by John Varley
When the makeover was done I liked the result. When Mike saw me the first time, for once he didn’t have an affectionate insult ready; he just stared. Marlee looked me up and down with narrowed eyes, and slowly nodded, then smiled.
“Excellent. Brings out all your strong points, hides the weak ones.”
I wanted to ask her what the weak ones were, but didn’t, because as far as I could see she didn’t have any weak points at all.
Even Mom and Dad approved, which was a big relief, as they had been dubious, afraid Tina was going to tart me up in some ridiculous avant-garde rags. Grandma Kelly had much the same reaction as Marlee: a cold appraisal, then a satisfied nod.
I felt reborn, for the second time.
WE STARTED MY emergence into the public sphere with interviews.
We completely ignored the cesspools of the drudges and went only with the most high-class people. Tina was always at my side, just out of camera range. The agreements were strict, and in writing. Questions were submitted beforehand, and Tina and I rejected anything we didn’t feel comfortable with. The camera and the operator—Slomo—were ours, so we kept the originals, no outtakes mysteriously turning up on the Net afterward. And we got something nobody ever got: Final cut. Those were the terms. Your interviewer showed up at our studio, asked softball questions, and edited it right there, on our equipment.
They hated it, of course, but journalism, especially celebrity journalism, had long ago sunk past the point where independence was something worth the fight. Nobody refused our conditions.
And after all, what did it really matter? I wasn’t part of the government, making public policy. I wasn’t a businesswoman caught with her hand in the till. I was just a singer, with an interesting story to tell.
Actually, they got off lucky, in my humble opinion. Lots of A-list stars—still hard to think of myself on that list—charged big bucks for interviews, and the ladies and gentlemen of the press paid gladly. We did it for free. And we didn’t have anything to cover up; there were no scandals to dig out, unless you want to call a little spot of nepotism by Uncle Bill getting my Europa posting a scandal. But that never came up. Frankly, if it had, I’d have cheerfully admitted it.
No, the only even vaguely controversial questions I faced were about Cosmo, and my “drunk” drive through Pellucidar, and I didn’t even dodge them. With Cosmo, I admitted I’d never liked him, but suggested the tapes spoke for themselves.
As for Ms. Poddy’s Wild Ride, I had practiced looking shame-faced— it didn’t take much practice—and admitted I’d gotten in over my head. Then the interviewer would show the tape, and we’d both laugh.
“Good work, Pod,” Tina said, after the first time we tried it. “It humanizes you, makes people like you. We’ve all felt like fools from time to time.”
“Yeah, but not usually for an audience of billions.”
Even Kahlua got into the act. During one interview at Pod’s Pad, he climbed up into my lap and started purring so loud the sound engineer had to adjust his levels. You should have seen the guy who was interviewing me … can’t recall his name, they all sort of look the same. You’d have thought he’d just broken the story of the first Grumpy eruption. Podkayne has a cat! It was the headline of the day. The next day, pet shops from Luna to Pluto reported a surge in cat sales. Birman cats in particular commanded a premium. Throughout the System, male Birmans were introduced by breeders (the only ones authorized to have fertile cats, in most countries) to female Birmans and encouraged to crank out kittens ASAP, if you please. Four months later every girl who could afford one had a black-faced kitten on her shoulder.
If I’d had any idea, I’d have kept Kahlua’s existence a secret. But the … ah, the cat was out of the bag. I hoped they all went to good homes.
I ONLY DID five interviews, and I limited my public appearances to three per week. I didn’t want to be seen with politicians, business leaders, entertainment-industry moguls. I turned them all down flat, or I could have been eating rubber chicken six times a day and listening to pitches for endorsements, lines of clothing, action figures, and movie deals in all the time between.
“None of that,” I told Tina early on. “I’m not an actress, I’m not going to be a brand name, and I’ve already met all the politicians I want to meet.”
“Fine,” she said. “That’s what I was going to advise, anyway. I’m not here to make you famous, you’re already that, and I’m not here to make you rich, ditto. Believe it or not, after all those years with Cosmo, I just want to do something for art, and maybe for some good causes. What do you think of that?”
I thought it sounded damn good. So my first public outing was a visit to a hospital treating wounded Navy people. The facility was locked down, no pimparazzi allowed, just me and Slomo and my two bodyguards, who knew how to keep discreetly in the background.
Public relations? I guess so, but it was from the heart. I didn’t even try not to cry. There’s a time for crying. I talked to dozens of them: maimed, gassed, irradiated, some of them incurably blind, missing limbs.
I sang for them, and I was awful, but they didn’t seem to care.
I was still getting up to speed on the situation, hadn’t realized the Martian presence on Earth was going so badly, but from the stories I heard, I knew I had to learn more. I began to see why there was growing sentiment here at home to pull the troops out and let Earth go to hell on its own terms. The mission had begun as humanitarian, but we couldn’t help everybody, and there were those on Earth who still blamed us for Grumpy and friends. And there were those who just plain resented our presence, had resented it for more than two decades now, and resented even our help.
I’d have to talk it over with Mike and see what he thought.
That same week I visited my old school, good old Burroughs High (go Fighting Soraks!), and the next week the music department at Mari-naris U. I was warmly received at both places, and each time the day was proclaimed Podkayne Day. If I visited City Hall or the Senate, they’d proclaim it Podkayne Day, too. Enough!
At each place I went it was just me, Tina, and Slomo, plus a certain number of police to keep the other media away. (I visited a police station early on, signed autographs for everybody, and they were solidly on my side. Another bit of PR magic from Tina that I never would have thought of.) We arrived and departed like thieves in the night, usually managing to fool the pooparazzi.
* * *
TINA SUGGESTED IT would be diplomatic to throw a housewarming party and meet some of the neighbors. It sounded okay to me, especially since I didn’t have to do the planning except for choosing the guests. Mom’s catering company brought the food, and I didn’t go overboard on it with expensive and hard-to-get meats and such. I knew a lot of these people would expect it, but screw them. I couldn’t eat like that, in good conscience, when children were starving on Earth. The menu was strictly vegetarian.
The guest list was another matter. I was shocked to see how many famous and rich people from Earth were now living on Mars in places like Pellucidar and other guarded enclaves. The image of rats deserting a sinking ship came to mind, but I knew that was unfair. I’m sure my own family, if we’d been Earthies, would have fled what looked like the possible destruction of the Earth and the troubles afterward.
Tina estimated the house and small yard could comfortably hold about a hundred people, with a bandstand set up in back. So I took the list of about a thousand names—and you’d recognize pretty much all of them—and started drawing lines through them. Some of the people I crossed off I’d have given almost anything to just say hello to a year (eleven years) ago. The only names I wasn’t familiar with were people who’d become known while I was in stasis.
I started by inviting Mom and Dad and Mike and Marlee, and the grandparents. Uncle Bill sent his regrets, saying it was best for him to stay away, for political reasons.
I got it down to one hundred, showed the list to Tina, and asked about a few people she hadn’t put down. She assu
red me that, if they were on Mars, they would come. The final cut was heavily into music people, with a few movie stars and a handful of people I admired for other reasons. She chuckled while she read it.
“What’s the matter? Don’t you approve?”
“Oh, honey, that’s entirely up to you. But there will be little joy in celebrityville tonight. Yea, verily I say unto you, there will be weeping and wailing and the gnashing of teeth. Epic fits will be thrown, crockery will be smashed, agents will be fired. You still haven’t completely grasped just how in demand you are, sweetness. This is the party of the decade. The party of the century. Everybody who is anybody must be here, and if you’re not here, then you’re second-tier at best. Some of these people have egos wider than Marinaris, and this will not sit well.”
“Maybe we should forget about the whole thing. I don’t want to make people angry at me.”
“Poddy, every time you see anyone from now on, you’re going to make a thousand people jealous. Nothing you can do about it. As for angry … don’t let it worry you. They can’t afford to be angry at you. They’ll just keep sending invitations asking you over for drinks and a chat—we’re getting about a thousand per day—and angle all the harder to be on the guest list next time you appear in a group setting.”
I knew a little about that. I’m glad I answered the door when Baako came over, but after that I let Millie do the greeting … and deliver the line: “Miss Podkayne regrets she’s unable to lunch today.” (Thank you, Cole Porter.) As long as I snubbed everyone equally, I figured, the social damage would be minimal. And if I invited in even a tenth of the people who came calling, I’d never get any work done.
Every day I seemed to discover a new peril of being famous.
THE PARTY WAS a success, but not quite as I had intended it.
These people were too smart and savvy to jostle and gawk and gush, so I was able to spend a bit of time with everyone. I saw Dad in an intense discussion of history with an actor who I hadn’t suspected would even know what Nazi Germany was. Dad told me later that the man was a lot smarter than his screen persona. Mom was trading recipes with the lead soprano from the Thunder City Opera. Mike was charming, and he worked the room on a pair of two-foot stilt shoes, which he sometimes wears at social occasions so people won’t have to bend or squat down to hear him, which he hates.
I was dazzled at first, I’ll admit it, but less so as the afternoon wore on. The thing about famous people is that there is an initial shock, a sensory dislocation to meeting in the flesh a face that you recognize as well as your own family. He or she doesn’t look quite real at first. Then after you’ve talked for a while, a personality starts to emerge, and most of the time it’s nothing like you had expected. Sometimes that’s good, like the history-buff actor, but often it’s sad. Behind the mask is often a desperately insecure, childish, shy, or just plain boring human being, with all the faults we all are heir to.
After a few hours, and a few drinks, I began to feel uncomfortable. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I kept chewing it over. I watched them, chattering away. And I began to pick out certain people. Not all of them, but quite a few who didn’t seem quite right. It was like they weren’t comfortable just being who they were, whatever that might be. It was like they were wearing masks, costumes, doing a cold reading for a part. Constantly auditioning. Their smiles didn’t look genuine. It was like they’d become a parody of themselves. Often it was the actors, but some of the musicians were the same way.
While I was pondering thoughts like this Tina came up beside me and we both surveyed the crowd.
“I think it’s going well, don’t you?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said, without a lot of enthusiasm.
“Well, take a good look at the men, Podkayne. There’s a few here not much older than you are, and there’s a good chance that one of them will be your future husband.”
I couldn’t have been more shocked if she’d slapped me with a raw fish.
“What would make you say … I mean, what the hell do you mean?”
“You hired me to manage you, and part of that job, I think, is to tell you the truth. Sometimes it’s a hard truth. You are very famous, honey. From now on it’s going to be hard to meet people. By that I mean ‘ordinary’ people, excuse the expression. You can’t marry a fan or an admirer, that never works out. If you go clubbing or just walking the streets, you’ll be mobbed. So where are you going to meet people? Unless you’ve got a high-school sweetheart you haven’t told me about, or a friend from ‘before,’ the people you meet from now on will fall into a few narrow categories. Employees, business associates, and other famous people who have to be protected from an admiring public.”
“There’s other musicians,” I said, a trifle desperately.
“Yes, that’s been known to work. But he’d better be a star in his own right. Most guys have a problem with a wife who’s famous. They’ll call him Mr. Podkayne.”
I felt sick. Being famous was supposed to be a good thing. So far, it had been a growing series of restrictions. Tina patted my shoulder.
“Don’t fret it. Maybe you’ll get lucky. You’re young, you have a lot of time. You can date, you can wait, you can do anything at all. The world is your oyster.”
I don’t like oysters all that much. I felt a little sick.
That’s when I caught a reflection in a mirror hanging on the wall. It was a strange girl in a strange dress that didn’t seem to suit her. She looked awkward, standing there with a drink in her hand. It was me, of course.
“Excuse me,” I said to Tina, and hurried upstairs to my bedroom.
I locked the door and went into the bathroom. I stripped off the dress and got a jar of cold cream. I removed all the makeup I was wearing and put it back on the way I always had. Just a bit of pale lipstick and a slash of color around the eyes.
In my closet I found an old dress I’d always liked and hadn’t sent off for auction. Sentimental reasons, I guess. I put it on and went to the mirror again. I liked what I saw. I felt comfortable in my skin again.
I left the hair alone. I liked the new hair.
I went back downstairs.
There was a lull in the conversations as everyone checked me out. Was it an incredible faux pas to change clothes in the middle of a party? Ask somebody who cares.
I had a much better time after that. I did notice a few of the women eyeing my clothes with expressions that might have been disdainful. Again, I didn’t care.
After a while Tina edged up to me again.
“You have every right to fire me,” she said.
“What? Are you crazy?”
“I was wrong and you were right. You hired me to be right, all the time.”
“Don’t be silly. What are you talking about?”
“I was wrong to try to change you. This is better, this is you. I won’t try to mold you again.”
“Okay, but it was fun while it lasted. I just couldn’t keep it up.”
She leaned in closer to my ear.
“I’ll tell you something. Tomorrow, the next day, half a dozen of these women will be wearing outfits that look a lot like what you’re wearing. Trust me on this.”
We laughed, and I figured she was kidding.
She wasn’t, and she was right.
I GOT RID of almost all the new clothes and shopped for what pleased me. Confession: I kept the shoes. Throw out perfectly good shoes? Get real.
ALL THIS PREPARATION was really in aid of The Concerts. I knew I was going to have to perform in public again, and I had the worst case of stage fright I’ve ever had, and I wasn’t even onstage.
There were going to be five concerts. As soon as they were announced, the orders started coming in. Soon there were a hundred thousand people standing in an electronic line for the two-thousand-seat auditorium. More than ninety-eight thousand people were going to come up empty.
When I saw the ticket prices I screamed. I told Tina we should charge less than that. She sai
d that a lot of them were going to be scalped, anyway, for prices five to ten times what we were charging. I didn’t know what to say, except to suggest that there should be a random drawing. She said that would be unfair to those who had been alert enough to get their orders in fast.
Something just didn’t feel right about making that much money for five nights’ work. Would I have felt differently if I’d grown up poor? My nuclear family was always comfortable, and some of my family qualifies as being rich. But I was rich now, and didn’t feel the need to get richer, especially considering what was happening on Earth.
Mike came up with the solution. We established the Podkayne Foundation, and I donated my share of the gate for all the concerts. I felt better.
IT ALL WENT well. The Pod People had been augmented with six more sidemen, all the very best, and we rehearsed for two weeks. We worked up a few new numbers, but would be relying mostly on my “posthumous” hits in a more traditional vein, mostly because I was still very insecure with Pod music. I just didn’t feel it in my soul yet, and was wondering if I ever would.
Baako broke her retirement to sing a duet with me. We had an excellent opening act. All in all, I should have been happier about it than I was. The audiences were totally uncritical, and the critics were mostly kind, except for a few who pointed out—correctly—that I had nothing new to say. Even they were nice about my performances of the old stuff, which I felt could have been a lot better.
And then it was done, my recuperation period was at an end, and the Navy took over my life again. They promptly sent me and the band to Earth for a “Goodwill Tour.” I never in my wildest nightmares thought I’d be eager to go to Earth, but to tell the truth, it felt a little like an escape. I was itching to go.
18
SO WERE THE last several months a Cinderella story, or what?
I said it felt like an escape to leave, but the prison was really velvet-lined. Let’s not bitch and moan. Believe me, I had a very good idea of just how lucky I’d been.
