Cleopatra and Frankenstein(8)

The woman shrugged. “Fucking.”

She performed the remainder of the reading with perfunctory brusqueness. Frank’s aura suggested that he was creative, charismatic, and worried about money. Cleo’s said she was intuitive, sensitive, stubborn, and needed to drink more herbal tea. That was it. Frank paid the woman and bowed affectedly before Cleo could pull him back out through the beaded curtains. She squinted up at him through the sunshine.

“What do you think?” she asked. “Are we compatible?”

“Well, we have at least twenty percent of the relationship down.”

Then he hooked his arms around her and they kissed for a long time, without self-consciousness or ostentation, while all around them bright pyramids of fruit aged in the Chinatown heat, rows of diamante watches winked in the sun, and women flicked their fans open and closed like thoughts not quite realized.



“Felicitations and congratulations!”

Santiago beamed at them as he opened the door, his large body partially covered by a striped, sauce-stained apron. He was brandishing a bottle of champagne in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other. Wild-haired and robustly built, he reminded Cleo of some friendly mythological god. She submitted to being kissed wetly on each cheek, then spoon-fed a mouthful of golden beets. Behind him every surface of the large kitchen was covered in food. There were the beets with goat cheese, sliced filet mignon in a crushed black pepper sauce, lime-soaked ceviche, roasted asparagus, littleneck clams bathed in white wine, pearl couscous, shaved fennel and parmesan, and three other kinds of salad, one consisting entirely of edible flowers.

“Greatest chef in the world,” Frank said, circling his arm around Santiago’s wide girth. “Remember when you worked at that place that advertised processed meats like it was a good thing? And look at you now!”

Cleo caught Santiago’s eye and smiled. Everyone Frank knew was the greatest something in the world. His half sister Zoe was the greatest actor, his best friend Anders was the greatest art director and amateur soccer player, and Cleo, well, Cleo was the most talented painter, the deepest thinker, the most beautiful woman on earth. Why? Because Frank wouldn’t have married anyone else.

Frank plucked one of the edible flowers from the wooden bowl and placed it on his tongue, then gestured for Cleo to do the same. She bit into a cluster of yellow petals and closed her eyes. It tasted peppery and a little sweet, like licorice laced with paprika. Frank made an approving sound and took another.

“I knew I couldn’t disappoint you,” Santiago said, watching them. “You two understand pleasure.” He motioned for them to sit at the dining table.

Santiago had recently opened his own restaurant and was riding a wave of critical and commercial success. His loft was a mix of faux found objects and exorbitant designer furniture; cinder-block side tables and vintage milk crates mingled with cowhide rugs and modernist lounge chairs. The effect was garishly impressive, like a dog walking on its hind legs.

“How was the ceremony?” he asked. “You know I got married at City Hall too.” He winked at Cleo. “It’s how this menace to society came to America.”

“It was phenomenal,” said Frank, using a dish towel to shimmy open the bottle of champagne. “Our witness was the guy from the street cart outside. Kamal. Nice guy. He cried!”

“You are lying to me.” Santiago clapped his hands with delight.

“I’d bought a hot dog from him beforehand,” said Cleo. “So he wasn’t a complete stranger.”

“You couldn’t have asked someone from one of the other weddings to be your witness?”

“What would have been the fun in that?” asked Frank.

“Everything for the story,” said Cleo, nodding toward Frank.

“And that’s why we love him,” said Santiago, slapping Frank’s shoulder. “My mother-in-law was our witness. Looking like, excuse me for saying this but it’s true, she was sitting on a kebab stick the whole time. Disapproving mothers, you know.”

He smiled at Frank.

“Frank doesn’t have to worry about that with me,” said Cleo, and made a noise that was not quite a laugh.

Frank pecked the top of her head. Santiago took the bottle from him and poured three champagne flutes.

“We should send Kamal a bottle of this stuff,” said Frank, swallowing most of his in one gulp.

“I didn’t know you’d been married before,” said Cleo to Santiago.

“For my visa,” said Santiago. “She was a dancer I knew. But we were in love too, you know, for a moment.”

“What happened?” Cleo asked.

Frank refilled his glass.

“Oh man, she died,” said Santiago. “Overdose. Yeah, it was a real bummer. Beautiful woman, beautiful soul.”

Cleo would have liked to ask another question, but Santiago got up to check on the food and Frank wanted to hear some music, and the conversation escaped like smoke.

By the time the wedding guests started to arrive, they had finished two bottles of champagne and sampled every dish. Cleo’s former roommate, Audrey, came first. Slim-hipped, full-lipped, and covered in tattoos of quotes from books she’d only partially read, she was what Frank called one of Cleo’s strays. Cleo went to kiss her, but Audrey stuck out her long pink tongue instead.

“That’s how Tibetan monks greet each other,” she said.