Too, it was a kind of ironic perversity that someone so wonderfully endowed with beauty should deem it a crippling handicap, and deplore its existence. For Dane did. He shrank from any reference to his looks; Justine fancied he would far rather have been born ugly, totally unprepossessing. She understood in part why he felt so, and perhaps because her own career lay in a notoriously narcissistic profession, she rather approved of his attitude toward his appearance. What she couldn't begin to understand was why he positively loathed his looks, instead of simply ignoring them. Nor was he highly ***ed, for what reason she wasn't sure: whether he had taught himself to sublimate his passions almost perfectly, or whether in spite of his bodily endowments some necessary cerebral essence was in short supply. Probably- the former, since he played some sort of vigorous sport every day of his life to make sure he went to bed exhausted. She knew very well that his inclinations were "normal," that is, heterosexual, and she knew what type of girl appealed to him tall, dark and voluptuous. But he just wasn'tsensually aware; he didn't notice the feel of things when he held them, or the odors in the air around him, or understand the special satisfaction of shape and color. Before he experienced a sexual pull the provocative object's impact had to be irresistible, and only at such rare moments did he seem to realize there was an earthly plane most men trod, of choice, for as long as they possibly could.
He told her backstage at the Culloden, after a performance. It had been settled with Rome that day; he was dying to tell her and yet he knew she wasn't going to like it. His religious ambitions were something he had never discussed with her as much as he wanted to, for she became angry. But when he came backstage that night it was too difficult to contain his joy any longer. "You're a prawn," she said in disgust.
"It's what I want."
"Idiot."
"Calling me names won't change a thing, Jus."
"Do you think I don't know that? It affords me a little much-needed emotional release, that's all."
"I should think you'd get enough on the stage, playing Electra. You're really good, Jus."
"After this news I'll be better," she said grimly. "Are you going to Saint Pat's?"
"No. I'm going to Rome, to Cardinal de Bricassart. Mum arranged it." "Dane, no! It's so far away!"
"Well, why don't you come, too, at least to England? With your background and ability you ought to be able to get a place somewhere without too much trouble."
She was sitting at a mirror wiping off Electra's paint, still in Electra's robes; ringed with heavy black arabesques, her strange eyes seemed even stranger. She nodded slowly. "Yes, I could, couldn't I?" she asked thoughtfully. "It's more than time I did .... Australia's getting a bit too small . . . . Right, mate! You're on! England it is!"
"Super! Just think! I get holidays, you know, one always does in the seminary, as if it was a university. We can plan to take them together, trip around Europe a bit, come home to Drogheda. Oh, Jus, I've thought it all out! Having you not far away makes it perfect."
She beamed. "It does, doesn't it? Life wouldn't be the same if I couldn't talk to you."
"That's what I was afraid you were going to say." He grinned. "But seriously, Jus, you worry me. I'd rather have you where I can see you from time to time. Otherwise who's going to be the voice of your conscience?" He slid down between a hoplite's helmet and an awesome mask of the Pythoness to a position on the floor where he could see her, coiling himself into an economical ball, out of the way of all the feet. There were only two stars" dressing rooms at the Culloden and Justine didn't rate either of them yet. She was in the general dressing room, among the ceaseless traffic. "Bloody old Cardinal de Bricassart!" she spat. "I hated him the moment I laid eyes on him!"
Dane chuckled. "You didn't, you know."
"I did! I did!"
"No, you didn't. Aunt Anne told me one Christmas hol, and I'll bet you don't know."
"What don't I know?" she asked warily.
"That when you were a baby he fed you a bottle and burped you, rocked you to sleep. Aunt Anne said you were a horrible cranky baby and hated being held, but when he held you, you really liked it."
"It's a flaming lie!"
"No, it's not." He grinned. "Anyway, why do you hate him so much now?" "I just do. He's like a skinny old vulture, and he gives me the dry heaves."
"I like him. I always did. The perfect priest, that's what Father Watty calls him. I think he is, too."
"Well, fuck him, I say!"
"Justine!"
"Shocked you that time, didn't I? I'll bet you never even thought I knew that word."
His eyes danced. "Do you know what it means? Tell me, Jussy, go on, I dare you!"
She could never resist him when he teased; her own eyes began to twinkle. "You might be going to be a Father Rhubarb, you prawn, but if you don't already know what it means, you'd better not investigate."
He grew serious. "Don't worry, I won't."
A very shapely pair of female legs stopped beside Dane, pivoted. He looked up, went red, looked away, and said, "Oh, hello, Martha," in a casual voice. "Hello yourself."
She was an extremely beautiful girl, a little short on acting ability but so decorative she was an asset to any production; she also happened to be exactly Dane's cup of tea, and Justine had listened to his admiring comments about her more than once. Tall, what the movie magazines always called ***sational, very dark of hair and eye, fair of skin, with magnificent breasts.
Perching herself on the corner of Justine's table, she swung one leg provocatively under Dane's nose and watched him with an undisguised appreciation he clearly found disconcerting. Lord, he was really something! How had plain old cart-horse Jus collected herself a brother who looked like this? He might be only eighteen and it might be cradle-snatching, but who cared?
