Sixty days and counting - Kim Stanley Robinson [103]
Which they were during the ovation afterward, a nice thing to be part of, a Latin thing, lots of shouting and whistling in the applause, at least for an audience at the Kennedy Center. There was even a group above him to the right shouting “As-tor—As-tor—As-tor!” which Edgardo joined with the utmost happiness, bellowing the name up at the group of enthusiasts and waving in appreciation. He had never gotten the chance to chant Astor’s name in a cheer before, and it felt right, it felt good in his mouth. He wondered if they did that in Buenos Aires now, or if it was only something that would happen in Europe, or here—Astor the perpetual exile, even in death. Well, but now he was a hero in Argentinean music, and the reason these tours were popular, that and the possibility of seeing some choreographed nudity and sex on stage, which of course was also a bit of a draw. But you could see more sex by accident on the internet in a night than tango would give you your whole life, unless you believed in sublimation—which Edgardo did. The return of the repressed was a volcanic thing, a matter of stupendous force blasting into the world. The giants unleashed. As America had yet to learn, alas, to its great confusion. It had repressed the reality of the rest of the world, and now the rest of the world was coming back.
Show over. All the people mingling as they made their exit. Outside it was still stifling. More Spanish in the gorgeous choir of the languages. Edgardo walked aimlessly in the crowd going north, then stopped briefly below the strange statue located on the lawn there, which appeared to portray a dying Quixote shooting a last arrow over his shoulder, roughly in the direction of the Saudi Arabian embassy. An allegory for the futility of fighting Big Oil, perhaps. Anyway there was Umberto approaching him, lighting a cigarette and coughing, and together they strolled down the grass to the railing overlooking the river.
They leaned with their elbows on the rail and watched obsidian sheets of water glide past.
They conversed in Spanish:
“So?”
“We’re still looking into ways of isolating these guys.”
“Is she still helping?”
“Yes, she’s the decoy while we try to cut these guys out. She’s playing the shell game with them.”
“And you think Cooper is the leader?”
“Not sure about that. He may have a stovepipe that goes pretty high. That’s one of the things we’re still trying to determine.”
“But he’s part of ARDA?”
“Yes.”
“And where did they relocate that most exciting program?”
“There’s a working group, suspended between Homeland Security and the National Security Council. ARDA prime.”
Edgardo laughed. He danced a little tango step while singing the bitter wild riff at the start of “Primavera Porteño.” “They are so fucking stupid, my friend! Could it get any more byzantine?”
“That’s the point. It’s a work of art.”
“It’s a fucking shambles. They must be scared out of their wits, granting they ever had any wits, which I don’t. I mean if they get caught…”
“It will be hard to catch them outright. I think the best we can do is cut them out. But if they see that coming, they will fight.”
“I’m sure. Is all of ARDA in on it?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“That’s good. I know some of those guys from my time at DARPA. I liked them. Some of them, anyway.”
“I know. I’m sure the ones you liked are all innocent of this.”
“Right.” Edgardo laughed. “Well, fuck them. What should I tell Frank?”
“Tell him to hang in there.”
“Do you think it would be okay to tip him that his girlfriend is still involved in a root canal?”
“I don’t know.” Umberto sucked on his cigarette, blew out a long plume of white smoke. “Not if you think he’ll do anything different.”
ALL FRANK COULD THINK ABOUT NOW was how he could get in touch with Caroline. Apparently showing up in her