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  But only a few days after she was born, her mother, the Lady Delice, gathered her silks in a handbag and declared the rest of her belongings as “moldy rinds unfit for bovine society.” As she left, she announced that she would move to Paris, to pursue a career in the picture business. She would be featured in crowd scenes of biblical stories on stained-glass windows, paintings of coronation ceremonies, and, if she made the right connections, a starring role on a clamshell. As she tromped to her carriage, she said she planned to never return.

  When Monsieur Vouvray asked her to think of the well-being of their newborn daughter, the lady flushed, walked from the carriage back to Monsieur Vouvray, at the door, and slapped him across the chin. Then she whirled on her heel, whipping him with her tresses, and melodramatically mounted the carriage once again. As the coachman gathered his harnesses, she allowed one delicate tear to roll down her profile. And with a soliloquacious flounce, she said, “Of course, you wouldn’t understand, Pierre. I’m doing this for Chloe most of all.” True to her word, she never returned.

  From then on, young Chloe was the lady of the house. That is, until the next time I saw her at the age of seventeen. I’ll get to that in a minute.

  UNABLE TO REMEMBER her mother at all, Vouvray’s daughter, Chloe, had never tasted the bitter draught of mourning. Everyone she knew was healthy. Even her goldfish had miraculously survived for some five years now. She was at that age when they wear sundresses and run around hillsides making things out of wildflowers. She was as blithe as a bee, as bonny as a bunny.

  She made Pierre sit cross-legged on the lawn for all to see, at the tree stump, which served as the mademoiselle’s parlor table. And on Saturday evenings, the resident genius of France could be found in the glen just behind his house, employing his vast talent with a sewing needle to making dandelion tiaras for his daughter and her favorite goose.

  Meanwhile, at the age of three, Giacomo did nothing but climb the tallest trees he could find, sit in the highest branches, and weep.

  Chloe and Giacomo, of course, barely knew the other existed. Sure, Pierre would refer to “Giovanni and that illiterate whelp,” and Giovanni would mention, “That poor, poor little girl, whose only crime is in her blood,” but that’s not much to go on.

  To be honest, even I didn’t know they would become, you know, “star-crossed,” as they say — struck by love’s killing shot. By the time they were teenagers, anyone would have assumed they were just plain incompatible.

  Giacomo slowly recovered from that day I met him, and he became a little rowdy at the age of fifteen, a classic Cortonan. His father and he lived like boars. If they wanted to eat nothing but panforte and prosciutto for dinner, they would. If the inspiration struck, they would paint at four in the morning. The old women of the town treated them like free labor, calling them over to mend chicken coops, set the stone wheels of the olive presses into their nocks. They were paid, anyway, in cookies and jam. They were the brother and uncle every little girl needed in order to feel safe walking in the woods. His father had wild tufts of hair on his back, and someday so would Giacomo. They laughed in the cathedral and startled the gargoyles off their slumbering haunches. They weren’t ashamed to weep like babies at the playhouse tragedies, holding on to each other and blubbering louder than the chorus. Each thought he could outrun the other.

  Chloe certainly wasn’t rowdy. If I had one word, I’d say she had the tendency to be a little cloudy. Opaque. Hard to tell what she was thinking behind that sweet smile. And you know, she never once mentioned how she felt about her mom leaving. That was sort of odd. It goes without saying that a young girl abandoned by her mother bore some immeasurable sadness. But wherever it was, growing inside young Chloe over the years, it was not in her smile.

  Each year she was the lady beside her father at the winter ballet, at first in a little velvet coat, reaching up to hold his hand, then later in a long white cape, reaching gracefully down to twine her arm around his. That last winter, when she was seventeen, Mademoiselle Chloe looked impossibly beautiful. Her blond hair, like safflowers, peeked from under the snowy blanket of her white hood. Her lips like red poppies, her eyes like blue bonnets, were all in perfect bloom, all flowers even the brilliant Pierre could never hope to re-create.

  Pierre had his annual smile unfurled for the public as he strode into the hall in his tuxedo, an organdy oleander on his lapel, to match his daughter’s coat.

  So you may have already noticed a few problems with this story. First of all, Giacomo in Italy could not possibly have attended the winter ballet that year, when every man in the Loire Valley plummeted into desperate love for Chloe. Second, Giacomo was a boorish fifteen, while Chloe was a regal seventeen. If you don’t know the massive difference between those two ages, then you’ve never been to high school. Even if he had been there, Giacomo would no doubt have irritated the entire theater, guffawing good-naturedly like any groundling at a penny-scribe comedy.

  So then, what good is a love story where the star-crossed lovers aren’t even in the same room? Or even in the same country? And what’s more, if they actually met, they probably wouldn’t even like each other? I’ll tell you. But this is where it gets a little complicated, so bear with me.

  The thing is, to be “star-crossed,” you have to start on opposite ends of the universe. You have to give yourself up to some purposeful arc hurtling you through years of black lonely space. You have to burn with some fire that doesn’t burn you up, but doesn’t let you shuffle inertly along either. And when you see that other star flying at you from the other side of the sky, you have to smash into it with a violent force that absolutely disintegrates your old self and becomes some new composite, some creation the world has never seen. The incompatible parts shuffle off, like so much drifting space dust. Insecurities, overdeveloped prides and humilities, forgotten manners, they’re like the pockmark craters on a meteor. And at the moment of impact, they are filled to completion with the earth of that other star, like the two of you were made to collide.

  But they had to get to each other first. And this hadn’t happened yet, not before the night of Chloe’s seventeenth winter ballet, which, I’m sorry to say, was also the night I saw her again. Like any of them, I fell in love a little, too. So I was just as heart-struck when in the middle of the third act, she passed away.

  WHEN CHLOE ENTERED that recital hall, and the pre-curtain hubbub turned to ravished silence at the sight of her, no one could have guessed that a vastly improbable clerical error would take her life before any of them left the auditorium.

  I guess it was just one of those nights. Outside, flecks of snow drifted in the air like confetti, reflecting moonlight and imparting everything and everyone with the importance of slow-motion and gloss. Within, the theater’s balconies were made of chestnut and brass, and its seats were red velvet. As you walked into the grand hall, it seemed like walking in from the bluish night toward a coddling fire.

  That night the Saint Petersburg Dance Company was presenting its star, Maximoff Vladinsky, to all of France. His pirouettes were of such legendary beauty that Russian doctors began prescribing his performances for melancholics, impish babies, and infertile women. His body was an elfin ornament. His leaps made gazelles look clumsy. They called him Vlad the Regaler. The crowd was frothing.

  But that night’s performance of The Winter Mouse was in fact supposed to be Maximoff’s last on earth. At the very climax, when the title character (played by Vlad, of course) was rescuing the Summer Mouse from the halls of the Mountain Queen, a cord was to snap high in the rafters. That fateful rope would be the one that fastened the Mountain Queen’s gemstone chandelier, which the set designer had made with candles situated inside a giant mobile made of none other than Giovanni’s painted marbles. The magnificent prop would fall on top of the Russian star at the crest of a spinning leap. The candle flames and Vlad’s elaborate mouse costume would combust in a sudden flash and vaporize the dancer, leaving nothing but a pair of ballet shoes and the thi
mble and wire they had used for the nose and whiskers. It would become instant theatrical folklore. For years the term “Russian roulette” would involve dancing around a candle and spitting mouthfuls of vodka at the flame. The audience would actually give it a standing ovation, for fear of not appreciating what might have been an eccentric interpretation of the piece by the genius performer.

  I reread the Recovery Notice. It said:

  Item No.: 23-M62vtr

  Modus Mori: Lights out

  Comments: A fan favorite, center-stage beauty goes out with a flash. Could involve overtime for multiple faintings and collective loss of wills to live.

  Don’t blame me. The filing department insists on coding everything. I just show up where it tells me to and wait for something to go “legs up.” It ain’t exactly brain surgery. Actually, sometimes it is brain surgery.

  Well, I slogged my way to the theater feeling like I’d been warmed over. I got there around the end of act 2. During the intermission, I saw Chloe, who was indisputably the center of everyone’s attention. The concession clerks and stagehands stared openly. The ladies of the court twittered with envious peeking. A few musketeers laughed especially loudly at all their own jokes and stole glances to see if she was paying attention to their charm. She was truly lovely. And not just lovely, but lively.

  No one seemed to notice the sadness perched in Chloe’s heart, singing her a low and constant song about one thing: her mother. Chloe had long since forgiven the selfish woman. But on nights like the winter ballet, when all of French society seemed to be in one building, she couldn’t help but scan the mezzanine or perk up every time she heard an overplayed chortle. She was as silent about her feelings as a porcelain doll. Everyone was content to stare at her.

  I can’t say I did any better. Maybe it was the mulled wine (I’ve always been a cheap date), but I spent the entire time in the corner with a hobo from the standing room, both of us gawking at her. She had this freckle right next to her lip; it twitched like her father’s mustache whenever she was annoyed.

  Anyway, the bell rang. Chloe and Pierre went back to their balcony. Soon Vlad would prance out for his grand finale.

  The battle of the Winter Mouse and the Mountain Queen was at its height. The oboist and the cellist were dueling in the orchestra pit to parallel the action. Even the great Maximoff seemed to feel the magic of the night. He outshone even his own reputation. He crossed the entire stage in two leaps. The Mountain Queen staggered to keep up, to dodge his whipping tail and slash him with her manicured and murderous mole claws.

  As they circled around the stage, the flickering candles, shining through Babbo Giovanni’s painted marbles, created a kaleidoscope of spotlights. It made the dancers look like animated stained glass, like a cinéma fantastique.

  Overhead, a cord began fraying. In the jumble of ropes up there, I couldn’t tell which of the chandeliers it was attached to, but I was expecting the marble one to smash the dude center stage, ’cause that’s what the note said. I looked at it again; all it said was “Lights out.” Made sense. I looked over at Chloe, leaning forward in the balcony, enthralled by the show. The cord was down to its last few strands. The oboist was red in the face, in the midst of a frantic solo. Vlad was regaling them. Another strand snapped. I almost missed the moment ’cause I was staring at the stage waiting for it. Instead, the crystal house unit all the way in the back of the ceiling lurched forward a few feet.

  The Mountain Queen was the first to notice. She stopped dancing, gasped, and pointed at the chandelier. Vlad looked up too, with a choking feeling in his throat, as if he felt his time was up. The whole crowd turned to see the lighting unit swaying precariously on a final taut cord.

  The only person unaware was Chloe, with her elbows on the wooden rail, a dreamy expression on her face, as though she didn’t need the show to go on in order to see the rest of the story. The final strand broke, and the chandelier came swinging over the third-floor balcony like a jungle man. A musketeer screamed like a balladeer. That got Chloe’s attention. She looked at the crowd. They were all staring at something behind her. She turned. The chandelier was shrieking toward her. She stood just in time.

  The chandelier sent her sailing over the balcony. I swear to you, for a split second she was suspended up there on the power of everyone in the room wishing the same thing. Then she fell.

  When she landed, the oboist passed out as well. In his alarm, he had held his piercing high note too long and had lost too much air.

  At that very moment, thousands of miles away, young Giacomo’s heart clenched so tightly that he crashed to the floor, sending a tray of tempered glass into the air. Shards rained down on him as he fell like pieces of a chandelier. In the silent theater, Pierre was crippled with an unthinkable thought. He cowered away from the balcony.

  I smoothed out the notice I had crushed in my fist. Center stage? Yeah, once everyone turned around. Fan favorite? She had more suitors than Savile Row. Lights out? That’s not even funny.

  I walked over to her body. Everyone thought I was an usher trying to help. They crowded around. Her spirit sat up, and I introduced myself. She noticed that I wasn’t wearing black. I told her pink brings out the autumn tones in my skin. No one could see her incorporeal form get up to leave with me. No one noticed me as I wove back out through the crowd.

  I pretty much flubbed it from there. The elevator ride isn’t all that long. And I’ve seen cute girls before; it wasn’t just that. I couldn’t figure out what to do with my hands. She was so calm, and I was so sweaty, you’d think I was the one with blunt-force trauma. I’d never met anyone so at ease. . . . I usually get people at their blathering worst. She was almost silent to a fault. She had this freckle right next to her right eye. . . .

  The elevator doors finally opened on the waiting room and Eudora, who’s the preternaturally chipper lady at the help desk. Dora has a cherubic face, with curly hair that looks like a baby’s before its first haircut. The waiting room itself is pretty standard. You got your uncomfortable seats, pictures of Jesus, Highlights magazine, and Eudora at her desk, dressed in a cardigan. She also likes to keep an old typewriter around, so when people walk in, they can hear the clacking of the keys. She says it soothes them. Plus it keeps her busy.

  “Dora, my dear,” I said as Chloe and I walked in.

  “Hieee!” said Dora, in a pitch close to dog whistle. When she looked up from typing, she gasped at the sight of Chloe in her white opera dress. “Oh, honey,” she cooed. “Is that dreamy skin or what? Did you moisturize every ten minutes? What do you bathe in, Lon Lon Milk, ambergris, tears of the unicorn?” All these years and Dora can still small-talk.

  “Sit down,” she said. “Wait, no, is that silk? Will it wrinkle? Oh, that is just too stunning to wrinkle.” She had her hand on her heart as she talked, deeply worried for the silk.

  “Thank you,” whispered Chloe. “My dad made it.”

  “Well, honey, your daddy is a genie,” said Dora. She got up and scooted around her desk, taking Chloe by the arm like they were best friends. Dora was overjoyed to have a gal pal for a couple of minutes, before processing her ticket.

  Dora took a breath. But she couldn’t contain her delight and made this suppressed squealing sound. “You know what I’ve heard,” she said with a conspiratorial look in either direction. “I’ve heard — I know it’s weird but — polenta, that’s what I heard. It’s all the nutrients. Midwives sell it to aristocrats now. Smoothes wrinkles, everything. Seal blubber, too. But I could never do that. That’s cruel.” Chloe looked around the room, probably wondering if all of eternity was going to be like this.

  I was happy just to sit down for a couple of minutes. I don’t know how long I was out, but by the time I jolted up at the sound of the ticker printing out my next pickup, Dora was back at her desk and Chloe was asleep in a chair with her hair braided.

  I grabbed the ticket (shipwreck, shark feast), and Dora said, “We’ve got a problem.”

  “You ran out of
scrunchies?”

  She usually gives a courtesy laugh but not this time. She looked at me, scared almost, and said, “She’s a sleeper.”

  That’s shoptalk. Being a sleeper (as in: alive) means you’re a mulligan, a refund. It meant I had no business picking her up instead of Vlad. It meant she was all dressed up and no place to croak. She had to go back, wake up, and talk about having one of those experiences while everybody pawed at her to make sure she was real. It meant she had just become a bureaucratic nightmare.

  Dora was still trying to find the E-73 Return Forms, which we only use once every thousand years. Meanwhile the tickets were printing nonstop. Dora finally found the form and started the paperwork right away. I had to get back to work. But to Chloe’s credit, she was real nice about the mix-up. It was sort of weird, actually. She didn’t even complain. For the next several hours, I rushed in and out with different fares. Chloe flipped through the magazines, listened to the drowned sailors talk about mermaids, never had the kind of conniption some women have over a messed-up salad. I think she had the opposite flaw. She just took it in stride. I kept apologizing, but she didn’t seem all that bothered by it. And she had this freckle right below her elbow . . . but that doesn’t have anything to do with anything.

  Still, you don’t get a three-day turnaround on that kind of thing unless you’re seriously connected. When you factor in all the forms, routing them through the proper channels, and the whole time difference, then you see why Chloe’s processing took so long. To her it seemed like a week. In France it was two long, fallow years.