by Dyan Sheldon
Nevertheless, the morning moves slowly, every minute taking its own sweet time. It’s so quiet up here that even the birds whisper. The only people Otto sees are in cars, glancing over to give him suspicious looks, or the occasional runner in designer shorts and matching sweatbands, worried about her or his heart. But as much as Otto enjoys the calm, he is impatient to get things moving; to return Beth and Gabriela to their own bodies; to get back to Jeremiah where much less can go wrong. His gaze wanders up and down the road, and his thoughts wander with it. It isn’t just the Devil who finds things for idle minds to do. Where, Otto wonders, do the people who live in these houses walk their dogs? They will have dogs; he knows that from the magazines he’s seen. They’ll be small dogs with big names that have their nails manicured and wear diamond collars; the descendents of wolves bred into toys. They must have to do their business like any other animal. Otto frowns. Where are the dogs? In most places he has been – and that, of course, is most places – no matter what century, no matter if there was a war on or a hard winter, you always saw dogs. Otto likes dogs. He peers over the car door. There’s no evidence anywhere that a dog has ever walked down this road. Or that anyone else has, really.
For all Otto’s complaints about big cities and wanting peace and quiet, just sitting waiting has obviously started to bore even him. He gets out of the car, giving his idle feet something to do. As soundless as the minutes themselves, he walks down the empty road – nonchalantly, as if this isn’t a neighbourhood in which the only people who walk are servants going to or from work. He sniffs the air. There’s an intricate weave of aromas: jasmine … coral trees … jacarandas … chlorine … grass … several strands of expensive perfume … weed killer … and—
Otto stands at the edge of the property that houses the Madagascar studio. Does he smell a dog? He sniffs again. It could be. Or it could be an old, wet wool jumper left to dry under a hedge. Rather than take the driveway, he goes up the side of the house. Magnolia. Wisteria. Bone meal. Is that barking he hears? Barking or shouting, behind the closed windows and doors. He leaps over the wall.
A cat could walk under the motion-sensor beam of the laser-security system that protects Madagascar, and an insubstantial angel could walk right through it. But not a young man in a white suit and a Panama hat.
Not everyone likes to shop
Otto couldn’t believe how quickly the peaceful neighbourhood transformed itself into a war zone. All that shrill, siren-like shrieking. And the screaming and shouting. And the guard suddenly charging across the lawn. At least he found the dog. It was a great brute of a creature, with too many teeth and too much gum and a madness in its eyes. Otto got out of the backyard of the studio a lot faster than he got into it, and collapsed in the car, consoling himself with the thought that the day could only improve.
Unfortunately he was wrong.
When the girls finally emerged and got into the limousine, he assumed they were going to lunch. He imagined white linen tablecloths and polished floors and a soothing violin concerto playing in the background. Perhaps not an establishment as elegant as the restaurants of old Vienna, but somewhere sophisticated and calm where he could relax and keep an eye on Beth at the same time.
Instead, they went shopping.
Otto has never been involved in any serious, twenty-first century shopping before, and he has no intention of ever being involved in it again. The pushing. The shoving. The grabbing. The frenzied emotions. The arguments. The snarling and snapping. The remorseless determination. Poor Otto hasn’t seen such single-mindedness outside of a war.
Angels, however, are very resilient, and now here he sits at a sidewalk café, an iced lemon-sorbet tea with mint and a plate of chocolate macaroons in front of him, recovering from the traumas of the morning. He watches the street – the cars moving along the road like conveyor-belt ducks at a shooting gallery; the people almost dancing. So this is Los Angeles. Laidback. Mellow. City of Angels. City of Dreams. There is an almost liquid quality to the light – possibly to the air itself – that makes everything seem not quite there. As if it’s only a mirage. An image on a screen. An enchanted place that appears and disappears like a ghost (or an angel).
Otto leans back in his chair. What with driving in traffic that either moves like a stampede or suddenly stops dead for no apparent reason, the hours spent just waiting for Beth to come out of the studio, the burglar alarms and the stress of shopping, it’s been a hellish morning – but now he finally feels himself starting to relax.
He sips his tea, suffused with a new sense of peace. Or possibly relief. At least Remedios isn’t with him. And nothing bad has happened to Beth. Her face – Gabriela’s face – is pinched with strain and she’s hobbled by her shoes, but she hasn’t been rushed off to a hospital or thrown herself in front of a bus (two of the tragic fates he has imagined for her). Otto has no reason to think that anything more will go wrong. Everything’s going to be all right. All he has to do is see Beth safely back to the hotel this evening, meet up with Remedios and Gabriela, and make sure that the girls’ paths cross.
But the mellow image of Los Angeles is only an illusion. It has always been a city of violence and greed. And Otto’s feeling of well-being is only an illusion, too.
As he reaches for another macaroon, Otto notices heads turning to look at something behind him. Probably a movie star, he thinks. Otto lost interest in the cinema when colour was introduced, but nonetheless, because he always took quite literally the admonition to do as the Romans when in Rome, he, too, turns to see who it is.
The woman coming towards him is tall and willowy with a billowing mane of blonde hair, and she’s wearing a hot-pink jumpsuit, high-heeled sandals and aviator sunglasses. It takes him a few seconds to realize that he not only recognizes her; he knows her. It is, of course, Remedios Cienfuegos y Mendoza. What a coincidence. He puts his glass down so hard that he knocks the spoon off the table.
Because the aviator glasses, though stylish, are very dark – and because her mind is on things that don’t include Otto Wasserbach – Remedios is more or less on top of him before she sees him scowling at her from the other side of a low railing. Fire and brimstone! If only she’d seen him first, she could have made a run for it. But, as Caesar’s army crossed the Rubicon, Remedios crosses Santa Monica Boulevard. She comes to a stop beside him. “Why, Otto! What a surprise! I never expected to see you sitting on the street eating cookies.” She smiles as though she’s happy to see him. “I guess LA is working its magic even on you!”
There is no return smile. Indeed, his thin lips have almost disappeared in disapproval. “And you are doing what here exactly?” The cacophony of sounds that surrounds them – horns and engines, sirens and beeps, voices and music and ringtones – is so loud that, although she’s only a few inches away, Otto almost has to shout.
“I’m talking to you, Otto.” She lowers her shades so he can see her wink. “What do you think I’m doing?”
“I’ll try again. What are you doing here, Remedios?” he repeats, but they both know that what he means is: Going back on our agreement? Looking to interfere some more?
“I’m not doing anything. A little shopping… A little sightseeing…” She gives him a smile that has gladdened the heart of more than one repentant sinner. “We can’t help people if we don’t understand them. And we can’t understand them if we don’t do what they do. Can we?”
He takes a gentlemanly sip of tea. “But you’re not supposed to be ‘sightseeing’ or ‘shopping’. You’re supposed to be with Gabriela.”
“And what about you?” Remedios leans against the railing, shaking her head so that the curls move around it like wings. “What are you doing grooving on the LA scene? I thought you were keeping an eye on Beth.”
“I am keeping an eye on Beth. She’s limping a little, but otherwise she’s fine.” He slaps her hand away as she reaches for a cookie. “They’ve been shopping for what seems like an eternity, but their car will be picking them up in les
s than an hour. I thought I’d take a break.” Otto finally manages a smile, but it’s a wan one. “Unlike you, I find shopping to be just another name for Hell.” His sigh would disabuse anyone of the notion that angels don’t suffer. “So much effort for so appallingly little.”
“Does that mean you don’t like the outfit?” Remedios spins around, causing traffic to slow and horns to honk. “I found this fantabulous vintage shop down one of those alleys. It’s really incredible what you can get in this town.”
“I hardly recognized you at first. That hair!”
She gives her head a shake. “It’s a wig! You can get a wig to look like anybody you want.”
“You look like you’ve stepped out of a seventies’ detective series.”
She makes that face she does when she thinks she has something on him – half sugar, half acid. “I thought you didn’t watch TV, Otto. I thought it was beneath you. How would you know what they wore in seventies’ detective series?”
“Somebody had to turn the set off.” He looks up at her, still unsmiling. “So now that we’ve dispensed with the chitchat, let’s go back to where we started. What are you doing here, Remedios? You’re supposed to be watching over Gabriela.”
Remedios slips over the railing and into the chair across from him as though she is made of air. “Don’t get yourself all agitated, Otto. Gabriela’s not going anywhere. She’s either on the bus or in a museum.”
While he was watching the traffic, Otto absent-mindedly made a small bird from his straw wrapper, but now he absent-mindedly starts to undo it, smiling for the first time since he saw Remedios bearing down on him like a bad omen. “You’re certain of that?”
“Of course I’m certain. You’d love the woman who’s running things. She has them on the timetable of a high-security prison. She doesn’t even let them out to feed.”
Otto nods towards the other side of the street. “Who’s that then?”
Stoke up the fires of Hell! Why is she so trusting? Remedios knows you can’t rely on humans. The minute you turn your back, they’re picking apples and sneaking out of museums. She doesn’t bother to look round. “How many guesses do I get?”
“If I had the tiniest smidgen of faith in you, I’d almost be willing to believe that you arranged this so we’d be able to switch them back sooner rather than later.” Otto pushes his cup away. “But it’s far more likely that it’s just a coincidence.” He smiles. “On the other hand, it is a lucky one.” The powers that be, he thinks, are clearly on his side.
She makes another grab for the last cookie on his plate. “I take it you already have a plan.” She takes a bite.
“As a matter of fact, I do.” Otto pushes back his chair. “I’ll fetch the car. You stay with Gabriela. The limo’s meant to be picking Beth and the others up near The Hyatt soon. I’ll make certain it never arrives and get her out to the boulevard. All you have to do is make sure your girl is on that same pavement and—”
“Boom, Shiva!” says Remedios through a mouthful of macaroon.
“Amen,” says Otto. He gestures to the empty plate and cup and the crumbs scattered over her jumpsuit. “I’ll leave you to take care of the bill.”
But he hasn’t noticed Beth behind him. Remedios sees Beth’s eyes fall on Otto just before he vanishes, and the look that comes over her face. Well, bless my stars, she thinks. Beth not only sees Otto and remembers that she sees him, she’s also afraid of him. How ironic! Afraid of Otto Wasserbach. It’s like being afraid of a feather. But from Remedios’ point of view, of course, it’s a very useful thing to know.
And with that, she, too, disappears.
Sunset Plaza, shopping centre to the stars. It has everything a girl who believes in the Three Cs – Cosmetics, Clothes and Celebrity – could possibly want: the up-market stores, the chic cafes, the luxury cars cruising past, the tourists taking pictures from the windows of buses and rental cars. And today, it not only has all of that, it has the finalists of Taffeta Mackenzie’s fashion competition as well. Though some are here more than others.
Beth is present in body only, and it isn’t even her body, of course. She trails behind her companions like a wheeled toy on a string. Paulette, Nicki, Hattie, Isla and Lucinda all bubble with excitement, but Beth’s face is flat with worry and pain. What does she have to be excited about? She can’t see any way out of the nightmare she’s in. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever. Paulette, Nicki, Hattie, Isla and Lucinda laugh and chat as they try on shoes and dresses, tops and trousers, studying themselves critically in mirror after mirror, one eye always on the lookout for someone famous so they can tell their friends back home. Beth props up walls and thinks about Gabriela, having the time of Beth’s life while Beth limps through this torturous day, one eye always out for the man in the Panama hat. As if things aren’t bad enough. Oh, how she wants to go home. More than that, oh, how she wants to be back in her own body; back in her own body and home.
Every few minutes, Lucinda glances over her shoulder to make sure she’s still with them, but the others don’t care. If they’re not complaining because she’s so slow or so unhelpful, they’re ignoring her completely. After the humiliations of the morning, they no longer feel they have to be nice to her or pretend that they like her. She is no longer the person they want to be; she’s the person they’re glad they aren’t. If it were up to them, they would have lost her an hour ago.
Nicki, Hattie, Paulette and Isla all sail through yet another glass door; and Lucinda looks back and beckons. Beth watches Lucinda disappear, and then looks left, right and behind her before she follows them inside. She positions herself near the door, where she can easily see the entire floor and anyone who leaves or enters, and then she sinks back into her reveries of doom, gloom and whether or not an exorcist could help her.
“OK, I give up.”
Beth blinks, aware because something the colour of plums is swinging dangerously close to her face, that someone is talking to her. “I’m sorry?”
“I’ve had enough.” Paulette still holds the shoe she was examining, but her eyes, narrowed to slits as if she’s judging the finest hand-stitching, are on Beth. “What exactly is wrong with you, Gab? It’s like we’re shopping with a malfunctioning robot.”
Where to start? Leaving aside Problem A: there’s the pain in her feet; the ache in her back; the ice cubes her toes have become and the feeling that she’s being refrigerated; her general fatigue at having spent so many hours in the sweatshop of glamour; and her low morale after a morning of being yelled at. And, finally, there’s the fact that he’s following them. Following her. That’s what’s wrong.
Beth was facing the wall of glass overlooking the back yard of the studio when the alarm went off. She automatically shifted her eyes from Taffeta Mackenzie to the windows behind her, and there he was – the man from the hotel. He was standing near the west side of the yard, looking up at the house. Then everyone started talking and running to the doors, and the security guard and his dog were charging across the lawn, and even though Beth couldn’t have done more than blink, he was gone.
It can’t be him, she told herself. You have him on your mind, that’s all. It wasn’t anybody. A natural illusion. It’s the kind of thing that happens all the time. People think they see a ghost (or a man in a Panama hat), but really it’s only a reflection, the light beams bent into something else. The guard searched all over, but he didn’t find any trace of an intruder. It was probably just a glitch in the system, or a very large cat. The guard said it was impossible to get over that wall without a ladder. (“Unless he’s a circus performer,” said the guard. “Or Spiderman.”). And even if someone did manage to get into the yard, there was no way he could get back out without being seen. And if he didn’t go over the wall, how did he leave? Fly?
But then, as they were getting into the limo to come shopping – Beth hobbling behind the others with Taffeta shouting after her, “For God’s sake, Gabby, buy yourself a pair of shoes that fit!” – a glint of red caught h
er eye and she glanced over to see a red sports car parked further up the road, out of sight of the studio. You’d think he’d have the sense to ditch that stupid hat.
“Well?” demands Paulette. “I asked you a question, Gabriela. What is up with you?”
“Me?” Beth’s smile is as delicate – and as temporary – as the flowers glued to the shoe in Paulette’s hand.
“No, your cousin in Michigan.” Paulette points the shoe at her. “Yes, you. What’s going on? I asked you three times if you thought this would be better in another colour, and when you finally bothered to answer you said, ‘Yeah, it’s nice’.”
“Well, that’s what I meant.” Beth may not be able to walk in Gabriela’s shoes, but she has no trouble lying in them. “That they’d be nice in another colour.”
Paulette eyes her as if her mascara has run. “No, you didn’t. You’ve been on automatic since we got here.”
“I may be a little distracted…”
She didn’t see him following the limo. Which she thought must mean that he really was a figment of her imagination or that he’d given up. No to both. She’s seen him since. Strolling past a window. Going into the store next to the one they’re in. Standing in a doorway on the other side of the street. Disappearing up a flight of stairs. Vanishing around a display of scarves. It’s always just a glimpse, an image at the corner of her eye; and when she looks again he isn’t there. But she knows he is.
“A little?” Isla comes up beside Paulette. With her long red hair and liking for lace, Isla may look like the heroine of a romantic novel, but she snorts like a truffle hog. “I bet you don’t even know what stores we’ve been in.”
Beth wouldn’t know these stores on a normal day – a day when the face looking back at her from the mirror behind Paulette is hers and no one would think of asking her opinion about a pair of shoes. She doesn’t have a clue.