Holy Fire - Bruce Sterling [64]
“I only wanted to ask about the mural,” Maya said.
“The Garden of Eden, Eva Maskova, 2053,” Paul said.
Eugene had returned from the bar, but he was wrapped up in another story from the raconteur. Eugene was leaning on his elbows on the back of the couch, snorting with laughter, and sipping absently from Maya’s mineral water.
“Tell me about this Eva person. Where is she now?”
“She took too many tinctures and fell off her bicycle, and she broke her neck,” Benedetta said coolly. “But the medicals patched her back together. So she married a rich banker in España, and now she works for the polity in some stupid high-rise in Madrid.”
Paul shook his head slightly. “You’re very unforgiving. In her own day, Eva had the holy fire.”
“That’s for you to say, Paul. I met her. She’s a perfect little middle-aged bourgeoise who keeps houseplants.”
“She had the holy fire, nevertheless.”
Maya spoke up. “Her mural. It’s all about people like yourselves, isn’t it? When they’re left to themselves, they do miracles. But when they’re scrutinized and analyzed from the outside, then they dry up.”
Paul and Benedetta exchanged surprised glances, then turned to look at her.
“You’re not an actress manqué, I hope,” said Benedetta.
“No, not at all.”
“You don’t dance? You don’t sing?”
Maya shook her head.
“You don’t work in artifice at all?” Paul demanded.
“No. Well—sometimes I take photographs.”
“It had to be something,” Benedetta said triumphantly. “Show me your spex.”
“Don’t have any spex.”
“Show me your camera, then.”
Maya pulled the tourist camera from her woven purse. Benedetta gave a short bark of laughter. “Oh, that’s hopeless! What a relief! For one terrible moment I thought I’d met an intelligent woman who liked to wear spangled tights.”
A tall man in a long gray coat and mud-smeared work pants stumbled down the stairs. “Emil has come,” said Paul, with pleasure. “Emil has remembered! How amazing! Just a moment.” He rose and left them.
Benedetta watched Paul go, with deep irritation. “Now you’ve done it,” she said. “Once Paul gets started with that holy fool, there’ll be no end to it.” She unplugged her writhing handkerchief and stood up.
It wouldn’t do to be abandoned. Not when she was just getting through. “Benedetta, stay with me.”
Benedetta was surprised. She looked at Maya forth-rightly. “Why should I?”
Maya lowered her voice. “Can you keep a secret?”
Benedetta frowned. “What kind of secret?”
“A programmer’s secret.”
“What on earth do you know about programming?”
Maya leaned forward. “Not much. But I need a programmer. Because I own a memory palace.”
Benedetta sat back down. “You do? A big one?”
“Yes, and yes.”
Benedetta leaned forward. “Illegal?”
“Probably.”
“How did someone like you acquire an illegal memory palace?”
“How do you think someone like me acquired an illegal memory palace?”
“I hate to speculate,” Benedetta said, pursing her lips. “May I guess? You traded sexual favors for it.”
“No, certainly not! Well … Yes, I did. Sort of. Actually.”
“Let’s pop your palazzo open and look about inside.” Benedetta deftly wrapped the kerchief around her neck. The cloth twitched a bit, then flashed into a pattern of gold and paisley. Benedetta picked up her smooth and slender notebook and her metal-studded purse. “We’ll go behind the bar where it’s discreet.”
“You’ve been so patient with me already, Benedetta. I hate to impose.”
Benedetta stared at her for a long moment, then dropped her eyes. “All right. I was stupid. I’m sorry that I was stupid to you. I’ll be better now. So can we go?”
“I accept your apology.” Maya stood up. “Let’s go.”
Benedetta led her into an especially bluish and subterranean niche behind the long mahogany bar. Someone had been doing blood sampling on the table top. There was a litter of crumpled chromatographs and a diamond-beaked mosquito syringe.
Benedetta swept the litter aside, thumped her notebook down, and unreeled an antenna from its top. “So. What is required? Gloves? Spex?”
“I need a touchscreen for my password.”
“A touchscreen! It must be fate that I brought