Vienna (18 page)

“I'm sorry for what I did,” Justine whispered. “It was horrible.”

“It's okay.”

Justine bit her ear, almost enough to hurt. “It's not, but it was something I needed to think through.”

“I understand.” It was a lie but maybe it sounded right.

Justine laughed. “Then you'll have to explain it to me.”

Were people supposed to talk during sex? It didn't seem right. Justine didn't care. She just kept right on. “Do you like this?”

The question was impossibly vague. “As opposed to what?”

Another bite on her ear. “As opposed to not making love. Or as opposed to you being up here and me being down there.

Vienna considered the question. What she wanted to say was that having her wrists above her head made her horny, except she wasn't certain what it meant, although it probably referred to men and erections, which meant it wasn't the right word at all. “It's warm with you there.” She paused. “Except…” She suddenly realized that she was going to say too much after all.

“Except?”

“Nothing.”

“You have to tell me.”

“No I don't.”

“It's part of the rules.”

It seemed pointless to ask about that. “I'm listening to my body like Cecile told me to and it's saying that I'm not so fragile. Is that okay? I'm not trying to be mean.”

“Danger, Will Robinson, danger,” Justine answered.

More nonsense. “Does that mean you're upset?”

“Just nervous. You have to tell me if you get uncomfortable, promise?”

“Promise.”
If it makes you shut up.

Justine widened her legs inside of Vienna's. Vienna inhaled at the adrenaline rush from the increased exposure. Still, she decided that her body liked it, even if it was a little scary. And after the first, wild, sensation faded she realized that Justine was being careful so it wasn't really scary after all. But maybe it was okay to pretend it was, just a little.

Anyway, it felt good to have Justine's hand sliding over her stomach. And since maybe Justine expected to talk during love, Vienna thought she needed to say something. She remembered leading Justine through the streets of Brussels and how Justine had followed without question, and for once she knew what to say. “I trust you.”

It must have been right, because Justine was less hesitant, and the next bite was soft on the hollow of Vienna's throat. That was good too, because it was like they were doing something almost illegal and at least Justine couldn't talk like that. Except … Isn't that how people got those red marks on their necks? Everyone would see it! Vienna flinched.

“Shh,” Justine said. “We aren't in junior high. I know you that well.”

And it had to be true because Justine didn't leave any red mark at all. Vienna felt deeply tethered fears snap. She could move with Justine now, if she dared.

Justine's hand shifted and Vienna felt her body kick free of words and worry. She let them go, feeling only what immediate sensation told her. The warm brush of Justine's lips. The smell of her hair. The sound of her breathing. The feel of her smooth skin.

She knew at last that Lord Davy had been wrong about sensory overload, because it was happening now. Every nerve overflowing.
You can move.
And despite what the doctors had said over the years it didn't feel dangerous.
Move. Do it now.
Vienna arched her back, pushing against Justine.

And just like that, Justine was catching her breath for a change.

Maybe it wasn't so hard after all.
Maybe I know her, too.

Later, with sleep muddling her thoughts, she heard Justine softly humming. It sounded like the old recordings her foster father listened to. Her thoughts flowed into long chains. George Gershwin. A hundred pianos playing all at once. Tin Pan Alley. Ancient alchemists used tin with copper to form bronze: 18g Cu. Eighteen grams of copper, recorded on a slip of paper by a dead man with a Scottish accent and a shirt of squares
. It has something to do with the manikins, but you never listen.

Thoughts slipped into dreams.

She looked into Sinoro's dead eyes, open under the cold river. His mouth slack. The sun fading as he sank deeper. He was screaming, his lungs filling with black water. His long hair tangled in the muddy riverbed.

“Shh. Vienna, it's only a bad dream. I'm right here.”

And she was in the foyer of the Cart House. The smell of pine resin. There were no other children, only a few men, dressed in red hunting caps and tan breeches. Old rifles, hinged open at the breech, muzzles to the ground. One of the men tussled her hair as he left with his comrades. She didn't recognize any of them except Uncle Anson, looking over her shoulder as she played with a set of wooden blocks.

He had always been with her, the razor scar on his face. And Vienna knew that part wasn't a dream at all.

 

15

Autumn's waning sun lost its hold on the sky. A frozen hook of low pressure kicked whitecaps across the North Atlantic and reached down to embrace London. The Thames faded to a band of tarnished silver; the buildings of Piccadilly Circus growing hazy in the heavy air. George Holt loved it. “Far more intense than yesterday. See how we still have enough ambient light for natural dark tones? Bring out muted highlights and step up saturation and we have London as chiaroscuro.” He set up his camera within a forest of reflective umbrellas.

Emily and Justine sat at the edge of Jubilee Gardens. The London Eye rose behind them, hoisting tourists into the clouds. “Look! Behind the fog is where Big Ben is!” Emily cycled forms across a foldout table, every page highlighted where Justine's signature was required. Promo rights, copyrights, insurance to cover every catastrophe from torn garments to death.

“We thought you were finished,” Emily said.

“Seemed like a good idea to kiss it off.”

“So why are you still here?”

“I hope staying the extra day wasn't a hassle.”

“We have been well compensated by your employer. So why are you still here?”

“Might as well finish the job.”

“For a beautiful woman, you're an ugly liar. So why are you still here?”

Justine glanced toward Vienna, standing out of earshot. She was staring across the river, toward the tired ramparts of the Ministry of Defense. Her right wrist moved through an endless loop, fingers curled around nothing. A scratched mind stuck on a familiar song: Vienna on the banks of the Thames, scooping Brussels gelato from foggy air. Justine followed her gaze, felt the poisonous geometry of the ministry's facade.

“One moment.” She walked to Vienna and took her hand, stopping the unconscious motion. Vienna made no move. Justine stepped in front of her.

“Vienna? You have to stop.”

“Sierpinski Carpet.”

“Vienna?”

“The left wall is cut by six groups of nine windows. Divide the space between the windows into nine equal squares, and remove the central one. Repeat this recursively an infinite number of times. The result has an infinite perimeter but an area of zero.”

“It's the Ministry of Defense. You can't expect much.”

Vienna's lips moved a few seconds longer. Her hand stopped pushing against Justine's. But there was no shelter here. No blank shower curtain. No unbroken floors. No pencil lines to hold back widening fractures in heaven.

Vienna focused on Justine. “In 1938, Queen Mary requested that the wine cellar of old Whitehall Palace be saved. The entire structure was moved by hand and is now located in the basement of the Ministry of Defense.”

“I didn't know that.”

“It's true, according to
Uncle Scrooge's Guide to Modern London,
published by Thomas Doring Press, third edition, page twelve. The cellar was built for Henry VIII in 1536.” Vienna smiled in apology. “Henry's last words were ‘Monks! Monks! Monks!' Isn't that odd?”

Justine sensed, at uneasy distance, how foreign Vienna's world was. Every written page and every shape an assault on a defenseless mind. How was it possible to function with that slithering through your skull?
Get her away from it.

“We're about to start and I need your help with wardrobe.”

Vienna nodded. “Okay.” Which caused a blush that Justine was surprised to feel herself returning.

“Let's go.”

Vienna hesitated. “It really isn't contagious, you know.”

“I'm prepared to risk it.”

Vienna's lips moved as she said something to herself. A second later, she spoke the words aloud: “I'm pretty sure Anne Boleyn thought the same thing.” Her hushed laughter raced by in a single breath. She nodded toward Holt. “He's waiting for you.”

Justine could only follow in stunned silence.

As always, George Holt was a sideways experience. Although when he got wherever he was going, he knew it. “Almost forced perspective! See that, with the wheel? Industry! We can use that.” Justine wondered how he could see anything through his curtain of hair. “Harmony of texture against shape. Pure evolution of the standard. We encompass progress in a single image.” Whatever that meant. “Face the smallest fraction left.”

The matte black Fuji would apparently shoot a million pictures, but Justine was never certain. George used a remote for the shutter, and he'd removed the digital clicking sound from the ghostly quiet camera. “Women are prettier when they don't know they're being photographed,” was his explanation.

The predictable crowd of onlookers manifested, but George had closed off several shooting angles. A pair of London bobbies were enough to assure good manners. Between shots, Justine noted as many fingers pointed at Vienna as at her.

Any publicity is good publicity, right?

Vienna was oblivious, hunched over a computer with Emily. The first array of pictures had been wirelessly downloaded and Emily was weeding through obvious rejects. Smothered giggles as a bad photo came up. Justine found herself on the business end of jealousy.

Wardrobe changes were done in a North Face expedition tent behind the camera. Holt was more interested in protecting his models' modesty than his models were. He'd had the tent's rain fly coated in a white paste that wouldn't pass a shadow even under a full spot. It smelled of camphor.

A shame current circumstances rendered privacy more provocative than nudity. Whenever Justine and Vienna stepped into the tent, the crowd reacted with enthusiastic cheers. It didn't help that the clothes, Ian Deckard's goth-punk skirts, came with enough straps for a delivery truck. Each change took several minutes longer than expected. The cheers grew louder.

“They like you,” Vienna said, working on a herd of clasps that would have scared Houdini.

“They think we're feeling each other up.”

“There isn't time.” Delivered with as much heat as a January blizzard. Justine found the comment delightful.
No one outside has a clue.
How little there was left to prove, here in the tent with Vienna.

“You're right.”

Justine fell into the semi-meditative state long ago adopted for photo sessions. It was like driving. Stop at red lights, make correct turns, switch lanes, and suddenly you're home without knowing how you got there. Toward late afternoon, she caught Emily's gaze long enough for the assistant to flash an enthusiastic “okay” circle with her right hand. Emily knew enough of her brother's business to know what was working.

The rains came on the final planned set. George and Emily scrambled to get their equipment stowed. The manikin was rushed into a white delivery van even as Justine ran to the tent. The clothes had to be kept dry.
If they shrink, I'll suffocate.

Vienna joined her in the tent, accompanied by the expected chorus of cheers. Justine popped out her contacts and squeezed a small stream of saline into her eyes. “I hope the next manikin has green eyes.”

Vienna hung clothes while Justine changed into her own shirt and slacks. The girl managed to get everything repacked in their original garment bags without resorting to Justine's usual stuff-sack approach.
So now who's the immature one?

Emily met them at the rain fly's opening. “You have quite a following.” She handed Justine an umbrella.

The crowd had tripled despite the rain. Justine spotted an additional five policemen pacing the taped boundary. “Vultures circling the kill,” she said.

Emily tilted her head as if listening. “Perhaps. We need you in the van to sign off our end of the deal.”

“Can I have the umbrella?” Vienna asked. “I don't think the lorry has enough room for us all.”

Justine handed the umbrella to her. “This will only take a few minutes.”

Inside, Justine saw a few images as George scrolled through them in the back. “Excellent. Very ethereal, as if you are a ghost as much as the manikin. Reminiscent of Schumann's musical spirits.” He hummed several atonal bars.

Justine glanced at Emily for explanation, but Emily could only offer a shrug. “I was right in thinking the change did you good,” she said.

Justine refused to take the bait, making a production of reading the final form. Not that there was any need. James had already looked them over. Thank God he'd stayed.

“George will be impossible to talk to for at least a week,” Emily said after they exited the van. The rain had paused, though the sky was darker. The real showers had yet to begin.

Justine looked behind the van. “Where has that girl gone to?”

Emily looked further away. “There.” She nodded toward the crowd.

Justine saw Vienna's back, sheltered by the umbrella. She was against the tape barricade, talking to the crowd. The Eye towered over her in a turning mandala of steel and fog.

“Well shit.” Justine started across the grass.

“Wait,” Emily said, holding Justine's arm.