray ensemble, but the subtle Asian tones would part any crowd. She felt the murky pull of his sexuality.
“Vienna is returning to London,” he said. Justine wondered if alpha males could be measured by vocal tone.
Justine closed the computer. “Isn’t that for her to decide?”
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