Holy Fire - Bruce Sterling [63]
“Prima.” Klaudia stood up and left.
Maya patted the couch seat next to her. “Come sit closer.”
Eugene edged over cautiously.
“Tell me something about the woman who did that wall mural.”
“How do you know a woman did it?”
“I can just tell, that’s all.”
Eugene watched the mural, which noticed his attention and slowed instantly. “It’s a cellular automata display. From the fifties, to judge by the technique. I hope she built it solid, because you’d have a pretty hard time replacing the works-and-wares from a dead platform like that.”
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it? That gimmick almost made me angry, before I realized what she meant to say.”
Eugene scratched his head. “You got me. Not my variety of gimmick at all. Paul would know, Paul’s a scholar.”
“Who’s Paul?”
Eugene smiled guardedly. “Paul pretty much lays down the law in our little scene. Y’know, I don’t like being told what to think. Because I’m not much for ideology. But I trust Paul. And I think that Paul trusts me.”
“Is Paul here tonight? Introduce me, all right?”
“Sure.”
Eugene led her across the bar. Haifa dozen people were eagerly clustered around a muscular red-haired young man in a vivid display suit. His suit jacket showed a splendid satellite view of night-lit Praha, patterned streetlights sprawled across his black lapels and down both his glossy sleeves. He was telling some lively and elaborate anecdote in Français. His enthralled listeners laughed aloud, with the clubby sounds of friends absorbing in-jokes.
Maya waited patiently until the story was wound up in a torrent of alien wisecracks. Then she spoke quickly. “Ciao Paul! Do you mind English?”
The red-haired man scratched his beard. “I have great respect for the English language, but that’s Paul there at the end of the table, darling.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t do that, okay?” Eugene muttered. He led her past a clutter of legs and drinks.
Paul was dark and stocky and clean-shaven, wrapped in quiet conversation with a sharp-nosed woman with black bangs and no lipstick. Paul was groping with an oversized table napkin. The square decorative cloth had a life of its own. It flapped and wriggled and seemed determined to crawl up Paul’s forearms.
Eugene whispered. “Let me get you something.”
“A mineral water? Thanks.” Maya perched on the edge of the couch and watched as Paul and the dark-haired woman discussed the glimmering, flopping cloth in rapid and fluent Italiano.
Paul wore gray fabric trousers and a buttoned fabric shirt in faded khaki; he’d thrown his coat over the back of the couch. The woman wore dark tights and boots and elbow-length white smartgloves. The woman was putting a lot of effort into ignoring her.
Paul deftly pinched a corner of the kerchief. The wriggling cloth went limp. He attached the kerchief to a slender cable, pulled a notebook from beneath the couch, and, still speaking nonstop Italiano, began pounding the keys and observing a readout in some grisly technical dialect of English.
Paul touched a final key and a process began execution. Then he turned alertly to Maya. “American?”
“Yes.”
“Californian?”
“That’s right.”
“San Francisco.”
“You’re very clever.”
“I’m Paul, from Stuttgart. I program. This is Benedetta, she’s a coder from Bologna.”
“Maya. From nowhere in particular, really. Don’t do much of anything.” She offered her hand to the woman across the table.
“You’re a model,” Benedetta said wearily.
“Yes. Sometimes. Barely.”
“Ever had one real idea to trouble your pretty head?”
“Not really, but I can dust myself off if I trip over one.”
Paul laughed. “Benedetta, don’t be gauche.”
Benedetta brushed at Maya’s fingers with her smart-glove, and slumped back into the couch. “I came a long way to talk to this man tonight. I hope you can wait to flirt with him until everyone gets very tight.”
“Benedetta’s a Catholic,” Paul explained.
“I am not a Catholic! Bologna is the least Catholic city in Europe! I am an anarchist and an artificer and a programmer! I plan to hang the last gerontocrat with the guts of the last priest!”
“Benedetta is also a miracle of tact,