Elixir (11 page)

“It’s anonymous right?” Sean asks with concern. “Our names and faces and stuff?”

“Totally. Nobody knows the real us. No cops.”

A few moments pass. “Dude this is insane.” Sean kicks his left foot up on the banister and slips his hands inside his flannel sleeves.

“Right? It’s spreading more and more each time I check. Even if half the people that already saw it send it to say...three friends each, and then half of them send it to another three, we’d have...” Fabrizio takes out his phone and opens the calculator app. “Let’s see, it—”

“Forty eight thousand five hundred eighty-three total views,” Sean says in an instant, a quiet murmur, his subconscious doing the talking. As soon as he hears the number come out of his mouth he wishes he hadn’t said it, assuming the rapid calculation would seem weird. He’s right.

“Wait, what?” Fabrizio asks with a chuckle.

Wanting to change the subject, Sean stands and says, “I’m hungry as hell, let’s get something to eat.”

Ignoring him, Fabrizio taps the calculator buttons for a while. To his surprise he learns the answer is in fact forty eight thousand five hundred eighty-three. He gives him a funny look. “Whoa man. What the hell was that?”

He lets out a nervous laugh. “Lucky guess, I don’t know.” He nods down at the city square. “Some new place opened up two blocks away. You can see them making the sauce and stuff right from the counter. Big portions. I think you’d like it. Let’s go.” He approaches the doorway.

“You bet your ass that was a lucky guess. Damn.”

Sean slides his right hand out of his shirt and slaps his buddy on the shoulder. “Come on. Let’s grub.”

Fabrizio spots his swollen purple bruise and asks, “Is that from last night?”

“Yeah,” he says, relieved the topic changed. Though he’s sworn off academics since the former him died in Arizona on his way to a camping trip, sometimes when he’s around numbers, his mind can’t help but try to pick them apart and make sense of them. Overwhelmed by all the trouble his intellect has caused him through the years, he represses this urge whenever he can. But it’s still there, even if buried.

He rotates his puffy fist so his friend can observe the extent of the damage, hoping he asks him more questions about the punch and forgets about that accident with the math. “Damn,” Fabrizio says, studying it. “You all right?”

“I’m cool.”

“You knocked the shit out of him.”

“Not bad for my first time punching anyone, huh?”

“I didn’t expect you had it in you dude. I was like...yo.” A pause. “You better ice that thing down today. We’re celebrating our fame tonight.” He scoops up the newspaper and waves it a couple times. “I got us a hook-up at that new club I was telling you about.”

“Yeah bro. I’ll be straight.”

“Hell yeah.”

That night they’re at a trendy hotspot by the bar, the song “Talk Talk” by the band of the same name blaring. Vodka and club soda in his hand, Sean dances around, drink spilling a bit, his eyes squinty, cheeks red. “Let’s do another shot,” he says.

“Already?” his graffiti partner asks, checking out a pair of cute girls by them.

“Come on.”

“You’re really getting after it tonight James. Shit.”

“I thought you said we were celebrating?” He pushes his shoulder.

“Screw it. Fine.”

Lifting up two fingers, Sean signals to the bartender. He slides a couple tequilas in front of him, strong smell rising. He pays, passes one to his buddy, and says, “Cheers.” They bang glasses and take them.

Fabrizio sticks out his tongue and gurgles. “Hot damn.” He shakes his arms as the booze burns in his throat, then grabs his phone from his black-denim jacket and starts texting.

“I got to take a leak man.”

“Do your thing.”

Bobbing to the music, Sean wanders to the rear of the venue and pushes open the bathroom, one other guy inside. Squaring to the urinal, he unzips his fly. He’s drunk, swinging his head a bit as he does his business. The other guy leaves, Sean alone now, DJ muffled behind the closed door. He still feels jittery, same sensation since he woke up this morning. The alcohol is helping but not much.

He flushes, then flips the sink on and stares at his bruise as the warm water cascades over his skin. He washes up and tears a paper towel from the dispenser. Drying off, he looks at his reflection in the oval mirror. He conceals the part of his face below mid-nose with his hand, mimicking a bandana. He observes the image in the glass for a while, wondering what the girl from last night remembers about him, realizing this is all she saw.

He saunters out and meshes with the crowd on the dance floor, swaying to the rhythm. The left side of his T-shirt bunches in his jeans, a byproduct of twisting between so many people, a hundred or so packed tight around him, a lot of body heat. A girl rubs her hip against him, trying to get his attention. He glimpses her, then turns away, preferring to be by himself. He closes his eyes and keeps grooving.

The song “Ceremony” by New Order comes on. He muscles his way to the heart of the crowd. He has a slight hop in his step, sweat building on his face. Right hand above his head, he mouths the lyrics as he jumps around.
Oh I’ll break them down, no mercy shown. Heaven knows, it’s got to be this time. Avenues all lined with trees. Picture me and then you start watching
. He recollects a dream he had last night during the few hours he was asleep, considering what provoked it.
Letting me know. Forever
.

It started with him suspended in the middle of infinite blank space by three ropes, something he’s dreamt about before. However, this time they didn’t just restrain him. They tore him to pieces. First his left arm, then right. As they ripped, no blood came out, instead just noise. A buzzing rang from the holes where his limbs used to be, something he imagines a million bees would make if in one giant hive. As the third rope began severing his legs, he woke up. He tries to avoid thinking of it, but it keeps surfacing.

After a few more tracks, he weaves back to his pal at the bar, mid-chat with a pretty girl in thigh-high leather boots. “Hey Mike Tyson,” Fabrizio says to him above the booming speakers. “You got a message.”

Sean hears him but doesn’t know what he’s referring to. “Huh?”

He gives Sean his phone, an email opened on it. “Through that StreetArtsenal website, where I posted our pic. The blonde from last night.” He reads the text on Fabrizio’s screen:

His mind spins. He can’t even hear the music anymore, all his mental capacity locked on the email. He rereads it, heart rate accelerating. “Can I borrow this for a second?” he asks, holding up the phone.

“I need it. Expecting a text from someone coming.”

“I won’t be long.” He starts walking away with it.

“Where’re you going?”

“A minute.”

“Dude?”

“I’ll be back.” He fights through the crowd toward the exit, a few sweaty drunk girls sliding by, the combined linger of five or six different perfumes leaving an irritating fruity scent in his nose. He bursts outside into the square, the cool air refreshing on his hot skin. It reminds him of the briskness of the cranked-up air conditioner in Aunt Mary’s SUV when she used to pick him up from baseball practice in Pasadena in mid-August.

He sits on the ledge of a fountain, marble angel in the center spouting water from its hands, a droplet jumping up and grazing the back of his neck every now and then. Clicking the reply button, he stares at a blank input box. He starts typing. Then stops and erases. He begins again. Then pauses and deletes. He looks around a bit, then writes:

He hits send, then begins tapping his foot. Situating the phone in his pocket, he concentrates on the trickle of the fountain behind him. A long fifteen minutes later his thigh vibrates. He checks the screen:

He soaks in the response. Yes, yes, yes. He gets up and walks to a food stand, the attendant nodding at him. “Bottle of water,” Sean says in the local language, his spirit so elevated his own voice sounds distant to him.

“That’s it?” the guy asks in Italian.

“That’s it.” The man pulls a bottle from a cooler and passes it to him with a small paper napkin, stuck to the condensation. “Thanks.” Sean peels some cash from his wallet and places it on the chipped wooden counter. “Keep the change.”

“You sure?” he asks, estimating the generous tip.

“Yup. Have a nice night sir.”

“
Grazie
.” Sean swigs. Water never tasted so good, his whole body on a natural high. He dabs some sweat from his cheeks with his sleeve, then takes another sip. He doesn’t feel jittery anymore.

The next day Sean cruises on his motorcycle, leather jacket blowing, Roman Colosseum in the background, sun nudging its way out behind long, thin clouds. He turns onto a street in a chic commercial district bordered by shops for Gucci, Valentino, Prada, and other luxury Italian brands.

A sign for the Hotel Vanessa is at the end, an inscribed marble block with a large gold “V” on top, sunlight glistening on the right tip of the letter. Nearing the property, he slows, dips his boot heels to the cobblestones, and walks the bike into the lot. He stops under a canopy, torches flanking the sides.

Engine humming, a kid about ten looks the motorcycle up and down, then glances at Sean with eyes envious and admiring. Grinning, he parks it next to a row of motorized scooters, then gets off, hangs his helmet, and approaches the front door. A bellman opens it and says, “
Ciao signore
.”

Nodding, Sean enters, a few well-dressed thirtyish people checking in at the front desk, an antique copper espresso machine behind an oak bar, an ornate chandelier above everything. The place has a traditional Roman ambience but also appears to have been renovated no more than ten years ago, some modern flavor in the furniture and carpeting.

He sits on a white leather couch with bright-orange pillows. A few minutes pass. His right foot taps. A lady, about sixty, plops herself one cushion over. She waves at him, then removes a train schedule from her purse and analyzes it on her lap.

Ten more minutes go by. The wait makes him anxious, muscles in his neck and shoulders stiffening. He starts thinking about what he’s going to say when he sees her, rehearsing three or four greetings in his mind. He feels silly for being antsy, no girl ever making him fret before.

“Thaaaaaat’s you,” a feminine voice says, Sean turning to it. Natasha stands by the sofa to his right, black leggings, white V-neck T-shirt, pink-rimmed Wayfarer sunglasses. She lifts her shades and rests them on her head, strands of blond hair falling around them.

It takes him a couple seconds to get his bearings, thrown by her not coming in through the front. Looking at her in the abundant natural light, he likes how her image is no longer clouded in his memory by the shadowy road the night he first saw her. She is everything he imagined and more, those blue eyes filled with energy and a dash of vulnerability, that button nose, those golden locks. “Yeah, it’s me,” he says in a soft yet confident voice. Folding her arms, she studies him. Rising to his feet, he presses his right palm to his face, mimicking a bandana. “Was it the top of my nose or eyes that gave it away?” he asks in a joking tone.

“The hand,” she says, pointing at it. “It’s bruised as hell.” She speaks perfect English with a hint of an accent, doesn’t sound Italian though, more German.

He glimpses his fist, black and blue. He chuckles, a flash of embarrassment on him. “Fair enough.” He offers his left for her to shake instead. “Nice to meet you. Officially.”

She twists her right thumb toward the floor and extends her hand to his. “Natasha.” She smiles at the goofy upside-down grip she has on him.

“James.” He matches her grin with his own.

“I don’t really like coffee,” she says as if letting him in on a secret. “Is it okay if we skip it?”

“We can skip it.”

She pats her thighs. “Good.” Her eyebrows spring up. “I want to show you something. Follow me.” Her expression is mischievous and cheery at the same time. She crosses the lobby and veers down a hallway lined with faceless sculptures of the human body, Sean trailing. Turning her hip, she thrusts her tiny self into the metal bar on a door with the stairwell symbol, opening it and slipping through.

Catching it before it swings shut, he follows her. “Where’re you going?” he asks, his heavy boots rumbling the aluminum-tread steps. The stair shaft lacks the elegant detail of the foyer, exposed pipes running along the walls, no curtains on the windows, an area visited most of the time by employees not guests.

“You’ll see,” she says down to him, a flight or so ahead. “Best kept secret in town.” They go up a story. Then another. She moves with fast yet soft strides, not even making an audible noise to him. “Almost there.” She’s getting excited. They climb some more. At the sixth floor she spins her little self into an exit door, sunshine flooding in.