Love Is Strange (A Paranormal Romance)

by Bruce Sterling

  “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?”

  “My codice fiscale? Of course!” She’d had to memorize all sixteen letters and digits.

  “That’s great. Well, you won’t be working for me. You’ll be working for a Seattle venture capital firm – Cook, Bishop & Engleman. They’re my associates. My firm always has some Italian paperwork filed — we call them our ‘ghost employees.’ So, when the time comes that we need somebody local around here, we just file a ‘correction’ on the Italian form that we already filed. Then that ‘ghost employee’ turns into a real person. That real person would be you.”

  “I see. You’re very clever.”

  “No, I’m not. Not really. I learned that trick from the Italians — from those Web boys over at LOXY. The Italians know all the back doors through their own hiring system — that’s the whole point of being Italian. But that’ll work, all right. And it’s totally legal, too. That’s the best part. There’s nothing crooked going on here, I promise. I am offering you a real, legal job. You can declare the income on your Italian taxes. You can put it on your resume. ‘Farfalla Corrado, Senior Trade Consultant for Cook, Bishop & Engleman,’ that would be you.” Gavin drew a breath, then paused. “If you’d like to help me out, that is.”

  “Of course I will help you out, Gavin.” The words tumbled out of her before she had time to think. But, well, there it was. Of course, she would help him. It was her life, to help guests and travelers. “What do you want me to do?”

  “I need to have a word with the Brazilian Culture Minister. It’s about electronics. It’s rather technical and boring, but it’s very important for my business in Seattle. I know that the Minister can speak some English, but I need to know, for sure, that he really gets what I’m proposing to him.”

  “All right. If you can find him, I can talk to him.”

  “I’m sure you don’t know too much about obscure electronic circuit boards...”

  “I do,” she said, “I’m from Ivrea.”

  “Of course, electronics are huge in Ivrea. Olivetti was there, I forgot about that... Well, wow, that’s so totally perfect! It’s amazing, the caliber of fine people you can meet at Italian tech conferences. There is really a kind of cool synergy happening here. I should go to more of these gigs.”

  “I go to too many,” she sighed.

  “Well, I came to this one just to meet the Minister. The rest of this gig, I can improvise. Except for my own speech, of course. I sure don’t want to blow that one.”

  “I can help with your speech,” she promised. Not in ways he would ever expect — but, well, yes. She could help him.

&n
bsp; “I don’t want to break my word,” he said. “Professor Milo needs help, don’t you think? No computer! I can’t get over that. She reminds me so much of my grandmother.”

  “Your grandmother never used a computer?”

  “Well, my grandma was from Seattle, so she used to program for Boeing. But my grandmother — well, she always doted on me. I mean, my mother’s mother. She just lavished her affection on me. She adored me. I took her completely for granted. When I was eleven, she died.” Gavin sighed. “You know how kids are. Kids can never look far ahead. Just as they can’t look far back.”

  Farfalla gazed into his eyes. He was sincere. This strange man felt the loss deep in his heart — true grief — for something that had happened so long ago. “You loved your grandmother?”

  “I never really knew her. I found it all out later, researching my family history. My mother’s mom worked on the Seattle World’s Fair. She could program in FORTRAN. She worked for Boeing, building fighter jets. An amazing woman and I never knew any of that! I just thought she was my nice grandma who made me snickerdoodle cookies.” Gavin’s brow was knotted. “I hate it when I overlook the obvious. She mattered, and I failed to see that.”

  Farfalla felt her defenses melt away. All four of her grandparents were still alive. And the thought of seeing any of them filled her with dread. Italy was full of miserable, old people. Italians under thirty were fleeing in every direction because of them. She really couldn’t stand the sight of her grandparents, and here was this guy who loved his grandmother so much that his heart was bleeding.

  She sensed — she knew — that every promise she made him meant future trouble for her. She should not reach out to this man, because he would reach back. And grip her with those strong, needy hands.

  Farfalla could help foreigners in Italy. That was how she lived. It was herself that she could never help. Because she was always a foreigner, and she always would be a foreigner, no matter where she stood. No matter what space, or what time.

  Gavin gave her a look of sudden concern. “Look, Farfalla — don’t let me make a lot of trouble for you, all right? I’ll try not to interfere with your regular gig at the Congress. I know that you came here to work.”

  Farfalla shrugged. “I am used to trouble.” She was in so much trouble already. More than he would ever know.

  “Your Signora Gervasi there might be a tad annoyed when she realizes that I pulled a fast one on her.”

  “Oh, I’ll take care of Signora Gervasi,” Farfalla promised, keeping her face neutral.

  “Officially you won’t get paid for eight weeks. I’m sorry, but the international money transfer part is just hopeless. So, I’ll just have to front you some cash to get you going.”

  “How much?” chirped Farfalla.

  Gavin winced. “Oh, Signora Gervasi was very clear about the necessary sums. Let’s have a word with the ATM.”

  Two minutes passed. Just one hundred twenty ticking seconds and everything changed. Farfalla’s outlook on Capri brightened like the sun.

  Because Farfalla had money. Legal money, a legal salary, even! A nice, thick wad of crisp, untouched bills, tucked in her purse next to the pathetically stolen bagels.

  Farfalla glanced up from the secret depths of her purse.

  An otherworldly blush had spread over the tourist island. Capri was a very different place for a girl with money. Capri was a romantic island. Seriously romantic. The shiny storefronts smiled at Farfalla, beckoning her, anxious to serve her, eager to please her.

  The guests at the Futurist Congress, the weirdos wandering the lobby and gabbling in English and Portuguese, they suddenly became nice, normal people. Not distant, scary, rich people. Her own people. She was not a grifter, a drifter, a gypsy, a loser. She belonged here. With him.

  “Oh, there you are, you two!” The professor had arrived. “Are you ready for a little adventure?”

  They took a cab across the island to Anacapri. The two Americans shared a lively interest in the Capri landscape, making a happy fuss about the most everyday things... postal boxes, awnings, doorways... Flowers that they found unusual. People in sunglasses who might be celebrities.

  The narrow streets of the town of Anacapri were full of bewildered tourists. They exited the cab, Gavin opened his map, and a Spanish couple instantly asked them for directions. Then a French kid also asked them for directions, and then, with comic unlikelihood, two Anacapri locals asked them for directions, to find the way inside their own tiny town.

  The locals insisted on poring over Gavin’s English-language map. They corrected it with Gavin’s mechanical pencil. Gavin was extremely patient about this silly ordeal. Gavin Tremaine was keen to adjust every detail.

  “Men and their maps,” the Professor confided, falling into step with Farfalla. “I would have just asked for directions.”

  “He’s not my husband, you know,” Farfalla told her.

  “Oh, I never make a fuss about that. Not here! We’re in Capri!”

  “No, I want to tell you, I just met that man. We are together now, but it’s just an accident.”

  “Matrimonio all’Italiana, that’s as old as the hills!”

  The posh little street had once been a poor island mule-track, narrow, twisty, and wretched. Then, tourism had been invented. Now, the street was jeweled with fancy Italian boutiques. The titans, the great lords of la Moda: Prada, Versace, Bulgari, Valentino.

  Farfalla knew every one of these Italian fashion empires. Each one was built on fear and envy and the ghostly bones of sweatshops, but they were genuine marvels of world civilization.

  Farfalla knew that they were evil, yes, like a vampire tiara of blood diamonds, but there was no such thing as glamour without evil. Glamour with no evil was like that so-called ‘fashion’ from Finland. Like ‘Marimekko’— clean, bright, terrible, stainless Finnish clothing. Farfalla would rather jump off a bridge than wear Marimekko.

  The Professor ignored all the lovely stores and their enticing goods. She headed straight for a beat-up news kiosk.

  This grimy popular news-stand carried racks of magazines in Italian, English, French, German, Arabic, and Japanese. The kiosk also offered shrink-wrapped movies, inflatable beach toys, lighters, tissues, and sleazy pin-up calendars.

  It also had one large rack of mass-market paperback novels. Professor Milo plucked up a fat Italian paperback. The book’s cover was framed in hot pink, with a comely 1930s-style brunette, smiling in winsome soft focus. “Farfalla, dear, what is this book?”

  “That book is a diary. The Intimate Confessions of Claretta Petacci.”

  “How sweet! I must have her for my collection! I’ll take a few of these, too.” Professor Milo plucked up a slew of paperbacks.

  Farfalla paid the kiosk’s bored proprietor, a hairy-eared local in a stained wifebeater shirt, more intent on watching a soccer game than making a sale. This sullen crook didn’t want to change Professor Milo’s 100-Euro bill, but this was Capri, so he had no choice but to cater to the rich.

  Gavin reappeared, the map rustling in his hand. “Did you ladies get lost?”

  “Here,” said Professor Milo, saddling him with her bag of souvenirs.

  Gavin swung the bag of books around the end of his arm. “I’ve found your museum for you.”

  The museum that Professor Milo sought had once been a Capri vacation home built by a dentist. This long-dead American dentist was a Confederate colonel from Louisiana.

  This dentist had taken his riches — he must have been a dentist to the Victorian superstars — and built himself a private castle. The castle was unique, because he’d built it from the scattered remains of ancient Capri.

  This castle of dentistry was braced together from ancient, battered Greek columns, masses of inscribed Roman masonry, and red Roman classical bricks. Glaring medieval peaked windows were set in the castle’s thick walls, more or less at random.

  “So, what style would you call this?” Gavin said to Farfalla.

  “It’s
called ‘American,’” Farfalla told him.

  “I totally love this joint! Let’s go inside!” Gavin bought three tickets.

  Like a yawning mouth, the castle looked much bigger within than it did from the outside. Inside, the Italian-American-Confederate castle had a small but pleasant courtyard, with a tiny, burbling fountain and winding stone stairs.

  A cluster of Chinese tourists were taking snapshots of the Louisiana Colonel’s kidnapped Capri statuary. These antique statues were ancient Roman women — big, thick-hipped, solid-looking Roman supermodels. They had chipped toga drapery and absurdly small heads.

  “I’m on the board of directors of a little museum about this size,” Gavin announced. “The ‘Seattle Pioneers Museum.’”

  “You direct a museum?” said Farfalla.

  “Yeah, I do the books for three museums. Seattle’s full of museums. And their endowments are an absolute mess! Museums never understand seasonal cash-flow and tangible long-lived assets.”

  “Do you like museums, Gavin?”

  “I totally love museums,” said Gavin, eagerly swinging his bag-full of cheap paperbacks. “All this consumer junk that we buy and sell every day — here today, gone tomorrow. The precious things from the past, that we store in museums — that’s what the future will see from us. That’s all that the future will ever see from us.”

  Professor Milo beamed happily at her surroundings. “So, I’m here, at long last! The Colonel who built this palace was a dear friend of the American exile community. Whenever you read old novels set in Capri, the Colonel often shows up. He’s what they call a ‘roman à clef’ figure.”

  “’Roman à clef?’” said Gavin, at once. “I’m not familiar with that term.”

  “It means that he was a real person, who appears inside a novel. He’s an actual, nonfictional person inside a work of fiction. ‘Roman à clef means’ ‘romance with a key’.”

  “Couldn’t an author be sued for doing something like that? That ought to be illegal or something.”

  “Suing someone for her romance novels?” The professor gave a light, little laugh. “Oh, dear me, who would bother, these days?”