Margin of Eros

by Hawthorne, Clare

  They were the last words spoken by anyone in the room for quite a while.

  64.

  High above the western edge of the continental United States, invisible to astrophysicists, military strategists and conspiracy theorists, Ares threw a barbeque briquette into the air and smashed it with the face of his sword. Almost instantaneously, a blue crack split open a seething arc of sky. Ares roared with laughter. He hadn’t had this much fun since the year he spent learning to build incendiary devices at boot camp. But even the most entertaining activities at boot camp had also been hot, bloody and exhausting. This was pure pyrotechnics. How typical of Zeus, Ares thought bitterly as he launched another briquette into the atmosphere, to keep the fun stuff for himself while his offspring were busting their balls, preoccupying the humans with whoring and hegemony.

  Fishing around in his cooler for a block of ice, Ares paused briefly to gaze into the middle distance, where an ominous plume of cumulus was gurgling like a particularly disgruntled baby. It was too bad his own kids hadn’t inherited that kind of temperament. Maybe if he’d paid them more attention when they were growing up, instead of allowing them to be mollycoddled by adoring aunts. Those fat, pandering bitches, he thought, as he threw the ice block into the air and smashed it into a billion frozen diamonds. Like a dazzling necklace, the hail snaked through the sky with force ten momentum, gearing up for an earthly assault. Ares grinned. This weather thing really was a piece of cake.

  ‘Ares!’ The voice smashed through the diamonds like a blunt instrument, sending them spinning into space. ‘Put down your sword!’

  Ares knew that voice. A fraternal voice, it was one of the few sounds in the seven realms that shook him to the sandals. But that didn’t mean he would ever concede an inch of his side of the playroom to its owner. ‘Try and make me,’ he yelled, holding his sword aloft and scanning the skies for a glimpse of his sister. Spinning around on one foot, he looked like a cross between a boot scooter and a novice ice dancer. Given the strength of her voice, it was clear that she had made the effort to travel to Earth, rather than merely trying to scare him with an inter-dimensional megaphone. By her own admission, she hated traveling to Earth. Ares couldn’t see her anywhere but he made a couple of assumptions, based on what he knew of her battle strategy and temperament: One, she had to be close by; and two, she had to be seriously ticked off.

  ‘I’m asking you nicely,’ said the invisible goddess, not sounding very nice at all. In fact, she sounded angry, impatient and violent, which was a fairly accurate reflection of her mood. ‘Lay down your weapon immediately and return to Olympus.’

  ‘Or what?’ sneered Ares. The only place she could be was behind the cumulus. Nothing else was big enough to shield her massive ego. ‘You’ll set your owls on me?’ As soon as he said it, he regretted it. His sister’s owls were as dear to her as her virginity, and several hundred would-be lovers could attest to the lethal propriety with which she defended that particular piece of real estate.

  As if to confirm both his suspicions and his remorse, a giant battle-clad bird swooped out of the towering black cloud, its talons forward in full frontal assault. Ares swung at it with his sword but merely succeeded in liberating a few fly fishing lures. By the time he had pocketed the feathers, the bird had swung up into the sky, executed a U-turn and was now diving straight for him. Adopting a modified golf stance, Ares took aim from below, connecting with the kind of satisfying crack that often foreshadows an eagle, a birdie, or in this case, an owl. ‘Fore!’ he shouted into the cloud, as the startled bird spun backwards in a tumble of feathers, disappearing into the dark colloid whence it had emerged.

  ‘That’s IT!’ The voice was enraged, flushing the night sky of its hiding places with a thunderous sonic boom. Ares stood in the open, a lone god against the black cloud of righteousness. Or at least, the black cloud of his sister. As she stepped out of her hiding place, her armor dripping with atmospheric vapor and her helmet plumes wilting to one side, she looked a little less threatening than her statue in the Parthenon. But as Ares well knew, looks can be deceiving.

  ‘Hello, Athena,’ he said.

  Athena was not such a bad goddess. Nor was she particularly violent by nature. But the breakdown of democracy and the marginalization of goddess worship had taken its toll on her personality. She often found herself longing for a time when heated political debate and non-erotic massage could go hand in hand; a time when women could be free to slaughter their enemies on the battlefield or boardroom without fear of censure, CNN or cellulite. But for all her platonic virtue, she was not the kind of goddess to forgive and forget. Nor was she the kind of goddess who would waste a trip to Earth on a leg wax and a cappuccino. ‘Prepare for pain,’ she hissed.

  With her wet robes flapping behind her, Athena rose up into the sky – which is to say, further up into the sky than her previous position. Technically, neither Ares nor Athena could fly at ground level, but in the Earth’s upper atmosphere, where they could safely express their true natures, they could certainly float and swoop. Vast intercontinental distances would likely prove problematic – popping over to New Zealand for a personalized tour of The Hobbit set, say, or taking in a show at the Sydney Opera House – particularly after an exhausting stratospheric battle over Las Vegas. Of course, neither was on the agenda that evening and at any rate, the gods had other ways of getting there if the opportunity were to suddenly crop up.

  ‘Lay down your weapon,’ screamed Athena, plunging toward Ares feet first with her sword aimed squarely at the top of his head.

  ‘Change the fucking record,’ Ares yelled back, rolling swiftly to the right while still maintaining altitude, barely avoiding the blade. As Athena tumbled through the air below him, trying to reverse her momentum, Ares pulled out his battleaxe and started to swing his arm, his weapon quickly becoming a solid wheel of deadly tangential velocity. When he finally let it go, the combination of speed and mass was such that his weapon could easily have sliced through six inches of steel. So it was lucky that Athena was able to dodge the missile by executing a flawless half pike that would have earned her a perfect score, had she been allowed to compete in the infuriatingly sexist male-only Olympic Games.

  ‘Lay down all your weapons,’ Athena clarified, swinging her sword in a whooshing figure of eight; a technique she had refined after watching a number of particularly instructive Samurai movies. As a combat approach it wasn’t particularly efficient or effective – she had the wrong kind of sword, for a start – but it was extremely intimidating and she usually didn’t have to try it on for long before her opponent cowed before her, his sword laid beseechingly at her feet. But Ares made Samurai movies for a living – or more accurately, he made historically inauthentic, plagiaristic, genre pastiches that often featured Samurai warriors. At any rate he wasn’t afraid of the exhibitionist blade work of a glorified rhythmic gymnast.

  He was, however, afraid of her owls. Although he had curtly displaced one of their flock, he wasn’t quite prepared for the parliament of missiles that was now approaching, intent on avenging their cousin. Ares slashed wildly through the air with his sword, maybe even managing to lop off a beak or two, but in the end it was futile. The owls loved Athena the way the Satyrs loved goats, and even a well-armed god of war stood little chance against their devotional zeal. With his arms and legs pinned by the talons of four of the fiercest avian defenders ever to strap on a leather helmet, Ares floated on a misty blanket of his own blood. His breathing was ragged, his skin was shredded and his pride was wounded. But he would live, because he was immortal.

  With her boot planted in the middle of his chest, Athena allowed herself a small smile of victory as she gently confiscated her brother’s sword. ‘I think you’ve had your fun,’ she said.

  65.

  By the time Florida’s limo pulled out of his driveway, Jesus was starting to regret his decision to forgo an evening on the couch with his cats for a pointless demonstration of one-way friendship. Although the rain
had eased to a bitter drizzle, Florida was in no way comforted. ‘Why my movie?’ she kept asking him, over and over again, as the limo carved through the greasy curves of Mulholland. ‘Why me?’ Jesus had never really understood that particular question, and now that the furry bubble of Romeo’s return had started to deflate, he found the repeated interrogation to be bordering on annoying. It took a lot to annoy Jesus, but it did happen. Generally it had more to do with an external state of affairs than a specific person or incident, so when he felt the first rumble of irritation start to tap behind his forehead, he knew to look beyond his immediate environment for anything that might suggest a wider malaise.

  The evidence wasn’t hard to find. All along Hollywood Boulevard, a cacophony of sirens screeched through the damp air. Horns blasted, motorists hurled abuse and marauding gangs of foreign tourists barked into cell phones. On the Hollywood Walk of Fame, Jesus looked on helplessly as Charlie Chaplin took a swipe at Marilyn Monroe with his cane. Florida gasped as Batman shoved Snow White into a lamppost. As the limo turned into an underground parking lot behind the Kodak Theatre, a double beef burger with cheese hit the window with such force that its pickle split two. Florida screamed. ‘It’s OK,’ said Jesus soothingly, in a tone he often used on his cats. Florida whimpered. ‘I’m scared,’ she said. Jesus nodded. She wasn’t the only one. Whatever was happening outside now had started building up a while ago. And now that he thought about it, he could probably pinpoint a date.

  A second date, in fact. During which Marie had developed a sudden passion for war movies and had cruelly dumped him underneath a billboard advertising nasally administered impotence treatments. It couldn’t be a coincidence.

  ‘By the way,’ said Jesus, turning to Florida with what his acting coach liked to call ‘innocent eyebrows’, ‘what is this movie about?’

  Florida sighed. ‘It’s a war movie,’ she said, smiling apologetically. ‘I know you hate them but it’s all people want to see these days. And it was a good part. I actually got to keep my clothes on.’ At the thought of her qualified nudity clause, her beautiful face brightened. ‘Well, most of them,’ she added. She didn’t exactly have A-list bargaining power, but at least she had her own breasts. ‘Come on,’ she said, grabbing hold of Jesus’ hand. ‘We’re going to miss the opening credits.’

  They didn’t miss the opening credits, which was a pity, because they were the most gratuitous and offensive opening credits that Jesus had ever seen. After a further thirty minutes of screaming, gunfire, explosions, witty repartee and a barroom performance of ‘I’ve never been to me’, Jesus reflected that at least this movie cast his experience with Marie in a new light: she didn’t dump him after forcing him to sit through the worst Hollywood movie of all time. To achieve that, she would have to ask him out on a third date, force him to sit through this movie, and then dump him all over again. He turned to Florida. ‘I need to go make a phone call –’ he started to say, when he happened to glance over his shoulder and make a startling discovery. All through the theatre, couples, strangers, even the ushers were violently arguing with one another. Sitting in the front row with the cast, he hadn’t noticed the movement behind them or heard the voices over the deafening Dolby. As another explosion lit up the darkened room, the full effect of the phenomenon became clear. People were standing, shoving, throwing soda cups. Towards the back of the room, they were even starting to throw punches. It was only a matter of time before someone pulled out a weapon. He grabbed Florida by the arm. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘We’re leaving.’

  ‘Huh?’ said Florida vaguely, her eyes still riveted to the screen. Glancing along the front row, Jesus noticed that the entire cast was similarly mesmerized.

  ‘Florida!’ Jesus yelled. No response. He tried again, grabbing her by the shoulders and staring into her eyes. ‘Fiona!’ She barely blinked.

  ‘Hey, sit down, asshole,’ said a guy in the fourth row. Jesus looked back. With the help of another raging fireball on screen, he was able to quickly identify a pattern. The closer to the screen people sat, the more heavily sedated they seemed to be. Further back the effect was mildly argumentative, increasing to outright physical hostility in the back rows. It was like some kind of concentric wave of violence. He shuddered to think what was going on outside. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said to the catatonic actress, ‘but I don’t think there’s any other option.’ And with a surprising display of strength and agility, he lifted her up, threw her over his shoulders and started to jog towards the exit. Unfortunately, the service entrance they had taken from the parking lot was blocked by a couple of brawling ushers, so Jesus had no choice but to make his way down the aisle with his celebrity cargo. Fortunately, Florida was still in a stupor so didn’t seem to care – or perhaps hadn’t noticed – that she was being carried out of the theatre in a fireman’s hold. At least the rest of the patrons were too preoccupied by their own escalating dramas to protest. It wasn’t until Jesus reached the street that he felt comfortable putting Florida down, very gently, on a wooden bench by the Chinese Theatre. ‘Are you OK?’ he said. All around them, increasingly riotous acts were flaring up in small pockets of activity along the boulevard. Jesus didn’t think they were in any immediate danger but he didn’t exactly want to hang around either.

  ‘Jay?’ said Florida, blinking up at him with a slightly bewildered smile. ‘What are we doing out here?’

  ‘We need to get back to the limo,’ said Jesus. ‘Do you think you can run?’ On the corner of Hollywood and Highland, he noticed that someone had set fire to a car, which a gang of movie characters, seemingly led by Cat Woman, was now attempting to tip over. ‘We kind of need to hurry.’

  Florida looked down at her toes, which were a dazzling shade of turquoise. Pointing her legs out in front of her, she wiggled her feet and giggled. ‘I’m wearing heels, Jay!’ she said, smacking him playfully on the arm with her purse.

  Jesus pulled at his beard, aware that he was struggling. ‘Can you take them off?’

  Florida stared at her sparkling Christian Louboutins. ‘Well, I guess…’

  ‘Great,’ said Jesus, as he reached down and pulled off her shoes, ‘let’s go.’ Grabbing her hand, he pulled her to her feet and the two of them started along the street in a brisk trot. They had almost made it to the entrance of the parking lot when the sidewalk began to shift beneath them, and what felt like an underground gas explosion half a block away threw them into a storefront. After a brief moment of shock, on the part of Jesus, and a brief moment of dazed amusement, on the part of Florida, they staggered to their feet. Half a block away, a huge blue and green flame flared through a gaping hole in the middle of the boulevard. ‘Wow,’ said Florida, ‘that’s pretty.’ She was so enraptured by the aquamarine fireworks that Jesus virtually had to drag her the last few yards to the relative safety of the ramp. ‘Wait!’ she cried out, slithering from Jesus’ grip. ‘My shoe!’

  Jesus looked down at his left hand, where a lone shoe dangled from a diamante strap. He must have dropped the other one during the explosion.

  ‘Looking for something?’ said a man’s voice. Jesus looked back along the sidewalk. A short distance away, standing on what appeared to be Wayne Newton’s star, a tall man with odd burgundy colored hair and black leather pants picked his teeth with a burnt-out match.

  ‘There it is!’ squealed Florida, dashing back to the helpful stranger who immediately grabbed her in a strangle hold, one arm clamped firmly around her neck and the other pressing the stiletto heel sharply into her jugular. ‘Hey,’ said Florida, giggling and squirming a little as she stared up at her handsome abductor, ‘what’s wrong with your eyes?’

  Jesus sighed. ‘Hello, Plutus,’ he said. With his arms crossed and his vintage Pumas planted squarely on Bruce Lee, he gazed levelly at Hades’ son.

  Caught off guard, Plutus stared at the bedraggled hippie with a mixture of surprise and disdain. To cover the former, he rolled the match over in his mouth with his slightly forked tongue and spat it in the genera
l direction of the Bee Gees. ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Jesus, with the kind of temporal omniscience that sometimes got him into trouble. Probably shouldn’t have said that, he thought, but now was not the time to worry about it. ‘Let her go,’ he added, so quietly that Florida could barely make out his words. Plutus, however, possessed an unsurpassed aural felicity, largely attributable to his permanently melting earwax.

  ‘Or what?’ he sneered, tightening his grip on Florida’s throat.

  ‘Or this,’ said Jesus, as a battle axe came spinning out of the sky and split his unsuspecting opponent in two.

  ‘Sheep,’ whispered the wilting halves, a millisecond before they disappeared into a puff of nothing.

  ‘Wow,’ said Florida, holding up the shoe like Cinderella’s sister, ‘that was lucky!’ And then she fainted onto Greta Garbo.

  Even with the son of Hades temporarily bisected, Jesus couldn’t guarantee that they would be so lucky next time. Scooping up Florida for the second time that evening, he ran down the ramp into the parking lot, where he found Florida’s driver sitting calmly in the limo, scribbling in a Sudoku booklet with a stubby pencil. Hurriedly stashing his confounding Japanese number puzzle, the driver leapt out of the car and ran around to open the door. ‘Finish early, sir?’ he panted.

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Jesus. Laying Florida carefully across the seat, he fastened the seatbelt around her lap as best he could.

  ‘Bit too much to drink?’ said the driver, nodding at Florida.

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Jesus, straightening up.

  The driver refrained from comment. ‘Where shall I take her?’ he asked.

  ‘Take her home,’ said Jesus. ‘And make sure she doesn’t forget these.’