Love Is Strange (A Paranormal Romance) (12 page)

She turned to look Gavin right in the eye, and he could tell that she was scary, scary, scary smart.

“This is Brixie,” said Fabio, tenderly. “Our world-famous Brixie the Blogger.”

Gavin liked to hang out at Microsoft, so he knew the look in Brixie’s eyes. Brixie was brilliant. Brixie was off-the-charts-high-SAT-geek-smart. These were Microsoft guys with eidetic memories who spoke in complete sentences, semicolons included. Guys who did algebra in their sleep. And, some of those Microsoft guys were women. This Brixie the Blogger was one of those women. And yet, she was dressed like an airhead.

“Fabio, I loved your gay French friend with his AR,” lisped Brixie the Blogger. “But, he was blowing it on those 3-D registration issues. Any idiot knows you’re gonna get drift and jitter if you overlay fabric on a human form in realtime.”

“
Allora,
Jean-Luc was just speculating,” said Fabio, patting Brixie’s narrow hand. Brixie’s suntanned mitt had sharp, gleaming talons in five different shades of fuchsia. “This is a Futurist conference. Jean-Luc is ahead of the curve!”

“I just embedded his Vimeo clip in
‘Bad Girls, Great Shoes.
’”

A damp, warm, sticky look passed between Fabio and Brixie. Gavin felt his heart souring in his chest. Brixie had just done... what? Brixie had just done his Italian friend some sexy, intimate favor.

Brixie’s blog was huge. That had to be it. Brixie had a monster fashion blog. All those Los Angeles girls with their feet on the pedals of daddy’s sports car... Speedometers twitched in Milan whenever those girls changed their shoes... And Brixie knew how to make the girls in L.A. change their shoes.

Dr. Gustav Y. Svante had warned him about this. This was an Internet thing: “disintermediation.”

As Brixie the Blogger glared like Medusa, Fabio dealt with his fans, associates from the Congress crowd. These Italians were asking Fabio silly questions, and respectfully pressing his flesh. Somebody passed Fabio a copy of a glossy, Italian tech magazine, where LOXY owned a big two-page center-spread. Fabio, with a tight little smile, showed this promo around, and posed for snapshots.

Last time Gavin had checked, Fabio had a very sweet Signora Mascherati and two cute pre-school Mascherati kids. Not that this liaison with Brixie was a deal-breaker or anything, because, this was, after all, Capri... Some people thought that brilliant, geeky woman couldn’t be voracious, vampy sex-bombs. They were ever so wrong.

Brixie the Blogger was all over Fabio like a sunburn. And Fabio was basking in it. Everyday prudence, due-diligence, would tell a smart guy to stay away from a man-eater like that. But, well, no. Not here in Capri.

Until this moment, Gavin had not understood that Italian guys might have a serious yen for American girls. Italian girls were always relentlessly working it. Italian girls were 105 percent hair, heels and fiery lingerie. Everybody on the planet knew that Italian girls were gorgeous girls. So why would Italians go for American girls?

Because Italian men were Italian. That was why. For Italian men, all those Italian female sex-bombs were pushy and the same. They lacked exotic appeal. While Brixie here, who looked like she had a purse full of Viagra pills and had memorized the Kama Sutra — Gavin would rather jump in a deep Los Angeles tar pit than wade-in with Brixie the Blogger — but for an Italian man, Brixie was an It-girl. Italian girls were plain, old Italian orange juice, and Brixie was a big, green, Kiwi-lotus-pineapple Jamba Juice.

As for Brixie herself, she was vamping all over this married Italian fashion web-mogul. She was settling into the crook of his neck for a nice hot feast off his blood.

Nothing was going to save Fabio from this unearthly web-creature, thought Gavin in awe. Except for one thing — Capri. Fabio would leave Capri soon, and Brixie would leave Capri, too. What happened in Capri, stayed in Capri. It had been that way on Capri for two thousand years. The island’s long, sacred tradition.

Gavin stuck his hand out and smiled. “Gavin Tremaine,” he announced. “It’s good to meet a fellow American over here, Brixie.”

“It’s good to meet a YAWN,” smirked Brixie.

“What?”

“You’re from Seattle, dude. You’re a YAWN, ‘Young And Wealthy but Normal.’ Your shirt is from REI, and those pants are from Patagonia. Those are Timberland shoes. You’ve got white Nike socks.”

“You’re impressing me,” said Gavin. “I know I kinda dress like crap but... well, I like to wear stuff where I can... roll around inside museums and brush off the spiderwebs.”

Fabio was pained to overhear this exchange. Italians hated to see Americans being rude to other Americans. Americans commonly blurted rude and awful things that would cause Italians to stab each another. “Gavin, my friend,” Fabio said, “are you enjoying your time in Capri?”

“You betcha!” said Gavin.

“You came a long way to be with us. Thank you for that.”

“I’m thrilled by your get-together here.”

“
Perfetto
. Let’s do lunch tomorrow, Gavin. Everyone has to eat lunch... A catered event on the LOXY yacht, and the weather will be fine tomorrow... A big, pretty boat, in the Grand Harbor, easy to find... Will you join us? Tomorrow?”

“I would love it, Fabio.”

“Bring a guest! Are you able to make our music events? Beautiful Brazilian music, Gavin! The Minister of Culture is in Capri.”

“I’ve been keeping an eye on that situation,” said Gavin.

Fabio blinked at him limpidly. “LOXY wants to see you happy here, Gavin. You’re a true friend of LOXY.”

Gavin’s phone rang. “That’s my little sister,” he told them, and that ended that.

Chapter Eight: Prada Goth

Farfalla’s hostess had gotten all chummy. Eleonora had been stuck on the rock of Capri for ages. She had a ton of petty, local gossip to share. And share she did.

Farfalla took advantage of this fit of confidence to borrow her hostess’s car.

It was difficult to use a car on Capri, as Farfalla soon discovered. Finding any parking spot was a major ordeal. But Farfalla would not let that defeat her – she murmured a prayer, and found one.

Eliza Tremaine was slouching on a garden bench outside her decrepit hotel. The teenage American girl was groggy and half-dozing in the bright sun. Gavin’s sister looked like a black lace lizard. Her pale hands were tinged pink with sunburn.

Eliza looked up, drowsy and red-eyed, as Farfalla stood before her.

“
Buongiorno
,” Farfalla stated. “Are you ready to go shopping?”

Eliza lurched stiffly to her combat-booted feet. “I left my purse up in my room. Let’s go and get it now.”

“Are you having a good time in Capri?”

“No. I went out last night with those Brazilian electronica guys. We were drinking Guarana Night Owls. I’ve only slept a little, here on this bench. I feel pretty awful.”

“You have jet lag.” Farfalla passed over a pair of brown pills from the depths of her purse. “When you need to sleep, try these.”

They climbed into the hotel’s ancient elevator, which shrieked with iron dismay as it rose two stories. “Are you turning me on to narcotics?” said Eliza. She brushed shreds of lint from Farfalla’s pills.

“Melatonin is not a narcotic. Our
grandparents
had ‘narcotics.’ Narcotics never work! Melatonin works.”

Eliza thought this over as she shuffled down the gloomy hall toward her hotel room. “What else works?”

“Ritalin, caffeine, alcohol, and ‘meow-meow.’ Vitamins work. Don’t believe what cops and junkies tell you. Those are made-up horror stories.”

Using a rusty key on a wooden tag, Eliza pried open her door. The hotel room stank of fear.

Farfalla stopped at the doorjamb. “What happened?”

“There’s a ghost in here,” said Eliza.

“Where is the ghost?” said Farfalla.

Eliza pointed solemnly at a brightly-colored Capri souvenir beach towel.

“You bought a big towel with pretty rainbows and sailboats? You threw that over the cold spot?”

“Yeah. I did.”

“You had a good idea,” said Farfalla. “What did the ghost do?”

“The ghost just kept moaning,” said Eliza.

Farfalla opened all the windows. She threw back the brocade drapes. The day was partly cloudy. Odd hazes of filtered sunlight ran over the warped wooden floor.

Farfalla removed the beach towel.

“It’s here,” she said. “I see it.”

For the first time, some color touched Eliza’s face. “You can
see it
?”

“Yes. I can see it.”

“What are we supposed to do about it?”

Farfalla shrugged. “We could get a priest. Here in the South, they have a million priests. Here in the South, they have more priests than cats.”

“What would a priest do?”

“A priest would take all day! This is a haunted hotel! Everyone in Capri knows it’s haunted. Except for the tourists. They just
think
it’s haunted.”

“Well, I didn’t know any of that! I could rent a priest, maybe. Are priests expensive?”

Farfalla shook her head. “Oh, that’s no good! The hotel staff would talk to the priest, when you weren’t looking... They wouldn’t let him chase away their ghost... We could be here all week!”

“But
you
could get rid of the ghost. That’s what you said. Isn’t it?”

“Brazilians,” nodded Farfalla. “Brazilians are here in Capri. Maybe, if they brought veve chalk from home... That ritual takes a long time— You have to draw the patterns, you need rum and a sacrifice...” Farfalla spread her hands and shrugged. “Why don’t we leave now? I have four translation sessions today.”

“Wait,” said Eliza, brightening, “I’d much,
much
rather see you do Brazilian voodoo in my room, than go shopping! I hate shopping. Can you really do voodoo, Farfalla? That just sounds so fantastically great!”

“Bring your brother,” said Farfalla. “Your brother would see nothing here. No more ghosts.”

“Oh.” Eliza thought this over. “I’m sure that’s right.”

“Let’s leave. Never mind your ghost. Don’t tell anyone. Everything will be fine.”

Eliza Tremaine narrowed her blue eyes. She recognized the truth of what Farfalla was telling her, but she chose to rebel. “What if I
don’t want
to shut up and say nothing? What if I
don’t want
things to ‘be fine?’”

“You mean you want things to get
bad
?”

“No, no! Not that! I just... I just want you to tell me about what happens next. That’s all.”

“You want to know about when the future gets
bad?
You want me to tell you the ‘worst-case scenario?’”

“Yes. Please!”

“I am great at those,” said Farfalla. “I love those. I am the best at those. Worst case scenario? The Brazilian Culture Minister comes here. Have you ever heard of him?”

“Of course. He’s a Tropicalista musician — like Caetano Veloso, Os Mutantes, Gal Costa — I know all of them. I know more about them than even Gavin.”

Farfalla nodded. “The Brazilian Culture Minister is a high priest of cannibal voodoo.”

Eliza Tremaine showed a twinge of doubt. “My brother knows a lot about him. Gavin never said that he was any ‘cannibal.’”

“That’s real life, it’s not a fake story. He
is
a cannibal. The Minister of Culture is the music prince of the Antropofago Movement. Those Brazilian culture-cannibals, they want to make voodoo the Brazilian state religion. That Minister would come in here, and he would see this ghost of yours, just like I do... All his bodyguards would come, too, and the band’s girlfriends from Bahia... They’d have a big, cool jam session in here… they’d be throwing chairs out your windows... smoking a lot of pot... they would wreck this hotel. That would cost a fortune.”

“Wow!” cried Eliza.

“Don’t say ‘wow,’” scowled Farfalla. “Brazilian musicians, those people die young every day.” Farfalla pointed at the ghost. “He died young. When you see a ghost like that? That is a big pile of bad, bad decisions.”

“Where did he come from?”

Farfalla lifted the beach towel, and stared at the floor. She tossed the towel aside.

“This ghost is Italian,” she said. “A German black magician built this hotel. He killed the people of Capri, with his cannons, and with his evil, perverted, gay sex in the blue pagan grottos. Everybody in Capri, they all know what happened.”

Eliza’s blue eyes narrowed in doubt. “How do
you
know things like that? You’re not from Capri.”

“Find out for yourself. I promise, it’s all on Wikipedia.”

“I meant about the ‘gay’ part! I mean, calling evil people ‘gay,’ how do you know he was ‘gay’? I’m from Seattle. Some of my best friends are gay. It’s fascist to call bad people ‘gay.’”

Farfalla sighed. “Can we leave yet?”

“Maybe I should go to my brother’s hotel. I forgot my luggage there, anyway.”

“Oh, that can’t help you
now
...” Farfalla looked Eliza up and down. “You did this
yourself
. You
asked
to come here. And look at the way you’re dressed!”

“I can’t help it,” Eliza muttered.

“Oh yes, you can.”

“Hey, some awful black-magic things happen in Seattle, too,” Eliza grumbled. “Look at all those young dead music guys from Seattle Grunge bands.”

“You
want
to die young? That is your desire, that is your future?” Farfalla pointed at the crooked stain on the hotel floor. “There it is. You can see that, can’t you? What is wrong with you?”

“A lot of stuff is wrong with me,” whimpered Eliza.

“I can see
that
,” said Farfalla. “I can tell fortunes! People
pay me
to tell their fortunes. But for you, stupid girl, your bad fortune is
free
, okay? It is written all over you!”

Eliza sat meekly on her rumpled bed. Tears escaped through the smeared kohl around her eyes. “Please don’t tell me that... I feel so tired... I can’t sleep here in Italy, I never came here before...”

“Look,” said Farfalla, “Maybe I can say a few words. For you, and for him. Then, we leave. Quickly. Understand?”