Love Is Strange (A Paranormal Romance) (14 page)

“So,” Gavin said, trying to encourage him, “how about that Carla Bruni, huh?”

“You want to know the truth about Carla Bruni?” said Fabio, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Yeah. Sure I do! You betcha!”

“Can I tell you straight, the American way?”

Gavin thought about this unusual and apparently harsh remark. Gavin wasn’t sure about the tone here. Italian conversations were often about “tones” that no foreigner was going to get.

“Fabio, do I look like I need this ‘the American way’?”

“Yes, you do, Gavin.”

“Why is that?”

“You are wearing the ugliest clothes on this boat. You are shouting ‘American,’ Gavin.”

“Is it that bad?”

“No, it’s not ‘bad.’ You look ‘eco-conscious.’ You look very Seattle. We don’t do that here. I hope our women never dress like that. That would be tragic.” Fabio leaned over the rail of the yacht, like he was trying to spit out an olive pit. “Michelle Obama chooses dress designers from Chicago. From
Chicago!
And
Vogue Italia
said she looked great. They have no shame at
Vogue Italia
.”

“I don’t pretend to be the fashion expert around here,” said Gavin, “but Michelle Obama seems to
like
Carla Bruni. The two of them get along great. Michelle gave Carla a guitar.”

“Those two women are in a secret war to become the next Jackie Kennedy. They are locked in a ‘War of Looks’ to dominate world culture. It is Europe versus America.”

“Fabio, where are you going with that paradigm? Don’t you think those women
know
what happened to Jackie Kennedy? Did her pretty dress help her when her husband was shot?” Gavin gazed around Capri’s harbor. “Jackie’s epic story was a horror story.”

Fabio looked startled. “What? I never thought of it that way!”

“Fabio, that story is obviously a horror story. ‘Not ever being Jackie Kennedy,’ that is super-obvious, any politician’s wife would know that. Guys in retail don’t get it that the ‘female consumer’ is a woman.” Gavin rubbed his chin. “There might be a pretty good market opportunity there in women’s wear.”

“Tell me more about that,” said Fabio.

“Dress to avoid becoming Jackie Kennedy,” said Gavin.

“I like this concept of yours. Because it is outside-the-box. To dress like the ‘anti-Jackie Kennedy.’ What would that look like?”

Gavin welcomed this question. ‘What would that look like’ was always a good futuristic question. To take the dry bones of an idea and flesh them out as a story. A human narrative. A scenario. A business plan, a strategic initiative... a future with living flesh on it.

“Maybe Carla Bruni is
already
the anti-Jackie Kennedy. Because the original anti-Jackie, back in 1963, would have been Joan Baez. A long-haired beatnik protest-singer girl with a guitar. Carla Bruni has that role nailed down, but she’s also the wife of the President.”

“Who is Joan Baez?”

“Joan Baez is a prominent survivor of the Jackie Kennedy era. Joan Baez used to be Bob Dylan’s girlfriend.”

“Gavin — how do you know these things?”

Gavin shrugged. “You could look her up on Wikipedia.”

“Gavin, were you always like this?”

“What?”

“When we first met, you weren’t even out of school. You were running errands for those venture angels. Something has happened to you. What?
What
happened to you?”

“I just got older, Fabio. So did you.”

“You are a true Futurist now, aren’t you, my friend? I mean — you are
paranormal.
You are one of the
real ones
.”

“I just learned how to listen to people,” shrugged Gavin. “To hear their stories. That’s all that I really do. Tell me more about this Carla Effect.”

“The Carla Effect is helping us. Carla is good for Europe. She makes us seem modern and relevant. But, we are working through the Crisis here, and Carla can’t carry Europe on her back. Sometimes, I think that the pretty Carlas are all that Europe has left to offer... the court of Sarkozy... they are so ‘bling-bling,’ but that is what they chose... such strange people now, our leaders in Europe! The French ones are not even French! Carla is Italian and Brazilian, and Sarkozy is Hungarian and Jewish!”

“You need to get over that,” Gavin advised. “Our President is a Kenyan-Indonesian-Hawaiian guy from the Midwest.”

“I am not a Futurist, Gavin. I’m just a businessman. Please forgive me!”

Gavin said nothing. He was aching to ask Fabio about the very strange behavior of the leader of Italy. That was the great unanswered Italian question, in Gavin’s mind. Because Silvio Berlusconi was Italy’s Prime Minister, and he was divorcing his wife while in office, just as Nicolas Sarkozy had done before him. Kind of clear, major, futuristic trend-line there.

But, Nicolas Sarkozy only had one Italian woman. Just one beautiful Italian woman, and Sarkozy had married her. The Prime Minister of Italy, this ancient wrinkly politician who was way well over seventy, had whole hot-tubs and limos full of young Italian girls. Not women ‘half his age,’ but women who were
fifty years younger
than himself.

And there was no attempt to hide this. It was all in plain sight — all over the newspapers, all over the Internet. It wasn’t even a scandal. There was no “Berlusconi scandal.” Nothing hidden or secret about the Berlusconi “scandal.” Way too
obvious
to be any “scandal.”

The Italian press had the names and pictures of all the women. Some young Italian women had even written best-selling confession books, with brazen, flaunting titles like “
Help Yourself, Mr. President.
” It was all about this ageless, powerful Italian guy and his sad hunger for young, female flesh.

Something important was going on there that was hard for Gavin to put into words. A real phenomenon, very now, very modern, but paranormal, bone-chilling, and freaky. Because it was not a scandal, it was a harbinger.

Gavin could draw a clear line on a futuristic graph. Clinton and Monica Lewinsky in the United States to Sarkozy and Carla Bruni in France, and then, when that line hit Italy, it shot through the roof. That trend-line went nonlinear, logarithmic. This was not just some wacky Italian thing. This was a world future thing. Anyone paying any attention should be able to see that. Reality was screaming it. Nobody listened. Nobody heard. Nobody saw what was right there.

“They say that Sarkozy had a heart attack,” Fabio confided. “They say that Carla made Sarkozy stop jogging. Carla made him take up stamp collecting.”

“Really? What kind of stamps does Sarkozy collect?”

“Sarkozy collects historical stamps. Carla makes him sit very still every night and study his old, historical stamps.” Fabio shrugged. “I can’t believe that.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s true.” Gavin then said no more.

Something had dawned on him, suddenly: a very simple, direct explanation for events. A very good, strong theory to explain reality.

It was love. Love could explain all of this, because love was strange. Nicolas Sarkozy and Carla Bruni were in love. They were a European man and a woman in the grip of an
amour fou
. Love that was for real, true love between man and woman, the real deal. They were overwhelmed by romance, shot through the heart from a clear blue sky. They were thunderstruck by love.

They were two soul-mates. They were crucial and powerful political figures, with worldwide influence, who behaved as they did because of their love. No other reason for their paranormal behavior. Love, straight out. That simple. And that strange.

“Fabio, how is your business doing? Level with me.”

“My business is fantastic.”

“You seem pretty down in the mouth about all of this, though. Why is that?”

“LOXY is not fashion any more. We are the Web. When the Web eats fashion, it’s not fashion on the Web. It is the Web as fashion. It’s not the same philosophy.”

“That was the business plan, man. It was a great idea.”

Fabio looked him in the eye. “That was the future, two years ago. Now the future has happened, Gavin. The future is reality now. The past is a ghost.”

“I hear what you’re saying to me,” Gavin sympathized. “Your European philosophy has become… damaged.” With a mighty effort, Gavin managed not to laugh.

What was happening here? This Milanese guy — rich, successful, beautifully dressed on a yacht full of gorgeous women — was moaning about his
philosophy?
Fabio had lost his philosophy, and that was his crying grief?

Was that the lamest thing in the world, or what? Some things about Europe never, ever changed.

“I feel so tired, so full of ennui,” mourned Fabio. He found a pair of wireframe titanium sunglasses in the kerchiefed pocket of his yachting jacket. “We overbooked this conference with that Brazilian music track. All those Sao Paulo princes of music, they party till dawn... Capri needs the young people, they need the lively people, the party people of the night! But, when your parties are your work, every day... Well, I can work hard, but for how long? Every Internet year is like seven years.”

How old was Fabio Mascherati? Fabio was a good looking guy. Suave, charming, bright guy, a devil with the ladies. Thirty-two, thirty-three years old at the most. He was talking like a worn-out man of sixty.

“Well, start-up work can tire a guy,” said Gavin.

“You did it four times.”

“Sure, I did it, but not the same way as you. I was just the accountant.” Gavin sensed that it was his turn to lay some personal cards on the table. “Look, Cook, Bishop & Engleman came out of LOXY with a thirty-five percent return. That was huge, Fabio. You were awesome. But, if you came to those same bozos today, with the same proposal, same staff, same market plan, same everything? They’d go all weak in the knee! VC outfits are shutting up shop all over Seattle! No vision now, they’re all in their fallout shelters! They sit on their cash and they angle for bailout money! It’s bad in Seattle. It’s just not the same on the street.”

This was the right thing to say to Fabio. Because it was a true confession from one wounded soul to another. Italians loved to share bad news. This was the shadow side of all that Italian brio.

Fabio grew serious. “When we took your venture money... we needed that money. Now, we can create our own way. Web Due-Punto-Zero. The Italian web is not the future, the Italian web is
here and now
. So.” Fabio drew a breath. “Gavin, I’m getting out. After this conference, I am leaving LOXY. I am leaving LOXY, like you did.”

“What?”

“I am leaving LOXY, like you! You showed me the way out! I’m not a manager type, not a boring CEO. I’m a start-up man! I don’t want to manage a big Italian company. I
hate
big companies. I hate all that Italian
sistemazione,
where you have the same job your father had, and they give you a gold watch when you die! I
always
hated that!”

“That’s what you told me, two years ago,” nodded Gavin.

“I found my dream job with LOXY, but two years have passed. So my future dream is over. Reality is here today! So I have to leave the job I loved. I have to be real, Gavin. Real, and now.”

It must have been a hard thing for Fabio to say. Leaving a great, successful job like that? Certainly, never an easy thing for a man with a wife and two kids.

“I have heard that story many times before,” Gavin told him. “That story is the classic high-tech entrepreneur story. It’s the great narrative of modern times.”

“I knew that you would know what comes next for me,” said Fabio, with satisfaction.

“I do. Fabio, I’m an accountant. So let me give you some good advice. Don’t lose your temper and leave a lot of money lying on that table.”

“I don’t want to talk to my stupid Board of Directors. Not anymore. Enough is enough for any man.”

“But that’s the part where they nail you, brother! Look, don’t get hasty! I am serious here. You can wait out the investors for a few extra weeks. Eat the dog food. The payback for that is colossal. It’s never about the salary. It’s never about the hard years you have already put in. It’s all about the deal you get when you leave. That is the whole point of your story. Walk through the manure, eat the cold frogs, but get that money. Do it! Chill out a while, and you can start another company all by yourself. You won’t have to crawl to anybody. You will get your venture angel wings.”

“Why would I do that? You’re not a venture angel.”

“I’m not any kind of angel. I’m just an accountant. I get paid to be the reality check. I
sign
the reality check. Do not lose your cool, man! Be patient, wait it all out, think ahead. This advice that I’m giving you is worth a fortune. Do not leave that table with a prince’s ransom sitting on it. That is just not looking ahead.”

Fabio was paying no attention. “I’ll think it over.”

“You have to listen to me, Fabio. Don’t screw yourself over! It is no use being a Futurist if you don’t benefit from a future
that is totally obvious
. They’re gonna
pound you into the dirt
when you lose control of that company! That’s not some fancy Euro philosophy or something to debate about, it is just, like,
stupidly obvious.
Don’t make me
raise my voice here
about something that is
fated to happen
to every tech clown on this planet. Pay attention to me! This has happened a thousand times already!”

“I hate anything that has happened a thousand times,” said Fabio, as he laughed. “Don’t let me take all your time here. Everyone on the LOXY boat wants to meet the famous Gavin Tremaine.”

Fabio handed his lunch plate to a random curvaceous redhead. Then Fabio left. Fabio just vanished, he disappeared. Gavin shut his useless mouth.

Gavin felt a strange emotion he could not name. Shame? Frustration? Disappointment? A whirlwind of turmoil gripped him.

This bitter feeling was unwanted in his story. This was not his high-tech version of history. This had something to do with horror. Horror, the dark horror of knowing what would happen next — what should, reasonably, predictably, obviously, happen next — and being carried off by ugly human mulishness into a situation of tragedy.