Holy Fire - Bruce Sterling [152]
“Okay.” Maya sat.
“We came to ask for an interview,” said Aquinas, in brisk and flawless English.
“Really.”
“We have had both Herr Cabaline and Signorina Barsotti already.”
“Who?”
“Paul and Benedetta,” said the dog.
The mention of their names touched her deeply. She missed them as she would miss a heartbeat. “How are Paul and Benedetta?”
“Famous of course; rather troubled, unfortunately.”
“But how are they really?”
“They escaped their legal difficulties. A great political success for them. But they have had a famous falling-out. A schism in their artistic movement. You hadn’t heard this?”
A human waitress came over. The human attention was a typical Des Moines touch. Maya ordered waffles.
“May we ask you about this matter, on camera?”
“I hadn’t heard anything about any schisms. I’m out of touch. I don’t have anything to say.”
“But they both speak so highly of you. They told us to come to you. They even helped us to locate you here.”
“I’m amazed that you can speak English so beautifully, Aquinas. I’ve seen you speak Deutsch, and I’ve even heard you dubbed into Czestina, but …”
“It’s all done with dubbing,” said the dog modestly. “Dubbing just above the level of the brain. Karl has brought a gift for you, from your friends. Go fetch it, Karl.”
“Good idea,” said Karl. He rose, picked up a white cane, switched it on, and trotted off unerringly.
“I really can’t appear on your show,” said Maya. “I don’t need to play roles anymore.”
“You have become an icon,” the dog said.
“I don’t much feel like an icon. Anyway, the best way to remain an icon is to avoid public overexposure. Isn’t it?”
“How Greta Garbo of you,” said the dog.
“You like old movies?” Maya said, surprised.
“Frankly, I hate old movies; I don’t even much like my own quite ancient medium of television. But I’m enormously interested in the processes of celebrity.”
“I’ve never had such a sophisticated conversation with a dog,” said Maya. “I can’t appear on your show, Aquinas, I hope you understand that. But I do like talking to you. In person, you’re so much smaller than you look on television. And you’re really interesting. I don’t know if you’re a dog or an artificial intelligence or whatever, but you’re definitely some kind of genuine entity. You’re deep. Aren’t you? I think you should get out of pop culture. Maybe write a book.”
“I can’t read,” the dog said.
Maya’s waffles arrived. She tucked in with gusto.
“It’s a shame to come to Des Moines for nothing,” the dog wheedled.
“Interview the mayor,” Maya said, chewing.
“I don’t think that will do.”
“Go back to Europe and interview Helene Vauxcelles-Serusier. Make her level with you.”
“Why should I do that?” said the dog, pricking up his hairy ears. “And where would I find her?”
Karl returned to the booth. The gift had come from Paul and Benedetta. Maya shoved her waffles aside and tore open the box, and then the padding. They had sent her an antique camera. The sort of hand camera that once had processed rolls of colored film. The antique machine had been retrofitted with a digital imaging plate, and a set of network jacks. It was heavy and solid and lovely. Compared to a modern camera it felt like chiseled granite.
And there was a card with it. Handwriting.
“Don’t ever believe what they say about us,” scrawled Benedetta.
“First and always we will love and forgive our heretics,” said Paul. His neat and perfect hand.
Daniel lived in Idaho now. He had gone to earth.
She could sense the border of his private little realm. Maybe twenty acres. Nothing like wire or a fence; the difference was present in the substance of the earth. Trace elements, maybe. Maybe some aspect of his peculiar practice of gardening. Could mere intelligence make trees grow faster?
The trees, the bushes, the birds, the insects even. They didn’t feel quite right here. They felt as if someone were paying fantastic amounts of sustained attention to them. The branches