THE NEXT MORNING THEY STAYED IN BED. SILENTLY SHE gawped at him with an expression you could pour over waffles. She had ordered raw eggs from room service and scrambled them herself; she brought him coffee, juice, toast; she sat in bed, propped up against the pillows, and watched him eat.
“You’re not very chatty this morning,” Julian said, lying on his side, smiling up into her face. “Surprising, because yesterday, you were an unstoppable chatting force.”
“Yesterday,” she said shyly, “I was trying to find a combination of words that would get you to touch me.”
“Including telling me you watched When We Were Kings and read The Fight?” Julian laughed.
“They weren’t just words. I really did that.”
“When did you do that, yesterday?”
“No. Last week, if you must know.”
“Last week,” he repeated. “What’s your actual favorite movie?”
“Gone with the Wind. Have you seen it?”
“No. Should I?” He smiled. He was teasing her.
“Only if you want to.” She stared into her lap.
He rolled her onto her back and straddled her, threading his hands through her hair, stroking her face. She was gazing up at him like she was ice cream completely thawed out.
“Holy God, you are so fly,” she whispered, rubbing his arms.
“But I got no game?” Julian liked making the naked girl underneath him blush.
“What, you wanted to prove me wrong?” She pinched him.
“I just want to hear you say it.”
“Okay, fine, I admit it—you got a little bit of game. Happy?”
“So happy.” He kissed her lips, her face. “So so happy.”
They didn’t have morning sex, they continued the nighttime sex.
Mia wanted the luxury black cashmere throw, a Marmont exclusive, for a souvenir, and Julian wanted her. He called the front desk and bought it even after he found out how much it cost. He made love to her in broad daylight as she lay naked on it, open and shimmering on top of the soft black wool.
He thought she would tell him not to get it messy, but she said, get it as messy as you want.
It was the best seven hundred bucks he ever spent.
They lived a week reclined at the Chateau Marmont.
They rented Gone with the Wind. They played Lego Marvel Super Heroes. They sat out on the balcony and watched the world go by. They discovered they were both born on the Ides of March, though on different years, less than an hour apart, she at 11:40 a.m., he at 12:29 p.m. It’s almost like we are meant to be, Jules, she said. They danced. From housekeeping they requested toothbrushes. From room service they ordered champagne and steak. He ate around the edges and she ate the raw heart inside.
Julian told her about his life, the stuff outside the dark visions. In the little Marmont kitchen, she made him French toast with extra maple syrup, just like he liked; she made him Cajun grilled cheese sandwiches and lemon cookies. She told him about her life. About the roller derby and working at Sideshows by the Seashore, and how her mom never got over losing her dad. He told her about Topanga, the scar on his head, his lost ambition, his rebuilt career, about staying close to what he couldn’t live without. She loved the scar on his head, loved the long wavy hair covering it, loved his eyes, his lips, his jacked arms, his chest, his gentlest hands, loved everything. “You are the sum of all your parts, but you are also your parts,” she said.
“Is that all you’ve come for? My parts?”
“No, there is glory to all of you,” said Mirabelle.
“Maybe it would be easier to list the things you don’t love,” he said, and she fell quiet.
“I don’t love the dreams.”
“Join the club,” said Julian.
She told him about the cracked leather purse that was found on the body of her great-aunt Maria who died in the war, died all alone on Christmas on the floor of her house in Blackpool, told him about the contents of the purse: the crystal necklace and the wedding rings and the gold coins that allowed her entire family, aunts and uncles and cousins and mothers, to move to Brooklyn and start a new life. Julian told her he saw that purse in his dreams, but it wasn’t in anyone’s cold hands. It was hidden inside a wall. And Mia said, you mean a different purse, right? Yours isn’t brown leather with gold ribbons. And he said right. But he meant wrong. What he also didn’t tell her is that to get to the purse he had to scrape open the wall using nothing but his fingerless hands. What was inside your purse? she asked. The crystal, he said. And treasure, hidden in a pool of blood. You see, not the same at all, said Mia, and he said right but he meant wrong.
When she died, Maria’s mother, Abigail—who had no other children—left all the gold coins to her sister Wilma and the rings and necklace to Wilma’s youngest daughter, Kara, who left them to her daughter Ava, who was Mirabelle’s mother. For some reason, Ava did not care for the crystal necklace, “much like you,” Mia said, but her parents liked the rings. They wore them on their wedding day. Jack McKenzie was buried with his. “Mom gave me hers, said it was cursed. She gave me the crystal and the ring. I kept the crystal, because it was worth nothing, but sold the ring a few years ago when I was broke. What was I going to do with one wedding ring anyway?” Mia said. “I went to the gold district on 47th Street. I thought I’d get a couple of hundred bucks for it, if I was lucky. But guess how much that sucker was worth. Twenty-five thousand dollars! I nearly died. The dealer said it was some kind of rare gold, nearly all pure or something. I had one of the best years of my life living off that gold ring. I went to Mexico, to Puerto Rico, to St. Croix, where didn’t I go. Z and I moved out here. All on that money. I can’t believe my mom buried my dad with the other ring. I don’t think she knew how much it was worth. What’s Dad going to do with it now?”
“Not much, I should think,” Julian said. “Um, did you say you went to St. Croix and Puerto Rico?”
“Yeah . . . why?”
“Where did you stay, Mia?” He poked her, tickled her. “Not hotel rooms, right?”
She laughed.
“I’m so easy,” he said. “If you wanted me to get us a room at the Marmont, all you had to do was ask.” He kissed her. “And not even that nicely.”
“You’re joking, right?” she said. “Do you remember nothing? I couldn’t get you to so much as glance at me while I was buck naked in a see-through dress.”
“I’m looking at you now.”
“Now you know I’ll say yes to anything, and you just want me to be bad.”
“You’re right, I do want you to be bad.”
“Like right now?”
“Like right now.”
Mia blew off her auditions. Julian blew off his life.
They spent the afternoons by the pool, tanning, lounging, swimming (in the bathing suits they bought at the hotel shop), playing Marco Polo, wondering which bungalow John Belushi had died in, playing Red Hands, which Julian, much to his delight and her frustration, always won. She asked him if he had ever killed a man. In dreams didn’t count. Julian’s right fingers twitched when he said no. Could you do it, she said, not accidentally, but like on purpose? He didn’t know. He didn’t think so. But maybe he would do what he had to do. Like to protect me? she asked with a giggle. Yes, he said solemnly. I would kill to protect you. She liked his answer. Her pupils dilated. Her breath quickened. Can you teach me how to fight like you?
I told you, I don’t fight girls.
I’m not a girl. I’m me. Come on. Fight me. I can take it.
No, you can’t.
I can. I can take a lot.
That was true. She took a lot. Her crazy sexy body—in a barely there string bikini—showed small suck marks all over, above her clavicles, on her upper back, between her thighs. She was covered with his purple love as with flower burns from an electrocution.
Are you going to stand there and gawk at me, Mr. Olympic boxer, she said, or are you going to fight me?
I’m going to stand here and gawk at you, he said.
She shoved him in the chest. He didn’t block her. They say the hand is quicker than the eye, is that true?
It’s true.
They say to never take your eye off your opponent, is that true? She went to push him again.
He stepped out of her way. It’s true, he said.
Her eyes lit up. Aha! You’re dodging me. Well, I’m never taking my eye off you.
She lunged again. He dodged again.
She smiled and skipped closer. He smiled and stepped away. Come on, she said. I’ll be your sparring partner. Teach me.
I’ll duck you, Mia, but I’m not going to fight you.
You’ll what me? Oh, duck. She whacked him on the arm. Didn’t get away that time, did you?
Didn’t want to.
Yeah, sure. What’s the matter, has all the love upstairs made you soft?
Trash talk isn’t going to work on me.
So that’s a yes? She shoved him. Come on, chicken, show me what you got.
Still no.
She put up her little dukes and danced around him on the pool deck. He weaved and bobbed right back. What are you afraid of, losing to a girl?
Yup, that’s it.
She slapped her fists against his open palms. Why won’t you make a fist? I know you know how. You rub me with your fists, don’t you? She grinned. Why are your hands up and open? Are you surrendering?
Unconditionally, Julian said.
Come on, fight me, she said, bouncing up and down, everything on her bouncing up and down, knocking into him with her body, how can I learn to parry if you won’t jab me? All you’re doing is blocking and ducking me.
That’s all I’m going to do, block and duck you.
Did you say duck? I keep mishearing you. Though I must admit, your reflexes are something else. Or am I just slow, like with Red Hands?
You’re just slow.
Don’t block me. Jab me. Come on, do it. You don’t think I can block a jab?
I don’t think you can, no.
Jab me and we’ll see what we see. Don’t be afraid. I’m tough, I’m tougher than I look.
Stay calm, Mia, he said. The harder you try to provoke me, the harder I’ll counter. You don’t want that, do you?
I do want that, she said, her smile ear to ear. That’s exactly what I want.
You could get overpowered.
I’m shook, Mr. Big Talk. So, come on, then. I’d like to see you try. She shadowboxed around him. Jules, what’s an uppercut? Wait, I think I know. Is that when you thrust—upwards? Can you show me how you do that—or did you forget?
He blocked her hand, grabbed her fist and pulled her by her wrist through the foliage to the elevator. She was going to ruin boxing for him. He was afraid they wouldn’t make it all the way upstairs.
So you do know how to thrust upwards, she murmured, blissed out on the bed. You do know how to fight a girl.
Is that what you call it, said Julian.
Flying high up at the Marmont with the windows open, the sun silver in the sky, sometimes she glowed with inner light, and sometimes she was ink at night.
Why did Julian feel not blessed but wretched?
“Turn, Mirabelle,” he whispered from Paradiso. “O turn your holy eyes upon your faithful one, so he might see you, he who’s come so far.” He held her to him. “O splendor of eternal living light, he’s drunk so deeply from your fountain. Unveil yourself, unveil your lips to him, so he may see the beauty you’ve kept concealed.”
“So there is beauty, after all?”
“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid my hands on.” Tenderly he caressed her, lingering here, there. “From the first moment I saw you, you looked like bliss to me.”
“Not concealed, O Julian. My body right here. Take it,” she whispered. “Like you took my heart.”
Julian knew: the pageant wasn’t the Marmont. It was the girl. The girl with the sparkling face, sitting in a wicker chair, legs splayed, head tipping back; the girl like a sabbatical from life, the girl in whom one night was forever and forever was one night. The girl and not the castle was the dreamland outpost for all the hearts that ever did beat faster, shining bright in starlight above Sunset Boulevard.
* * *
But his dreams got worse.
They showed him savage things. They made Julian crawl into other rooms, away from her. She found him like this in the dead of one night, curled up between the wall and the bed in the unused room, rocking. He is walking around Normandie collecting pieces of her to put together into one whole body before her mother arrives in a cab from LAX, but the cab has turned the corner and he still can’t find all of her.
“Leave me,” he said in a rasping voice. “Let me go. Please. Take a cab, I’ll give you money. Go far. Save yourself. I promise you, nothing between us will come to any good.”
She couldn’t lift him off the floor. He wouldn’t let her touch him. It took her a long while to lure him back to bed.
She pressed against him, wrapping all of her around all of him to stop him from shaking. And when that wasn’t enough, she climbed on top of him, cradling his head in her arms, kissing his face, gently rubbing her large, first soft, then hard nipples against his days-old stubble. Ouch, ouch, ouch, she kept whispering.
“So stop doing that if it’s ouch.” But eventually he stopped shaking. His hands relaxed on her back.
I do it for you. There’s nothing wrong, everything’s all right, everything is wonderful. Why do you say those mean things to me? Sending me away, getting me a cab. They’re just dreams, they’re nothing, they’re not real. The nipples, now those are real. She tapped them up and down into his sullen, half-open mouth. Come on, suck them. They’re like a balm for your lips.
He kissed her nipples and turned his head away.
Don’t turn away from me. But she didn’t get off him.
Are you Mystique? he asked. Can you be Mystique? So you could vanish.
Why do you want me to be her? So I can vanish? Dream on, she said. I’m not going anywhere. But that’s an excellent question. One not easily answered. Can I be Mystique? I guess first I’d want to know if there was any chance for a normal life if you stayed with me.
What if the answer is no? he said. And is that what you want, a normal life? What even was a normal life.
Isn’t that what everybody wants?
I don’t know, he said. The dreams were black sand in his eyes. Sometimes there was a glimpse of an ordinary life, a pink house, and inside the house there was a ship, and on the ship she lay dying.
I must admit, when I’m here with you, I don’t think a normal life is possible, Mia said. Because you make me feel extraordinary. But you have to talk to me and tell me what you’re afraid of. I can’t answer you until you do. What are you afraid of, Doctor Doom? That I’ll betray you? That we’re just a passing thing?
She could not even fathom the terror. All the stars fell from the sky into her heart. He couldn’t tell her. Sometimes there was a serene white house, and the house was on fire, and inside she lay under a burning beam and no matter how hard he tried, he could not pull her out.
I’m not naïve, she said. You think I don’t know your other nickname for yourself, Doctor Doom? It’s Death, isn’t it?
Yes, Mystique. It is.
Is that what you’re afraid of—that I’m doomed to die?
He didn’t answer her, as if he could.
Why? she said. Because you touched me? How can that be? You, with your softest mouth and your strongest hands. You who brings me nothing but ecstasy. It doesn’t make sense.
He wouldn’t tell her, no matter how much she kept soothing him with her nipples.
Do you want me to be Rogue instead? she said. So I can absorb your dreams and memories and know what you know without any additional words from you?
No, never, he said. I don’t want you to absorb them. I don’t want you to suffer. Haven’t you suffered enough? Resist me. I beg you. Be Mystique. Julian stared at her with profound sadness. Vanish from me. Like you vanish in my dreams. Go light up somebody else’s life, Mirabelle. Go break someone else’s heart.
I will never resist you, she said. I adore you. I’ve never felt happier in my whole stupid life than I feel with you. I’ve never felt closer to anyone than I do to you. I don’t know how you did that. Who are you?
Maybe I’m a phantom traveler, said Julian. Maybe we both are. Mystique and Doctor Doom together again, reunited for one last perilous escapade. He tried to joke, to smile, like she taught him.
Oh, Doctor Doom! Now I know how you did it. In one of our past adventures, in another life, you left a trace of yourself in me, so by this trace I could find you.
Maybe you left a trace of yourself in me. He swept up her body, twisting them both into a Mobius fever braid, his limbs around her. You’re ageless, he said. You’ve slowed time inside yourself. In the dreams I see you take many forms, just like Mystique. That’s how you defend your soul against marauders.
Marauders like you?
Julian admitted she didn’t defend herself entirely successfully against him.
Didn’t and don’t want to, she said. Tell me one thing from your visions. Come on, just one benign thing. There has to be something.
He thought about it. Sometimes I see us riding white horses through green fields, he said. The horses gallop. We’re both dressed the same, in top hats and velvet.
That’s weird, she said. I’ve never been on a horse in my life.
Me neither, said Julian. They scare the shit out of me.
What a pair you and I make. She exclaimed it like it was all fun and games. Mystique and Doctor Doom riding horses in top hats and velvet! What do you think our adventure will be this time?
This one? Julian couldn’t help himself. Like all the rest, he said. We’ll try to hide from the hand of evil that draws its power from death and sin. The power that wants to consume us, to destroy you, to weaken your power over me until I’m nothing, to take away your power to rule my world, to ruin us.
What about your power to rule my world? she said. She thought they were still playing. But in the end we’ll prevail!
No, Mirabelle, said Julian. We never prevail. We will fail.
A collapsed Mia, the smile wiped off her sunken face, fell mute. Boy, was I right, she said at last. Your dreams really are the darkness. Look at the things they’re making you say to a naked adoring girl in your arms. Tumbling off him, pushing him away, she curled into the corner of the bed.
He lay for a few moments with his arm over his face, and then turned her onto her back, climbing on top of her in contrition. I’m sorry. I told you talking about it was no good. He kissed her, the beats of his heart pulsing into her mouth.
Don’t hold yourself up, come here, she whispered, her hands on his back. Come closer. You’re right about one thing, Jules. Whatever it is that makes you dream these bad things, it does want to ruin us. It’s trying to separate us—even now. Especially now. Please don’t let it. Isn’t it better to lie entwined—to lie as one—as opposed to your way?
What way is that?
The dumb way. All broody and shaky, by yourself on the floor.
Aloud Julian said yes.
If you want to hide from your dreams, Mia said, don’t go in the corner. Stay with me. I’m right here, in the ring with you, on center stage with you. She tilted her hips up to him.
I know where you are.
Stay with me, and I’ll be Mystique for you or Rogue for you. I’ll change for you, cut my hair off for you. Anything you want, I’ll be that for you. Please let me. I’ll bend your energy to my desire. I can do it. I have enhanced physical attributes, too. Like you.
He didn’t think it was enough. Julian kissed her moaning throat.
Squeezing her hips around him to stop him from moving, Mia took his head into her hands, gazing up into his face with everything there was inside her. Please love me, Julian, she whispered. Please.
I’m trying, Mia. Let me go. Free me.
And who knows, maybe our story won’t end like everything ends.
Maybe, he said.
Maybe our Marmont lust will become eternal passion. Maybe our brief ecstasy will be remade into enduring glory.
Maybe, he said.
I know you’re worried about things, but you don’t have to worry about me, honest.
Don’t you understand? It’s you I’m worried about most.
“But why? I’m yours. Can’t you feel I’m yours?” She stroked his hair, his face. “Like Mystique, I’m an actress. I might take on another’s outward form, but I swear to you, in my heart I will remain true to what I am. I swear, I will forever remain true to you. Take my life. I have never felt for anyone what I feel for you,” Mirabelle said. “Don’t you see that? Don’t you feel that? I love you, Julian. I love you with all my soul.”