Cleopatra and Frankenstein(13)

Frank put his arm around Quentin’s shoulders and squeezed. “It’s great,” he said. “So Cleo.”

“There’s more,” said Quentin. “When the first egg was given to the Russian royal family, it had a surprise inside. A golden yolk, and inside that was a golden hen, and inside that was a tiny crown. Every egg is meant to have a surprise inside. So … open it.”

At the top of the orb was a gold clasp holding each side of the lattice together. Cleo clicked it, and the egg sprang open. Inside was a slim gold pedestal protruding from a sky-blue floor. It held a tiny metal chest encrusted with jewels.

“Open that too,” said Quentin.

Cleo lifted the chest’s lid with her fingertip. Inside was a vial of white powder. Frank exploded into laughter.

“I’m guessing this is the part of the present that’s for Frank,” said Cleo.

“For both of you,” said Quentin. “And me.”

“Thank you,” Cleo said, clicking the egg shut and kissing Quentin’s cheek. “It’s my new favorite thing.”

She went to put it on Santiago’s bed, but Quentin grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the bathroom.

“No, no,” he said. “You’re coming in here with me.”

Cleo handed the egg off to Frank with a weary smile. Clearly, she was destined to spend most of her wedding in the bathroom.

“I’ll entertain the rabble,” said Frank. “Go.”

Quentin pulled her after him and closed the door. He removed his own stash and took out his keys.

“I would have married you, you know.” He held a key up to his nostril and sniffed hard. “If you needed me to.”

“I do love him.” Her voice was sharper than she’d intended. “It’s not just the visa.”

“I know, I know,” Quentin said. “It’s just so weird that you’re actually married.”

Cleo was peering into the mirror, teasing her hair into a braid, mostly to give her hands something to do. She touched the back of her skull gingerly. There was the tender spot where her head had collided with the glass. Quentin offered her the key, but she shook her head. He shrugged and inhaled it himself.

“There are worse reasons to marry someone,” said Cleo.

“There are better ones,” said Quentin, rubbing his gums with his finger.

“And how would you know?” Cleo snapped.

“Hey.” Quentin came and stood behind her. He wrapped his arms around her waist and perched his chin on her shoulder. “Calm down. No one thinks you did anything wrong. I know you love each other. I’ll just always love you best, that’s all.”

“I know,” said Cleo. “Wipe your nose.”

Quentin grabbed some toilet paper and blew into it, inspecting the contents before throwing it in the wastebasket.

“I definitely love you more than Johnny loves me,” he said. His voice was hard and bright. “I think he’s stealing from me. Well, I think he’s stealing my vitamins. I’m not kidding! Hundreds of dollars’ worth of them. But when I asked him about it, he went crazy and claimed I must have taken them all and forgotten. Who the fuck takes that many vitamins and forgets about it? He didn’t even leave me my magnesium, which you know I need to stay regular.”

“That’s terrible,” said Cleo, suppressing a smile. “Magnesium is … Well it’s crucial, really. Essential.”

“At least you know Frank will never steal your shit,” said Quentin. He darted his eyes up and down her. “Not that you have much to steal.”

“You know, I wish he’d put that in his vows,” said Cleo, deflecting the insult before it could sink in. “‘I promise to love you, protect you, and never steal your worthless shit.’”

“Or hold your hand to a burning stove,” said Quentin. “Like my dad did to my mom.”

Quentin had a knack for tipping a conversation from light to dark, like snapping off a light.

“He really did that?” asked Cleo.

He was looking down. His long eyelashes cast feathery shadows over his cheeks.

“Poland.” Quentin shrugged by way of explanation.

“I didn’t know,” said Cleo.

“Why would you?” He looked up, his face suddenly alive with possibility. “Now will you do a line with me?”

Cleo rolled her eyes and relented with the slightest nod of her head.

“You do look beautiful,” he said as she knelt beside him over the toilet seat. “Like a child bride.”

Outside the bathroom, a group was gathering around the front door, scuffling to find their shoes and refill their glasses. The bowls of cream and dulce de leche were scarred with cigarettes stubs. Zoe lay passed out on the sofa with Frank’s tuxedo jacket over her.

“There you are.” Frank came up behind her. He was rubbing his eye with his knuckle, back and forth, like a sleepy child. “We’re going up to the roof to do fireworks. Wedding fireworks.”

“What’s the difference?” Cleo asked, but Frank was already disappearing up the stairwell.

Up on the roof the winking skyline of Manhattan sprawled before them against a velvet black sky.

“I had some fireworks left over from the long weekend,” Santiago said, unstacking the neon packages. “But I got a few new ones for the occasion.”