Love Is Strange (A Paranormal Romance) (43 page)

“You were. There, with me. Two hours ago, I was ready to jump off a bridge with you. I was ready for us to die together from our miserable romantic pain. But, baby, not if the honcho there is gonna kidnap us with voodoo needles, fly us over the sea and dump us into the South Atlantic.
No way!
I mean, once death is right in front of us, staring at us with big hollow skull eyes — when our death is not some kind of wishful romantic crap, when our death is
not kidding
? There is
no way.
I love you and I want to live. Better, a million times better, that I suffer from loving you every single day! I
want
you to make me suffer! I want you to make me
live.
”

Farfalla brushed her fingertips down the side of his sweating face. “I know that my love makes you suffer.”

“You saved my life in there. Mostly because you didn’t belong in that narrative. That story of ‘ignorant young Yankee hustler caught up in very bad South American business deal.’ Now, I know that I belonged in that story — because I was playing the sucker, in that story. But
you
never belonged in that story. Because you are ‘the adorable stylish Italian girl who came out of nowhere.’ It occurred to him to kill me — I know that he wanted to make me disappear — but he just couldn’t fit you into that story. You didn’t fit in that story at all. So, it just couldn’t happen to me. Because of you.”

“What did he say to you?” said Farfalla. “When you were talking together, alone.”

“Oh, well, that was confidential. That was classified.”

“Oh.”

“Hey, wait a second,” said Gavin. “It was classified and confidential, but it was
Brazilian
classified and confidential. I’m American, so I don’t give a damn about Brazilian state secrets! Of course, I can tell you about it. He was showing me mock-up plans for this imaginary airplane he thinks he can manufacture and export. Using French technology. Or maybe American technology. Technology my dad still has, from thirty years ago.”

“So what?”

“So, it was a pink airplane. It was a killer drone airplane, but it was pink, delicate, and made just for girls. It’s a robot drone aircraft made for women. He said that women’s groups are the key to winning the Brazilian drug war. These women are, like, the Dilma Rousseff campaigners, because this Dilma Rousseff woman will be the future President of Brazil. And he needs to be on good terms with her.”

Farfalla shrugged. “Everybody already knows that. Of course Dilma will win the election. People love her.”

“Yes, but this is the Dilma Rousseff killer drone airplane! That’s a very Carla Bruni, Sarah Palin kind of military development. President Dilma Rousseff is supposed to think that Brazilian feminist killer airplanes are great.”

Gavin paused. “Or, maybe that was some kind of joke... Maybe he was fooling me, or, else, seriously warning me about something in the future. He knew me when I was a little kid, after all. Maybe he was trying to wise me up, to educate me about something. I just don’t know. That encounter was very Brazilian.”

“Women with killer airplanes? With flying robots? Like an American ‘Predator’ or ‘GlobalHawk’?”

“I don’t get to talk about those,” said Gavin, gloomily.

“But Gavin, that is no secret. Everyone in Italy knows all about American killer airplanes. The CIA flies Predator airplanes all around the world, and they shoot terrorists. American secret drones are the most famous weapons in the world.”

“Well, I just don’t get to talk about that. Even if everybody in the world knows it’s happening, I don’t get to say a word. I’m sorry, but I took an oath. It’s illegal, it’s unethical, and there’s just no way. I’ve got a security clearance, so I can’t say a word. That’s it.”

“But, it’s all right! I’m not mad at you! I think it’s great! Because I’m an Italian Neo-Fascist Futurist! Americans should be killing
more
terrorists with flying robots. If I could kill the Mafia with robots, I’d do it tomorrow!”

“Flying robots can’t do that. That is Futurist hype.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t be naïve, Farfalla. This is serious. Covert drone warfare is, like, a major system-design issue for modern global geopolitics. It’s not up to Italians to slaughter the Mafia with flying futuristic robots. You guys don’t even have the atomic bomb.”

“Maybe you’re right,” said Farfalla, meekly.

They found a second bus stop. This one was not so densely crowded, the street air was less thick with pollution, and there was less of a sense of imminent dread here. So they stuck around.

“I didn’t realize that Brazilians were so well-dressed,” said Gavin, studying the passing crowd.

“These are not just ‘Brazilians.’ These are the ‘Paulistas.’ Sao Paulo is a Brazilian city with a great Italian heritage.”

“The future is every bit as tricky as the past,” said Gavin. “My futurist mentor, Dr. Gustav Y. Svante, he was right about that. He predicted to me that Brazil wouldn’t leave me alone. He directly warned me about this very situation, the position I’m in right now. At least, I think he warned me. But, I blew it anyway, because well, even though it was an accurate futuristic prediction, he said it in a weird way. He told me all about it, but I didn’t grasp the language.”

“I have a Futurist mentor, too,” Farfalla stated. “She lives here in Sao Paulo.”

“That figures.”

“She was my nanny,” said Farfalla. “She raised me when I was small. She was my father’s ethnological assistant, and his local urban informant. But that was just what my father called her. Really, Nana Hepsiba was our housemaid. And a voodoo priestess, of course.”

“Why would a voodoo priestess be the housemaid and baby-sitter for an Italian radical architect?”

“He had a generous state grant. Anyway, Hepsiba was a very good choice. Because Hepsiba knew everything about the favela. She and her husband, the Great Houngan, they were famous in the favela. They were holy, everyone respected them.”

“Your baby-sitter was a voodoo witch from a slum,” said Gavin. He raised his hand. “That is not a problem! I know you’re telling me the truth. I totally believe you.”

“Nana Hepsiba told me all about my One.”

“She did that, huh? Her. Well! Now, we’re getting somewhere,” said Gavin. “That is a very satisfying thing to hear. I’m keen to have a word with your childhood inspiration. I can’t wait to meet her. Let’s have it out with her.”

“She doesn’t speak English. And you don’t speak Portuguese.”

“Why do I care?”
Gavin shouted, waving his arms. “I know that I’m out of my depth here! Dr. Gustav Y. Svante doesn’t make the rules here. I was lucky not to get shot today!”

He stretched both his arms out and began to rotate in place, stumbling on the cracked paving of the bus-stop. “Compared to a technicolor hive like this place, Sweden might as well be Mars! And Dr. Svante has a wife... Oh my God! ‘Vrouw Dr-Professor Agata Svante.’ I met her once! What a Swedish cow she is. She’s got a face like a pancake! He puts all the money in her name.”

“Is he happy?” said Farfalla. “Your great leader, your guru, this wise man you admire so much, is he a happy man?”

Gavin dropped his arms. “What do you mean?”

“They say the very wisest men only love ugly women. ‘If you want to be happy for the rest of your life, never make a pretty woman your wife.’ Some very wise man said that. I think it was Socrates.”

“Look, let’s not make fun of Dr. Svante. He really is the world’s greatest Futurist.”

A tram rambled past them. They ran gasping to catch up with it. They managed to snag it at the last moment.

“So,” said Gavin, wiping more summer sweat, “where are we going now?”

“We must be practical now,” said Farfalla.

“We do? This should be good.”

“I don’t know where Nana Hepsiba is. I know she lives somewhere in this huge, huge city. But I must find her tonight.”

Gavin thought this over. “I was going to say, ‘that’s impossible.’ Forgive me for being presumptuous.”

“I have a plan. I will go back to our Futurist hotel. I will put my hands on
It
.”

“And,
It,
the Cosmic Cupid, will somehow mystically lead you straight to your voodoo priestess?”

Farfalla said nothing.

“Great plan. I love your logical plan. I’ll go with you.”

“If we are in the room with the Cosmic Cupid,” said Farfalla, “we will forget all our plans and visions. We will jump into bed, together. We will hug, and kiss, and close our eyes in ecstasy, and make sweet, sweet, passionate love.”

“Why is that a problem?”

“Think, Gavin. Try to think. Think with your brain.”

“That is a problem,” Gavin admitted. “That magic idol will overwhelm both of us. That’s already a proven fact. We might not stop making love for, like, ten or twelve years.”

“This is my city,” said Farfalla. “Here is my plan. I will go, alone, to the hotel. I will get
It
out of your room. Then, I will find my mentor, the great famous witch. Then, I will find you and bring you to Her. Then, she will tell me that you are my One.” She sighed. “I hope so.”

“Can your witch do that? How can she do that? You said that I was the only One who could tell you that I was the One.”

“I don’t know,” Farfalla admitted. “Maybe she can do it. Maybe she can
tell you
, how to
tell me,
that you are the One.”

“Hey,” said Gavin, widening his eyes. “Neat hack.”

“Voodoo witches are tricky. That is their job. She predicted you to me. So she should know!”

Gavin silently reached into the pocket of his cargo pants. He handed over the small steel key of his computer-security cable.

“I’m so glad you remembered that,” said Farfalla humbly. “I forgot. The Cosmic Cupid is chained to our marriage bed.”

Gavin silently wrote his Brazilian phone number on a slip of torn notebook paper.

Farfalla tucked this vital scrap of data into her purse. “Gavin, you are so smart! It’s good you are with me! It’s so hard to face the future alone!”

“So, where am I going, during this brilliant plan that you have to carry out all alone?” said Gavin.

“Go to your Futurist Congress,” said Farfalla. “They are expecting you there. Your important friends will take good care of you. Nothing will happen to you there. Nothing ever happens when important people talk about the future.”

Gavin winced, considering this. “Look, your plan sounds dumb and dangerous to me. I know you’re doing something scary now, Farfalla. I want to protect you. My story should be all about protecting you from terrifying dangers.”

“You
are
my terrifying danger! People here would kill you, not me. Nobody will abduct and vanish
me
. Brazilians love Italian girls.”

“Okay, I’ll trust you this time,” said Gavin, shifting his laptop bag from one sweat-soaked shoulder to another. “So then, I’m off to my Futurist Congress. All alone. In Brazil. What a great idea you just had. I totally love Futurist conferences. They’re always so informative.”

The tram racketed along.

“I am having an attack of common sense,” Gavin muttered at her. “Your stupid plan is mystical hokum! Why, why are we parting in this huge, strange city? When evil voodoo people could kill me and you? They could make us vanish! That can’t be a good idea!”

“It’s not a strange city to me,” said Farfalla. “For me, it’s another home.”

Gavin drew closer. The tram was jostling them. He gave her a kiss.

She wiped at her lips. “Stop that.”

“Baby, how can I not kiss you? I must. I have to kiss you. Let me live! I may never kiss you again.”

“Gavin, you always make me hurt you! Stop it! I don’t want to be kissed, by a man, in this way, that is not The Kiss! How can I kiss a man with my Kiss when he might not be the One I am fated to Kiss?”

Gavin gawked at her. “What?”

“You’re not listening to me!”

“Kisses speak louder than words,” said Gavin. “We are parting. Why don’t you, please, kiss me. Just once, like you should kiss the one you love.”

Farfalla said nothing.

“That is not too much to ask,” he pleaded. “One farewell kiss is never too much for a man to ask of a woman. It’s in romantic movies. Come on.”

Farfalla put her arms around his neck. She rose from her heels on tiptoe. She kissed him. With a red, lipstick-smearing, thundering, magic kiss.

A bird darted through the rattling tram’s open window. The passengers of the tram shrieked in surprise. Trapped by the glass, the bird bulleted over their heads.

The darting bird banged against its own reflection in the window-glass, with a small, meaty whack. Then, the bird collapsed into a meager, feathered bundle. It was tiny, shrunken and still.

Gavin shouldered through the crowd, scattering Brazilians like bowling pins. He rescued the bird from a menacing forest of trampling Paulista shoes.

Then, Gavin held up the bird, nestled inside his fist, with a cordial wave of his free hand. The local Paulista people were completely indulgent about Gavin’s strange activity. They didn’t mind Gavin a bit. They were a wise, cosmopolitan people, the Paulistas. They understood the ways of the world. Of course, the foreign tourist had scooped an injured bird from the dirty tram floor. Any poet would do that. Everything mellow and groovy. Incident over.

“It’s dead,” said Farfalla, shrinking away.

“She is alive,” said Gavin. He preened the iridescent feathers with his solid fingers. “I can feel her kicking for life. Here, inside my hand.”

“What is that bird doing in here?” said Farfalla, peering.

“Well, this little bird is the Blue-and-White Swallow.
Notiochelidon cyanoleuca,
to give her Latin name. Big crowds of these swallows live under the Sao Paulo bridges. So, I figure our friend here flew over from that big bridge over at the Parque Villa-Lobos. She just got confused, that’s all.”

“What? How do you know all that?”

“Hey, I love birds! I’m a birdwatcher! I’m an outdoorsy kind of guy.”

“But, this is Sao Paulo! You don’t live here! You can’t know any of those things!”