“A rake. A scoundrel,” she responds.
“Now just a moment,” I say, hitting the button on my door to roll up the windows. I need to hear this. “What are you talking about?”
“As I’ve said before, your reputation precedes you,” Ava says, and now all warmth is gone. Her arms are crossed, and she is as closed as a safe.
I think back to the council meeting, where I saw her first. “Is this about what Harlem Riots guy said about me seducing half of London at the last convocation?”
“That was just one of the plethora of stories I had already heard.”
“Plethora? You heard a plethora of stories about me?” I ask, voice raised.
“Showgirls, politicians, even a princess, from what I heard,” she says crisply. “No one is immune to the wiles of Jules Marchenoir.”
I pull the car to the side of the road, put it in park, and unstrap my seat belt so that I can face her. “Okay. For one thing, you Americans must have way too much time on your hands, or way too little happening in your own country, if all you have to discuss is the love lives of your foreign kindred.”
She shrugs. “The French have always fascinated us, I admit. Especially those who live up to all the worst stereotypes.”
“All the worst—” I exclaim. “Just what the—” I feel like I’m choking, I’m so angry.
“Water?” Ava says coolly, and hands me a bottle of Evian from the bag she packed.
I take it, twist off the top, guzzle half of it, and then pour some in my hand and splash it on my face. I don’t care if I get Ambrose’s leather upholstery wet. I need to cool down.
“Better?” Ava asks with a grin.
“Stop it with the smugness,” I say, and she gives me a look like she just won the grand prize by getting under my skin.
I take a deep breath and say, “Okay, first of all, I am not a rake. I have never treated a woman disrespectfully. I have never lied, cheated, or misled a woman about my intentions or commitment. Yes, I have seen a lot of women in my life, but I have treated them all impeccably, made them each feel like royalty—including the princess—and made sure that each of them . . . every one . . . thought that it was her choice not to see me again.”
“I have a very hard time believing that,” Ava says, eyes narrowed.
“Ask my kindred. Hell, ask the ladies in question . . . those who are still alive. I have no doubt in my mind that each and every one of them would remember me with fondness. Maybe even with pity at ‘breaking my heart.’”
Ava is silent.
“Besides, why the hell do you care?” I say with raised voice. “Are you some kind of feminist crusader who has to protect your poor hapless sisters from the evil wiles of men? Trust me, Ava, the women I’ve known have not been weak. I have preyed on no one. They’ve all been as strong as me, if not stronger.”
There’s a look on her face that I can’t interpret—a look of hurt and pride and defensiveness all at once. And then, suddenly, I understand.
“Something bad happened to you.”
“Yes,” she responds.
“It had something to do with the Factory,” I say, remembering her reaction on the plane.
“Yes.” She pauses, deciding whether she’s going to tell me, and then says, “If I’ve judged you unfairly—”
“Oh, believe me, you have,” I interject.
“Which I haven’t yet made my mind up about,” she continues, “I owe you an explanation for my—”
“Vehemence,” I suggest.
She looks surprised, and then accepts it. “Okay . . . vehemence.” She sighs. “So . . . the Factory. I was a student, studying art history at NYU. I wasn’t an artist myself, but all my friends were artists, writers, musicians. It was New York in the sixties, and the city was practically exploding with creativity and a crazy kind of try-anything quest for expression.”
I nod. That was like the Paris of my human days . . . I know exactly what she’s talking about.
“The first time I was brought to Andy’s, he latched onto me. Called me his muse. His ‘It Girl.’ He filmed me. Painted me. Wanted me around all the time. Introduced me to everyone who was anyone, and they made me the toast of the town. I lapped it up, the instant celebrity. But Andy had other favorites, of course, and one of those was an artist named Rosco.”
The moment she says his name, I know who she’s talking about. And I can predict how the story’s going to go. Badly. At best.
“He was incredibly handsome and so charismatic. Everyone wanted to be around him all the time. So he and I were”—she presses the tips of her index fingers together—“the It Couple. We were at all the parties. He was the king of the downtown gallery scene, and I was his queen. He was crazy about me, and I was madly in love with him. After a year, he asked me to marry him. I said yes.”
She pauses and takes a sip of her water. “On the surface things seemed too good to be true. But underneath, things were already spiraling out of control, only we were living at such a frenzied pace, I didn’t even realize it. You’ve heard of Andy’s parties, right?” she asks.
“Sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll,” I answer honestly. No two ways about it. The Factory was all about debauchery.
She nods, and I sense a weight of regret. “Were you into it too?” I ask.
“I wasn’t into the worst of it. But . . .” She studies her hands for a moment before looking back at me. “Not all of us were angels before we grew our wings.”
She’s right about that. You don’t become a bardia from living a pure human life. You become it by sacrificing yourself to save someone. Which is, I assume, the part she’s about to get to.
“We had this party at a big old abandoned theater in the Bronx. The place was dilapidated. The party had been going all night, and everyone was pretty out of it. There were too many people standing on this one balcony, pretty high up. It was like this theater box that would seat ten, but there were thirty people crowded on it. I was on the ground floor, waving up to Rosco, when I saw the supports start to crumble. Pieces of plaster were coming off and falling to the ground. I screamed at him to get everybody off, but he couldn’t hear me, and no one else would pay attention. Like I said, everyone was wasted.”
“Now just a moment,” I say, hitting the button on my door to roll up the windows. I need to hear this. “What are you talking about?”
“As I’ve said before, your reputation precedes you,” Ava says, and now all warmth is gone. Her arms are crossed, and she is as closed as a safe.
I think back to the council meeting, where I saw her first. “Is this about what Harlem Riots guy said about me seducing half of London at the last convocation?”
“That was just one of the plethora of stories I had already heard.”
“Plethora? You heard a plethora of stories about me?” I ask, voice raised.
“Showgirls, politicians, even a princess, from what I heard,” she says crisply. “No one is immune to the wiles of Jules Marchenoir.”
I pull the car to the side of the road, put it in park, and unstrap my seat belt so that I can face her. “Okay. For one thing, you Americans must have way too much time on your hands, or way too little happening in your own country, if all you have to discuss is the love lives of your foreign kindred.”
She shrugs. “The French have always fascinated us, I admit. Especially those who live up to all the worst stereotypes.”
“All the worst—” I exclaim. “Just what the—” I feel like I’m choking, I’m so angry.
“Water?” Ava says coolly, and hands me a bottle of Evian from the bag she packed.
I take it, twist off the top, guzzle half of it, and then pour some in my hand and splash it on my face. I don’t care if I get Ambrose’s leather upholstery wet. I need to cool down.
“Better?” Ava asks with a grin.
“Stop it with the smugness,” I say, and she gives me a look like she just won the grand prize by getting under my skin.
I take a deep breath and say, “Okay, first of all, I am not a rake. I have never treated a woman disrespectfully. I have never lied, cheated, or misled a woman about my intentions or commitment. Yes, I have seen a lot of women in my life, but I have treated them all impeccably, made them each feel like royalty—including the princess—and made sure that each of them . . . every one . . . thought that it was her choice not to see me again.”
“I have a very hard time believing that,” Ava says, eyes narrowed.
“Ask my kindred. Hell, ask the ladies in question . . . those who are still alive. I have no doubt in my mind that each and every one of them would remember me with fondness. Maybe even with pity at ‘breaking my heart.’”
Ava is silent.
“Besides, why the hell do you care?” I say with raised voice. “Are you some kind of feminist crusader who has to protect your poor hapless sisters from the evil wiles of men? Trust me, Ava, the women I’ve known have not been weak. I have preyed on no one. They’ve all been as strong as me, if not stronger.”
There’s a look on her face that I can’t interpret—a look of hurt and pride and defensiveness all at once. And then, suddenly, I understand.
“Something bad happened to you.”
“Yes,” she responds.
“It had something to do with the Factory,” I say, remembering her reaction on the plane.
“Yes.” She pauses, deciding whether she’s going to tell me, and then says, “If I’ve judged you unfairly—”
“Oh, believe me, you have,” I interject.
“Which I haven’t yet made my mind up about,” she continues, “I owe you an explanation for my—”
“Vehemence,” I suggest.
She looks surprised, and then accepts it. “Okay . . . vehemence.” She sighs. “So . . . the Factory. I was a student, studying art history at NYU. I wasn’t an artist myself, but all my friends were artists, writers, musicians. It was New York in the sixties, and the city was practically exploding with creativity and a crazy kind of try-anything quest for expression.”
I nod. That was like the Paris of my human days . . . I know exactly what she’s talking about.
“The first time I was brought to Andy’s, he latched onto me. Called me his muse. His ‘It Girl.’ He filmed me. Painted me. Wanted me around all the time. Introduced me to everyone who was anyone, and they made me the toast of the town. I lapped it up, the instant celebrity. But Andy had other favorites, of course, and one of those was an artist named Rosco.”
The moment she says his name, I know who she’s talking about. And I can predict how the story’s going to go. Badly. At best.
“He was incredibly handsome and so charismatic. Everyone wanted to be around him all the time. So he and I were”—she presses the tips of her index fingers together—“the It Couple. We were at all the parties. He was the king of the downtown gallery scene, and I was his queen. He was crazy about me, and I was madly in love with him. After a year, he asked me to marry him. I said yes.”
She pauses and takes a sip of her water. “On the surface things seemed too good to be true. But underneath, things were already spiraling out of control, only we were living at such a frenzied pace, I didn’t even realize it. You’ve heard of Andy’s parties, right?” she asks.
“Sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll,” I answer honestly. No two ways about it. The Factory was all about debauchery.
She nods, and I sense a weight of regret. “Were you into it too?” I ask.
“I wasn’t into the worst of it. But . . .” She studies her hands for a moment before looking back at me. “Not all of us were angels before we grew our wings.”
She’s right about that. You don’t become a bardia from living a pure human life. You become it by sacrificing yourself to save someone. Which is, I assume, the part she’s about to get to.
“We had this party at a big old abandoned theater in the Bronx. The place was dilapidated. The party had been going all night, and everyone was pretty out of it. There were too many people standing on this one balcony, pretty high up. It was like this theater box that would seat ten, but there were thirty people crowded on it. I was on the ground floor, waving up to Rosco, when I saw the supports start to crumble. Pieces of plaster were coming off and falling to the ground. I screamed at him to get everybody off, but he couldn’t hear me, and no one else would pay attention. Like I said, everyone was wasted.”
