Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except Irbis and several innocent short-lived bystanders; everything else is Marvel's only.
19. The Wedding
The plane landed shortly after 3 in the afternoon, and Creed stated they'd take a taxi straight to Newark.
"The moment ya get yer hands on that damn guitar, we get on our way back t'Wausau." Not on a plane though, nor in any other direct way. The misadventure with the mercenaries had inspired him to be a bit more schizophrenic when it came to his safe-house. And no, Irbis wouldn't leave the place ever again, as she herself had mentioned. "Don't lag behind, girl."
"I should have arrived last weekend," Irbis commented worriedly as she strove to remain at the blond's side, "I hope de wedding isn't today."
Outside the airport, the day was cooler than in Utah, but it was still warm, especially after leaving the strongly air-conditioned plane and airport.
"What weddin' ya're talkin' 'bout?"
"O Senhor Agostinho said his goddaughter had de wedding in October," she explained as she took off the cardigan she'd been wearing over the plain summer dress. "He was organising everything."
Creed didn't say anything else, opening the door to a taxi and prodding Irbis inside. He hoped the wedding-organiser would be smart enough to get them the guitar instead of leaving them waiting for the following day. Of course it might not be the wedding day just yet, and Creed hoped not. The last week had been busy enough and he wanted a break.
As they got off the taxi, though, in front of the greyish, unimpressive building of the Portuguese community hall, Creed lost any illusions. He, even if not Irbis, could clearly hear banging silverware, stomping feet and some shrieking whistling. However, the mayhem he was hearing could signal the end of the celebration – hopefully a noisy 'enjoy the honeymoon' send-off.
They entered and Irbis nervously asked for 'Senhor Agostinho'. The noise had diminished, allowing for the music, the talking and the laughing to be heard. The sound of the silverware on the plates, allied to the smell of food, indicated that the party wasn't over yet, as Creed had hoped.
They sat and waited for a few minutes, Irbis rubbing her hands nervously.
"Stop it! Or are ya 'fraid I might kill everyone in there?"
She looked at him and sighed. "No. I'm afraid... I'm afraid de guitar isn't here yet."
"What? Didn't ya say it should be here in late September?"
Irbis's brown eyes turned to him, apprehension shading them. "Yes, but... what if something happen?"
An explosion of noise – silverware, stomping feet, whistling – stopped him from answering the girl's stupid worries. Irbis noticed his wondering frown.
"Dey want de... os noivos... de couple dat married... dey want dem to kiss." Laughing and clapping drowned the demanding noise, but it was temporary. "Ah, olhe. Listen what dey say: dey want de parents off de couple to kiss now."
Creed grumbled. "Great. It's a darned orgy."
She chuckled just as a man entered the corridor where they were sitting. "Well, well, Antonieta. I was expecting you last weekend."
Irbis jumped off her seat and Creed studied the man. He was well dressed, his brown eyes shining with cheer and alcohol, and his smile spread from ear to ear. Perhaps it wouldn't be too difficult to get the guitar.
"But what happened to you? You're full of bruises!"
"Ah," and Irbis didn't avoid the man's eyes as she lied. "My car was stopped. Carjacking. Didn't end very good…"
The smile disappeared immediately and he walked up to the girl talking in Portuguese, a worried hand cupping a shoulder. He heard the word 'guitarra' and the man shook his head. Creed frowned, but the man was smiling and insisted with Irbis. She nodded lightly towards him and the man seemed to notice him for the first time.
"Hello, mister…"
"Creed," he stated roughly.
"Yes, I was just telling your friend: you must both go in and join the party. I insist. It's my goddaughter's wedding day, and I won't admit that you two came all the way here and are only going to take the guitar and run off. No, no! You come in, now, and I'll get you two a place to sit." He was already turning his back and walking towards the hall, but Creed didn't really mind having a snack – the plane lunch had been nearly unedible. "I'm afraid you missed lunch – they're just finishing the dessert – but we can still arrange something for you to snack on."
Sitting at a round table near a wall enjoying his meal, Creed surveyed the reception Hall. Its mostly white walls with blue and white tile panels representing historical motives were tall and gave the salon a grandiose feeling, in sharp contrast with the ordinary looking exterior. It was also spacious, even with the tens of tables which had sat groups of eight during the long wedding lunch. And long it must have been – his meal took one hour exactly and a new plate was brought immediately after he finished cleaning one. He had been offered seafood soup, which he had thought was a poor choice for an entry even if it was deliciously rich, and Irbis had had the nerve of chuckling and saying no, it wasn't an entry, that they usually served the entries only while the guests were taking photos, not at the table. Then they'd brought cod grilled on coals. And then pork with clams. And then melon with ham. And the pie for the dessert. Finally, they'd brought him coffee and a tray of drinks to choose from. He was so full, when he lit a cigar to accompany the digestive whisky, that just watching the people dancing was enough exercise.
Creed took a long puff from his cigar and eyed the band critically. The two men had just arrived when Agostinho had led them in, everyone leaving the tables, the waiters clearing them prior to moving them closer together so as to enlarge the dance floor, a CD playing background noise under the guise of Chapel of Love, As long as you love me, the Power of Love and anything else with love in the title. It would have surely messed his digestion if the two guys – one on the keyboard the other at the micro – hadn't killed the CD and started the show. Only they'd started with an assortment of waltzes that had really been better off played from a CD. And then – he had already finished his soup and started on the fish – then the singer had showed his true singing gift with Can you feel the love tonight. Enough to make good food go sour.
They'd been playing non stop since then, mixing quaint back-country songs, with tacky foreign folk songs, and soppy love songs. Whether the rhythm was upbeat or slow, the floor dance was always packing, with kids running amok from stage to dance floor to tag games between the table legs, and back to stage again.
"Is a good band," Irbis said casually, having also finished her meal and having just poured a tumbler of Porto wine for herself.
"Ya gotta be kiddin'! That's a good band fer you?! I got a better voice when I'm hoarse."
She looked up at him, a slight frown. "His voice isn't strong or powerful, but is nice and he controls well. He doesn't try sing notes his voice can't produce. And in a wedding off dis category... yes, dat's a good band."
"This category?" He puffed the cigar and finally looked at her, giving her his undivided attention. "An' what category is that, huh? 'Cause with all this food they piled on us, I was startin' t' think this was aimin' at a queen's weddin' category."
"A wedding always has lots off food, Mister Creed. During lunch and at night: dey have to put buffet tables wid cheese, and shrimp, and fruit, and... cold desserts, and cakes, and meat... You have to have many food. And den you can use what isn't eaten in Sunday, in a small lunch to de family and friends more important, more proximate."
Creed finished his drink. "Basically, they spend all their money on the food an' then don't have nuthin' t'spend on the band."
Irbis shrugged and looked at the guests. Old and young danced noisily, with occasional fits of loud laughter making their way between the music. A few women were dancing together and some couples had included children into their midst, forming a three person round dance. Then the band started playing another Portuguese song, but this time people piled into a conga line that started slithering through guests and tables, the bride and groom laughing at its head.
Irbis smiled and muttered 'de train', chuckling softly when Creed showed his disgust for the awful musical taste the bunch of people had.
"No," and she glanced at him, "dis is a wedding like is supposed be."
The conga or train or whatever line came dangerously close to them and a few hands shot out to drag them in. Creed's frown was very disuassive and he wasn't bothered much, but Irbis hesitated and the line became stressed as a few people tried to hold its advance for her to jump in. Its march couldn't be held, though, and Irbis ended up not joining, raising her still filled glass as an excuse against other invitations.
"A proper weddin', huh?" Creed filled himself another glass. "I'd suggest ya found that guy, Agostinho, and got yer guitar for us t'leave. I ain't got no interest in such 'proper weddin's'."
Her eyes opened up, slightly alarmed. In the back, the conga line had disintegrated as the band started playing a lively Portuguese song. "We can't leave now, Mister Creed. We have to dance."
"Says who?"
"Is a wedding. Dey give you a party, and you have to... to show you like. We... or I, if you don't have interest. I have to say ao Senhor Agostinho dat de food was excellent, and dat de band is very nice and... and I have to dance a little. If I don't dance, is like... like I don't like."
Creed wasn't happy, but he was also too full to be aggravated. "That's a load o' bulshit. Nobody asked him to feed us."
"No, is true, but..." She looked at the floor dance and sighed. "You don't have to dance, Mister Creed, but I think dat I have. I just dance a music or two and den I ask about de guitar, OK?"
"This ain't no disco, girl," and he grinned at her. "If ya wanted t'dance, ya should've joined the conga line and called yer duty done at the end of it. Ya don't think I'm gonna sit here all afternoon waitin' fer another song ya can dance on yer own, do ya?"
"I dance alone." Creed frowned at the naturality of her shrug. "If someone want to dance wid me, dey see me dance alone and dey..."
"Ya here with me." The light growl surprised her and she blinked. "Ya don't dance with anyone but me. Got it?"
She eyed him seriously for a second. "OK. If someone want to dance wid me, I say 'no, thank you'. No problem."
Creed's growl deepened slightly. What kind of a moron goes out into a packed dance floor to dance to love songs alone? He finished his glass and got up, intent on getting the show over with. He didn't go as far as the crowd, though. The way they were all nearly bumping into one another, he'd end up tempted to clear some breathing space around him and it could get messy. Circling her waist with an arm, he started moving to the rhythm of Roy Orbison's Pretty Woman. Irbis, wearing ballet-flats, quickly got to the tip of her toes to move weightlessly under his lead.
"Thank you," she said in a low voice when a new song started. "I really didn't want to look bad dat I don't dance."
Creed was almost amused with the ridicule. "Ya'd look bad fer not dancin', but ya wouldn't look bad dancin' alone. That's smart, girl. Real smart."
"No," her voice was slightly breathless. "I mean, look bad like... hypocrite."
She had looked up and noticed his frown. "Like de people dat complain dat de streets are dirty, but den dey throw papers and packets of potatoes to de street. Or like de people dat want deir parents to help wid de clodes, and clean de house, and cook, but when de parents can't do it anymore, dey put dem in a home for old people and never visit again. If you want to receive, you have to give too. If you don't want to know if people give things to you or not, den you don't have to give nothing too. But you can't complain when you don't receive things."
"But they do. That's what people are like: they want everything, but don't wanna pay fer it."
Irbis's grin widened, more bitter than cheerful though. "Yes, dat's right. Dat's why I don't like very much people."
The band stopped for a break then, allowing an impromptu band of guests to get to the stage and start playing folk music. Soon, the dance floor was taken over by a big round of people, flailing hands around and stomping feet.
"De guests must be part off a group of dance folkloric," and she actually smiled happily at the tacky song and tackier dance. "My wedding was suppose have a group like dat, too."
Creed did a double take. "Ya was gonna get married?!"
"Ah, no. But de wedding was already decide." She lost the smile as she took a step back and leaned lightly on a table top, careful not to topple it. "My grandmoder... she died after de wedding off my broder. I had seventeen years, and she knew dat she had Alzheimer so... she talked wid de person dat has a big house for wedding parties in de country and did a contract. She wanted to pay my wedding party because she didn't have childs and I was like a daughter to her. So I decided how I wanted my wedding."
Creed grinned, mocking her. "Complete with a five course dinner and a two-men-band, huh?"
"Yes, exactly. And a carriage to take me to church and to de house where de lunch is. And de same place to de lunch in Sunday, wid a young cow or bull to play garraiada. And what my dress was like. Everything."
A yelp followed by laughter called their attention. Someone had fallen while swirling about in the round dance, but the woman was being helped up and the dance continued unchecked. Irbis sighed softly and took a few short steps until she was by Creed's side, while still looking at the dancers. She was so close, Creed could feel her body's warmth.
"Looks stupid to you, right?" Her voice was casually low, but it felt louder after the long silence.
"Damned stupid." He hadn't looked away from the dancers, his voice just as casual. "Ya really meant t'have that at yer weddin', huh?"
"Yes," he could hear her smile. "Silly but... has many good memories connected, sabe... not de dance: de people dat I danced wid and all de fun parties and... and everything."
Fortunately, the dance didn't hold out for much longer and the two-man band returned with a vengeance. A 'love's-all-around-us' kind of vengeance that kicked off with Stand by me. It was a pleasant interpretation and Creed slid an arm behind Irbis's waist to pull her into the dance. Instead of easing into the beat as he'd expected her to, though, Irbis hesitated, a conspicuous blush spreading through her embarrassed face.
Creed suppressed a grin. "What? Danced enough fer retribution already?"
"Uh... No, I... I don't dance... uh... slows." He allowed her to stop, his grin shining down at those uncomfortable brown eyes. "Isn't very much to dance in slow musics."
"Oh, I see." But neither did any movement to untangle the arms from the dancing embrace. "So ya refuse t'dance 'em... ain't that a problem with yer boyfriends?"
Irbis blinked and held her breath, probably wondering how to answer, then frowned playfully. "Boyfriends only like to dance slows because is an excuse to put de hands where dey shouldn't."
"Ain't that what slows are for?" Her blush flowed and ebbed, her heart beat picking up rhythm as the song died away.
"Exactly. Slows aren't to dance, are to... uh... to embrace de person you like."
The group started on the Platter's Only you, and Creed was pleased they hadn't jumped to a livelier melody. His hand, that had never left her back, presured her into a light sway and when he took a step to the side, she followed hesitantly. Hesitation was soon replaced with embarrassed willingness, though, and when Creed made her swirl, the hem of the summer dress rising to her thighs, she laughed briefly before falling back into his arms. Such a pity those old time songs were so short!
He pulled her closer to him, the heat of her skin burning through dress and shirt, and leaned until his lips touched her ear. He could have chuckled at the gasp that nearly stopped her heart. "Ya wanted t'dance; ya can't refuse whichever song I choose now."
Holding her hand securely, he stepped away and made her swirl one last time. Another song was already starting as Creed steadied her from the swirl. Her eyes gazed at him seriously, not embarrassed anymore, as she followed his lead unresistingly.
"I don't like games," she reminded him quietly.
"So I've heard." The trend of old timer slows continued with All I have to do is dream, and Irbis's hips moved confidently under his hand. "But it stops bein' a game when ya knows how t'kill it."
"And I know how to kill it?"
"Like a pro."
The smile pulled her mouth sideways, teasingly. "But I don't like to kill..."
"Then I suggests ya play along." He narrowed his eyes, his voice turning deeper almost accidentally. "I'm willin' t'bet ya can play this game like the best."
Irbis's eyes tried to pierce through him until the song was nearly over. "Games are dangerous... dey cause you hurt."
"And ya rather run away from the hurt, don't ya?" He let her slide away from his arms when the song was over. "Danced enough not t'look bad?"
Irbis swallowed and hugged herself, her shoulders strengthening and boosting her breasts. "I need to drink something... I bring you a glass."
Creed watched her drift away, searching for the bar. She was right: games are dangerous. But if anyone was going to end up hurt with that particular game, it wasn't him. The question was, if she tried to play it, would he let her get away when she got cold feet? A few tables away, she stopped a waiter and told him something that had the young man pointing at a group of guests and then heading for the bar. Better yet, if it came to the point where he wanted her to play the game, would he allow her to kill it? She didn't follow the waiter to the bar, preferring to approach the group of guests. He could see Mr. Agostinho step away from the bunch of folks to accompany her.
Pulling up a chair, the blond sat down. The chat between the girl and the man lingered until the arrival of the waiter, carrying a tray with two flutes filled with a golden liquid, then it came to a friendly end. Irbis picked up the glasses and made her way back to him while the bride's godfather stole away, presumably to get the promised guitar. He noticed how the girl hesitated a moment when she caught his deliberate stare, but then steadied herself and braved on. Thing was, the way she braved on was symptomatic of someone picking up a welcomed challenge. Even the light smile that didn't quite unfurl.
"Spumant. For you..."
"Don't ya mean sparkling wine?"
She took a sip, holding his gaze, then waited patiently for him to finish his longer sip. "I'm very happy today, sabe. And is your fault."
Creed frowned, and more deeply when she lifted a hand to keep him from interrupting her.
"I know you don't have no interest in my happiness or... or o que quer que seja. But my happiness today is still a consequence off you, não interessa dat you don't mean it. Or até don't want. But because off you, I know I'm not going to become a monster. And I'm going to get my guitar and den... den all is going to be right." Her eyes shone as she brought the glass up for a second sip. "Vai ficar tudo bem."
"Ya're crazy," but he could understand her relief. Nice kids don't really long to become psychopathic murderers, do they? They'd much rather be thankful to one than be one. "Or half-way drunk, with all the wine ya had at lunch."
Cheer and happiness drained from Irbis's face as if she'd seen a ghost, her lower lip actually trembling as a wave of fear spread through the room. Creed frowned, not understanding what could have caused the sudden change, and glanced quickly around. Had she seen someone that could pose some sort of danger to her? But there was no one behind him, absolutely no one, and nevertheless Irbis had already taken a deep breath and was now trying to make believe she was still as happy as she'd been a moment before. In the background, the band had stopped and was announcing a song dedicated to the bride, Matilda, from her loving husband Eric.
"One last dance to say good-bye?"
Her hands were shaking slightly as she sat the nearly full glass on the table, and her smile was so nervous it could turn into a wretched pout at any moment. Her eyes didn't wander about the room, though, which assured Creed that whatever had spooked her wasn't related to either the people or the place.
"Why not?"
The band was now starting the song the newly-found husband had chosen as a tribute to the love of his life: Rod Stewart's take on Tom Waits's 'Tom Traubert's Blues'. Unlike the other slow songs they'd danced earlier, Irbis didn't hesitate entering his embrace and actually leaned her head on his chest, her hair brushing his chin. The scent of fear was diminishing but was still there, subdued in the background.
"waltzing Matilda…
waltzing Matilda...
You'll go waltzing
Matilda with me"
"What am I?" Her voice was low, with a tinge of hopelessness to it, and she didn't lift her head off his chest.
"Huh?"
"I'm an innocent victim"
"You said I'm not a monster..." And her whole frame shuddered in his arms, nestling her body closer to his, her fingers clinging to him. "So... what am I?"
"No one speaks English"
"Ain't that obvious? Ya're an annoyin' lil' brat. An' pretty stupid, too."
"And my strength is soaking away
To go…"
"I'm serious, Mister Creed." She distanced herself slightly and looked up at his face. He had expected to see tears threatening to burst lose but there was no sign of them, either in her eyes or her voice, just plenty of hardening disillusion. "You were serious last night... I very much prefer when you are serious and just say what you think and don't interest if I like."
"Now the dogs they are barking
And the taxi cab's parking"
Creed gazed into her eyes for a while. What had shaken all her happiness and certainty? The only thing he could connect to the change was his mention of craziness and half-drunkness. So it was either that that had caused the change, or something that had occurred to her out of the blue.
"I begged you to stab me
You tore my shirt open
And I'm down on my knees tonight"
"Ya know what an alien is? Legally."
She blinked and frowned. Probably hadn't expected him to answer her seriously, he realised.
"You buried the dagger"
"Uh... Eh teh? Extraterrester?"
"No!" And he shook his head at the ridiculousness of her answer. "I said legally, dumbass. An alien's someone who's in a foreign country. They can be legal – like tourists or somebody workin' abroad or somethin' – an' they can be illegal. That's what ya are... an illegal alien no matter where ya are in the planet. Ya're someone who's just never gonna fit in, never gonna belong nowhere. At least not the way ya probably wanted, anyway.
"Now I've lost my Saint Christopher"
She nodded after a moment, imperceptibly, and then leaned her head against his chest again. He could feel the tension in her body, even if her feet followed his lead unaffected by whatever emotional turmoil was warring inside her.
"And the one-arm bandit knows
And the maverick Chinaman
With the cold-blooded smile
And the girls down by the striptease shows go
Waltzing Matilda..."
"Is a nice song, neh?" Her voice was low and musky, and Creed wondered if she was aware of the game she was playing. A far more dangerous game too, because she was the one starting it and she better not expect him to kill it. Even if she wasn't aware of what she was doing.
"No I don't want your sympathy"
"Stupid, 's more like it."
"That the streets ain't for dreaming now"
"Why?"
"The groom dedicated the song t'the bride 'cause her name's Matilda and the song chorus is 'waltzing Matilda', right?"
Irbis nodded silently. The scent of fear had faded away completely by now and the hand she had left clinging to his arm had lost its fierceness.
"And the ghost that sells memories"
"Well, first of all, this song's about a drunkard and, second, 'waltzin' Matilda' 's Aussie fer goin' off ta the outback with yer blanket. Matilda bein' the blanket. Some tribute ta the woman! But, hey, it's their weddin'. They can call themselves whatever they want."
Irbis frowned but smiled, genuinely amused. "Matilda means blanket?"
"It's Aussie... Australian. Ya know what the outback is?"
She shook her head, the clinging hand finally relaxing on his arm.
"It's thousands an' thousands o' miles o' nuthin' but deserted land, red earth and dried up bushes. And 'waltzin' Matilda' means ya pick up yer matilda, meanin' yer blanket, and ya go out fer a few days campin' in the wild."
Irbis bit her lower lip lightly.
"You'll go waltzing Matilda with me"
"Maybe 'waltzing matilda' isn't romantic," she claimed softly, "but if you want someone to go 'waltzing matilda' wid you... dat is romantic."
Creed made her swirl and she awarded him a peaceful smile.
"She killed about a hundred
And she follows wherever you may go"
"Maybe, but the song's still 'bout a drunkard who's fallin' apart. Not the best thing fer a tribute t'yer wife."
She laughed. "Especially because de matilda in de song is a blanket."
Their eyes met for a moment and Irbis's smile started fading.
"And it's a battered old suitcase
In a hotel some place
And a wound that would never heal"
Irbis looked away and leaned her head on his chest again, but without shuddering this time, just a light sigh.
"No prima-donnas, the perfume is on
An old shirt that's stained with blood and whiskey
And it's goodnight to the street-sweepers"
"O Senhor Agostinho probably has de guitar already. I should go get it."
"And goodnight Matilda too"
"Sounds like the best idea ya've had so far."
"Goodnight Matilda too"
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