All Our Pretty Songs Part 7

The patio is thick now with people, their conversation unintelligible and raucous, rising all around me like a murder of crows. Aurora holds my hand tight and we stare around us at the sea of strangers. Jack is standing at the very edge of the roof, his head down, his face hidden behind his hair. A fat man in a donkey mask runs laughing in and out of the crowd, followed by the girls I saw before, half-naked now and wreathed in grape leaves. I see a man whose torso ends in goat's legs and another crowned in antlers. You are drunk, I tell myself. You are drunk, you are drunk, you are drunk.

Jack strikes another chord, and that terrible audience howls aloud with one voice, the unearthly shriek growing louder and louder until I clap my hands over my ears. The music is a huge and terrifying thing that sends flights of dark birds spinning into the night sky. The air is growing hotter, thicker, unbearably stifling. A storm front is rolling in, moving so quickly across the sky that it looks as though someone has spilled a bottle of ink across the stars.

Bodies dance past me, stinking of filth and sulfur. Hands grab at my hair, my arms, tearing at the thin fabric of my s.h.i.+rt. Women whirl by, clawing at each other until blood runs down their shoulders and their naked b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Men and things that are not men loom over me, some of them masked and some of them with faces that are worse than masks. A man with the head of a bull. A woman with a swan's wings and a swan's serpentine neck. A woman with a quiver of arrows strapped to her back, cool grey eyes. A swarm of beetles streams over my feet. Still Jack plays, and the ma.s.s of bodies twists and seethes. Over it all I hear the groaning rumble of thunder. The sky flashes white, and Jack falters. The dancers freeze in place, teeth bared, smeared in blood and sweat. The air around me is fuzzing like static on a television, cutting to images of the bone-white trees. The noise of the river, the howling dog. A great black palace rising out of the distance, its edges sharpening. Aurora is no longer at my side, and I look around, frantic, see her leaning into Minos, his fingers a bony cage around her shoulders. Her mouth is slack, her eyes empty. "Aurora!" I scream, but my voice is lost in a crack of thunder, the rising wind. The tall pale man is behind them, watching Jack play and smiling. Ca.s.s's amulet feels like a stone around my neck and I fumble at it with my free hand, trying to undo its knots. My palm b.u.mps against the leather bag, and I can hear Ca.s.s's firm voice cutting through the chaos around me, clear as if she's right next to me. "Go. Get out of there. Go." But Aurora. Jack. "I mean it. Go."

I stumble through the crowd, punching and kicking until the packed ma.s.s of bodies parts to let me through. Back to the apartment, the chandeliers dripping wax in searing droplets that land in my hair, on my shoulders. Hands grab at my body, my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, my clothes. Like you're running a marathon. Go. Go. Go. Head down, battering ram, out, out, out. I reach the door, the k.n.o.b burning my skin, the door sticking, pulling with all my strength, screaming in terror as the surge of people presses me up against the metal and wood and I think for a second I am going to die here in this awful room-and then with a crack the door springs free of its frame and I'm falling into the hallway, the door slamming shut behind me.

The hall is absolutely silent. I lie panting on the spotless white carpet. There is no hint of what I've left behind on the other side of the door. The walls are lurching around me, and I realize for the first time how drunk I am. I crawl to the elevator on all fours, slap at the down b.u.t.ton, roll myself in when the doors open with an ordinary ping. The ride down takes forever. My stomach is roiling, and I wonder what happens if you puke in the elevator to h.e.l.l. Bad things. I'm using the walls to get to my feet when the elevator stops with a jolt and I fall again out the open doors, landing in an undignified heap at the feet of the valet. "Sorry," I manage. He offers me his hand, and I take it, trying not to flinch at the touch of his clammy palm as he helps me stand. He doesn't say anything. Turns the sungla.s.ses toward me, holds my shoulders until I'm steady. Smiles. There's no way I am imagining it: His teeth are pointed, and I think I see the flicker of a tongue forked like a snake's. Holy s.h.i.+t. I back away, trying not to panic. "That's some costume," I whisper. His lips close over the terrible teeth, making the smile somehow even more ghoulish. I stumble past him, out of that awful building, out into the safety of the night.

I walk for a long time before I find a phone. I am drunk and my clothes are torn and I can only imagine what I look like; I caught a glimpse of the smeared mess of my eyeliner in the valet's mirrored sungla.s.ses. Even Ca.s.s will never let me out of her sight again if she sees me like this. I dial Raoul's number instead of my own. He answers on the tenth ring, his voice sleepy.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"I'm in trouble," I whisper.

"Tell me where you are," he says, the sleepiness gone. "And don't go anywhere until I get there."

Raoul rubs my back while I throw up in his toilet, and I am so miserable I don't even feel shame. When I'm done I curl up on the floor of his bathroom and whimper.

"Come on, kiddo," he says. "Let's get you to bed."

"Your bathroom is very clean."

"I like to maintain an appropriate convalescing environment for underage substance abusers at all times." He tugs me to my feet and steers me back to the couch, covers me with a blanket, brings me water. Throwing up has made me feel only marginally better.

"Your apartment won't stop moving. I'm going to die," I wail.

"Eventually," he agrees, "but probably not in the immediate future."

"I want to die."

"That's different." He strokes my forehead and the coolness of his touch soothes the throbbing. "You want to tell me about it?"

I tell him. I tell him everything. About the deer dress, the ice-eyed man. The black birds that came out of nothing. Ca.s.s's amulet saving me. The valet and his forked tongue. When I'm done, Raoul is silent.

"I was really drunk," I say. "I'm still really drunk."

Raoul nods. "You are very drunk."

"You think I'm making it up."

"No. I don't."

"You don't?"

"I don't." Raoul doesn't know Aurora well, although he's met her a few times. He's never liked her parties, says he doesn't feel safe. I never knew what he meant until now. "There are different kinds of real," he says. "For now, I think you should get some sleep. And I would like you to promise me you will never drink that much again."

"I will never drink that much again. Will she be okay?"

"Sweetheart, I don't know. Maybe not."

I left her there, I think. I left her there. Like Ca.s.s. Scorched earth, cut and run. Ca.s.s's amulet got me out, but it sure didn't do much for my friends.

"Raoul, what do you do if you f.u.c.ked up and you don't even know how?"

He kisses my forehead, straightens the blanket. "You'll figure it out. I know you. Now go to sleep. When you wake up I'll make you breakfast."

"When I wake up it will be the middle of the afternoon."

"Breakfast is a state of mind, not an hour."

"I love you, Raoul."

"I know. I love you, too."

"I'm scared."

He takes my hand. "It's always okay to be scared," he says. He holds my hand until I fall asleep.

No hangover in my life has ever compared to the staggering misery that greets me the next day. The light streaming through Raoul's open windows pierces me like a hundred terrible knives. The clank of Raoul's spatula against his frying pan is as loud as a freight train derailing. I moan feebly, s.h.i.+elding my eyes from the sun's blinding a.s.sault, and Raoul peers over at me. "How are we feeling?" he asks cheerily.

"Why are you shouting," I croak.

"My goodness," he says. "You really did have a lot to drink."

"I am definitely going to die."

"Have some potatoes first. It'll help, I promise." He brings me a plate piled high with greasy breakfast delights. The smell of food nearly sends me running to his bathroom again. Raoul offers me a forkful of potato and chilies. I open my mouth obediently, manage to gum the potatoes into a paste and get them down. He's right; they do make me feel better. "Do you need to call your mom?"

"It's fine. She thinks I'm at Aurora's." Raoul feeds me more fried potatoes until I can sit up, cradling my pounding head in my hands.

"Do you want to call Aurora?"

"What time is it?"

"Not that late. Around one."

I nod without thinking and the pulsating effects of the movement make me groan aloud. Raoul does his best not to laugh at me as he brings me the phone. "Shut up," I say, and dial Aurora's number. To my utter surprise, she answers on the first ring.

"Babycakes! What the h.e.l.l happened to you last night?"

"I got-" I got what? The raging heebie-jeebies? An invisible burn from Aurora's new buddy? I saw some chick in a steak dress and freaked the f.u.c.k out? "I got sort of drunk. Are you okay?"

"Why would I not be okay? I'm great. G.o.d, that party was so much fun. I can't believe you left. Jack played for so long, and it was so good and everybody loved him, and Minos loved him, and Minos's boss loved him, and it was seriously like the best thing ever. I almost threw myself off the roof at the end it was so good. You know when something is so good and you think, 's.h.i.+t G.o.dd.a.m.n, girl, that's it, the pinnacle of your life has been achieved and it's all downhill from here'?"

"Are you on meth?"

"What? No. Haven't you ever felt like that? Anyway, come over. I need help decorating and Jack has big news."

There is so much to unpack in that statement that I settle for dealing with the information most relevant to my immediate interests. "Jack's at your house?"

"Where else would he be? Do you need me to pick you up?"

Where else would he be. Right. I make a steering-wheel motion at Raoul. He rolls his eyes and nods. "Raoul can give me a ride."

"Wicked. Come over whenever."

"I guess she's fine," I say to Raoul when I hand the phone back to him. But I can't shake the feeling that something has been set in motion that can no longer be undone. I wish I knew what really happened last night. What I saw and what was because of Minos's sketchball homebrew. I remember the euphoric feeling the drink gave me, that perfect moment of joy. If that's how Aurora feels around him, no wonder she won't shake him loose. I do know what she meant. I'd wanted to jump off the roof, too.

"Are you ambulatory?" Raoul asks, interrupting my reverie. "I have to go to work in a bit, so if you want a ride I should take you now."

"You are a saint," I say. "A saint among mortals."

"The company you've been keeping lately," he says, "I don't know if you want to be joking about saints and mortals. Come on."

When I let myself in to Aurora's house I hear piano music. I follow the source, expecting to see Jack. But it's Maia at the dust-covered grand piano. Her back is to me and she doesn't hear me come in. Silent, I watch her play.

Her hands move over the keys like liquid, drawing out a tide of swirling notes. I can feel myself sinking into water, some blue country where the light splinters blue-green overhead, and though I can reach for the fragmented rays I can never touch them, lost as I am in the deep. Maia's body sways as though she's possessed, caught in the same heady current that washes us both where it will. The melody sings against a flurry of chords, the strange rhythm carrying us both far out to sea. I have no idea how long she's been playing when she leans back, hands raised. I open my eyes, blinking at the suddenly unfamiliar world of Aurora's house, thinking she is done; but she brings her hands down in a last furious surge, music spilling out in a ma.s.sive wave, her hands sweeping across the keys and coming to rest at last on a single perfect chord.

I let out my breath in a huge sigh, and Maia jumps, turns to face me. She's out of breath, her cheeks flushed.

"Oh, hi," she says, her expression guilty. "I didn't know you were there."

"That was beautiful," I tell her. "It was like being underwater."

She smiles. "'Chaque flot est un ondin qui nage dans le courant.'"

"What?"

"Ravel's Ondine. It's about a mermaid who falls in love with a mortal and tries to tempt him to come live with her in her ocean palace. She promises him he'll be a king. When he tells her he's in love with a human woman, she laughs at him and vanishes in a shower of rain."

"That's depressing."

"Not really. She's not human. She doesn't feel things the way human beings do. She likes the idea of the mortal world, but what she's feeling isn't love the way we know it. And if she brings her lover underwater she'll kill him. You can think of it as a happy ending." Maia is the most animated I've ever seen her, emphasizing her points with her hands. "Ondine is the first movement. Ravel based the entire piece on a book called Gaspard de la Nuit, by the poet Aloysius Bertrand. The whole book deals with night creatures and darkness, the twilight world. Ravel was trying to make a play on Romanticism, but he said later that he thought the piece had gotten the better of him. He became completely obsessed with Bertrand while he was working on the piece. He told a friend that the devil was inspiring him to write the music the same way the devil had inspired Bertrand to write his poetry. 'Boudeuse et depitee' is what Bertrand says of the mermaid: peevish and sulky, not heartbroken. None of the creatures from that world understand the way human emotions work. They're all mimicking what they see in us. They can't create things. They can only steal from us. They're forever crossing over to wreak havoc because they're jealous."

Maia's eyes have a feverish gleam, but for once I'm sure she's sober. The lecture is jarring, and I don't like where this conversation is going. Given what's been happening in my life lately, I'm none too thrilled to hear Maia citing the devil as an everyday source of other people's artistic inspiration. "I never knew you played," I say, changing the subject. "You're really good."

Her face goes blank. All the life seems to run out of her as I watch. I don't know what I've said wrong. "I used to be," she says. "Jack and Aurora are upstairs." I take the hint and leave her staring at the piano.

Jack and Aurora are in Aurora's bed watching Aliens. They aren't touching, I notice, and then hate myself for noticing. Hicks is showing Ripley how to use the grenade launcher. This scene never fails to send Aurora and me into a frenzy of l.u.s.t. "Is it normal, do you think," I say, squeezing between them, "to experience actual feelings of loss and anguish over the fact that Hicks is not a real person?" Jack nods solemnly, puts his hand at the small of my back. "I didn't know Maia played the piano," I add.

"She's weird about it," Aurora says, gnawing on a piece of beef jerky. "She won't do it if she knows I'm in the house. Oh my G.o.d, look at him. Go, Ripley, go."

"Does she play a lot?"

"She was going to be a concert pianist or something."

"She's incredible."

Aurora shrugs. "Fat lot of good it does her. Shut up, this is the good part."

"It's all the good part."

"Shut up."

"How are you feeling?" Jack asks me.

"Not my best. How are you feeling? That was some show."

"Shhhh," Aurora says, riveted to the screen.

"Aurora, we have both seen this movie at least forty times."

"I'm a little tired," Jack says.

"Did you see anything-" I pause, not even sure of what I'm asking. "Weird? Did you see anything weird?"

"What do you mean, weird?"

"Shhhhhhhh." Aurora smacks me. "For f.u.c.king real."

I roll my eyes, lower my voice. "Like, you know, weird."

"I don't notice much when I play."

"You were really drunk," Aurora says to me, not looking away from the screen.

"Not that drunk. Who was that guy you introduced me to?"

"You should ask Jack who that guy was."

I look at Jack. He turns his face away. "What," I say.

"Come outside with me," he says. We leave Aurora, rapt in her bed, and I follow him downstairs and into the jungle of her garden. He finds a less-tangled patch in the s.h.a.ggy lawn, sheltered from the house by a thicket of blackberries. He lies down in the gra.s.s. I stretch out next to him and put my head on his chest.

"You're going to tell me something s.h.i.+tty," I say into his s.h.i.+rt.

"I'm not going to be around for much longer," he says. "They want me to go to Los Angeles. Cut a record. Minos has a club there. I can headline some shows. It's a big deal."

"That's what you were auditioning for."

"More or less."

"What do you mean, more or less? Who was that guy? Minos's boss?"

He puts his arms around me and doesn't answer.

"You saw what I saw," I say.