The Thinking Woman's Guide to Real Magic (5 page)

“I think you had something to do with it. I can't thank you en—”

Ilissa made a dismissive gesture. “A dress, a little chitchat, a party—it's nothing. I love it when I can help someone. And this is just the beginning, my dear.” She looked appraisingly at Nora again. “Pearls, I think, next time. Your skin has such a lovely golden tone. We ought to do more to set it off. I should have thought of pearls tonight. What a scatterbrain I am!”

I
would
look nice in pearls, Nora thought happily, then realized with some regret that she wouldn't be here for the next party. Ilissa seized her arm.

“I am even more scatterbrained than I thought,” Ilissa announced. “Did I not introduce you to my son?” She called out a long name that seemed to include some vowels and consonants that didn't occur in English, and out of the crowd Nora saw a dark head set on a pair of broad shoulders turn and move toward them.

“Like me, he has a terribly long and confusing name,” Ilissa said. “Raclin is what we call him for short. Darling,” she said to him, “this is Nora. You remember I mentioned her earlier.”

“But we've met already,” Raclin said, holding out his hand to Nora, a lock of hair falling into his eye. “Nora asked me if I was a movie star.” His hand felt very strong as it closed around hers.

“And you said no, but I'm sure I've seen some of your films,” Nora said, smiling. James Bond, the Sean Connery years.

“Well, if I were in a movie, it would have to be one with some very beautiful woman in it,” he said. “Perhaps we could read through a few scenes together.”

On second thought, maybe a little
too
charming, Nora thought.

“And I would direct!” Ilissa said. “It would be so much fun! I can already tell you two have, what is it called, screen chemistry.”

“Then it's all set,” he said. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm wanted over there. Lolly insists on getting into a grave misunderstanding with Carnassus, and I think I shall have to peel them apart.”

“Oh, the wretch,” said Ilissa, watching him move away. “Not Raclin—Lolly. I may have to—but that's not important. So you've met my son. Do you like him? I can tell he likes you.”

“He's the best-looking man at this party,” Nora said. It was true.

Ilissa looked pleased. “That's what I always think, but then, I am his mother. I see Moscelle coming this way—she's looking for you.”

The night flowed faster and faster. Nora had a long, earnest conversation with Moscelle about Gaibon and whether he loved Moscelle or Amatol more. “Really, the way it started out, it wasn't that serious between us,” Moscelle said. “But she's so possessive, she's driving him away.” Nora squeezed into a snub-nosed red Ferrari with four or five others and they went racing down narrow roads lined with poplar trees, until they had drunk all the champagne that Vulpin had brought and had to go back to the party. More dancing, then Nora wound up talking to the girl with the boa constrictor, whom she realized after a while must be Moscelle's rival, Amatol. “I'm Nora,” she said. “Lovely to meet you,” said Amatol. “Charmed,” said the snake, lifting its head from the girl's shoulder and showing its fastidious, forked tongue.

Nora wandered out by the swimming pool with Amatol and a tall, bald black man. He had small, round Lennon glasses, and he was telling them, in great detail, about a love affair that he'd once had on the planet Jupiter with one of the gaseous women there, whose skin felt like silky smoke, whose kisses were explosions. What has he been taking? thought Nora. She looked down into the pool and saw a naked couple making love at the bottom. They moved rhythmically, wrapped around each other like eels. Nora marveled at how long they could hold their breath.

Someone started a game of hide-and-seek in the garden. Nora hid behind a palm tree until the girl who was It went past; then she ran laughing down the dim paths, skimming the gravel in her high heels until, in the shadow of a bronze centaur, someone grabbed her arm and pulled her to a halt. Nora almost fell, but the person pulled her upright and kissed her, roughly. “Good night, my dear,” he said. Raclin's voice.

“Hey!” she said warningly. She felt too good to be really angry, she understood the kiss was all part of the night's game, but still, you could take a game too far.

He kissed her again, more smoothly this time, and then the gravel crunched as he moved away.

It was a very good kiss, she realized too late. “Good night,” she said uncertainly.

She walked across the grass toward the house. It was almost dawn. The lawn was flattened, littered with crumpled napkins, wineglasses, a pair of lace panties. The pool was empty of lovers, but the man who'd had the affair on Jupiter was sleeping on one of the recliners, his glasses askew. In the brightening air, Nora noticed vaguely that his skin was not actually black, or brown, but dark green.

F
rom under the covers, Nora groped for the ringing telephone. Maggie's voice in her ear, clear but faint. “Nora? Is that you?”

“Maggie?” Blinking, Nora sat up in bed. It took her a moment to realize where she was. “My God, I missed the wedding, didn't I? I got lost in the woods, and I just—I just forgot about it.” What on earth had she been thinking? “Luca and Chris must be furious.”

“Oh, no, no, no.” Maggie laughed, sounding tinny. The phone was the old-fashioned kind, squat and black. “No need to apologize. I hear that you went to a fabulous party last night. I'm so envious! I mean, the reception was fine, but compared to one of Ilissa's parties—?”

“You've heard of her?”

“You never heard of her? I'm shocked! She's famous!”

Nora lowered her voice. “Who is she, exactly? She has the most extraordinary friends. Last night was like something out of Fellini.”

Maggie laughed again. “She's one of those people who's famous for being herself.”

“Nice work if you can get it,” Nora said. “She's been super sweet to me, I must say. I can't wait to tell you about my adventure. How did you track me down here? Could you come pick me up?”

“There's no hurry. The person I just talked to said Ilissa is completely happy to have you stay. Why not take a few days to enjoy yourself? How often do you get to be in a Fellini film?”

“True,” Nora said, considering. “But you're driving back tonight, right?”

“Oh, maybe, I'm not sure. Seriously, you don't get a chance to meet someone like Ilissa every day. People like that are magical. For once in your life, Nora, you should spend some time with people who can appreciate how wonderful you are, and show you how to really live.”

“Well, last night
was
kind of magical. I felt so different.”

“It's exactly what you need,” Maggie said. “Oops, I have to run. Have a wonderful time, darling.”

“Maggie, wait, I left my phone at the cabin, I don't have your number—”

“Have fun!”

She was gone. Nora hung up, slightly puzzled. It was unlike Maggie, always hyperorganized, to be so cavalier about her own schedule, and she couldn't repress a faint feeling of hurt that, for some reason, Maggie seemed to be trying to keep the conversation brief. Then she saw what must have happened: Maggie had met someone at the reception, and had changed her own plans as a result.

And what she had just said was true. This was an opportunity, an open door, of a kind Nora had never come across before. What had Maggie said? These people could show her how to live. Live all you can, it's a mistake not to. After just a few hours with Ilissa and her friends, everything looked different: softer, brighter, rich with possibility.

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed two o'clock. She realized with a start that she'd slept half the day away. Getting out of bed, Nora approached the mirror tentatively, remembering how she had collapsed into bed without even taking off her makeup; she must look like hell.

But the face that looked out at her was still as luminous and assured as when Ilissa had shown it to her the night before. Nora ran her tongue along her lips, thinking that she had never really noticed how full they were, or how long her eyelashes were, or how elegantly her cheekbones caught the light. Her face smiled back at her, calmly amused that anyone would even doubt its beauty.

A knock at the door. Moscelle, trim and pretty in a riding habit, asking if Nora would like to go riding this afternoon. “I'd like to,” Nora said regretfully, “but I don't really know how to ride.” Her experience with horses totaled some pony rides and a few painful hours on a stubborn gelding when she was fifteen. But Moscelle said not to be silly. “Ilissa has a sweet mare you can ride. And there's a spare habit that should fit you beautifully. So no excuses!”

The mare was beautiful, jet black with a single white diamond on her forehead, and once mounted, Nora discovered there was none of the vertiginous jolting that had made her cling to the saddle horn in the past. They took a sun-dappled path that wound through the smooth trunks of beech trees, and the horse seemed to know exactly where Nora wanted to go, stepping like a dancer. This was riding as she had imagined it from the horse books she'd read in grade school. Having the right mount must make all the difference.

Vulpin dropped back to ride beside her. He started by asking her about her studies, but she found that she wasn't interested in talking about school. She asked him about Ilissa instead, and he began to reminisce; evidently he had known Ilissa since he was a small child. Nora gathered that Ilissa came from some sort of wealthy aristocratic family in another country, but he was frustratingly vague as to exactly where. Asked directly, Vulpin shrugged and said that it was hard to explain, they had moved around so much. He dropped a few references to the war, or wars, which Nora found confusing. Apparently Ilissa had played some sort of courageous role in saving a large number of people. There had been great privation and suffering.

“Does Ilissa know Anastasia, by chance?” Nora asked archly, and then felt a little embarrassed. Vulpin only looked amused. She kept trying to think of the right questions to ask, something that would help her sort out the details of Ilissa's past without being rude, but she kept getting carried away in the currents of Vulpin's deep, soothing voice.

They caught up to Gaibon and Moscelle. Gaibon grinned at Nora and asked how she had enjoyed the party last night—had she fallen in love?

“Oh, I'm not ready to fall hard for just anyone,” Nora said. “I'm going to take my time to pick and choose.”

Gaibon seemed to find this very funny. “Oh, you'll be a prize. Ilissa has a knack, you know. When she takes someone in hand—well, you wouldn't know them afterward. They might not even know themselves. She's done a nice job with you, especially the lips,” he added. “Almost too pretty, eh, Vulpin? Our friend's a lucky man.”

“Stop teasing Nora, you're making me jealous,” Moscelle said. Gaibon laughed and said something else, and Vulpin responded sharply, both of them speaking in long, lilting, incomprehensible syllables. Nora looked from one to the other. Then Vulpin said cheerfully that it was time to head back. He rode ahead with Gaibon, neither of them speaking until they were too far away for Nora to hear what they said.

“What was all that about?” Nora asked Moscelle. Moscelle only laughed and said that Gaibon was flirting too much and that she, Moscelle, would have to keep a close eye on him at the party tonight. Nora was surprised: “Another party?”

“Yes, a big one, not like last night. That was a little quiet, don't you think? I think Ilissa was just a tiny bit embarrassed by how quiet it was. But she's had all day to plan this one.”

They started down a long driveway, and at first Nora thought they had made the wrong turn. The house ahead of them, basking in the late afternoon sun, was all slate-roofed gables and rose-colored brick, much older than the house she remembered from yesterday, and she started to say something to Moscelle. But Ilissa was waiting for them, slim and white in a dress that swayed around her legs as though it had never heard of gravity. Next to her was a boxy black car. “We're late, my dear,” she said, holding her hand out for Nora.

“My clothes—” Nora began. Someone pushed her into the car, a cave of rich green leather. “Don't worry, darling,” she heard Ilissa saying. “You'll be changed before you know it.” Gaibon winked. Nora discovered she was holding a champagne flute and that Vulpin was filling it. The car sped through a world of black velvet; Ilissa said there was no time to waste, and wasn't night so much more lovely and romantic?

Suddenly they were going over a bridge; an electric grid blazed ahead of them, the serrated skyline of New York. “How did we get here?” Nora wondered.

“Oh, we drove much too fast,” Ilissa said with her fizzy laugh.

There was something odd about the other automobiles they passed—their spoked wheels, their headlights like round-rimmed spectacles—but after a moment Nora decided they looked right, somehow. Their vehicle pulled up next to a striped awning, a length of red carpet.

Nora stepped out, carefully, because of her heels, and smoothed her skirts. The car ride hadn't wrinkled the silk at all; the dress rustled deliciously against her skin.

“You see?” Ilissa said. “I promised you pearls. Like milk and honey, with your complexion.”

Nora looked down. The creamy strand fell almost to her waist. “They're beautiful. Thank you so much.”

“Ah, at last.” A deep voice next to her. “Even prettier than last night.”

Looking up, Nora met Raclin's gaze, and felt a sudden confused warmth at the nearness of his white smile, his looming, well-tailored shoulders. She thought of the kiss he'd stolen in the garden the night before, and the sweeter one afterward.
Watch out,
a voice said inside,
something wrong here
. It said other things that she couldn't quite discern. Raclin's dark hair gleamed, combed back more carefully than the night before, but she could tell that the stray lock was still threatening to tumble down onto his forehead.

She was suddenly impatient to see it fall; she wanted to tuck it back for him.

Inside the hotel there was dancing, the crowd moving back and forth to the syncopations of a jazz band tucked behind potted palms. Nora recognized faces from last night, the men in black and white, the women in loose dresses that showed off slender legs in silk stockings.

“Another theme party, isn't it?” she said to Raclin, hoping she sounded more collected than she felt. “How does she do it, your mother?”

“My mother lives to entertain,” he said. “It's her art form, really. And she finds this particular setting intriguing. There's something very playful about it. She thought it might appeal to you.”

“Oh, I've always had a thing for the Twenties. The clothes. The Algonquin Round Table.
Gatsby.
But why would she want to please me in particular?”

“She's taken quite a fancy to you. Ilissa's good at sizing people up. She can see their possibilities.”

“What possibilities does she see in me?”

“They're not hard to see.” Raclin put out his hand to steer her toward the dancing. On the small of her back it felt assured, possessive. His touch was a pledge: I'm just beginning with you. Only wait.

•   •   •

Once or twice over the days that followed—or was it weeks?—Nora woke up and wondered seriously what kind of strong drugs she had ingested the night before. There seemed to be no other explanation for the parade of marvels every evening, the dazzling, incongruous things that could not possibly be true.

“Was I really talking to Oscar Wilde last night?” she asked herself sleepily.
No, you idiot, Oscar Wilde died in Paris in 1900
, said some weary secret voice. But there he had been, holding court in the drawing room, tall, corpulent, the clever, mournful face that she knew from postcards and book jackets. Nora almost dropped her fan. He spent quite a long time talking to her, gazing at her with that rapt attention to which she had already become accustomed.

She could tell that Oscar Wilde was not attracted to her, or any woman for that matter, but she had discovered by now that her beauty had a life of its own, that it could arouse a sort of greedy fascination in people, even the people at Ilissa's parties, who were all beautiful themselves. She felt the same way whenever she looked in a mirror now, a mixture of wonder and suspense that sometimes held her in front of the glass for long stretches of time, examining her face at different angles to see if the perfection was real, scanning in vain for some hidden flaw.

There was something sympathetic in the way Wilde spoke to her, as though he sensed her puzzlement. She felt emboldened to confide in him. “I don't think I always looked this way,” she said hesitantly. “I wasn't always beautiful.”

“I am glad to hear it,” he said with a smile. “Natural beauty is always tiresome. It lacks that careless touch of artifice that is the hallmark of true originality. There is nothing so overdone and vulgar as unspoilt simplicity.”

She laughed. “But sometimes I look at myself and I wonder, well, if it's real.”

“My dear young woman, appearances are the only true reality. I thought you would have learned that by now.”

Then Raclin was taking her arm to lead her into the ballroom, and she forgot all about Oscar Wilde. It was the same every time: When she looked into those deep blue eyes, every clear thought went out of her head. And that lovely, lazy smile that he saved for her alone, as though they shared some secret joke. But for the life of her, she couldn't say what the joke was.

On the tennis court the next day, she started to tell Moscelle about her conversation with Wilde, but the details were already fading. She sliced the ball and watched it skim the net to bounce just out of reach of Moscelle's racquet. Wonderful how much her game had improved lately. If only her memory were as good as her backhand. The one other thing she could recall from the night before was Vulpin's friend Lysis complaining that someone had taken his horse. At sword point—that was the oddity that made it stick in her mind.

“Game,” said Moscelle, and Nora realized that she had lost track of the score, too. “Darling, you win again!”

“My brain is so fuzzy these days,” Nora said to Moscelle as they walked off the court. “I don't know if it's the late nights or the champagne.” She balanced the racquet on her shoulder with attempted insouciance. “Maybe I've had enough fun for now. Maybe it's time to go back to the real world.”

“The real world?” Moscelle asked lightly.

“Well, school, if that counts as the real world,” Nora clarified. “I do have to teach summer school, whenever that starts.” Next week? Had it already started?