Die Once More

by Amy Plum

  “I am needed here,” Gold says. “Plus, it’s your kindred and their guérisseur that we need to consult with. You are the natural choice for a liaison.”

  “We will need to be accompanied, of course,” Ava says, a soupçon of alarm showing through her mask of self-control. She doesn’t want to be alone with me. Once again, I wonder what I possibly could have done to offend this woman.

  “Of course, three is always better even if no one is volant,” Gold agrees. “It has been suggested that Faustino go with you. But let’s limit the number. I don’t want to make a big deal of it and possibly alert our enemies to our movements. This wedding is the perfect cover for our fact-finding mission.”

  Gold nods, like his job is now over. He looks back and forth between us. “Well?” he asks. “You better get your stuff together. I reserved your plane for six a.m. That gives you exactly”—he pulls his shirtsleeve back and inspects a large gold wristwatch—“two hours until you need to leave for JFK. I’d get packing if I were you.”

  “Two hours?” I exclaim. “Why the rush if you’re chartering a plane?”

  “Why wait?” Gold challenges. “Ava’s got her work cut out for her. The more research she can do before our Paris kindred are completely distracted by wedding festivities, the better.”

  “Don’t you think we ought to talk to Gaspard first?” I ask, my final plea to get out of this mess.

  “Yes, of course,” Gold says, and pulls a phone out of his pocket. He taps a button and holds it up to his ear.

  I hear Gaspard yell, “Oui, allo?” at his phone, and picture him holding it out at arm’s distance like he always does.

  “Gaspard, my dear, it’s Theo. Everything’s going according to plan: Ava and Jules, plus one of our kindred accompanying,” Gold says, looking smug.

  “They’re coming!” I hear Gaspard yell in French on the other end, resulting in a scream that could only be Charlotte in freak-out mode. Now there’s no way of backing out, I think, my heart dropping.

  Gold turns away from us to continue the conversation with Gaspard, and I look toward Ava, who wears an expression of feigned boredom. “Is he always this pushy?” I ask.

  Ava crosses her arms and rolls her eyes. “You have no idea.”

  SIX

  THE PLANE TRIP IS INTERMINABLE. THERE ARE times when I wish revenants could sleep, and this is definitely one of them. Gold chartered a four-person jet, which would normally be sufficient, but the way things are going, I wish we were on a jumbo, with rows and rows of empty seats between us.

  Once he got over the shock that he’d been tapped to go to Paris, Faust had just enough time to get his hands on a French guidebook, and began practicing phrases on me as soon as the plane took off.

  We’re two hours into the flight and he’s still on, “Où est la gare?”

  “Faust, you’re not going to need a train station,” I moan.

  He nods and flips through to another page. “Voulez-vous dîner avec moi ce soir?”

  “What is this?” I ask, and pluck the book out of his grasp. The chapter is entitled, “Relationships and Dating.” I toss it back to him, and, leaning my head back against the headrest, wearily respond, “You’re not going to pick up a French girl by asking her out to dinner. You’ve got to begin with compliments. Start with something safe: her eyes. Her smile.”

  I feel little darts of hatred piercing my skin, and turn to where Ava sits ensconced behind a laptop. She has been pointedly ignoring us the whole time, but now she’s giving me a look of unadulterated disgust.

  “What?” I ask, throwing my hands up in frustration. I don’t understand what this woman’s problem is with me.

  She just shakes her head and goes back to typing. A pencil is tucked behind her ear, lending her appearance the slightest hint of naughty librarian. Interesting. Stop it, Jules, I chide. This girl is dangerous.

  I look back to Faust, who has jotted down a note on the dating page, Eyes. Smile. He closes the book and taps it impatiently with his pencil.

  “Speaking of smiling, I don’t get why you’re not supposed to smile in public,” he said, leaning back in his seat, his hands folded behind his head, displaying triceps that rival Ambrose’s.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask.

  “It’s in the etiquette rules chapter,” he says.

  “Why on earth are you worried about French rules of etiquette?”

  “It’s my first time outside the United States, besides Mexico,” he responds. “I want to do this right.”

  I sigh. “You’ll probably be with kindred most of the time, but okay. What does it say?”

  I reach for the book, but he puts a hand out to stop me. “No, no. I’ve got it memorized.” He tips his head back, stares at the ceiling, and begins counting on his index. “One. When you go into a shop, say ‘Bonjour, monsieur’ or ‘Bonjour, madame’ as soon as you step through the door, and ‘au revoir’ when you leave.”

  He glances over at me. I nod. “Common courtesy,” I say.

  He adds his middle finger. “Two. You’re expected to order one drink per hour in a café—you can’t just sit there all day on one drink.”

  “That’s an approximation,” I say, “but yeah, it’s kind of like renting a table.”

  He nods, satisfied. “There are about ten others. They all pretty much made sense. Except for the smiling one. It said you’re not supposed to walk around with a smile on your face, and I quote, ‘American style.’ What’s up with that?”

  “Okay, New Yorkers excepted, most Americans smile a lot more than the typical European. And in Paris, people will think you’re either mental or stupid if you’re just wandering around smiling when there’s nothing specific to smile about,” I say, flipping through a travel magazine.

  “But what if I’m happy?”

  I glance up to see if he’s joking. He’s not. “Then grin, but don’t show teeth.”

  “Seriously, dude?”

  “Seriously.”

  The closer we get to Paris, the jumpier I become, and unable to listen to Faust anymore, I signal the end of the conversation by closing my eyes. And with the lights out, up on my mind’s screen pops Kate. I see her face in a film reel of scenes from our shared past: her expression of fear when I grabbed her arm outside Vincent’s room the day she found him dormant. Her innocent wonder when I drew her portrait in the café and told her she was beautiful. And the look on her face at the airport when I told her I wasn’t coming back to France because I was in love with her. Astonishment. Disappointment. Sadness. All the emotions in a few seconds of reruns.

  I skip over the scene where we kissed; I can’t even think of that one without the bottom dropping out of me. I focus on when I saw her last: in Paris during the battle against the numa. She hugged me and asked me to stay. Her touch filled me with everything I had been longing for. I had to force myself to break away and run straight back to America so I wouldn’t have to see her again. And here I am, halfway across the ocean on my way back to her.

  My stomach twists, and I feel sick. I walk over to the minibar and get myself a tonic water. I grab two Perriers, throw one to Faust, and bring the other to Ava. I set it in the slot in her armrest and plop down in the chair closest hers. I don’t care if she despises me. I need a distraction.

  Ava ignores me as much as you can with someone sitting three feet away from you.

  “What are you writing?” I ask.

  “Article,” she replies.

  “On what?” I insist. Since her distaste for me has been established, and I no longer care about making a good impression, there’s something deeply gratifying in forcing her to speak to me when she so clearly doesn’t want to.

  “Art,” she says, struggling to keep her eyes on the screen.

  “Art. Hmm. Wow, that covers a rather broad range of topics. Are we talking contemporary, old master, medieval? Performance, sculpture, painting, video? Movements, schools, individuals? Art’s place in society, politics and art, gender and art
. . .”

  “Celebrity as commodity in Warhol’s portrait series,” she says, expecting that to shut me up.

  It doesn’t. “And you’re writing this for . . .”

  “ARTNews magazine,” she says, tapping her finger and glaring at me, as if to ask when the inquisition will be over.

  “I assume you’re not writing it under your own name?” I prod, genuinely curious now. A lock of wavy hair has fallen down from her pencil perch, and I have the strangest urge to push it back behind her ear. Strange, because I’m sure that if I tried, she would bite my finger off.

  She sighs and pushes her laptop an inch away, leaning back in her chair. “I publish under various pseudonyms, each of which is an established, but reclusive, authority in their respective artists. Jemima Hoskins, aka me, just happens to be the leading expert on Warhol in the sixties.”

  “Doesn’t hurt that you were there,” I say.

  She lets a small smile slip and nods. And as her mask dissolves, I can see her the way her kindred do. She is beautiful. Unique. Magnetic. I can see why Warhol latched onto her, like he did with other offbeat beauties of the day. She pushes the lock of hair behind her ear. Thank God. My impulse disappears and my finger is safe. But her magnetic pull remains.

  “You’ve got an insider’s view on the early days of the Factory,” I continue. “There aren’t too many people around who can claim to have that.”

  She shakes her head. “Almost everyone’s gone.”

  Now that this door has cracked open, I want to push it further. I want to know this girl. I lean forward, genuinely intrigued. “What were they like? Was it a hotbed of creativity like we had in Paris at the Bateau-Lavoir? Were they as crazy and debauched as the stories say, or was it all a legend to build up the Warhol myth?”

  About halfway through my question, Ava’s face changes. A memory flickers across her features—I see a flash of vulnerability before she turns back to stone. “Crazy. Debauched. Take your pick,” she says, pulling her computer to her and positioning its screen between us like a shield. “Everyone wants to relive the glory days of the Factory. I, for one, am glad they’re over.”

  And that is it. Door shut. End of conversation. End of communication. All the way to Paris.

  SEVEN

  THEY’RE WAITING FOR US IN THE PRIVATE PLANE terminal: Ambrose is a huge, hulking form coming at me for a crushing embrace, and Charlotte’s a sparkling ball of effervescence, hopping up and down like popcorn and grabbing me around the neck as soon as Ambrose lets go.

  “You’re here!” she squeals, and then does the jumping thing some more, practically dislocating my neck in the process.

  “Couldn’t miss the big day,” I say, although that’s exactly what I had been planning to do. I glance over at Ava, and she’s pure cynicism. She knows I’m full of shit. She strides up to Ambrose and holds her hand out.

  “Ava Whitefoot,” she says.

  Ambrose smiles his million-dollar smile and says, “Damn, I miss that accent. Raised in New York?”

  “Long Island,” Ava responds, and matches his smile watt for watt. And I have to admit: It looks truly genuine. Ava is a people person, except, it seems, when it comes to me.

  Charlotte detaches herself from my neck and turns to give Ava the bises, leaning up slightly to reach the taller girl’s cheeks. “I’m Charlotte. I don’t think we’ve met.”

  “I don’t go to convocations,” Ava explains. “I’m a bit of a hermit. Prefer not to wander far from home.”

  “Well, we’re honored you came all this way for our wedding,” Charlotte says, and sticks out her hand for me to inspect the elaborate emerald-and-diamond ring on her left hand.

  “Renaissance?” I ask.

  “Yes,” she says fondly. “Ambrose chose it from the treasury.”

  “It’s exquisite,” Ava remarks, looking from the ring to Charlotte’s face. “It matches your eyes.” She smiles, and the connection is palpable: A new friendship has been born.

  Meanwhile, Faust has walked up to Ambrose, and they do a testosterone-charged handshake that makes all their arm muscles bulge. “Faustino Molinaro,” Faust says. “Nine eleven.”

  Ambrose whistles, impressed. “Fire, police, EMT?” he asks.

  “New York City Fire Department, Ladder Company Three,” Faust replies.

  Ambrose clasps Faust by the shoulder and says, “Man, we’re honored to have you here. True American hero.”

  “Not any more than you, from what I’ve heard,” Faust replies. “World War I, first African-American tank battalion. Took out an entire German guard post single-handedly. Man, you’re legend among the kindred back home.”

  Ambrose laughs. “This is home now. And if I get any time off from wedding preparations”—he throws a worried glance at Charlotte, who gives him a happy smile and blows him a kiss—“I’ll be happy to show you around.”

  Ambrose grabs an overstuffed suitcase—Gold has sent gifts for the couple and books for Gaspard. I pick up my own bag and reach for Ava’s.

  “I’ve got it,” she says crisply, and, taking the bag from me, follows Ambrose and Faust out the door.

  Charlotte raises her eyebrows at me and whispers, “Are all New York girls tough like her?”

  I put my arm around her, bury my nose in her hair, and breathe in that spring-fresh Charlotte smell. My sister. My kindred. “I don’t know about tough,” I say, “but they’re scary as hell.”

  We pull up to La Maison. The high walls and solid metal entry gates block the view of what lies inside. Then Ambrose buzzes them open, and it’s like we’re driving into a fairyland. The garden’s trees are decorated with tiny glimmering lights, and white and green garlands have been hung atop the massive double front doors.

  “Welcome to Wedding Disney,” Ambrose jokes, but his expression is one of pure enjoyment. He parks the car next to the fountain, where someone has crowned the angel statue with a flowered head-wreath.

  “There’s still almost two weeks till the wedding,” I say, gesturing at a newly built pagoda with a mountain of chairs stacked inside.

  “They got started a month ago. It’s mainly Kate and Gaspard going crazy with the decorations, although he pretends he’s not as excited as he is,” says Ambrose, throwing a love-struck glance toward Charlotte, who is beaming.

  I clap him on the back. “Man, I’m really happy for you,” I say, and mean it with all my heart. Ambrose and Charlotte found love. Like Vincent and Kate. I never thought I’d say it but they . . . they are the lucky ones.

  The doors fly open, and Jeanne bursts through, arms wide, heading straight for me. “Mon petit Jules,” she cries. “You have come back.”

  “Just for the wedding,” I say, but can’t help melting in her maternal arms. Jeanne is the one human presence in La Maison. Her grandmother was the housekeeper when I arrived, and then her mother cared for us as if we were her own. But it is Jeanne who stole my heart. Who acts like a mother hen although I’m a half century older than her.

  “You left without saying good-bye,” she scolds, and then, when I can’t find an easy reply, gives me a look of pity that suggests that she knows exactly why I’ve stayed away. She’s probably known this whole time.

  She lowers her voice, although no one is listening. “I had her go run some errands. That will give you some time to get settled before you have to see her,” she confides.

  Yep. She’s known this whole time.

  “Thank you,” I respond, not even pretending that I don’t know what she’s talking about.

  Jeanne nods with satisfaction. She knows that I know that she knows. Which means she can take care of me. Which is exactly what she wants.

  Charlotte is leading Ava and Faust into the house, and I follow. Jeanne bustles in behind us, organizing everyone. “Jules, dear, you have your old room, and Mademoiselle Whitefoot and Monsieur Molinaro can stay in the east wing,” she instructs.

  Gaspard appears at the top of the double stairway, wearing an ancient silk waistcoat and a co
tton shirt with enormous open cuffs over a pair of high-waisted dress pants. “Jeanne, I really don’t think period dress is necessary except for the bride and groom,” he calls, as he fiddles with a cufflink. And then he looks up and sees us.

  His crazy gray-threaded black hair sticks up as if electrified—as per norm—and an uncharacteristic broad smile spreads across his face. “You’re here,” he says to me, and makes his way down the stairs. “We didn’t expect you for another half hour. Traffic must have been light.”

  “No, but Ambrose was driving,” quips Charlotte, provoking a stranglehold bear hug from her fiancé.

  “You must be Mademoiselle Whitefoot,” says Gaspard, holding a hand out to Ava. But I miss the rest of that introduction, because in from the next room walks Vincent. And his eyes are fixed on me. There’s an expression on his face that I can’t read, and am not sure I want to. Anger? Disappointment? Betrayal?

  Although we spoke briefly on the battlefield, there were other things vying for our attention. Like swinging swords. And flying arrows. I said good-bye when I left. Told him I couldn’t stay. But there was blood on our skin and ash on our faces, and I didn’t even look him in the eye.

  No, the last time we talked—truly communicated—was at the airport in New York. When I told him I was in love with his girlfriend and that it was tearing me apart to see them together. I admitted to my disloyalty. And then abandoned him.

  Ignoring the others, he walks straight up to me, eyes burning, and I think for a moment that he’s going to hit me. Punch me right in the face. But instead he grabs me and wraps me in his arms, squeezing the breath out of me. And speaking quietly enough that the others can’t hear he says, “All’s forgotten. There’s nothing left to say. I’m just glad you’re back. We missed you. All of us.”

  EIGHT

  WALKING INTO MY ROOM IS LIKE TRAVELING back in time. It’s like nothing ever happened to drive me away. I breathe in the paper-and-ink smell of my workspace and realize how much I’ve missed my home. I brush my fingertips over my drafting table and know how much I love my kindred. I belong here, not in New York City. What the hell is wrong with me? I think, as I stretch out on my time-worn couch in the middle of my attic room. Surely this thing with Kate isn’t traumatic enough to keep me from all of this. My mind wanders and I begin to relax, cocooned in the safety of the familiar surroundings.