Aurorarama - Jean-Christophe Valtat [35]
The highbrow or hurried reader will be content with knowing that her “As White As …” was said to have caught the very marrow of the icy city. But that is of little use to really measure the remanence of her name to the olde-New. For the eye- and ear-witnesses are still in awe of her charismatic performance during the Blue Wild Thing.
Her lifestyle was indeed typical of the New Venetian golden age scene. Substances, unending live music parties—those were the days of roses, wine, and polar pop, of overbrimming dance cards … But in many more ways than one, reminiscences of Ms. Lake actually embody reminiscences of New Venice ‘in illo tempore’: open and fleeting, frail and fearless, the vanishing point of love and life.
Where has she been, what has she done: I shook myself from my reverie as Ms. Lake passed me by on the terminal berth. Cheerful applause lasted long enough to stir a hunting Inuk from his hideout. But there was more to the group than a goodwill reunion. The clatter sounded organized, as if all were chanting slogans. The little crowd was exclusively feminine, and dressed as suffragettes, which somehow did not fit with Ms Lake’s tumultuous past.
I was thinking of how information slipped unto me, when Ms Lake shouted out:
—You must be the journalist.
—Journalists are not supposed to get involved.
—You are not asked to.
—Where have you been, Ms. Lake?
—My name is now Lenton, Lillian Lenton.
—When did you cease to be Ms. Lake?
—I’ve been to wondrous places down the Austral parallels. So many places, so different from one another. On the one hand, you are shattered by despair: no thing ever resembles the next, and the world looks like a roller coaster. On the other hand, you end up finding your way, and when you get to that point, it’s like you get to another level of consciousness.
—What have you been doing?
—Wah—baking doughnuts, of course, what kind of journalist are you? I’m talking of another level of consciousness.
—There are a lot of people here tonight. Most of them are ex-fans of the Sandmovers?
—I have been away for such a long time, I don’t think anyone here could sing a Sandmovers’ tune. Including me.
—Did you give up music?
—Precisely, no. It’s just that music has grown up in me. In my opinion, it hasn’t much to do with entertainment or partying anymore. There’s a kind of responsibility for those who are listened to by the people.
—Do you have a new group?
—Yes. The Lodestones. We release our new single in five days, in North Venustown. Look, it’s written on this bill.
—Are you planning to stay a long time in New Venice?
—Listen. This city … this city is a gift. But it’s a gift wasted on spoiled children. I did not come back to act as if nothing happened. The Blue Wild happened, the city was more or less destroyed, I’ve traveled a lot since then. The city is back in place, as far as I can see. But during my long southern journey, there are a few things that sprouted in my New Venetian heart, and it can no longer be silent.
—Concerning the city?
—Concerning our lives in our city.
Two vigourous women came up to Ms. Lake, now Ms. Lenton, and helped her away from our conversation. I was left, alone on the steamer berth, with most of my questions. Where has she been, what has she done. And, above all, why is she coming back now?
“Who does she thinks she is?” asked Sybil, sitting down next to Brentford. “She’s been away for years and she imagines she has just to snap her fingers to have all the audience at her feet? People have been working hard while she was away.”
For it was indeed one of Sybil’s pet ideas that she was a hardworking girl. But what Brentford retained of the article, apart from the eerie reminiscences it triggered of his own youth as a scenester, was its strange “poletical” undercurrent, as if Ms. Lenton promised or hoped for more than simply a musical revolution. One more agitator, then. Great. This was just what the city needed right now. He sighed, and lay down, suddenly feeling against his spine the frame of the picture Sybil had discarded. He discreetly looked