Green Fairy (Dangerous Spirits) (12 page)

“Hey, woofer.” She only called him that when she was annoyed.

“Sorry, I’ve been, uh, practicing baseball.”

“At nine at night?”

“You said you’d do this on your own if you have to.”

“Do I have to?”

He flopped back on his bed. “Sorry. No, look, I…” He searched for things to say. “The absinthe, uh…”

“Oh, God. You with your fucking purity-of-body thing. It’s no worse than beer, I told you.”

The dream. He wanted to tell her, but her irritation put him off. “No, no. I mean, yes, but…”

“Come over. I’m bored out of my fucking skull and everything on TV sucks.”

He sighed. “Go to a movie.”

“They all suck too. Come on. We don’t have to do the absinthe again. I’ll make, fuck, I dunno, s’mores or something.”

That made him laugh. “When was the last time you made s’mores?”

“Girl scouts, seventh grade,” she said promptly. “I used cardboard instead of graham crackers and Mrs. Cartinson burned the fur off the back of her paw trying to put the fire out.”

“Is that why you got kicked out?”

She paused. “No, I got kicked out because I stood up at the meeting and asked why we were perpetuating an organization built to serve a fascist dictatorship, and Mrs. Beecham said that we were serving this country now, and I said that’s what I meant.”

In that moment, Sol loved Meg too much for secrets. “I had a weird dream I need to tell you about,” he said. “I’ll be over in twenty minutes.”

She listened to his dream attentively when he got there, and glared at him when he’d finished telling it. “Fucker,” she said. “You got awesome absinthe dreams and all I got was a headache.”

The spot on his chest started to itch again. “It was really vivid,” he said. “I still felt like it was going on when I woke up, a bit. I never had a dream like that before.”

“Yeah, some drugs’ll do that. Did you write it down?” He shook his head. Meg got the absinthe bottle out of her desk drawer. “Why the hell not?”

“I dunno.” He rubbed at his chest. “It’s just a dream. I want to write, y’know, my story.” Like the ones he’d read online.

“Whatever. It’ll be awesome for the project. Let me just get some glasses from the kitchen, and we’ll be set.” She got up.

Sol squinted at the green liquid, sloshing against the sides of the bottle as Meg set it down. It looked frenetic, anxious to escape. “I’m not drinking any more.”

“Oh, don’t be such a Sandra Dee.” Meg rolled her eyes as she walked past him. Her fur glistened and she smelled strongly of pool water.

“Because I’m gay.” His heart still quickened when he said it, even though he knew he was safe with Meg. “That’s great. Thanks.”

At the door of her bedroom, she turned and rolled her eyes. “Sandra Dee was the purity-purepure white mouse from the fifties, remember? Didn’t drink?”

“Yeah, but still…”

“Oh, smooth your panties.” Meg grinned at him. “
That
one was because you’re gay.” She slipped out the door with a flick of her thick tail that sent water drops at his face.

Sol folded his arms and fumed, and when Meg returned, he shook his head. “I’m not drinking it.”

She set the goblets out and lit an incense burner on her dresser again. “You’re letting me do all the work on this project, so you’re damn well going to have dreams if that’s all you’re contributing. And you’re going to include them in the project, too.”

He bit his lower lip. She was doing most of the work, and all he was doing was reading a book, and not even one of the ones she’d told him to read. “I, uh, I have to go to this barbecue tomorrow…”

“Sol.” Meg put her paws on her hips and faced him. “Come on, just do this with me, okay? If I can’t have awesome dreams, I at least want to hear about yours.”

But if he told her how much the spot of paint had freaked him out, she would laugh at him again. She would tell him he needed to try more drugs, and then a simple absinthe hangover hallucination wouldn’t get to him.

A simple hangover hallucination. But it had felt so real. Of course, he’d never had a hallucination before. Maybe they felt like that. Maybe it really was like in cartoons, where the people who were dying of thirst in the desert imagined palm trees and water and beautiful oryx ladies (or guys) in robes.

He got out his phone and texted Carcy.
Should I have more absinthe?

“Hey.” Meg looked sideways at him, setting up the candles on her dresser. “Save the sexts for after.”

Of course, without him having typed up his e-mail to the ram, Carcy had no context for understanding why he was asking. If it hadn’t been for that spot of paint, Sol would have been happy to take another drink, chance another dream. The exquisite sadness that Niki felt, bright and bitter, was a purer emotion than any of Sol’s muddled feelings about his own life. And the shy confidence with which Jean went about his life, not to mention his devotion to his father, were things Sol envied. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to write about them because they weren’t interesting. He didn’t want to write them because they were too personal.

The young wolf’s thumb hesitated over the “Off” button, then slid up to the e-reader. It opened “Confession” to his last bookmark.

why I had no recourse but to take the actions I did thereafter.

“Didn’t some famous guy go to jail for being gay, back in the eighteen-hundreds?”

The candles flickered, throwing shadows over the walls and ceiling. Meg poured absinthe into the goblets. “Couple guys did. Don’t worry, though. Here they’ll just throw stones at you.”

“Or baseballs, at the barbecue.”

“Bring some broccoli.” She placed a sugar cube over the absinthe spoon. Water streamed down from the glass, dripping onto her paw and desk. She ignored the spill.

“I’ll just eat beforehand and then I won’t be hungry. I can have some potato salad.”

“What if they put beef in it?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

She half-turned, smiling. “Your whole vegetarian thing is stupid. Here.”

He took the goblet she handed him. “Oh, and this ‘gift from the Green Fairy’ isn’t?”

“It’s an old tradition, so shut up and drink.”

He lowered his ears. Meg just drank from her glass without any of the pomp and ceremony of the first time, and she didn’t appear to be enjoying it very much. Sol lifted the anise to his lips and sipped, then took a larger drink. The bitterness flooded his mouth, stronger than he remembered, but leaving the same tingle on his tongue and in his throat.

They sat in the quiet, surrounded by the flickering candles and the smells of incense. Sol found his mind turning back to the red and gold of the cabaret, Niki dancing in the box. He could still see the leering chamois in Niki’s memory from his dream.

His phone lit up with a message indicator, but his e-reader was still on the screen.

the actions I did thereafter.

“Thanks for the absinthe,” he said. “Thank your vampire fox friend.”

“I did.” Meg wasn’t looking at her computer, or at anything in particular.

“Glad we got to do this project.” Sol rubbed a thumb across the screen of his phone without turning it on.

“Gives you something to take your mind off the mindless drone of baseball?”

“And everything else.” Sol smiled. “But I just like working with you.”

“Oh, God.” Meg rolled her eyes, but smiled back. “Don’t even start with me.”

He looked at his message, finally. Carcy’d texted,
More, but not too much.

Love you
, he tapped back, and then took another long drink. The liquor and anise burned, but the strong sensation felt invigorating. “I think I’m actually starting to like this stuff.”

“I don’t have that much left,” Meg said. “Two, maybe three more drinks. Should get us through the next week, right?”

“That’s all?” Sol’s ears flattened. “Maybe we should slow down.”

The otter shrugged, finishing her drink. “My friend made it specially for us for the project.”

Sol eyed his glass, but couldn’t bring himself to be worried. “Made it?”

“Well, added something to the store-bought stuff. He wouldn’t tell me what. Point is, it’s for this project, so we should finish it for the project. If you just want a buzz, schnapps is cheaper and tastes better.”

“I…” Sol struggled for words. “I feel different with this stuff.”

Meg pointed a finger at him, goblet still in her paw. “Tell you what. Write me an epic poem and I’ll get him to make us another bottle. Hell, even write me a good poem.”

“All—all right.” Sol finished his as well, feeding the warmth in him. He couldn’t stop smiling. “It’s a deal.”

“Yeah, right.” Meg snorted. “Stop smiling like that, you’re creepin’ me out. C’mere and look at some art.”

She pushed her laptop open as he scooted his chair over to her desk. She was warm and her scent came to him between the frankincense and the anise, comforting and friendly. It wasn’t anything like the guys in the locker room, the athletic male scent he imagined when he was texting Carcy. It was the scent of friendship and camaraderie, so familiar he wondered why he hadn’t appreciated it more before now. “You smell good,” he said.

She squinted sideways at him. “You’re gonna lose your gay cred if you keep that up.”

His ears flattened down and he ducked his muzzle again. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

Meg didn’t say anything more about it. He sneaked a glance at her expression in between paintings and thought she looked a little sorry. Of course she wouldn’t say anything if she were. But maybe she was just focused on the paintings.

They were beautiful, ranging from delicate traceries of flowers and pastoral country scenes to busy city nights, splashes of color fighting in dark shadows. Two of the paintings featured windmills, but none the Moulin Rouge. Still, when Sol looked harder, he spotted it everywhere: in a four-petaled red flower, a reflection in a window, in a pinwheel of red smeared across a line of yellow lights. “Amazing,” he murmured.

“Yeah, some of those guys were pretty fucked up.” Meg lingered over one picture, a portrait of a female otter in a maid’s dirty cotton dress looking out a window. The room she was in was dark, and the window bright. The otter’s expression in the picture was hard to read. Sol thought she looked sad, until Meg said, “I like this one. She’s totally like, fuck those people out there.”

And out in one corner of the window, Sol glimpsed a line of red: a sail of the Moulin Rouge. “Right,” he said.

“There was this whole other culture,” Meg said. “I mean, the artists all did their thing inside and only a few people appreciated them. Most of them died unrecognized.”

“She’s a maid,” Sol said.

Meg made an exasperated noise. “It’s symbolic. You see the easel in the corner? The paintings?”

“I thought she was cleaning up after the artist.”

“She is the artist. It’s a statement on how art was seen as a service industry then. Artists were commissioned to do paintings the way you would pay someone to clean your bathroom. The ones who didn’t want to take commissions starved.”

“Unless they had friends to bring them lamp oil,” Sol murmured. In his imagination, the lamp oil was a bright, glowing green.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He itched to pick up the story of Jean again. Through the happy haze of absinthe, the dream now seemed exciting, not scary at all. He would photograph himself tonight, he decided, and then in the morning he could see if any spots had appeared during the night.

When Meg got to the point where she wanted to light up again (“it’s Friday night!”), Sol took off for home. On Friday, his curfew was later, and he was able to wander down by the lake side instead of heading straight back to tension over his diet and now, maybe, hitting grounders. When his phone beeped with a message, he sat on a bench to answer Carcy’s text, but it was the same message from before:
More, but not too much.
When he closed the message, his e-reader app was up, open to “Confession.”

Sol shook his head. Stupid glitchy messaging. He looked out over the lake, where the moon’s reflection glimmered, then down to his phone to read.

The testimony of that loathsome badger has now painted the small boarding-house near Courcelles where I passed my first night with the dancer as a flea-ridden cesspool where only the most depraved acts take place. Despite the hotel manager’s crude accounts of what he heard and smelled, I assure you that the feelings that passed between us that night were the most transcendent and sublime that I have ever experienced. Niki and I shared feelings, dreams, ambitions. I told him how lovely his dancing was, and he complimented me on my facility with words and charming turns of phrase, which I assure you I gave you all due credit for.

Apart from my sadness at the gulf that yawns between us, father, my greatest regret is that the promise of that night, a shining boulevard lined with the most fragrant flowers down which Niki and I both saw a life fulfilled, remains unwalked. That night, my spirit soared with a kindred soul for the first time, and boundless worlds I had never thought myself fit to enter opened their arms to me.

Minon, though he has refused to speak on my behalf, could testify to my joy that night, for I summoned him to meet Niki. I am certain that seeing himself replaced so soon in my affections, and to such superior satisfaction, will color his recollection of that night, but there is nobody else who witnessed the joy we found in each other. Indeed, I recall that Minon was not terribly pleased that night, his eyes more than a little green at the sight of our happiness. But such is his jealous and spiteful nature, and father, should he be persuaded to give his account, I beg you hold that in your consideration of his words.

Once Minon had left, Niki also insisted upon returning to his home, no matter how I begged him to stay for just one more hour, one more minute, one more second. I promised him that I would see him again, for longer than just one night. I promised him freedom from the life of dancing if he wanted it, I promised him a life of luxury—rash promises, yes! But I was so moved by the spirit of love that I would have promised him to hold the moon in the sky for his pleasure, I would have promised to stop the Seine in its course, I would have promised anything had only his dear muzzle, his soft paws but lingered one moment longer—

But I did promise to spare you details. I speak with the voice of my heart, and I hope you will hear its plea.

Once he had left, I sat in quite a blue mood. My heart had made promises and I was determined to see them through. I pride myself on my persistence, which you in the past have labeled thick-headed stubbornness. In the end, it was Minon’s visit that inspired me, which I am sure he would gain no pleasure from knowing. He had made a remark on his departure wishing me well with the newest companion in my squalid closet. And so, I thought to myself, a creature as beautiful as Niki should not have to remain hidden so. It was then that I resolved to take him to the ball the Justines were to give. With an attractive, exotic fox on my arm, one who was practiced at passing for female, there would be no need to hide my affection. It would be acceptable, even encouraged in high society for once. I hoped, father, that you would be proud of me.

Thierry found me that morning at our usual cafe, and when I had explained my idea, he offered me whatever help he could provide. I wish to stress that although he did accompany me to Les Halles to shop for a suitable dress for Niki, he urged caution and restraint with every step we took. Too well he recognized the headstrong nature of a heart in love, and reined in my wilder impulses. I thought that a diamond brooch would look elegant on my fox’s shoulder, but Thierry reasonably argued that the two hundred francs would be better spent to improve the quality of the dress and my suit.

Of course we did not spend that much money, father, although Thierry did provide some assistance to my weakened purse. I promised to repay him as I was able from the generous allowance you provide.

(I request, father, that should you care nothing for my fate, should I be consigned to prison and unable to repay Thierry, that at least you uphold the family honor and make my debt to him just.)

We spent a full day choosing a dress for Niki, and part of the next choosing the perfect accessories for him to be the most stunning consort at the ball. I confess that much of the time spent was my fault; giddy with delight, I could not choose between gowns. At each one I paused to imagine my darling’s russet shoulders and cream-colored throat framed by peach-colored silk or crimson voile, wide lace frills or velvet folds, his slender hips accented by a soft curve of taffeta or satin, his tail showing through the split at the back of the dress.

Having finally chosen the dress (and I think you will agree, whatever you think of Niki, that the dress was the perfect frame for that work of art), we had to select a suit that would make me look no less striking than my consort. It was here that Thierry’s tailor showed his value. I know that you did not think much of my striking white suit and crimson tie, which was colored to match the crimson dress we chose for Niki, but this fisher marten knows the latest fashions, and this summer, the waist-cut coat with black trim will be seen in all the best gatherings.

I tell you all this, father, so that you will understand my feelings and my state of mind after meeting Niki. For two days, I could think of little else but walking into the ball with him on my arm. Once we had the clothes, all that was lacking to me was my fox, and so on the following day, I returned to the Moulin Rouge to collect him.

Once Thierry and I stepped onto the streets of Montmartre again, the joy in life of those bohemians overwhelmed me. I had dressed more appropriately for the cabaret on this night, with a casual pair of trousers and the old blazer you may recall from my childhood. The crowd outside the red windmill welcomed me more openly, whether joyful from the soft weather and the spring breeze or simply judging me by the clothes I wore. I danced with two of them before Thierry pulled me inside.

I took deep breaths of the incense. Though I was hardly a seasoned visitor to the club, the warmth of its magic greeted me like an old friend. I had dreamed about it, replayed the memory countless times. And yet, the featured dancers were paler than before, their kicks and struts less exceptional, the sensuality less stirring. I found Niki in the line of dancers at the back of the stage and watched instead the precise elegance with which he moved, the small flourishes that nobody else was watching, that none of the other dancers matched. I marveled at how I could have missed such a beauty on my first visit, even distracted as I was by the opulence and spectacle.

Our box was shared by a pair of skunks in white blazers and stylish top hats; and a motley party of a mouse, a rabbit, and a fox dressed in an assortment of waistcoats and ascots. We sat at the same edge of the box as we had the previous time, and Thierry allowed me to gesture down to M. Oller for Niki. My heart quickened when the curtain of the box shifted, and Niki came again to dance for us.

This time, the other patrons of the box turned their eyes to him as well, not knowing, of course, the secrets he concealed under his dress. This time, I bought my own stack of Moulin Rouge one-franc notes, so that I might at every opportunity show my appreciation. Certainly he was emboldened by our night together, for he was far less reluctant to give me a kiss between the ears at every note I tucked against the soft white fur of his inner thigh. His beautiful black-ribboned ears flicked toward me, his emerald eyes gleamed in the warmth of the lamps. The fox seated behind me had the effrontery to lean forward, his black paw outstretched with a one-franc note of his own in it. I took the note and placed it in Niki’s garter myself, quieting his objection with a glare.

By the time Niki finished his dance, it made no difference which side of his skirt he lifted; both garters bulged with notes. I whispered as he left that I would see him the following night, that I had a surprise for him. The lights of the club and the sensual beauty of the portraits on the walls were nothing to the lights in his eyes and the sensual beauty of his smile. His tail brushed my shoulder, and then he was gone. But I knew, I knew, it was only for a short time.

Sol’s ears ached with the chill of the spring evening. How long had he been reading? He put down the phone and stared out over the lake. The warmth of the absinthe lingered in his stomach, in his chest, and his muzzle almost hurt from smiling. Reading Jean’s devotion, Sol had pictured the chamois as a ram, curled horns rather than short stubby ones. His tail wagged, thumping against the bench.

The shine of the moon on the lake broke in the ripples from the breeze, splintering into shards of moonlight. Crickets chirped softly, and the stars glittered across the sky. Sol put his phone away, rubbed warmth into the fur on his arms, and got up to walk home.

He’d pulled the covers over his head when he remembered that he was going to photograph himself. So he got up groggily and turned his light on, then snapped pictures of himself with his phone. It occurred to him when he was just crawling into bed again that he should probably take his boxers off for the pictures, because after all, Niki had been naked for the portrait, and besides, the idea gave him a little thrill when he thought of it. So he slipped out of bed, turned the light on again, and took another series of pictures, this time with his boxers around his ankles. He reached down to pull them up, paused to look at the door. It had been years since his mother had come in to wake him in the morning. He’d slept naked only once before, when they were away. Why not now?

Boldly, he kicked the boxers into his dirty clothes pile and then climbed into bed, lying on his stomach. The fabric of his sheets, warm and rougher than his boxers, rubbed nicely against those usually-covered areas. Sol squirmed pleasantly, tail swishing back and forth over his bare rear. Did Carcy sleep naked? When Sol was with him, would they lie together like this and fall asleep without any clothes between them? The thought made his tail wag faster. He wanted to smell the ram next to him, but for now there was only wolf.