So, though this was to be an agendaed lunch, the balcony was the right place to have it. It wasn’t a business-looking place; it could have been more appropriate for lovers, with the soft, warm breezes playing on them and hummingbirds hovering by their juice glasses in the hope of a handout. Really, it would have been more comfortable for a couple; for the four of them, with their servers moving between them with their buffet trays, it was a pretty tight squeeze.
Rafiel ravened over the food, taking great heaps of everything as fast as the servers could bring it. His friends conspired to help. “Give him pommes,” Mosay ordered, and Docilia whispered, “Try the sushi ceveche, it’s fine.” Mouth full and chewing, Rafiel let his friends fuss over him. From time to time he raised his eyes from his food to smile at jest or light line, but there was no need for him to take part in the talk. He was just out of the hospital, after all. (As well as being a star, even among these stars; but that was a given.) He knew that they would get down to business quickly enough. Docilia was always in a hurry to get on with the next production and Mosay, the dramaturge – was, well, a dramaturge. It was his business to get things moving. Meanwhile, it was Rafiel’s right to satisfy one appetite and to begin to plan ahead for the pleasing prospect of relieving the other. When Docilia put a morsel of pickled fish between his lips he licked her fingertips affectionately and looked into her eyes.
He was beginning to feel at ease.
The eleven days in the medical facility had passed like a single night for Rafiel, since he had been peacefully unconscious for almost all of it. He saw, though, that time had passed for the others, because they had changed a little. Mosay was wearing a little waxed moustache now and Victorium was unexpectedly deeply tanned, right up to his cache-sexe and on the expanse of belly revealed by his short embroidered vest. Docilia had become pale blonde again. For that reason she was dressed all in white, or almost all: white bell-bottomed pants and a white halter top that showed her pale skin. The only touch of contrast was a patch of fuzzy peach-colored embroidery at the crotch of the slacks that, Rafiel was nearly sure he remembered, accurately matched the outlines of her pubic hair. It was a very Docilia kind of touch, Rafiel thought.
Of course, they were all very smartly dressed. They always were; like Rafiel they owed it to their public. The difference between Rafiel and the others was that every one of them looked to be about twenty years old – well, ageless, really, but certainly, at the most, no more than a beautifully fit thirtyish. They always had looked that way. All of them did. All ten trillion of them did, all over the world and the other worlds, or anyway nearly all . . . Except, of course, for the handful of oddities like himself.
When Docilia saw Rafiel’s gaze lingering on her – observing it at once, because Docilia was never unaware when someone was looking at her – she reached over and fondly patted his arm. He leaned to her ear to pop the question: “Bitte, are you free this afternoon?”
She gave him a tender smile. “For you,” she said, almost sounding as though she meant it, “siempre.” She picked up his hand and kissed the tip of his middle finger to show she was sincere. “Mais can we talk a little business first? Victorium’s finished the score, and it’s belle. We’ve got—”
“Can we play it over casa tu?”
Another melting smile. “Hai, we can. Hai, we will, as much as you like. But, listen, we’ve got a wonderful second-act duet, you and I. I love it, Rafiel! It’s when you’ve just found out that the woman you’ve been shtupping, that’s me, is your mother, that’s me, too. Then I’m telling you that what you’ve done is a sin . . . and then at the end of the duet I run off to hang myself. Then you’ve got a solo dance. Play it for him, Victorium?”
Victorium didn’t need to be begged; a touch of his fingers on his amulet recorder and the music began to pour out. Rafiel paused with his spoon in his juicy white sapote fruit to listen, not having much choice. It was a quick, tricky jazz tune coming out of Victorium’s box, but with blues notes in it too, and a funny little hoppity-skippy syncopation to the rhythm that sounded Scottish to Rafiel.
“Che? Che?” Victorium asked anxiously as he saw the look on Rafiel’s face. “Don’t you like it?”
Rafiel said, “It’s just that it sounds – gammy. Pas smooth. Sort of like a little limp in there.”
“Hat! Precisamente!” cried Mosay. “You caught it at once!”
Rafiel blinked at him. “What did I catch?”
“What Victorium’s music conveyed, of course! You’re playing Oedipus Rex and he’s supposed to be lame.”
“Oh, claro,” said Rafiel; but it wasn’t really all that clear to him. He wiped the juice of the sapote off his lips while he thought it over. Then he asked the dramaturge, “Do you think it’s a good idea for me to be dancing the part of somebody who’s lame?” He got the answer when he heard Docilia’s tiny giggle, and saw Victorium trying to smother one of his own. “Ah, merde,” Rafiel grumbled as, once again, he confronted the unwelcome fact that it was not his talent but his oddity that delighted his audiences. Ageing had been slowed down for him, but it hadn’t stopped. His reflexes were not those of a twenty-year-old; and it was precisely those amusing little occasional stumbles and slips that made him Rafiel. “I don’t like it,” he complained, knowing that didn’t matter.
“But you must do it that way,” cried the dramaturge, persuasive, forceful – being a dramaturge, in short, with a star to cajole into shape. “C’est toi, really! The part could have been made for you. Oedipus has a bit of a physical problem, but we see how he rises above his limitations and dances beautifully. As, always, do you yourself, Rafiel!”
“D’accord,” Rafiel said, surrendering as he knew he must. He ate the fruit for a moment, thinking. When it was finished he pushed the shell aside and asked sourly, “How lame is this Oedipus supposed to be, exactly?”
“He’s a blessé, a little bit. He has something wrong with his ankles. They were mutilated when he was a baby.”
“Hum,” said Rafiel, and gave Victorium a nod. The musician replayed the five bars of music.
“Can you dance to it?” Victorium asked anxiously.
“Of course I can. If I had my tap shoes—”
“Give him his tap shoes, Mosay,” Docilia ordered, and then bent to help Rafiel slip them on, while the dramaturge clapped his hands for a server to bring a tap mat.
“Play from the end of the duet,” Rafiel ordered, abandoning his meal to stand up in the narrow space of the balcony. He moved slightly, rocking back and forth, then began to tap, not on the beat of the music, but just off it – step left, shuffle right – while his friends nodded approvingly – spank it back, scuff it forward. But there wasn’t really enough room. One foot caught another; he stumbled and almost fell, Victorium’s strong hand catching him. “I’m clumsier than ever,” he sighed resentfully.
“They’ll love it,” Mosay said, reassuring him, and not lying, either, Rafiel knew unhappily; for what was it but his occasional misstep, the odd quaver in his voice – to be frank about it, the peculiarly fascinating traits of his advancing age – that made him a superstar?
He finished his meal. “Come on, Docilia. I’m ready to go,” he said, and although the others clearly wanted to stay and talk they all agreed that what Rafiel suggested was a good idea. They always did. It was one of the things that made Rafiel’s life special – one of the good things. It came with being a superstar. He was used to being indulged by these people, because they needed him more than he needed them, although, as they all knew, the were going to live for ever and he was not.
3
All the worlds know the name of Rafiel, but, actually, “Rafiel” isn’t all of his name. That name, in full, is Rafiel Gutmaker-Fensterborn, just as Docilia, in full, is Docilia Megareth-Morb, and Mosay is Mosay Koi Mosayus. But “Rafiel” is all he needs. Basically, that is the way you can tell when you’ve finally become a major vid star. You no longer need all those names to be identified or even to get your mail delivered. E
ven among a race of ten trillion separate, living, named human beings, when you have their kind of stardom a single name is quite enough.
Rafiel’s difficulty at present was that he didn’t happen to be in his own condo where his mail was. Instead he was in Docilia’s, located fifty-odd stories above his own in the arcology. He really did want to know what messages were waiting for him.
On the other hand, this particular delay was worthwhile. Although Rafiel had been sleeping for eleven days, his glands had not. He was well charged up for the exertions of Docilia’s bed. He came to climax in record time – the first time – with Docilia helpfully speeding him along. The second time was companionably hers. Then they lay pleasantly spooned, with Rafiel drowsily remembering now and then to kiss the back of her neck under the fair hair. It wasn’t Alegretta’s hair, he thought, though without any real pain (you couldn’t actually go on aching all your life for a lost love, though sometimes he thought he was coming close); but it was nice hair, and it was always nice to make love to this tiny, active little body. But after a bit she stretched, yawned and left him, fondly promising to be quickly back, while she went to return her calls. He rolled over to gaze at the pleasing sight of her naked and youthfully sweet departing back.
It was a fact, Rafiel knew, that Docilia wasn’t youthful in any chronological sense. In terms of life span she was certainly a good deal older than himself however she looked. But you couldn’t ignore the way she looked, either, because the way she looked was what the audiences were going to see. As the story of Oedipus Rex began to come back to him, he began to wonder: Would any audience believe for one moment that this girlish woman could be his mother?
It was a silly thought. The audiences weren’t going to worry about that sort of thing. If it registered with them at all it would be only another incongruity of the kind that they loved so well. Rafiel dismissed the worry, and then, as he lay there, pleasantly at ease, he at last became aware of the faint whisper of music from Docilia’s sound system.
So it had been an agendaed tryst after all, he thought tolerantly. But a sweet one. If she had not forgotten to have Victorium’s score playing from the moment they entered her flat, at least she had been quite serious about the lovemaking he had come there for. So Rafiel did what she wanted him to do; he lay there, letting the music tell its story to his ears. It wasn’t a bad score at all, he thought critically. He was beginning to catch the rhythms in his throat and feet when Docilia came back.
She was glowing. “Oh Rafiel,” she cried, “look at this!”
She was waving a tomograph, and when she handed it to him he was astonished to see that it was an image of what looked like a three-month fetus. He blinked at her in surprise. “Yours?”
She nodded ecstatically. “They just sent it from the creche,” she explained, nervous with pleasure. “Isn’t it très belle?”
“Why, that’s molto bene,” he said warmly. “I didn’t know you were enceinte at all. Who’s the padre?”
She shrugged prettily. “Oh, his name is Charlus. I don’t think you know him, but he’s really good, isn’t he? I mean, look at that gorgeous child.”
In Rafiel’s opinion, no first-trimester fetus could be called anything like “gorgeous,” but he knew what was expected of him and was not willing to dampen her delight. “It’s certainly a good-looking embryo, senza dubito,” he told her with sincerity.
“His always are! He’s fathered some of the best children I’ve ever seen – good-looking, and with his dark blue eyes, and oh, so tall and strong!” She hesitated for a moment, prettily almost blushing. Then, “We’re going to share the bambino for a year,” she confided proudly. “As a family, I mean. When the baby’s born Charlus and I are going to start a home together. Don’t you think that’s a wonderful idea?”
There was only one possible answer to that, “Of course I do,” said Rafiel, regardless of whether he did or not.
She gave him a fond pat. “That’s what you ought to do too, Rafiel. Have a child with some nice dama, bring the baby up together.”
“And when would I find time?” he asked. But that wasn’t a true answer. The true answer was that, yes, he would have liked nothing better, provided that right woman was willing to donate the ovum . . . but the right woman had, long ago, firmly foreclosed that possibility.
Docilia had said something that he missed. When he asked for a repeat, she said, “I said, and it’ll help my performance, won’t it?”
He was puzzled. “Help how?”
She said, impatient with his lack of understanding. “Because Jocasta’s a Mutter, don’t you see? That’s the whole point of the story, isn’t it? And now I can get right into the part, because I’m being a Mutter, too.”
Rafiel said sincerely, “You’ll be fine.” He meant it, too. He had assumed she would all along.
“Yes, certo,” she said absently, thinking already of something else. “I think I ought to give a copy to the dad. He’ll be so excited.”
“I would be,” Rafiel agreed. She blinked and returned her attention to him. She lifted the sheet and peered under it for a thoughtful moment. “I think,” she said judiciously, “if you’re not in a great hurry to leave, if we just give it a few more minutes . . .”
“No hurry at all,” he said, pulling her down to him and stroking her back in a no-hurry-at-all way. “Well,” he said. “So what else have you been doing? Did they release your Inquisitor yet?”
“Three days ago,” she said, rubbing her foot along his ankle. “God, those clothes were so heavy, and then the last scene – You didn’t see it, of course?”
“How could I?”
“No, of course not. Well, try to, si c’est possible, because I’m really fine in the auto-da-fé scene.”
“What scene?” Rafiel knew that Docilia had finished shooting something about the Spanish Inquisition, with lots of torture – torture stories always went well in this world that had so little personal experience of any kind of suffering, but he hadn’t actually seen any part of it.
“Where they burn me at the stake. Quelle horreur! See, they spread the wood all around in a huge circle and light it at the edges, and I’m chained to the stake in the middle. Che cosa! I’m running from side to side, trying to get away from the fire as it burns toward me, and then I start burning myself, capisce? And then I just fall down on the burning coals.”
“It sounds wonderful,” Rafiel said, faintly envious. Maybe it was time for him to start looking for dramatic parts instead of all the song and dance?
“I was wonderful,” she said absently, reaching under the covers to see what was happening. Then she turned her face to his. “And, guess what? You’re getting to be kind of wonderful yourself, galubka, right now . . .”
Three times was as far as Rafiel really thought he wanted to go. Anyway, Docilia was now in a hurry to send off the picture of her child. “Let yourself out?” she asked, getting up. Then, naked at her bedroom door, she stopped to look back at him.
“We’ll all be fine in this Oedipus, Rafiel,” she assured him. “You and me in the lead parts, and Mosay putting it all together, and that merveilleux score.” Which was still repeating itself from her sound system, he discovered.
He blew her a kiss, laughing. “I’m listening, I’m listening,” he assured her. And he did in fact listen for a few moments.
Yes, Rafiel told himself, it really was a good score. Oedipus would be a successful production, and when they had rehearsed it and revised it and performed it and recorded it, it would be flashed all over the solar system, over all Earth and the Moon and the capsule colonies on Mars and Triton and half a dozen other moons, and the orbiting habitats wherever they might be, and even to the distant voyagers well on their way to some other star – to all ten million million human beings, or as many of them as cared to watch it. And it would last. Recordings of it would survive for centuries, to be taken out and enjoyed by people not yet born, because anything that Rafiel appeared in became an instant classic.
>
Rafiel got up off Docilia’s warm, shuddery bed and stood before her mirror, examining himself. Everything the mirror displayed looked quite all right. The belly was flat, the skin clear, the eyes bright – he looked as good as any hale and well-kept man of middle years would have looked, in the historically remote days when middle age could be distinguished from any other age. That was what those periodical visits to the hospital did for him. Though they couldn’t make him immortal, like everyone else, they could at least do that much for his appearance and his general comity.
He sighed and rescued the red pantaloons from the floor. As he began to pull them on he thought: They can do all that, but they could not make him live for ever, like everyone else.
That wasn’t an immediate threat. Rafiel was quite confident that he would live a while yet – well, quite a long while, if you measured it in days and seconds, perhaps another thirty years or so. But then he wouldn’t live after that. And Docilia and Mosay and Victorium – yes, and lost Alegretta, too, and everyone else he had ever known – would perhaps take out the record of this new Oedipus Rex now and then and look at it and say to each other, “Oh, do you remember dear old Rafiel? How sweet he was. And what a pity.” But dear old Rafiel would be dead.
4
The arcology Rafiel lives and works in rises 235 stories above central Indiana, and it has a population of 165,000 people. That’s about average. From outside – apart from its size – the arcology looks more like something you’d find in a kitchen than a monolithic community. You might think of it as resembling the kind of utensil you would use to ream the juice out of an orange half (well, an orange half that had been stretched long and skinny), with its star-shaped cross section and its rounding taper to the top. Most of the dwelling units are in the outer ribs of the arcology’s star. That gives a tenant a nice view, if he is the kind of person who really wants to look out on central Indiana. Rafiel isn’t. As soon as he could afford it he moved to the more expensive inside condos overlooking the lively central atrium of the arcology, with all its glorious light and its graceful loops of flowering lianas and its wall-to-wall people – people on the crosswalks, people on their own balconies, even tiny, distant people moving about the floor level nearly two hundred stories below. To see all that is to see life. From the outer apartments, what can you see? Only farmlands, and the radiating troughs of the maglev trains, punctuated by the to-the-horizon stretch of all the other arcologies that rose from the plain like the stubble of a monster beard.
The Mammoth Book of Best Short SF Novels Page 54
