Cleopatra and Frankenstein(85)

Now, he was crossing the country to help set up a pop-up on the West Coast. The concept was to create some of the staple dishes from his new restaurant, but simplified, in reusable jars you could carry on the go. It was simple, sustainable food at a time when the trend in dining was to make everything as complicated as possible. Santiago thought it was light years ahead of what his competitors were doing and had agreed to have a special wooden capsule created at great expense, from which his team could sell the jars.

He had planned to stay at the Chateau Marmont, where the people-watching alone was worth the cost, but Anders insisted he stay at his place in Venice. He had submitted, though he knew it would be harder to stay on his meal plan around Anders, whose life, with its catered parties, six-course dinners, and never-ending supply of drugs, was hardly ascetic. Fair, lithe Anders always made him feel like the tubby brown friend—unassuming, unthreatening, unfuckable. Which, of course, just made him want to eat more.

And now he also had to keep the secret of what had happened to Cleo from him. He was still unsure if he should bring her up to Anders at all. Cleo had refused to say anything more about him at the hospital, and he had left the visitor’s hours uncertain if he had just witnessed a confession or something else. But what? Had Anders done something to hurt Cleo or Frank? He decided to find out as much as he could from Anders without revealing what he knew. Which, he was realizing, was not very much at all.

When Santiago pulled up to the address that Anders had given him on Amoroso Place, his first thought was that Anders had managed to find a home in LA that looked exactly like him. The two-story house was mid-century Scandinavian in style, with a high, angular roof, blond wood panels, and glossy sliding glass doors. It was early evening, and the sky had turned a dusty lavender, against which the house glowed a warm, inviting gold. Or rather, it would have appeared inviting had Santiago not immediately felt two feet tall standing before it. He tried to smooth out the wrinkles in his linen shirt with the sweaty palms of his hands as he rang the doorbell.

There was the sound of a man’s voice and the click of a dog’s nails on wood, and then the door flung open to reveal a tanned, shirtless Anders and a scrambling golden retriever puppy.

“My brother,” he yelled, yanking the barking creature away by its collar and pulling Santiago in for an embrace. “How was the flight?”

Santiago was sweating, and he worried Anders would be able to smell the sour odor drifting off his stale clothes. He took a step back and clapped his hands.

“All good, man, all good. And who’s this?”

“My new friend!” grinned Anders. “This is Thor.”

“Wow. You’ve only been here a month, and you already have a dog!”

“Six weeks. But, I don’t know, I just wanted to settle down a bit.”

“Well, California living suits you, man. This is quite a house.”

Anders had managed to wrestle Thor into something like submission and was now kneeling beside him, ruffling his blond fur vigorously with both hands. Even his dog looked like him. It was ridiculous. Anders pushed a lock of his own pale hair from his forehead and grimaced with pretend humility.

“Eh, it’s okay,” he said. “Come on back to the deck. Me and the girls were just having some drinks.”

Santiago followed him through a spacious open-plan living room decorated in shades of tasteful cream with palm-tree-green accents. A wide, modern staircase suggested an equally expansive upstairs. They passed through the glass doors to a back deck that functioned as a second living room, bordered by beds of heather and cacti. Long wooden couches covered in plush canvas cushions were positioned around a blazing fire pit. Lounging on these, drinking glinting glasses of wine, were about five women, all of whom appeared to be models.

“Girls,” said Anders. “This is my friend Santiago. He’s come all the way from New York to teach ignorant Los Angelenos about Peruvian food.”

Santiago awkwardly shrugged off his leather duffel bag and lifted a hand in greeting. The models cooed a chorus of welcomes. The most striking of them came forward to embrace him. She moved with the hypnotic, liquid grace of a cobra. From her shoulders hung a sheer midnight-blue kaftan woven with stripes of glittering thread.

“So great to meet you,” she murmured. “I’m Yaayaa. And”—she turned to Anders with a knowing smile—“it’s just Angelenos, babe.”

Anders grinned. “That’s what I said.”

He collapsed onto the couch and poured a glass of wine for Santiago, then another for himself. He was wearing a pair of loose linen pants with no shirt or shoes. The skin of his flat sun-browned stomach rippled into tight rolls as he leaned forward to give Santiago a glass.

“I’m not here to educate,” said Santiago. “Only satiate.”

“I love that!” cried one of the other women, whose pert, pointed face reminded him of a strawberry.

Yaayaa returned to curl onto a cushion next to Anders and look at him with a curious, level stare. Her nose was dusted with freckles that crept over her cheekbones to her charcoal-lined eyes. Santiago perched opposite them and sucked in his stomach. He wondered when he could make his escape and take a shower.

“So, you live in New York?” she asked.

“Yes, how is New York Shitty?” said Anders. “God, I’m glad to be out of that place.”

Santiago bristled but kept his voice neutral. “Same old, same old, man.”