Love Is Strange (A Paranormal Romance) (7 page)

The fuel of black Italian coffee hit him. It sent Gavin’s jetlag fleeing headlong. He was in the zone, deep in the moment.

The dining room glowed with Capri sunlight, gleaming off silver and crystal. Life seemed glorious suddenly. Life was sweet, funny, entertaining, and full of the unexpected. The sense of adventure touched him.

“So,” he said, finding his voice, “what did they do, this Princess and her Prince, here on Capri? How did they live?”

“Well,” the professor allowed, “they did so many things! Painting, of course. They were both painters. Writing poetry, playing the piano, riding horses, sailing the Blue Grotto, and exploring all the ruins. Capri was half-abandoned then — very wild and free.”

“Wow!” said Gavin. “That sounds so idyllic.”

“Idyllic and
romantic,
” said the Professor. “Romance was their way of life. Before they came here, Capri wasn’t romantic, but after they left, it was romance itself. And Capri’s been romantic ever since!”

Gavin glanced at Farfalla. “Do
you
ever do things like that?”

Farfalla shrugged. “Me? I came to Capri to work.”

“Same here,” Gavin said, glancing at his watch. “And I have an important session I can’t miss today, at half past ten.”

“I don’t work, not anymore,” said Professor Milo, “because they told me that I’m retired! For me, to hunt in Capri for some old statue, that must seem silly to you people, but I have to do it. I feel the obligation! No one else is looking out for it.”

“You could use some help,” Gavin decided. “We can help you out with your quest, can’t we, Farfalla? At least till our future gets started.”

“Maybe. Yes.” Farfalla dug into her chamois-leather purse and pulled out her iPhone. “We can try to help.”

The Professor picked at her bowl of muesli, which brimmed over with nuts, fruits and flakes. “I have to tell you two that the statue has been lost since 1911. The ‘Cosmic Cupid’ was a gift from Prince Troubetzkoy to his wife. They bragged to the press about it, so it’s in the historical record. But, quite likely, that statue never existed. It was all romantic talk. It was never a real object. Not in the real world.”

Gavin consulted his laptop screen. “Bingo! I just found your ‘Prince Pierre Troubetzkoy’! He’s an artist, a mystic, and a vegetarian. He had three brothers and two sisters, all children of this Russian Prince and this American actress. They were all artists, members of the ‘Scapigliati Movement”. Gavin tapped at his keyboard. “The ‘Scapigliati Movement.’ Good Lord, they’re really a ‘movement, ‘ the links lead all over the place.”

The Professor winced. “I can’t believe that computers know anything about the Scapigliati Movement. The Scapigliati were romantics, they hated technology.”

“The Prince’s sister knew Rudolph Valentino. They say she was Valentino’s lover.”

“How do you know about that?” said Professor Milo, blinking.

“Well, it’s right here on Wikipedia! The hotel has broadband.”

“I know about that Valentino rumor, but that took me
years
!”

“Ma’am, even Wikipedia can’t keep this Scapigliati story straight. These Italian artists were a pack of weirdos. Why is history so complicated?”

“The past is never past,” said Farfalla darkly, “Because the present is always present.” She drained the last drop of her cappuccino.

Gavin gazed at her for a few silent heartbeats. Where had that dark remark come from? What the heck was going on with her? That was not some cute-Italian smart-cookie thing to say. That was a fortune-cookie thing to say. Very out-there and ominous.

Farfalla Corrado suddenly looked feral to him. The triangular head, and those too-bright clothes. She was like a technicolor alley cat.

“Farfalla, have you ever heard of this ‘Scapigliati Movement?’”

“Oh yes, of course, the Scapigliati,” said Farfalla, twitching itchily and scrunching her shoulders. “Their revival show in Milano was a disaster! What a scandal.”

“These Scapigliati artists sound pretty wild and crazy. All kinds of drugs and free love.”

“Sex and drugs are old and boring,” declared Farfalla, rolling her big dark eyes. “The Italian Futurists had cars and airplanes. Not Scapigliati sex and drugs.”

“You like the Futurists, Farfalla?”

“I
adore
the Futuristi! The Futuristi are
exciting
! The world is still afraid of them! They were always ahead of their time! They are
still
ahead of our time.
The Futuristi are ahead of our time right now.
” Farfalla scratched at the air with flying hands.

Gavin was instantly charmed. What a wonderful Italian-girl attitude. Italians had strong opinions about art and culture — because those things really mattered to Italians. Italians would kill over art.

“Obviously, you’re our local expert, then,” he told her. “So, tell me something now. This is the big question. If you’re this Prince Pierre Troubetzkoy, and you claim you are going to make this fancy statue of Cupid for your wife — do you actually
create
a statue of Cupid? Or do you blow it all off, because it’s just a publicity stunt?”

“Oh, he made the statue,” said Farfalla, at once. “I know that he made the statue.”

“I totally agree with you,” said Gavin, leaning back. “I’m certain you’re right. He had to do both those things. He promised her the moon in public, but then gave her a single red rose.” He turned to the professor, twitching with insight. “Your statue of Cupid existed. Maybe it was just made of clay, maybe it’s long-gone, but I’d bet anything that he made it. That’s the Italian way.”

“You know the Italian way?” said Farfalla. She wasn’t flirting with him. She thought he was being an idiot.

“No, no, I could never claim such a thing! Nobody knows the Italian way. Not even Italians themselves. But, I do have a lot of business dealings with Italians. Practically speaking — cash on the table — the Italians are not all that hard to figure out.”

“I’m Italian,” said Farfalla. “Maybe it’s true... I can never understand Italians. Too much past, never enough future.” She shrugged, and tugged at her bright, patterned sleeve. “I can understand Brazilians.”

“How about Americans?” prompted Professor Milo. “Do you understand the Americans?”

“Oh, the Americans are no problem!” said Farfalla. “Any fool can understand Americans!”

“What a sweet thing to say,” said Professor Milo. “I guess that’s all settled, then. Now, I need to find my museum on that handy map of yours.”

Chapter Six: Modern Dentistry

Farfalla excused herself to find the ladies’ room. The hotel dining room didn’t have one, so Farfalla had to wander around, absurdly, past numerous tall doors marked “Privato,” past emergency exits that led to nowhere, past a limestone wall festooned with flowering ivy, down a half-circuit of a shiny spiral staircase... This hotel was colossal, and its architecture was crazy.

Most attendees at the Futurist Congress would never escape this big posh hotel. It would never occur to them to try to escape.

The pitch-black ladies’ restroom had a hidden light-switch behind the door. When the chilly fluorescents flicked on, the ladies’ room was an icy marble shrine, with stone sinks the shape of jet-propelled kidneys, and faucets like swan’s necks.

Farfalla crept into a stall to call Babi.

“Get yourself over here,” Babi demanded. “You’re supposed to be translating for the 10:00 opening session.”

“I can’t make the opening. It’s already too late. What’s my next session?”

“That’s ‘Italian Historical Guilt and the Somali Relief Effort.’ The speaker is Zeta Starlitz.”

“Which one is ‘Zeta Starlitz’? I don’t remember any Zeta Starlitz.”

“Zeta was the winner of the LOXY ‘Youth Ideals’ website contest. Zeta’s a Swiss altermodern philosopher who works in emergency relief. Twenty years old! I just met Zeta. She’s very sweet and really quite brilliant.”

Idealistic emergency relief. Ugh. This was the most poisonous topic in the world for Farfalla. Farfalla’s parents had worked in emergency relief. Farfalla would rather trudge a hundred kilometers in a burning African desert than listen to lectures about emergency relief. “Listen to me, Babi,” she said, “what’s the deal with this American guy, Gavin Tremaine?’ He’s one of my speakers, and he’s giving me the big owl-eyes. I think he’s coming on to me.”

Farfalla heard the light, swift rustle of Babi’s laptop. “Oh yes, him,
Gah-veen Tre-ma-ee-neh
,” said Babi. “Did you know he paid full price to get his sister into the conference? He’s either a complete fool or a really nice guy!”

“I don’t think either of those things are true.”

“Let me search for the email he sent us.” A brief pause. “Oh yes,” said Babi, at last. “This is about the Brazilian angle. I’d forgotten about that.”

“Gavin Tremaine has a Brazilian angle?”

“Yes, he does. The Brazilian Culture Minister. Your new boyfriend wants to talk to him. He wants a ‘private audience with the Culture Minister’ while they are both here in Capri. Well, that explains it. That’s why he’s such a big supporter of our Congress.”

“Okay. We can do that for him. It will be easy.” The Brazilian Culture Minister was a sweet-tempered old gentleman. Sixty-eight years old, but he never stopped performing his rocking bossa-nova. He toured the world constantly. Farfalla had already met the Culture Minister three times, without even trying.

The Culture Minister spent his twilight years singing, dancing and promoting Brazilian fashion designers. And messing around with his computers, of course. The Brazilian Culture Minister adored computers. The old man had a lifestyle that Farfalla sincerely envied. All aging, dropout, former hippie Baby Boomers should be like the Brazilian Culture Minister.

“Yes,” said Babi, “it’ll be easy to arrange a meeting, but let’s do this the smart way. You let me handle this. Do you have a phone number for your
fidanzato
there?”

“Of course, I have his phone number,” said Farfalla, opening her purse.

“I’ll call him right now.”

When Farfalla found her way back to the dining room, Gavin and Professor Milo had vanished. Evaporated, gone like Capri’s morning fog. Without a trace, as though they had never existed.

Farfalla searched for Gavin Tremaine with growing distress. Had Gavin fled the hotel? Was it something she’d done, something she’d said to him? She was known to say some dreadful, ugly things, without intention. Had she scared him away, done something too weird? She missed him already. Capri had been an ordeal for her, and then he was there, and Capri had seemed much better. For a brief time, Capri had been fun, pleasurable. Now, Capri was her ordeal once more, even worse than before.

Had Gavin Tremaine ever existed at all? Was Gavin a phantom, a psychic projection of something she secretly wanted? Something that she would never have? Had she imagined him? Could a man like Gavin Tremaine exist in real life? Handsome, polite, foreign, rich and very, very interested in her? And not in any fake, sleazy way. He listened to what she said. He really wanted to hear her. He seemed to understand. Nobody ever did that.

She spotted Gavin in the grand hotel lobby, his phone to his ear.

Gavin Tremaine seemed to wander when he used his mobile. He careened around the hotel lobby like a sleepwalker.

Gavin took notice of her and slipped his phone into his pocket. Then, he walked over to her.

“So,” he told her, rocking back and forth on his heels, “that was this head honcho of the Congress staff. Signora Babi Gervasi seems to value your services pretty highly.”

Farfalla blinked. “Yes?”

“Signora Gervasi just gave me a talking-to about running off with her translation staffer in the middle of her conference. I was going to invite you to Anacapri, to look for the professor’s museum, because that sounded like fun. I’m not supposed to do that, though.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. Where is the professor?”

“The old lady went up to her bedroom to fetch her walking shoes. That was some time ago. I don’t know what’s keeping her.”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Farfalla, though she had her suspicions. “So, do we go to the Congress now? I hate to disappoint Professor Milo, after what you said to her. She’s a guest, and doesn’t speak Italian, or even have a computer. She’s not like us, she’s helpless.”

Gavin caught her eye. “Look, tell me something. Do you really know the Culture Minister of Brazil? You know him personally?”

“
Eu sei falar Português.
⁸
Yes, I know him. I worked as his translator. Three times.” Farfalla knew that she should shut her mouth at that point, but she couldn’t do that. She looked up into his trusting, open face. “I can’t tell you that I ‘know’ the Minister. He probably doesn’t remember me.”

“Oh,” grinned Gavin Tremaine, “if
you
were his translator, I’m sure he remembers
.
I thought that maybe your boss was handing me a line there... but if you do know this Brazilian honcho, that changes things.”

“What does it change?”

“Well, look, it’s like this. Signora Gervasi just told me, very politely, that if I need your services, then I have to hire you. Because she knows that’s not possible. There’s no way that I can legally hire an Italian, because it takes two months to get through all the Italian paperwork. See, that was her nice Italian way of telling me to buzz off.”

“Do Italians do things like that, Gavin?” It was the first time she had called him “Gavin.” His name tumbled off her lips, as if she’d been saying his name for years. She could almost taste his name. It has a strong American taste, like hot dog mustard.

“Italians pull that stuff constantly! They use their complicated legal system as a trade barrier... It’s impossible to get through, it’s worse than airport security! So I can’t hire you right now — but get this. I can hire you
three months ago.”

“How do you do
that
?”

“Because I’m an accountant, that’s how I do it. You do have a fiscal code, right?”