Black Glass

by Mundell, Meg;

  ‘I guess some people are easily impressed. So who are the clients? Sick people? Why don’t they just pay for this through the usual private channels?’

  ‘It’s not legal, not through any channel. And they’re not sick, from what I understand. It’s not about health.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s about fashion, or vanity, or gratification. A fetish of some kind, they get off on it. A snake-oil scenario — only with real blood, taken from real people.’

  ‘But what’s the thinking behind it?’

  ‘You tell me. It’s certainly not science. The clients are all men, I hear.’

  ‘And the … the donors, I guess you’d call them?’

  ‘Young female undocs. Very young, in some cases, and only the attractive ones. You’re getting the picture now. It goes beyond unethical.’

  ‘I’d heard it was mostly immigrant girls?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. Certainly they’d be more vulnerable, and there’s a strong correlation between blood compatibility and ethnicity.’

  ‘Okay. Bear with me here, but I’m still not clear on the appeal. If they’re not sick, what does the client get out of it?’

  ‘You’ll need to ask someone else that question. A psychiatrist, perhaps.’

  ‘But how do they sell the whole idea?’

  ‘A mix of fake science and transgression, I imagine. The whole rejuvenation spiel, and no doubt there’s a sexual element too.’

  ‘Rejuvenation, as in …’

  ‘It used to be known as blood doping, or blood loading. Athletes and the military were into it, before it got completely discredited. The thinking is that red blood cells boost energy and stamina. Especially, it seems, when your donor is a young woman clad only in her underwear.’

  ‘Wow. You’re right, the mind does boggle. Is this happening anywhere else, to your knowledge?’

  ‘I’ve heard it started in Japan. That may not be accurate, but it wouldn’t surprise me either. Are we just about done, do you think?’

  ‘Pretty much, you’ve been incredibly helpful. One more question: it’s dangerous?’

  ‘It certainly is. You can’t afford to make mistakes with blood.’

  ‘But who’s going to complain if it goes wrong — right?’

  ‘Exactly. In this instance, nobody.’

  [Ministerial launch, Project Streamline: Grand Ballroom, Parliament House, Civic Zone: Milk | Luella | invited attendees | screened parliamentary staff]

  The room is bubbling along nicely. Canapés are circulating and drinks waiters glide through the crowd with silver trays, dispensing champagne cocktails and deferential smiles. The mayor’s wife is beaming, and the Security Minister, in a surprisingly flattering purple silk sheath, is full of bonhomie. So far so good, thinks Milk.

  Close to two hundred guests are spread out across the billiard-green carpet: pollies and senior bureaucrats, visiting dignitaries, business leaders and political donors. Luella had not used the words test run or trial, but he knows the deal: a handful of influential people, the main players, have been made aware of his presence, if not his location — a small balcony in one high corner of the stately old room, blocked from view by a grand piano. As usual it’s hardly an ideal point to tune from, but he’s seen much worse. For past jobs he’s had to set up in a hastily customised wall cavity, a narrow wedge of space that could not accurately be called a room. Once, at a convention gig, he’d had to work in a cramped closet that smelled of stale coffee grounds: not his finest moment, the memory still makes him wince. Never again. Amateur hour’s long over.

  This question of set-up, he thinks, remains the major barrier to his vocation: the infrastructure just isn’t in place yet. After his first meeting with her director, an exercise in flattery that did not leave him entirely unmoved, Luella had introduced him to the small technical team that would be at his disposal. But the foreman had seemed bemused by the whole arrangement. ‘So what’s the correct term for what you do again?’ he’d asked genially. Milk had tried not to sound cold in his response, but really — who had briefed these people? They were tech-heads, not poets, he reminded himself, and anyway the man’s practical approach was some consolation: until the permanent set-ups were in place, he’d advised, portable sky-pods looked like the best option for exterior jobs; no one blinked an eye at them these days. Equipment posed no problem either: scent and light nodes, data pods and ped-flow channellers — all Milk had to do was write a list and sketch the layout he wanted, and the techies would oblige. ‘We’re at your disposal,’ the foreman had said with a grin, shaking hands in a workmanlike way. ‘Whatever you need, just say the word.’

  He scans the running sheet: cocktail hour will soon make way for the speeches. Next will come the presentation, a screening of the promo for the whole project, which Luella’s already previewed for him: a 3-D multi-channel holographic display, one of the slickest he’s ever seen, a montage of before-and-after clips of city tableaux — streets, parks, major landmarks. In the ‘before’ shots there is nothing overtly wrong, nothing you can put your finger on, but somehow the scene seems steeped in vague disquiet. If you looked hard you could detect hints of disorder and crime, markers of social unease: shoving commuters with sour expressions; a barefoot beggar in the middle distance, homing in on pedestrians; a bawling toddler dragged along by its harried-looking mother; a group of thick-necked men in gang regalia standing on the lawn outside the church, cigarettes cupped in an ex-con grip. The cafes were half empty, the few trees scraggly and diseased-looking; litter stirring at ground level, a grumpy swollen sky.

  Then came the ‘after’ shots: the city opening up like a flower, colour and light and optimistic faces, shopfronts glowing and harmony restored. Shoppers swinging carry bags, smiling tourists gathered round an infoscreen; a pretty busker playing a cello sonata, a florist stand aglow with a rich palette of blooms. You could almost smell the lilies, the scent of fresh-brewed coffee. Streams of pedestrians flowed in an orderly choreography; they did not shove or frown. The effect was like a bad dream receding. Simple, but even Milk had been momentarily sold, and he knew full well the powers of persuasion.

  ‘These black-tie Polbiz dos can be a little dull,’ Luella had explained. ‘We’d like you to inject some energy, give it a sense of occasion.’

  Milk had nodded without thinking. Easily done. Luella wants to introduce him to the minister later on, so he’s wearing new shoes, a dazzling-white pair of golf brogues that set him back almost a fortnight’s rent. Not that it matters, he reminds himself with a small thrill, on his current earnings. Maybe it’s time to take the plunge and buy some property: his account balance is growing so fast his shopping habit barely makes a dent. The phrase set up for life might spring to mind, he thinks, if he was the kind of person who cared about that stuff. Like his migrant-made-good father, for example, proud of his paved driveway and carbon-fibre golf set, the buttoned-down conservatism of the upper subzones. Three sons: one lawyer, one dentist. And Milk. He imagines letting them enter the building’s grand foyer and sweat a little at security check, making them wait, then buzzing them up and showing them around, like it’s no big deal: floor-to-ceiling glass, views right out over Port Phillip Bay. Make smells — is good for what?

  Focus. The silver-haired governor-general is skilfully tucking into the cheese platter while carrying on a conversation with a local tycoon, a chubby little man who gets great PR mileage out of his charity donations. Milk knows the man wants some cheese too, but he’s nervous in front of the diplomat; better not to risk a camembert blooper, Milk can see him thinking. So he sends a warm halo of light and a whiff of vanilla their way; the governor-general waves grandly at the spread, the little tycoon relents, and the two begin some dairy-based bonding.

  Milk sips at his coffee, a syrupy espresso in thick white china. The caffeine swirls into his bloodstream, chasing aw
ay the shadowy fatigue that’s been trailing him of late. Once this summit is out of the way, he needs a holiday, a week or so overseas. Somewhere low-threat and relatively unspoiled: Alaska, maybe, or some un-wrecked Pacific island. He’ll insist on it, and they’ll have to agree: an artist, after all, is not a machine. Get back to nature, or what’s left of it; breathe some unpolluted air, soak up the mental oxygen of a new location. Reboot his poetic sensibilities. Maybe he’ll meet a woman — some Inuit scientist or Polynesian painter. And this time he’ll have something to talk about, he won’t be stuck for words. And he’ll write the whole trip off on tax: for him, the very act of inhaling counts as research.

  A disturbance in the room — he’s drifted off. Over there in the west corner, near the gigantic fruit platter: he’s taken his eye off the scent-box coordinates and two clashing smells have combined to create an irregular whiff, the spatial equivalent of halitosis. A nearby group of people shifts uneasily, edges away from the food. Fix it quick. Lucky Luella’s on the far side of the room, schmoozing with the chief of police. The glitch is righted and forgotten in mere seconds.

  Yes, he definitely needs some downtime. Thankfully this is a relatively easy gig. Boring, even — not much here to challenge him. But, no, he must not succumb to that kind of thinking. A true artist seeks out the magic in the mundane, sets the bar ever higher, avoids the lazy urge to whine about the shonky tools or limited palette. Milk finishes his coffee, collects his concentration and starts softening them up for the speeches.

  CHAPTER 12:

  THE APPOINTMENT

  [Remedy, private club, Commerce Zone: Violet | ‘Katerina’ | Damon | Madame Krane | bartender and patrons]

  Walking through the Interzone, Violet’s nerves jangled like fence wire and she fought the urge to glance back over her shoulder. The wind spat at her in chilly gusts. She needed a coat, she realised, summer was over, but it was too late now to go back and borrow one from Macy. She had to be on time for this audition: everything depended on it.

  She stuck close to the bright shopfronts, avoiding the empty lots and brutish car parks, the sour alleys and dimly lit arcades. The old buildings seemed miserable, with their blank eyes and concrete steps spilling down like rumpled tongues. Violet couldn’t remember seeing the city look so ugly.

  When she had a job, walking around at night hadn’t bothered her so much. These nerves were part of a new uncertainty. She missed the security of working for Merlin, knowing the rent was covered and she had somewhere safe to sleep. She missed their weekly routine too, the clatter of applause, her name chalked up on the board and booming out over the PA, reminding her of who she was now, who she’d somehow managed to become. But most of all, she missed having something to look forward to, a distraction that helped to keep the pain at bay.

  Despite Merlin’s solemn ways, she even missed the old man himself: his approving nods when she got the timing spot-on; his dogged dedication to showmanship; his funny little sayings, Blessed are the pure in heart … Thine eye shall not pity … The thought of that frail figure, in his stovepipe trousers and velvet jacket, made her sad. They’d make him wear a hospital gown and confiscate his hipflask. It was the cheap hospital, Kev said, where the dorms slept twenty and rats bred in the walls. Proud old Merlin, reduced to the indignity of crutches, sponge baths and bedpans, mush for dinner in a plastic bowl. And all alone, she reminded herself with a twist of guilt. But wasn’t she alone herself? (And whose fault was that?)

  Voices floated from a church alcove: two addicts arguing, a man and a woman, the hard whine of junk in their voices. Violet knew that sound. Stuck, she thought. Trapped in a pointless loop, going round and round in shrinking circles. She hugged herself against the chill and walked a little faster.

  The streets were strangely empty. Now and then she passed another walker, but they exchanged no more than a glance. Under her breath she chanted a string of assurances: You’ll be fine, they’ll love you. Smile and nod. Yes, I can sing and dance, stagecraft is kind of my thing, really; I know a little bit of French: Où est la gare? Où est la voiture? Où est la porte? Smile and be calm. You have to get this job. You must. What would they ask her? Previous experience, people skills, ability to improvise? Her juggling was getting pretty good, but mentioning that would just sound silly — not many jobs required juggling skills. She crossed into the Commerce Zone and let her attention wander to the window displays.

  The building wasn’t what she had expected. She’d envisaged an old rehearsal hall, or maybe a small office, with a bell to push for entry — certainly not this. The entrance was set to one side of a tall, narrow tower clad in dark glass. It looked understated but expensive, three red lanterns glowing above the doorway, but no sign out the front to announce its name. Violet stood across the street, hugging her bare arms to stay warm, as she watched glamorous people ascend the gold-painted steps, the security guards usher them through the roped-off entranceway.

  The whole thing was intimidating. Would they even let her in? She was meant to head inside at exactly eight forty-five p.m., Diggy had said, and a client representative would collect her at nine on the dot. Wear that green dress and sit at the bar on the mezzanine, he’d instructed. She couldn’t bring herself to ask him what a mezzanine was. She’d ask someone inside.

  Several streets away, an illuminated clock high above the buildings clicked over to announce the time had come: she had to move. Violet gave her arms one last rub and crossed the road. She walked straight towards the entrance with her shoulders back, her chin up, the way Macy would have done. She fell into step behind a tall woman wearing some kind of fur jacket, real or fake she couldn’t tell, and held her breath — but the security staff simply made eye contact and waved her through with a nod and smile, as if they’d been expecting her.

  Violet stopped dead in the foyer. The place looked like a movie set for some upscale hotel from many decades back: heavy chandeliers looped in faceted glass, a floor of some green stone shot through with streaks of pearl, antique furniture with fat tasselled cushions. A group of tall thin young women with similarly perfect features, obviously models, were coolly greeting guests, checking in coats and directing people to the lifts. Violet found herself ushered in with a group that included the woman in fur. Even the lift was luxurious: lined in dark red wood and mirror glass etched with swirling vines. Her fellow passengers were laughing at something a portly man with a moustache had said. ‘Eddie,’ said the tall woman, slapping his arm playfully, ‘you’re a disgrace.’

  The doors opened onto a large room full of colour and sound: velvety wallpaper, candles stacked in fancy holders all over, flowers heaped in heavy vases. There were people everywhere, talking, flirting, sitting in darkened booths or leaning against pillars, holding jewel-coloured drinks. The heavy thump of music came from above, a female vocal swooping and looping through the beats. Lining one side of the room was a long bar, its lit-up shelves stacked with colourful bottles, light glowing through the liquid. A spiral staircase led to a second level, where flowering plants drooped overhead. The back wall of the room was purely glass, one huge window with the twinkle of the city spread out below as far as the eye could see.

  Violet swallowed hard and straightened her back. She did not belong in here. In a minute she’d be noticed, and someone would ask her to leave. She needed to find somewhere to sit, somewhere unobtrusive, before they kicked her out. She caught the eye of a young woman not much older than herself, wearing a red dress with a big slit up the side of the skirt.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she asked. ‘Do you know where the mezzanine is?’

  The girl gave her a friendly grin and pointed up the spiral staircase. ‘Up there, darl,’ she said in an accent Violet recognised, a Regions drawl that did not fit with their surroundings.

  Upstairs was a more dimly lit room with a dance floor and some kind of flowering vine looped across the ceiling. Violet skirted the dance floor, around half
-full and mostly women, and took a stool at the far end of the bar. From here, facing the mirrored wall, she could see anyone coming up the stairs, and also keep an eye on the dancers behind her: gave her something to look at, so she didn’t seem so out of place. Almost everyone here was older than her, but the crowd was mixed and there didn’t seem to be a strict dress code: there were women in expensive beaded dresses and guys in suits; further down the bar sat an old white-haired man wearing some kind of cravat, talking to some punky-looking kids in their early twenties. Next to them sat a guy in dark glasses, reading a tabloid comic. How can he read in this light, she wondered?

  An older woman appeared at her side, and the barman was there instantly, offering her a purple cocktail on a silver tray. The woman’s face was strangely smooth, her fingers loaded with rings, and her silvery hair was piled high in an elaborate do. As she sipped her drink, her gaze fell on Violet’s face. ‘Hello, darlink,’ she said, batting gigantic eyelashes. ‘You enjoy yourself?’ Violet nodded courteously, and the woman was gone.

  She was about to ask the barman the price of a house red when she remembered: no booze tonight.

  ‘Lime and soda, please,’ she told him. She watched him scoop ice into a glass, add vodka and fresh lime, fill it to the brim with fizz, and place the drink before her on a fancy coaster.

  ‘Ah,’ said Violet. Mostly she let things slide, but she couldn’t drink tonight. ‘Did you just put vodka in that?’

  ‘Vodka, lime and soda, miss,’ he said politely. ‘Like you said.’

  ‘Sorry, but I didn’t ask for vodka.’ She sounded apologetic. ‘I don’t drink alcohol. I just want lime and soda.’

  With a civil nod, he tipped the drink into a gleaming sink and refilled her glass, repeating the sequence minus the booze. She counted out her coins, but the barman waved them away. ‘On the house.’ He smiled. ‘Compliments of the boss.’