Perdido Street Station - China Mieville [17]
At the end of the room was a closed office.
“Ms. Lin, finally,” boomed a speaking-trumpet above its door as soon as she entered. None of the secretaries looked up. “Please make your way across the room to my office.”
Lin picked her way between the desks. She looked closely at what was being typed, hard though it was, and harder in the odd light of the black-walled room. The secretaries all typed expertly, reading the scribbled notes and transferring them without looking at their keyboards or their work.
Further to our conversation of the thirteenth of this month, read one, please consider your franchise operation under our jurisdiction, terms to be arranged. Lin moved on.
You die tomorrow, you fuck, you wormshit. You’re going to envy the Remade, you cowardly cunt, you’re going to scream till your mouth bleeds, said the next.
Oh . . . thought Lin. Oh . . . help.
The door to the office opened.
“Come in, Ms. Lin, come in!” The voice boomed from the trumpet.
Lin did not hesitate. She entered.
Filing cabinets and bookshelves filled most of the small room. There was a small, traditional oil painting of Iron Bay on one wall. Behind a large darkwood desk was a folding screen illustrated with silhouettes of fish, a large version of the screens behind which artists’ models changed. In the centre of the screen, one fish was rendered in mirrored glass, giving Lin a view of herself.
Lin hovered uncertainly in front of the screen.
“Sit, sit,” said a quiet voice from behind it. Lin pulled up the chair in front of the desk.
“I can see you, Ms. Lin. The mirrored carp is a window on my side. I think it’s polite to let people know that.”
The speaker seemed to expect a response, so Lin nodded.
“You’re late, you know, Ms. Lin.”
Devil’s Tail! Of all the appointments to be late to! Lin thought frantically. She began to scribble an apology on her pad when the voice interrupted her.
“I can sign, Ms. Lin.”
Lin put down her pad and apologized profusely with her hands.
“Don’t worry,” said her host disingenuously. “It happens. The Bonetown is unforgiving to visitors. Next time you’ll know to leave earlier, won’t you?”
Lin agreed that she would, that that was exactly what she would know to do.
“I like your work a great deal, Ms. Lin. I have all the heliotypes that made their way from Lucky Gazid. He is a sad, pathetic, broken cretin, that man—addiction is very sad in most of its forms—but he does, strangely enough, have something of a nose for art. That woman Alexandrine Nevgets was one of his, wasn’t she? Pedestrian, unlike your own work, but pleasant. I’m always prepared to indulge Lucky Gazid. It will be a shame when he dies. It’ll doubtless be a sordid affair, some dirty stubby knife gutting him slowly for the sake of small change; or a venereal disease involving vile emissions and sweat caught from an underage whore; or perhaps his bones will be broken for snitching—the militia, after all, do pay well, and junkies can’t be choosers when it comes to income.”
The voice that floated over the screen was melodious, and what the speaker said scanned hypnotically: he spoke everything into a poem. His sentences lilted on gently. His words were brutal. Lin was very afraid. She could not think of anything to say. Her hands were still.
“So having decided that I like your art I want to talk to you to discover whether you would be right for a commission. Your work is unusual for a khepri. Would you agree?”
Yes.
“Talk to me about your statues, Ms. Lin, and don’t worry, were you about to, that you might sound precious. I have no prejudices against taking art seriously, and don’t forget that I started this conversation. The key words to bear in mind when thinking how to answer my question are ‘themes,’ ‘technique’ and ‘aesthetics.’ “
Lin hesitated, but her fear drove her on. She wanted to keep this man happy, and if that meant talking about her work, then that was what she would do.
I work alone, she signed, which is part of my . . . rebellion. I left Creekside and then Kinken, left my moiety and my hive. People were miserable,