Lovely War(28)

He surveys the room and finds no seat to his liking, so he produces one. A black leather chair, rather Spartan in appearance. He sits, crosses one leg atop another, and interlaces his fingers over his knee. His face is clean-shaven. His nails, manicured. His glossy black hair, sleekly combed straight back from his forehead.

Like Ares and Apollo, Hades, Lord of the Underworld, is a man of striking beauty, though serious and grim, with a bloodless precision to his aquiline features. Handsome, though you’d more likely stamp his face on a coin than hope he asks you for a dance.

“Why are you a priest?” demands Ares. “Your, er, Holiness?”

“Good evening, my nephews, my niece.” Hades’s voice, like the rest of him, is smooth.

“But why a Catholic priest?” War is persistent. As always.

Hephaestus coughs. “Doesn’t this create, for you, some, er, theological difficulties?”

Hades looks thoughtful. “I don’t think so,” he says slowly. “I enjoy being a rabbi just as well, possibly more. I honor the mortals’ worldview, and I speak from within their frame of reference.” He looks slightly injured. “The life of a cleric suits me. I spent the better part of a happy century as an abbot. I think I make quite a good priest, actually.”

“Nothing has ever been quite so spiritually motivating as Death,” says Aphrodite.

Hades smiles. “The work of the priesthood, preparing souls to cross the river to my domain without undue fear, is a great help to me.” He grimaces slightly. “Unprepared souls are sticky. Most inconvenient.”

Hades produces for himself a tin of mints and selects one carefully. “Mortals are so very fleshy. Ruled by appetites. They gurgle. Bulging with fluids. You, Love, and you, War, find these quite useful in your work, but my interest in humans is entirely spiritual.” He shudders. “Bodies don’t interest me in the slightest.”

“Bet that’s not what you told Persephone.” Ares laughs like a boy in a locker room.

“And who was that nymph again . . . ?” Apollo scratches his head.

Hades favors them with a wan smile. “Boys, boys.” He can indulgently say, “Boys, boys,” in a tone that also says, I could disintegrate you if I wanted to.

He studies the room.

“Oh dear,” he murmurs. “Have I wandered into an unfortunate marital moment?” He fingers the golden net enclosing the cheating lovers between two fingers. “As a man of the cloth, Hephaestus, I can’t condone your methods, much as I admire your handiwork. ‘If you love something, you must set it free.’”

“Bet that’s not what you told Persephone.” Ares thinks he’s even funnier the second time.

Aphrodite intervenes to save Ares from an untimely end.

“My lord Hades,” she says sweetly, “I’ve been telling these gods a tale of love. To demonstrate, among other things, the vital role death plays in making true love possible. We’ve always understood each other, you and I. Would you share your part when the moment comes? The story is”—she nods to him—“this one.”

Hades smiles regally. “You honor me, fair Aphrodite,” he says. “It will be my pleasure.”





Colette Fournier—July–August 1914





APHRODITE


I’LL BEGIN WITH a girl and a boy climbing an extremely tall set of stairs.

It was a hot summer day in July 1914. The air was still; only bees were at work. Everyone else had the good sense to find a shady spot to avoid working.

But not Colette Fournier, and not her companion, Stéphane. Colette was determined to reach the top despite the heat. Stéphane was determined to stay within arm’s reach of Colette, and his master at the docks, taking a midday nap, had given him just that chance.

The stairs, cut into rock, mounted a dizzying ascent up the high stone outcropping overlooking the town of Dinant, Belgium. At the top stood a medieval citadel, a fortress of hewn stone that for centuries had protected the town. The view from the citadel plateau was breathtaking, showing a broad curve of the peaceful Meuse River winding through bright-green farmland, now bursting with the yield of high summer.

The girl’s sweaty hair stuck to her forehead, and her blouse clung to her damp body. She didn’t care, and neither, I might add, did Stéphane.

The carillon of bells in the tower of Notre Dame de Dinant, directly below them, played a bright melody. Just part of the color of Dinant, that jewel hugging the Meuse, its rainbow of homes reflecting like crystals on the surface of the river’s smooth waters.

Colette was sixteen, Stéphane eighteen. Stéphane lived near Colette’s family and had been underfoot forever. Colette knew Stéphane like she knew her brother, Alexandre, and her cousin, Gabriel. Stéphane was always there, like a stray dog one makes the mistake of feeding.

There was nothing unusual in Stéphane challenging Colette to climb the citadel stairs. They’d dueled in footraces and boat races and breath-holding contests since they were small.

But there was something unusual about the way Colette had caught Stéphane watching her lately. Quietly, slowly, in the midst of the usual clamor, as if he’d never seen her before.

Which was ridiculous.

Also curious were the sensations Colette had begun to recognize whenever Stéphane appeared. When she realized that she missed him when he didn’t show up as expected, and that when he did appear, she had no idea what to say to a boy as familiar as an old sock, she knew she was in some kind of trouble. When she began studying Stéphane, noticing how his dark hair curled at his temples, and how new things were happening to his cheekbones, his collarbones, his neck, she knew she was in grave danger.