Margin of Eros

by Hawthorne, Clare

  ‘Again, it’s hard to tell,’ said Hermes, a note of weary caution in his voice, ‘but I think I’ve been kidnapped by strippers.’

  49.

  Hi Hunter, wrote Violet, for the two hundredth time, it’s great to hear from you. But was it? Or was it frustrating, heartbreaking and annoying, in that order? It had been eight days since his email. Eight days of nail biting, self-abusing hell. Neither her fingernails nor her wrists had much more left to give, which was just as well, because the countdown timer was ticking. True, Hunter had taken two weeks to write to her in the first place, but the unequal rules of electronic courtship meant that she was pushing the due date for a flirtatious reply. Anything over a week was either indifferent, or trying too hard to appear indifferent. At one point, Violet had grown so desperate that she had started out with the intention of honestly expressing her feelings, but this had so quickly degenerated into a confusing narrative of schizophrenic pornography that she had quickly abandoned the draft.

  In the end, at a quarter to twelve on Wednesday evening, she took a photograph of her breasts with her web cam and emailed it to Hunter without comment. She was a little anxious about sending her breasts unadorned and free of footnote, especially after her email program encouraged her to reconsider. But after a small interlude, during which she microwaved and ate a vegetarian spring roll with Asian dipping sauce and poured herself a glass of pumpkin ale, she felt her anxiety recede into the tip of her index finger, which shook just a little as it hovered over the mouse. Yes, she promised the automatically generated message, she was sure. If Hunter couldn’t work out what a picture of her breasts meant, then he wasn’t worth worrying about. Except that, somehow, he was. At any rate she had to pack for Las Vegas and didn’t have time to worry about him. Except that, somehow, she did.

  By the time the taxi arrived to take her to the airport at six o’clock the next morning, she had slept for a total of forty-seven minutes, and that was only because she had helped herself to Ashley’s family-sized bottle of Nyquil when, delirious and desperate, she got up to pee at a quarter past four. Afterwards, Violet realized that she was very lucky not to have slept through her alarm, but once again, Ashley proved herself to be both the cause of and solution to the problem by crashing through the front door at half past five, breaking a wine glass in the kitchen and passing out in the bathtub. Even though Ashley hadn’t spoken to her since ‘the incident’, Violet felt that it was her domestic duty to help Ashley out of the bath, out of her stinking clothes, and into her own bed.

  With the wheels of her suitcase spinning and her head not far behind, Violet drifted through airport security like a drug smuggler, evading detection by virtue of being invisible. She was so comfortable with her invisibility that when a hand tapped her on the shoulder, she didn’t jump, as a less experienced ghost might have done. Rather she went to brush it off, as if shooing away an insect. But the insect buzzed her again. ‘Violet,’ it said, buzz buzz. ‘Violet, are you OK?’

  Slowly, Violet moved her eyes, fully expecting her head to follow. And when it didn’t, she gripped the edge of her chair and swiveled from the hips. Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the light. Standing beside her was a tall, blonde angel, dressed in what appeared to be a pillowcase tied at the waist, with some kind of golden weapon slung over his shoulder. ‘Leo?’ she said. It was possible that she was dreaming, but the dream Leo angel was offering her a drink from a large red soda cup, which tasted suspiciously like Dr Pepper. And there was no way any dream of hers would feature Dr Pepper. Even so, she was suddenly very thirsty, so she eagerly gulped down the drink being offered by the dream Leo angel, who was now looking decidedly less angelic as he came more sharply into focus. ‘What’s with the bow and arrow?’ she said.

  Eros started. ‘What?’ he said. He hadn’t touched a bow or an arrow for almost a month, and was wearing what he considered to be his most inconspicuous Earth uniform: a pair of black True Religion jeans, a plain white t-shirt and Jesus’ vintage Nike sneakers. ‘Over your shoulder,’ Violet explained, shoving away the Dr Pepper and wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. Eros, after another millisecond of panic, in which he thought he might have somehow picked up a bow and arrow rather than the messenger bag he assumed he’d grabbed, looked down at the strap across his chest. He breathed a sigh of relief. ‘It’s a messenger bag,’ he said. Another loaner from Jesus, it had been a gift from an Australian singer-songwriter that Jesus had apparently never used. Admittedly, it was slightly bow shaped, but Violet’s behavior was more than a little worrying. ‘Are you on drugs?’ he whispered.

  ‘Why?’ said Violet, ‘Have you got some?’

  ‘Violet!’ said Eros, exasperated. The thrill of being so close to her, of even saying her name, had suddenly been replaced by the strong desire to sling her over his shoulder, bound through the wildflowers and dunk her head into the nearest mountain tarn. It was the first time he had experienced the curious dichotomy of being in love, and being in control of the situation. And it was giving him a headache.

  ‘That’s my name,’ said Violet, ‘don’t wear it out.’ Then, swaying slightly, she fell forward, rested her head against his thigh and whispered, ‘I think I’m going to throw up.’ Eros’ response was reflexive and immediate. He picked her up, slung her over his shoulder and bounded through the crowded departure hall to the nearest disabled toilet, noting with some amazement just how easy it was to abduct someone in an airport. He didn’t even need to resort to Hermes’ preferred method, which was to hold up a library card and shout ‘Homeland Security!’ at anyone who got in his way.

  As it turned out, getting Violet to the rest room was the easy part. The hard part was watching her throw up her bran muffin and (by the looks of it) strawberry milkshake, then slump to the floor with her head between her legs, crying uncontrollably. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, over and over again, ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’

  But Eros knew. He knew exactly what was wrong with her because he had done it to her. And in doing so, had done it to himself. He felt like he should rub her back, or something, but his arms were locked to his sides in guilty rigor mortis. ‘Please,’ he said, in a voice that he hoped was more innocent bystander than perpetrator, ‘stop crying.’

  Somewhat surprisingly, Violet did stop crying. She looked up, her face blotched and puffy with tears, a thin line of clear mucous streaming from her nose, her eyes the color of sencha tea. Eros took a sharp breath in. He had never seen anything more beautiful in his life. ‘Why?’ said Violet, blowing her nose on a large wad of toilet paper. ‘What do you care if I cry?’

  It was a fair enough question, but Eros had no idea what the answer was. He opened his mouth to say something, but immediately had to close it again. He tried a second time. Same problem. Something weird was happening. He felt like a goldfish with a neurological disease, like his mouth was disconnected from his brain and his eyes were underwater. And he couldn’t blink. Violet had stopped sobbing but the tears were still coming, a constant shallow flood. It was funny the way her eyes were so green, but her tears were so clear. ‘I – ’ Eros started to say, and then he realized what the problem was. And in pinpointing the problem, he also found the answer to her question. He looked to one side, focusing on a particularly offensive piece of graffiti. ‘If you don’t stop crying,’ he said, ‘then I think –’ he cleared his throat, staring hard at the graffiti. What the hell was ass cleavage anyway? ‘– I think I’m going to cry too.’ Slowly, he turned back to face her. Sure enough, a single perfectly formed tear glistened on his cheek, like an ill-advised tattoo.

  ‘You think?’ said Violet.

  ‘Um,’ said Eros. The thing was, he had never cried before. Gods didn’t. Oh sure, they could turn on the waterworks in the right circumstances if they had the knack – as his aunt Eris had demonstrated time and again – but as a spontaneous response to an emotional challenge? Hasty acts of retribution had always seemed so much more godly.

  ‘Why are you crying?’
said Violet. Strangely, the sight of Leo tearing up seemed to calm her down. The crazy exhausted sobs had receded into whatever artesian well they had hitherto dwelt, and her Nyquil dizziness was little more than a soft throbbing in her temples. All that remained of her minor breakdown was the slightly acidic taste of processed bran and a mossy coating of regurgitated dairy on her tongue.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Eros, spontaneously offering her his hand and finding, to his relief, that his arms were working again. ‘Just homesick, I guess.’ Taking his hand, Violet pulled herself off the floor; or rather, was pulled off the floor with a surprising lightness of touch, like a figure skater or an acrobat being deftly released by a strong and skillful partner.

  ‘For Canada?’ said Violet. The sudden movement caused her dizziness to return with a vengeance, and she reached out and grabbed Leo’s arm to steady herself. Even in her fragile state, she couldn’t help but notice the way his muscles felt. They felt like marble. Warm, slightly slippery marble. By way of contrast, Hunter’s bulky muscles had felt slightly spongy to touch, each time she had clung to them in passionate abandon. This had surprised her, but what did she know of testosterone? Of course, a more pertinent question might have been, what did she know of Stanozolol? However, as she had barely been able to speak at the time, let alone contemplate the hypertrophic effects of synthetic androgens, she had given the matter little thought.

  Until now, when the sudden Hunter flashback caused her to lose her grip on Leo and, well, swoon. True to his part, Eros caught her easily and lifted her off the ground, setting her down on the diaper changing table like a true eighteenth century gentleman.

  ‘I am so embarrassed,’ said Violet, her eyes filling with tears once again. Leo bit his lip and looked down at his hands, partly to stop himself blubbering like an infant, and partly because he wanted to check the time. ‘I think we should go,’ he muttered. ‘We’re going to miss our flight.’

  It was only then that Violet thought to wonder why an intern had taken it upon himself to escort her to Las Vegas. ‘What are you actually doing here?’ she said.

  Eros shrugged. ‘I’m just here,’ he said.

  Violet frowned. It wasn’t a particularly enlightening answer, although it was difficult to argue with the statement’s accuracy. ‘Well which department paid for your ticket?’ she said crossly. It irritated her that there were things going on with the Foxhole shoot that she clearly wasn’t privy to. Perhaps if she knew the cost code, she’d be able to get to the bottom of it.

  For a moment Eros thought about lying. But then he remembered what Jesus had said to him, just before he handed over his American Express card. ‘I think Hermes is wrong,’ Jesus had said. He was clearly still affected by his break up with Marie, if you could even call it that, but in his typical fashion he had taken the incident and turned it into a poignant life lesson. ‘I don’t think women are trying to confuse us. I think they’re just tired of lying.’ Eros wasn’t exactly sure what Jesus had meant by that. From what he could gather, Marie had been the one to accuse Jesus of lying. Which was kind of a joke, if you thought about it. Unfortunately, Eros didn’t have the time to discuss it in greater detail. He had a plane to catch.

  ‘My friend paid for the ticket,’ said Eros. ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Violet, clearly disinterested. Eros let out a small sigh of relief. According to Hermes, humans had an unnatural fascination with Jesus and Eros had half expected to have to defend his friend’s generosity. But if Violet had any interest at all in the company he kept, she was doing a good job of disguising it. Instead, she folded her arms across her chest and looked Eros right in the eye, a slight smile threatening to upturn the corners of her mouth. ‘You’re not stalking me, are you?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ said Eros. Technically that was true. He had looked up her itinerary, but that was only because he was concerned about her wellbeing and wanted to keep an eye on her.

  ‘Then why are you coming to Vegas? I can’t imagine Aaron wants you there.’

  She was certainly right about that. ‘I have to go pick up Henry,’ Eros admitted, leaning on the door and peering out into the departure lounge. Outside, passengers scurried past with their carry-on lives, oblivious to the incognito deity in their peripheral vision.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ said Violet, the heavy load in her eyes lifting for the first time that day, ‘I was wondering what had happened to him.’ And then, with a hesitant smile, she placed her hand on Leo’s upper arm. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ she said. ‘I’m not sure I trust myself to stay upright.’ Technically that was true. And if she did want to feel his biceps again, it was strictly for comparative purposes.

  50.

  Ares could barely contain his excitement. And so, because he was a studio head and the god of war to boot, he didn’t. He strutted around all day, sometimes barking orders that made absolutely no sense, other times bursting into a spontaneous fit of giggles. Occasionally, he had the strong urge to have a stripper suck him off in a dusty corner of the wardrobe department, but the temptation was stymied by the graphically stunning but morally confused template he had etched into the brass chambers of his heart.

  He was saving himself for Violet.

  When he saw her he wanted his erection to sing, or at least feel like it would sing if she slapped it like a tuning fork against the genuine marble of the penthouse bathtub.

  Music and violence featured prominently in a lot of Ares’ fantasies. It was a trademark of his movies that they invariably contained stunningly beautiful arrangements of little known works, often by obscure eighteenth century composers of southern European origin. It was the reason that so many high caliber cinematic composers and musical directors were lining up to work with him; it was also one of the reasons his movies were so successful. The combination of a spiritually uplifting score and a soul-destroying storyline worked at a very primitive level, creating a kind of womblike sense of security around the male psyche, moments before whisking it out by the ankles and tossing it into a pool of blood. It felt, psychologically, exactly like being born, which is why men in the seventeen to forty-five age bracket often claimed to have undergone a spiritual rebirth after watching two and a half hours of the carefully orchestrated carnage.

  The musical tone of Foxhole Fury was the last thing on Ares’ mind, however. Key to his seduction of Violet was the absence of his leading man. Of course, he knew every detail of Hunter and Violet’s complicated courtship, from his (alleged) son’s half-assed effort with their arrows to their meat-free fornication in Malibu. Far from being angry, he welcomed it. Without the complementary arrow to focus his libido, Hunter could be relied upon to behave like the A-grade asshole that he was. Sweet, trusting Violet would be lonely, horny and heartbroken, a holy trinity that was, quite literally, a gift from the gods.

  Unfortunately it was becoming more and more difficult to keep Hunter off the Foxhole set, given that his character, Hawke, was in pretty much every scene – particularly now that Ares had ripped out any secondary characters who might have provided context, empathy or at least a momentary respite from Hawke’s ballooning body count. He had a stunt double of course, but even so, in squeezing Hunter out of the shooting schedule, Ares had thus far caused two production managers to quit and a third to self medicate with rum and Ambien. Ares had cited budgetary reasons for the reschedule, but the reality was that keeping Hunter away from Vegas for this long had cost the studio over three million dollars. But to Ares, the money was irrelevant and besides, he could easily get the accountants to screw it out of Hunter’s profit points, if anyone raised their eyebrows.

  Not that anyone would.

  Ares liked to spend as little time on set as possible, but he thought he should put in an appearance in order to boost morale and also to look more impressive when Violet arrived from the airport. He had given her strict instructions to deliver the latest copies of the shooting script to him personally, rather than hand them to anyone who might actually have a use for them
or indeed, know what they meant. Of course, Ares didn’t really need Violet to deliver the scripts at all. He could just as easily have arranged for someone in the production office to deliver them to the script supervisor, but as part of his complicated Violet seduction schedule, he had manufactured a security breach in order to enforce a shroud of secrecy that would keep her by his side at all times. Violet would act as his ‘eyes and ears’; in other words, ‘spy’. This would of course make her immensely unpopular on set, which was all part of Ares’ plan to ostracize her from her co-workers, isolate her from normal human interaction, and set her on an emotional rollercoaster with no possible respite. Until Ares, with strategic perfection, decided to apply the handbrake.

  The one slight spanner in the seesaw was Beef McDougall. Without Hunter around, Beef was the go-to heartthrob and his default position of major talent was bringing out the worst in him. Kurt was doing all he could to keep him out of trouble, but there is only so much you can do about an actor who is half Scottish, half Irish, and three quarters medical grade alcohol. Even so, Ares figured that there was a slight chance that Violet could fall for Beef, as a kind of lesser Hunter substitute. Of course, if Ares had bothered to get to know Beef, rather than enabling his substance abuse on set, he might have realized that for the last ten years, Beef had been secretly in love with Hunter. And if he had bothered to get to know Violet, rather than obsessively conniving in her shadow, he might have realized that there was about as much chance of Violet being attracted to Beef as there was of her sleeping with her boss.

  Which is precisely why he had never bothered.

  The day’s shoot involved a scene in which Beef’s character, Charlie Delta, assembles a band of Sherpas in order to search for Hawke’s plane, which has been shot down by the Chinese somewhere in Nepal. Unfortunately, despite the location scout’s assurances to the contrary, the Nevada desert turned out to resemble the Kathmandu Valley about as closely as the Santa Monica Mountains resemble North Korea. Fortunately, everyone agreed that there wasn’t much of a crossover market between the kinds young of men who went to see Ares’ films, and the kind who went trekking in the Himalayas during college break. Or indeed, the kind who went to college. A CGI Mount Everest and they were safe. ‘Hell, doesn’t even have to be Mount Everest,’ joked the production designer, ‘may as well use something American.’ Unfortunately, this caused Øyvin to storm off the set, lock himself in the bathroom and refuse to come out until someone brought him pickled herring. Fortunately, someone found an iPod with Fatima K’s latest hit, Yo fuckface flicka, on it, and soon Øyvin and the rest of the crew were getting down to the funky Swedish beats.