Margin of Eros Page 6

  But jealousy was only a part of it. The overwhelming sensation Eros experienced as he stared at Violet was something at once both softer and stronger. He felt almost violently protective towards her. That was it; that was the thing about her. She seemed to be entirely unequipped to deal with her own beauty. It was almost as if it annoyed her, and she was determined to ignore it in the hope that everyone else would do the same. And to a certain extent that approach had worked on Earth. But such ostrich-like naivety was wasted on the gods. Complacent in her humility, Violet had failed to develop the necessary wiles that would allow her to exploit her appearance, and the necessary combat skills to protect her from the predators. As a result, she was wide open.

  Eros had been staring at Violet for quite some time now. Unlike the other gods, he traveled to Earth invisibly. In one sense, this meant that he wasn’t really there. It also meant that he could perform his duties effectively and without undue casualties. Clearly, if he shot humans with solid gold arrows, they would die, and obviously this was not his intention. The arrows, although real enough in the Olympian dimension, were merely figurative in the human dimension. But still highly effective. His (official) father Hephaestus had explained the physics to him once, but he had been distracted at the time by the semi-naked fire nymphs who worked the bellows in the old god’s workshop, so most of the explanation had gone in one ear and out the other. It wasn’t really relevant at any rate. He was a perfect shot, and once he had pierced the chambers of his two beating targets, they were irrevocably entwined for a good five to ten years; or two to three years if they both happened to be famous.

  Traveling to earth in this manner meant that Eros avoided the nastier side effects of trans-dimensional jumping, but it also meant that he didn’t get to have as much fun as Hermes. He could look, but he couldn’t touch. Even then, there were rules concerning ‘spying’ on humans, and although most of the gods ignored these even though they weren’t invisible, Eros tried to stick to them as closely as possible. Bearing this in mind, it was an unavoidable fact of life that he was a love god and his work, by its very nature, often involved libidinous humans in their natural state. In other words, the rules were open to interpretation but they clearly meant, for example, that Eros couldn’t watch Violet in the shower. Their flexibility only kicked in when she decided to walk back from the bathroom wearing nothing more than a pensive frown and a twisted towel around her head.

  One of the stranger, yet highly convenient, aspects of Eros’ semi-dimensional state was that his iPhone still worked. It didn’t work in Olympus, of course, but if he took it with him – or rather, held onto it – when he closed his eyes and effected the transition, the miraculous device would pick up a signal the moment he opened his eyes on Earth. It was such an extraordinary feat of trans-dimensional engineering that Eros had become convinced that one of the geek gods had infiltrated Apple, but this had been vehemently denied by all the likely candidates. With no one to explain the process to him, Eros had to be content with the end result, without really understanding how it could possibly work. It was only his growing suspicion that this procedural ignorance was the theme of his life in general that prevented him from using the device as much as he otherwise might have.

  Nervously, Eros tossed his iPhone from side to side, as if weighing up his options. The glowing numerals hummed 12:06 in a dull monotone, inaudible to all except cats and gods. Eros had been with Violet for a good five hours now, and his disinclination to leave her had not abated. He was now in the danger zone of a direct breach of Olympian decree, the consequences of which were famously barbaric. On the one hand, Eros was the first to admit that he knew very little about divine disobedience. On the other hand, he knew exactly who to call for assistance in that department.

  16.

  ‘It is written,’ said Jesus, lining up the eight ball, ‘that the sexual life of women is a ‘dark continent’.’ Casually sinking the winner, he leaned back on his cue and surveyed the crowded bar. Bearded guitar heroes mingled with an eclectic selection of East Hollywood bohemia. Apart from a faint halo, which the heavily leaded air of LA muted into a hazy areola, Jesus could not have been more inconspicuous. Hermes, on the other hand, stood out like a ham sandwich at a hippie’s picnic. He looked like an ad for the kind of male grooming products that are designed to appeal to the vain, the balding, and the impotent. He was the unattainable ‘after’ photo and thus a walking target for angry underachievers. Particularly between the hours of three and five a.m.

  ‘Freud was an asshole,’ Hermes said, with a little more vehemence than he strictly felt. He had just lost three games to nothing and was down a case of Hoegaarden, a set of circumstances that invariably put him at odds with psychotherapy on the basis that Jesus had somehow ‘psyched him out’ of his rightful win. The possibility that Jesus was simply a better player had of course never occurred to him. ‘Women aren’t mysterious,’ he said, softening his tone a little as the two of them moved away from the pool table. ‘Mystifying, sure, but not mysterious.’ He leaned on the bar to order a cranberry juice, and was immediately ignored by the barman who gravitated towards Jesus like a diminutive celestial twin. Hermes often wondered why Jesus chose to hang around in these kinds of tragically hip dive bars, despite the obvious drawcard of free drinks and reverential rock stars. He himself preferred clinically minimalist cocktail lounges, where he was still the most attractive person in the room, but at least the others were trying. ‘What’s the difference,’ said Jesus, handing Hermes his juice, ‘between ‘mysterious’ and ‘mystifying’?’

  ‘It’s quite simple,’ said Hermes, settling onto a barstool. ‘Mysterious implies that they know something we don’t, which of course is impossible.’ Jesus didn’t know about that but he nodded anyway. Unlike Hermes, he took the whole omniscience thing with a healthy scoop of skepticism. ‘Mystifying,’ continued Hermes, ‘means that they are simply behaving in a confusing way in order to appear mysterious.’

  Jesus thought about that for a moment. ‘But for all practical purposes,’ he said, ‘doesn’t that amount to the same thing? Whether women are difficult to comprehend because they’re trying to be difficult to comprehend, or whether they are hard to fathom because they are hard to fathom – surely from a man’s point of view, the approach in terms of trying to understand them is still the same?’

  Hermes shook his head. ‘You’re missing the point,’ he said. Trying to explain women to Jesus was like trying to explain empathy to Aphrodite. ‘If women were mysterious, then it would pay for us to put some effort into cracking their code. But given that they are merely mystifying, then there is clearly no point and the trick is to be even more obfuscating, and therefore stay one step ahead.’ He took a long sip of his drink, and felt an immediate tingle in his urethra. Truly there was nothing like a cranberry juice to pump out the plumbing.

  ‘But don’t women want to be understood?’ said Jesus, at which point Hermes laughed so hard that cranberry juice spurted out of his nose. Jesus frowned. ‘I think your phone is ringing,’ he said.

  17.

  Eros, Hermes and Jesus formed an unlikely triumvirate at the foot of Violet’s bed. ‘Tricky,’ whispered Hermes, ‘Very tricky.’ The effects of the opiates had evidently worn off and Violet was now sleeping like a well-monitored baby. ‘Surely,’ said Jesus, in the gently melodious tone that characterized his most generous interpretations of human – and indeed, divine – nature, ‘your father’s attention towards this woman could simply be diverted back to his wife?’ Jesus had never met Ares, but the look that passed between the two (probable) half-brothers was enough to convince him that this was an acquaintance best avoided. ‘My mother,’ said Hermes quietly, ‘could not care less.’ For a moment he was silent, as something itched behind his eyeballs. Eros shot him a sympathetic look. ‘It’s his mother,’ Hermes continued, nodding toward Eros, ‘who is causing all the problems.’

  ‘Then perhaps it is she,’ said Jesus, ‘to whom we must appeal.’ Sometimes Jes
us spoke like a middle-aged, slightly effete member of the landed gentry. It was something he was working on with his dialog coach, but progress was slow. Jesus saw nothing wrong with trying to fit in, and in fact was at pains to ensure that his friends were neither confused nor intimidated by his language. Thus he was not surprised nor in the least bit offended when Eros let out a short, derisive laugh. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Jesus, completely misinterpreting Eros’ reaction, ‘please forgive my manner of speech. It’s a work in progress I’m afraid.’

  Eros was mortified. ‘I wasn’t laughing at you –’ he started to explain, but stopped mid-sentence when Violet’s eyes flew open.

  She was staring straight at him.

  Not through him, not at Jesus, and not at Hermes. At him. ‘What are you doing here?’ she said. Although both Jesus and Hermes could see Eros clearly, to an independent observer such as Violet, the young love god should have looked like a roughly man-sized chunk of space. But clearly, to Violet, he did not. Eros opened his mouth to speak. Blood rushed from his head to his feet and settled in a sticky puddle beneath his sandals. His heart tumble-turned. His eyes watered. Time paused in a half-formed fragment as the space between them slithered sideways. And then Violet closed her eyes, settling back to sleep with a kind of nonchalant sigh that made Eros want to leap through the nauseating void and –

  ‘Eros!’ hissed Hermes.

  ‘Huh?’ Eros looked up blankly. And then down, comprehending. ‘Sorry, Jesus,’ he whispered. But Jesus was less interested in the physical manifestations of Eros’ lust than the seemingly inconsequential cause. ‘Is that what you meant by mystifying?’ he said to Hermes.

  Hermes shook his head, a little crossly. ‘No,’ he said, ‘this one really is mysterious.’

  Jesus smiled. ‘Then perhaps,’ he said, scratching his beard, ‘she also wants to be understood.’

  18.

  Aphrodite screamed. Then, when the sound didn’t seem to have any kind of cathartic effect, she screamed again in front of a mirror. Aphrodite liked to watch herself scream, because she felt that the true horror of a traumatic situation could only be fully experienced when she saw just how ugly it made her look. From a Buddhist perspective, the art of self-observation is considered to be a healthy and necessary step on the path to enlightenment. The way Aphrodite practiced it was more like a deliberate regression into an adolescent chrysalis, from which she emerged an emotional butterfly, even more lurid and fragile than before.

  ‘Tell me where he is,’ she demanded, spinning around to face Hermes who was at that moment immobilized on her fake Barcelona chaise, a frozen bag of peas pressed against his forehead. He had a throbbing headache. ‘If you don’t stop screaming,’ he said, ‘I swear to you that I will gargle so much oil of amnesia that I won’t even be able to remember how to dress myself. And I don’t mean that in a good way.’

  Aphrodite decided to try a different tack. ‘I’m sorry, Hermie,’ she said, sidling up to the chaise. ‘I’m just concerned about my little boy. He can’t hide from the Council forever, and the longer he stays away,’ she purred, ‘the worse it will be for him.’ Leaning across, she began to comb her fingers through Hermes’ hair, pressing into his scalp in such a way that his headache began to evaporate, stroke by stroke. ‘I could never forgive myself,’ she continued, noting with satisfaction that Hermes had closed his eyes and was now drooling a little, ‘if something terrible happened to him and I didn’t at least try – we didn’t at least try – to talk some sense into him.’

  Hermes fluttered his lashes, just enough to let Aphrodite see the whites of his eyes. Then, for good measure, he let loose with a little more drool. He knew exactly what she was doing and he had no intention of stopping her. Her scalp massages were famous. Part morphine, part sodium pentothal, they were a Venus flytrap for young heroes, a sticky web of delirium that peaked just as the truth serum kicked in. Of course, Hermes was way too experienced for such an amateur’s mistake. He willingly succumbed to Aphrodite’s massages because he enjoyed the challenge of skating along the razor’s edge of semiconscious euphoria and full disclosure. On this occasion, however, giving away Eros’ location was all part of the plan. His token resistance had merely been to avoid arousing her suspicion; and of course to invoke the scalp massage that would suck the thunder from his head and blow back a babycino.

  ‘He –’ said Hermes, opening his eyes with a Herculean effort and smiling, ever so slightly, in silent thanks to his childhood friend, the famous hero who had forewarned – and hence forearmed – him against this malevolent massage.

  ‘Yes?’ said Aphrodite, trying to keep her voice below the level of a shrill screech. Patience was not her strong suit.

  ‘He told me not to tell you,’ slurred Hermes, milking the moment for every last delicious drop. He hadn’t yet reached the point where he had to tell Aphrodite the truth – he could still lie if he wanted to. This was usually where he got off the ride, but the whole point on this occasion was to tell the truth. And so far, Aphrodite had merely filled him with the fairy floss of diminished capacity. He was inclined to confess, but not compelled. He thought she could do better.

  ‘But Hermie,’ said Aphrodite, which even to her ears sounded a little whiney. She tried again. ‘Hermes, my darling, you know you’re like a son to me.’

  ‘Great Zeus,’ thought Hermes, experiencing the weird sensation of trying to roll his eyes, and being completely unable to do so.

  ‘And I know that you and Eros are like brothers,’ she continued.

  ‘We are brothers,’ said Hermes with difficulty. His lips felt like raspberry liquorice.

  ‘That’s just a rumor,’ sniffed Aphrodite. ‘The point is,’ she went on, pressing her thumb into the fleshy mound just below his left lobe of Olympia, ‘that I would never do anything to harm him.’ Leaning closer, she pressed under the right lobe, swirling the two pressure points together in a unified circular bliss. ‘You can trust me,’ she whispered in his ear.

  ‘Bingo,’ breathed Hermes. Through a rolling narcosis, his last syllable tapered into a high pitched wheeze, as if his brain had just deflated. Silently, he thanked Eros for affording him this opportunity.

  ‘He’s with Poseidon,’ he added, almost as an afterthought.

  19.

  Violet woke suddenly, as if from a Hollywood nightmare. Then she remembered she was living a Hollywood nightmare, not having one. As her racing heart gradually settled back to its pre-caffeinated state of morning, she eased her grip on the sheets and lowered herself onto the pillows, trying to remember the dream that had caused her to sit bolt upright in bed, sweaty and trembling, like a shell shocked GI in one of Aaron’s movies. But the images were elusive, darting behind the routine thoughts of reluctant wakefulness – bathroom, coffee, work, ugh – like giggling ghosts in camouflage.

  It was ten minutes after eight, which meant that once she had taken into account the X factor of public transport timetables and the constant of LA traffic, she was already late for work. This didn’t worry her so much as the fact that she had slept in. Which meant that the chances of having to face Ashley before she left had increased exponentially. Ashley was not an early riser. Rather, she was a night owl whose frequent one-night stands meant that her return to the nest was often timed to coincide with the morning rush hour. Which was to say, shortly after the gentleman-du-jour kicked her out of his apartment on his way to work. How Ashley managed to find so many men with ‘real’ jobs to sleep with in LA was a mystery to Violet, given her line of work, although from another perspective it made perfect sense. What, after all, would be the point of Ashley sleeping with another starving artist, or indeed, a self-proclaimed manager/producer/promoter of dubious credentials and whimsical working hours? Far better to specialize in entertainment lawyers and financial advisers with neat haircuts, expense accounts and psychosexual disorders.

  Violet peered around her bedroom door. The corridor was empty and the bathroom door was ajar. The coast appeared to be clear. Despite the
fact that ‘quietly’ and ‘Ashley’ were opposing concepts, there was a slight possibility that Ashley had slipped into the apartment unnoticed. Not taking any chances, Violet tiptoed past Ashley’s bedroom to the bathroom, dropped her robe onto the floor, and stepped into the shower cubicle. She had just turned on the hot water when she heard the crash, clatter and cuss that announced her roommate’s explosion into the shared space. ‘Violet?’ Ashley called, slamming the front door. ‘You home?’

  Violet pulled the shower curtain closed and stepped under the water, a good five minutes before experience dictated it was wise to do so. The freezing water penetrated her scalp, clearing her mental landscape in a whooshing gasp, like a glass of beer in August. A minute later, when Ashley barged into the bathroom, Violet was able to greet the intrusion with the equanimity of a nun. ‘Sorry babe,’ said Ashley, ‘I really need to pee.’ Her pants were around her ankles and she was on the bowl before Violet could protest. Not that it would have done her any good. Ashley had boundary issues.