Zeitgeist

by Bruce Sterling

  “Don’t get stuck in the sweet old past, man.”

  “I’m not stuck. I’m floating serenely. I’m on the dodge back there. The past will help me.” Wiesel emptied his glass. “It’ll help me to forget.”

  Starlitz thought about the paparazzo’s strategy. “Yeah. Maybe. Switch from gin to arak. Use vintage flashbulbs. Date babes in foundation garments. Y’know, that could work.”

  Wiesel nodded across the length of the airport’s seedy, red-velvet lounge. Gonca Utz was perching quietly among Ozbey’s bodyguards, wearing a fabric couture hat the size of a bicycle wheel, and paging through notes on a clipboard. “That girl has the voice, the moves, the face.…” Wiesel’s face lit up with hunger. “Leggy, I can feel it.”

  “Where are the G-7 girls?”

  “They just boarded.” Wiesel grinned. “Trace of lipstick, all that’s left. Down the runway in a cloud of glitter dust.… Ha ha ha! How about a drink?”

  “Are they gone?” said Zeta, stricken.

  “Yeah,” said Starlitz sadly. “Sorry, sweetheart. We just missed ’em. They’re flying off to Istanbul to do their next concert.”

  Wiesel looked down at Zeta. “What’s this then, a little fan? Another sweepstakes winner?” He dabbed a hand in his stiff new shoulder bag and came out with a silver Japanese blob. “Give us a nice big smile! I’ll take your picture, precious.”

  “Make them come back again!” Zeta insisted, hopping in place in her anguish. “I want to see them!”

  “I can’t do that,” said Starlitz regretfully. “Once they seal the doors and start taxiing, it’s a total security thing.”

  Zeta clutched at her sweets box with a wail of despair.

  “Oh, don’t cry now, darling!” said Wiesel hastily. He aimed his pocket camera. “Here, give us a smile! I can put you in newspapers!”

  Zeta shot Wiesel a poisonous glare. Wiesel pantomimed a shot. There was no flash. Wiesel looked at his lens in puzzlement. “Oh, hell.”

  “Tell you what,” said Starlitz to Zeta. “You see that big ugly guy over there, with the fez and the big hammered crates? That’s Ahmed, our collectibles guy. He’s got all the band memorabilia. You tell him I said to show you everything he’s got. All the best stuff.”

  Zeta blinked away tears. “Really?”

  “Yeah, really. For you it’s all on the account. Quick now, before he gets away.”

  Zeta scampered off.

  Starlitz turned to Wiesel, scowling. “Why’d you sell me out to Ozbey, you dumb bastard?”

  Wiesel shrank back on his rotating stool. “Because it’s my way through! I love Istanbul—just like you said I would! It’s got cafés a thousand years old. So what’s Y2K to them, or them to Y2K? I’ll just sit quiet under some nice awning with my hubble-bubble, till everything blows over. I’ll polish my lenses, and cash my paychecks, and count my blessings.”

  “And what else did he hire you for, Wiesel? You’re gonna be out with your big telephotos, trolling for lefties and Kurds?”

  “If it pays the bill, of course I am! Nothing wrong with working for Ozbey—because he’s NATO, y’know! He’s fightin’ Commies, just like the Swingin’ Sixties in Carnaby Street! His kind of work, it’s all about click-click-click at Miss Christine Keeler.”

  “Look, Wiesel, you and I had an arrangement.”

  Wiesel pawed nervously at his empty gin glass. Despite his bluff front he was the picture of moral conflict. “Look, don’t feel badly about this. So what if you lost some stupid band? You’ll be back, Leggy. You’re always back, with another daft scam. Because you’re Leggy.”

  “I needed you, man. I had you on personal retainer.”

  Wiesel sniffed, considering. “Yeah, awright,” he said at last. “Your money was good, and a deal’s a deal, right? A man’s as good as his word. So, I won’t let you down, Legs. I’m gonna turn you on to someone else, you get me? Somebody really sweet. My man Tim. Tim the Transatlantic. Tim from ECHELON. You got a biro?”

  Starlitz handed him a chromed fibertip.

  Wiesel reached into his wallet, plucked out the dogeared business card of a London camera repair shop, and flipped it over. “So here you go,” he said, scribbling. “Beeper number. Twenty-four hour. Now, he’s your man, our Tim. Up on all the latest equipment. Big computer boffin, you know? ‘Never Says Anything.’ ”

  Starlitz lifted his brows. “This guy ‘Never Says Anything’?”

  Wiesel put one finger along his gin-flushed nose. “Tim from ECHELON sees all, Tim knows all! Never says a word!”

  “Does Tim work scale?”

  “ ‘Scale’? He’s so far underground, he’s got eyes in orbit!”

  “Okay,” Starlitz grunted, jamming the business card into his pocket. “Yeah. I think I might have a use for this.”

  “No hard feelings, then? Shake the old hand, brother?”

  “No,” said Starlitz. He had just spotted Ozbey.

  Ozbey emerged from behind the airport customs booths. Even Starlitz, who made something of a habit of buying official favors, had never seen such jolly customs personnel as these local Turkish Cypriots. They were whacking yellow chalk along G-7’s untouched crates and cases, as if they were proud and privileged to have the opportunity.

  Ozbey broke from their hearty grips and mustached cheek-kisses. He crossed the lounge to the bar. “Leggy, we’ve all been waiting.”

  “How’s the situation, Mehmetcik? Everything under control?”

  “I would say so, yes.”

  “Drink, boss?” offered Wiesel.

  Ozbey gave Wiesel a silent, contemplative stare.

  Wiesel slid a five-million-lira note across the bar, touched the brim of his hat, hoisted his shoulder bags, and vanished.

  Ozbey brushed at his spotless jacket sleeves, settled daintily onto the cleanest, least-damaged barstool, and crossed his creased trousers at the knee. Starlitz had never seen Ozbey looking so dapper. Ozbey was poised, radiant, and stagy; if Starlitz wasn’t mistaken, Ozbey had even gained a full two inches in height. His Cyprus jaunt had clearly been a tonic to Ozbey: he was tanned, rested, and looked ready for any conceivable form of mayhem.

  Ozbey glanced back at the disbanding cluster of customs men with mock disdain. “Her Former Majesty’s Former Customs Service … It’s important to care for them properly. Turkish Cyprus is a Commonwealth country, another government service, there are certain interbureau rivalries.… We must remain friendly.”

  “Yes, I agree.”

  Ozbey settled confidently onto one elbow. “I have to compliment you, Leggy. The new American One.”

  “Yes, Mehmetcik?”

  “I believed that the old American One was good. But no, no! That old girl was weak, sick, a loser! I love this new Yankee girl! She’s big and tough, and as they say in America, she takes no shit from anyone! She’s like a cop!” Ozbey smiled in delight. “I love cops! A man can’t own too many of them.”

  “I feel just the same way.”

  “This will be an excellent pop tour. Now I’m sure of it. I have great confidence. I’ve decided to extend G-7’s Turkish program. More engagements for the girls. Bursa, Izmir, Konya, Trabzon—even Diyarbakir!”

  “You think that’s wise? You don’t want to wear them out before their big Iran junket.”

  “Yes, of course, Iran, but … why just Iran? There is also Azerbaijan. And Turkmenistan. Chechnya, Dagestan, Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan, Tatarstan, and the Chinese Uighur Republic.… A world! A world of Turkish-speaking peoples, entering history again, waking up to the global market.”

  “I agree that they’re just waking up, but …”

  Ozbey lowered his voice. His handsome eyes glittered with steely resolve. “Leggy, this is a war. A culture war. A war for the soul of the next century. My uncle the minister and I, we have invested very much in this. Day by day our tactics improve.”

  “No kidding.”

  “We used to bribe journalists. How useless that was! My uncle has a better approach. Now we buy the media! We o
wn two new television stations now, financed from our chain of casinos. We are gaining extensive interests across the entertainment industry. You see? Political capital and banking capital. Very much cross-leveraged.”

  “That’s very Rupert Murdoch of you. Very Vladimir Guzinsky.”

  “The tactic works beautifully in Turkey! Once we control the channels and the content, then we can take the war inside the homes, and heads, and hearts, of the fundamentalists. The future of Islam is spangled brassieres—or dark little head-kerchiefs.” Ozbey looked up sharply. “Are you laughing?”

  “Fuck, no, man! I totally concur with that analysis.”

  “I knew you would agree. Istanbul has two futures after Y2K. She could be a Moslem Rome—or the next Teheran. A great world capital—or a fanatic’s dungeon. The playground of the East—or the West’s worst nightmare. I know the stakes. I know the trends. I know which side I’m on. And I know that I can win!”

  Starlitz sucked air through his teeth. “I gotta hand it to you, Mehmetcik: that new pitch is great! The World Bank and the IMF would totally love you for that. I bet you could do with a drink now.”

  But Ozbey was not to be derailed. He leaned forward intently, steepling his fingers like a talk-show pundit. “Victory centers on consumer goods and pop promotion. ‘Bread and circuses,’ in other words. If that is the battlefield, then I know that we can win. Can Kurdish separatists offer us platform shoes? Of course they can’t! Can mullahs make a pretty girl a star? They’d rather stone her to death! But the ‘military-entertainment complex’! Oh, yes!” Ozbey banged the laminated bar. “Those things together, military force and entertainment: that’s the heart of modern Turkey, that works for me.”

  Starlitz nodded through the sermon like a metronome. “I see. Yep. That’s it. I’m betting on the side with the most TVs. Every fuckin’ time. Definitely.”

  “In a culture war you can’t ask if the weapon is good or bad. The weapon exists, and the weapon works, and that is obvious. The true question, Leggy—this is our part of this story—is: Who has the best use for this fine G-7 weapon? Is it you—or is it me? And, Leggy—given your personal performance in the last few days … these unexplained absences from the band’s important business …”

  Starlitz held up one hand. “You don’t have to go on, Mehmetcik.”

  For the first time Ozbey looked startled. “No?”

  “No. Because I see where you’re going, and I’m already there. It’s true: I’ve let you down about the band. I didn’t want to disappoint you, but I have to do it. A family crisis has come up.” Starlitz drew a heavy breath. “It’s about my father.”

  Ozbey gazed at him in limpid astonishment. “Your father?”

  “Yeah. Father.”

  “Not girlfriend? Not daughter?”

  Starlitz scowled. “No, man, you heard me: my father.”

  “When did this happen? I had no word of this.”

  “Well, it’s like I told you earlier. I gave you a promise: ‘If I can’t handle the band, you’ll be the first to know.’ So now you’re the first to know: I can’t handle the damn band. I have to leave Cyprus right away. I have no choice in the matter. I understand this may be the last time I ever see my father.”

  “The last time to see your father,” said Ozbey. “What sad news. I’m very sorry to hear that.” He seemed genuinely touched.

  “I’m sorry, too, Mehmetcik. It means I have to leave the act entirely in your charge.”

  Ozbey stroked his chin. “I see.”

  “I hope you’re up for that responsibility. You’ve been terrific on the publicity and money angle: I give you every credit there. But with all this butch talk about ‘warfare’ that you just handed me, I’m a little concerned. They may be pop stars, but they’re still young, vulnerable girls, under all those wigs and the WonderBras.”

  Ozbey watched him warily.

  “Sure,” said Starlitz reasonably, “they have big expense accounts, and they sleep with anything in pants, and they can barely dance. Or sing. But you know something? I spent three long years with this act. We toured every hellhole in Eurasia. I recruited and fired nineteen different women, out of seven different nationalities. And let me tell you something crucial. Not a single one of them has died.”

  Ozbey considered this. The prospect was new to him. “Not even one?”

  “That’s right, man. There’s been drug addiction, bankruptcy, jet lag, sex scandals. There was pregnancy, herpes, motorcycle spills, punch-ups in nightclubs, wigs ripped off, fan stampedes, hotel thefts, you name it. But no dead ones. Because every single one of them makes it to Y2K alive. That is a central part of the G-7 magic.”

  Ozbey frowned thoughtfully. “Did you say, ‘through Y2K alive’?”

  “No, no, I said to Y2K alive.”

  “I see.”

  “Because, see, that’s when we wrap it all up and put it away. Once we’re past Y2K, well, who gives a shit? It’s all yesterday then, it’s not my problem. But up to Y2K, yes, that is my problem. And that means, now, that it’s your problem.”

  “Was this really part of the arrangement?”

  “Absolutely. From before the start of the band. No dead ones. Can you promise me that? No dead ones?”

  Ozbey wasn’t having it. “We’re pop promoters. We’re not God. We can’t guarantee people’s fates.”

  “All right, Mehmetcik, then I’ll put it another way. The ‘military-entertainment complex.’ I get your pitch there, I’m with the program. Of course, you can be a soldier, and also be a great entertainer. That’s why armies have military bands. That’s why the Mafia’s in show business. But if you’re a professional, you don’t kill the talent. You get me? That is my point, that’s how it works. Kill the enemy, sure. Kill the audience, even. You don’t kill the talent.”

  Ozbey was uneasy now. It was clear that this new factor was disrupting his analysis. Finally, he offered a diplomatic smile. “Why so upset? They’re seven young girls with no talent.”

  “They’re still our performers. They make the act what it is.”

  “They know nothing about reality. They dance, they sing, they sell clothes. The culture war does not concern them. Because to them it is totally a secret war.”

  “Ignorance is bliss, huh?”

  Ozbey nodded somberly. “It is for women.”

  “All right,” said Starlitz. “I won’t kick about that part. I just want you to promise me one thing, before I go. I want you to give me your word that you’ll look after these seven foreign women”—he pointed at Gonca—“in just the same way that you look after her.”

  “But Gonca Utz is my second wife! A great artist! And the G-7 girls are nothing but pretense! You admitted that to me.”

  “Of course I admit that. I know it, and you know it. But a girl is a girl, Mehmetcik. You know, democracy, human rights, Helsinki Convention, all that crap. Get with the story line here.”

  Ozbey was stubbornly silent.

  “I’m sentimental about this,” Starlitz insisted. “I worry, otherwise.”

  “You’re trying to trap me,” Ozbey said at last. “You want me to tie the future of your silly girls to the great golden future of Gonca Utz. But your girls are nothing, a trick to sell shoes. Gonca is a great artist, the soul of the people.”

  “So you’re admitting you’re not up to the job, then,” Starlitz said.

  Ozbey glowered. “I did not say that.”

  “Two minutes ago you were bragging about this great, sophisticated weapon you had. And now what do I hear from you? Instead of field-stripping the weapon properly, and learning the professional drill, you’re going to rust it out and break it, and leave it on the road, like some kind of cheap Kurdish mountain bandit.”

  Ozbey smiled tautly. “You’re trying to make me lose my temper.”

  “What am I asking of you here? Nothing that I wouldn’t do! They didn’t come to any harm while I was managing them. If you put Gonca into my care, you wouldn’t have to fret about Gonca.”


  “You could not touch Gonca Utz. Not her sandal. Not the hem of her skirt.”

  “You talk a pretty good game for a beginner, Ozbey. But I think you need to decide who you are.” Starlitz sighed. “Are you smart and suave and slick, like you think that you are—or are you just secret, cheap, and dirty?”

  Zeta reappeared, skidding across the airport’s dusty floor.

  The hair beneath her snappy, glitter-shedding hat brim exploded with a rainbow set of G-7 plastic-fanged hair grips and fabric scrunchies. She wore the G-7 pink and rhinestone plastic shades, the shapeless extra-large “Turkey Tour” pullover. On one narrow wrist she swung a yellow net G-7 poolside bag, which was stuffed to bursting with G-7 lip balm, hair gel, and foot spray. Beneath the other arm she clutched the much-coveted G-7 Tour Bus Set, with its seven dolls, its driver figurine, and its working gas pump. She sported three different versions of the dainty Taiwanese G-7 “sports watch,” wore the popper-bead candy necklace, and toted the squeeze-canteen blob-sack of benzoate-yellow G-7 “energy drink.”

  Ozbey stared down at her.

  “You are right,” he said crisply, glancing up at Starlitz. “They are guests, and I am their host. It’s a matter of honor. I value their life, I promise: just as I value Gonca’s life.”

  “That’s all I wanted,” said Starlitz. “Now you’re talking like a man.”

  He offered his hand. Ozbey shook it reluctantly.

  “When can we expect you back?” said Ozbey.

  “Don’t expect me.”

  Ozbey brightened. “You’re not coming back?”

  Starlitz sighed. “No, it’s just that it’s never any use expecting me.” He put his hand on Zeta’s shoulder and walked her away.

  Zeta was quiet as they retreated. “He’s scary,” she said at last.

  Starlitz grunted. He stared through a sheet of dusty glass onto the drought-stricken tarmac. The Turkish Air flight was just getting up speed, carrying three years of hard work. He watched it climb into the sky, on dark twin rails of jet spew.

  “He’s scary, Dad. He’s not real, and he looked right through me. He doesn’t know what I am.” Zeta was pensive. “I hope you’re not mad.”