Nasreen stared down unenthusiastically at Kala for a long moment. Her curly black hair was shorter than Kala remembered though they had managed to avoid one another since the debacle that was supposed to be her debut.
"I already regret coming here," Nasreen said as she sat.
Kala's desire to flee spiked, so vivid that she wasn't certain she hadn't run out onto the street. Was she sitting inside the cafe, burning courage to apologize, or had she fled, again, and was puking in an alley? The second reality seemed more likely. Kala picked up the spoon next to her cup, feeling its hard lines. She forced herself to meet Nasreen's gaze.
"I'm sorry." Kala closed her eyes, opened them. Still in the cafe. "You went out of your way to be generous to a new photographer, and I didn't show up. I'm sorry I ruined your show. I'm sorry you had to throw out all that pate." She bit back the rest. She would not turn her first proper apology into a litany of her own insecurities. "I'm sorry I've been avoiding you ever since and didn't apologize sooner."
Nasreen softened. "Look," she said. "That's all very sweet, and I do appreciate the apology. For what it's worth, I had the hors d'oeuvres delivered to the undercity. But if you're here now because you want something from me, that's not going to happen. On a personal level, I bear you no ill will, but professionally, I won't be working with you again."
Kala took a deep breath. "I understand--"
Nasreen started to rise.
"But hear me out, please." Kala slid her screen across the table and waited. Nasreen's curiosity won out, and she flipped open the screen. Kala couldn't watch as the gallery owner clicked through the preview she had painstakingly put together.
"I thought you only did landscapes."
Kala had to take a sip of water before she could talk. "Me too."
"What are these?" A fingernail tapped the screen. Kala didn't have to look.
"Photomicrographs of fungal spores," she said. "They're the cause of Valles Fever."
Finally, Nasreen looked up. "How do I know you won't pull the same stunt again?"
"They're worth the risk, for both of us." Kala nodded at the people captured in the images. "But if we're doing this, we have to act fast, before more people get sick. I already sent the final image files to the printer. You just have to call the lab to approve the job."
Nasreen's gaze returned to the screen, to a photo of people congregating around a street orator. Nasreen had been in the business for a long time. Long enough, Kala hoped, to be adept at separating the artist from the art. Kala said, "Spin it. Spin me. I don't care what you say to get them to come--just get them to come."
"That I can do," Nasreen said.
Abe was there when the exhibition opened, mercifully without flowers this time. She hugged him tight. "Thank you," she mumbled into the fabric of his suit jacket.
"You have to stop making that face," he said when she pulled back.
"What face?" She was smiling through her panic. That was good, right?
"Never mind." He brushed his lapels. "Ralliers are gathering outside."
"So long as they don't scare anyone off. I told my mother to invite all her friends too." She twisted the bracelet on her wrist. "What do you think of the prints? Is the music the right volume?" Incorporating music had been Nasreen's suggestion, but Kala had selected the piece. The notes whistled and eddied through the gallery, ethereal as a sigh. Goosebumps rose on her bare arms. "It's good, isn't it?" she said, more a statement than a question.
"It's good." Abe squeezed her against his side.
A few early guests trickled into the gallery. Individuals, then handfuls of people, then a steady stream. Kala recognized a few reporters from the news vids, and nodded a greeting at the Deputy Director of Colony Planning. Occasionally, folks shifted their attention from each other to her work, and Kala wanted to cheer and declare the evening a wild success, but it wasn't. Not yet.
An hour after the start of the event, Kala's mother entered on her hover board. Her second best jewelry in gold, Earth emeralds, and Mars opals glittered against a sharp white suit. Mrs. Gasparyan circuited the gallery, dropping in on one cluster of well-heeled Martians after the other. In each instance, she left them studying Kala's photographs. Kala was sure the conversations were mortifying, but it wasn't about her, it was about the Warrens.
Kala had written up a fundraising plan with the expertise of her mother's advisors. Their initial goal was to halt construction of the Fossae project, to allow time to assess whether the site was in an area where Valles Fever was endemic. Soil needed to be treated to minimize exposure, workers trained in hazard awareness and safety protocols, and the legal team prepped for the almost inevitable court battle. The mountain of work before her was daunting, but that was a worry for another day. When her mother made the first donation, Kala could kiss her. Soon the donation booth was thronged, and Nasreen swooped in for decorous crowd control.
At some point, the Santa Muerte girl arrived. A second-gen Martian and activist, Ana Cecilia Mendoza had volunteered to make an appearance as soon as Abe explained their goal. Her eye makeup was less smudged than in the print, and she'd left her icon at home, but it was unmistakably her. She drifted around the room, an intense presence with a wake of whispers. Maintaining a mystique so complete that Kala wondered if Nasreen had coached her.
Kala grabbed Abe's hand and pulled him away from the punch bowl. Snatches of conversation carried to them.
"... Fever ..."
"Construction ..."
"... Just terrible."
The Santa Muerte girl judged them from the wall and Cecilia moved through their midst while the flutes and drums swelled. Kala closed her eyes, Abe's hand tight in hers, and listened to the singing wind.
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Copyright 2018 Nicole Feldringer
Nicole Feldringer's short stories have appeared in the anthologies Press Start to Play and Loosed Upon the World, from editor John Joseph Adams, among other venues. She lives in Northern California, where she is a professor of Earth and Planetary Sciences. Find her on Twitter @nicofeld.
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Giganotosaurus is published monthly by Late Cretaceous and edited by Rashida J. Smith.
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The Singing Wind and The Golden Hour Page 3
