The One Tree of Luna Page 7
The trousers — black, creased just so, almost certainly freshly pressed. And the shoes — oh my God, the shoes! Hand-tooled leather, hand-stitched uppers … those shoes were easily a thousand dollars in themselves.
“Not married?” he said, sounding incensed. He looked angrily around the restaurant. “Left here and not married?” He huffed. “I will have words with your escort.”
“No,” I said, raising a hand in surrender. “I lied, I’m alone.”
“And you did not want me to join you,” he said, his voice toneless even as one eyebrow rose thoughtfully. “By your accent you are American. New Jersey, correct? But high class, not the ‘Noo Joisey’ accent —”
“I should say not!” I bristled but he stopped me with a raised hand.
“Princeton?” he asked. “Your parents are historians or at least one of them, n’est-ce pas?”
My jaw nearly fell to the table. How did he know?
He smiled and pulled back the chair he’d been standing in front of, saying, “May I?”
I nodded and waved to the seat with a sense of surrender. He sat quickly, raised an imperious hand to the waiter who appeared magically by our table, whereupon he rattled off an impressive but hardly decipherable menu in French, added some word of urgency to which the waiter responded promptly and then disappeared back to the kitchen.
“If you don’t mind, I thought you might appreciate my favorite selection,” the green-eyed man told me.
“I don’t even know your name,” I said and mentally slapped myself for my tone of voice — I’d said it in the “I-don’t-even-know-your-name-and-I-want-your-lovechild” sort of half-hypnotized tone that I’d never heard in my own voice before.
He smiled and ducked his head apologetically. “What name do you like?”
I smiled at him. Very well, if it was to be this way, let it. “You look like a Tomas.”
“Ah,” his smile expanded into a grin, “you are very perceptive! My middle name is Tomas.”
“Spanish?”
“Paquito,” he replied with a flawless accent. With a negligent flick of his wrist he added, “But mostly I trace my heritage to the marshes of Italy.”
“Venice?” I asked, my heart pounding.
“Sometimes,” he allowed with a quick shrug.
The appetizer — and wine — arrived. Then the antipasto — and wine. And then … somewhere before desert I lost all track of time.
We were walking in the cool moist air of after-rain Paris in the early hours of the morning. His hand was on mine. It felt warm and a bit clammy, as though he was fearful.
My-middle-name-is-Tomas had been a perfect gentleman the whole evening. In fact, he was perfect. He listened to my stories, heard my complaints, clucked appropriately in the right places, nodded in others and looked affronted at the antics of my past amours.
“You deserve better,” he’d said when I’d told him about the last time, the worst time. We slowed by mutual agreement and now he halted, turning to face me.
“Well,” I’d replied, shrugging, “to catch a prince you have to kiss a few frogs.”
He blinked in surprise and then started laughing, a low, steady chuckle. “Oh! Oh, I see! Yes, you make a joke!”
“Not much of one,” I admitted ruefully.
“No,” he agreed solemnly. He gave me a sad look. “You would not believe how often I have heard that said.”
“So what, are you a prince?”
He smiled but did not answer, turning back to stand beside me and gesturing that we should walk again. Like a puppy, I followed.
I didn’t know exactly where we were going but I knew where we were going. There was going to be a bed and Tomas, my green-eyed prince.
Without a word he unlocked a door on a side street and ushered me in. With a tense smile, I entered.
We walked through a hallway on which were hung amazing works of art. I was certain that most belonged in museums. The hardwood floors gave way to carpet as we headed up the stairs past a statue that looked like Venus complete with arms.
“Where’s your bedroom?” I said, looking at the doorways lining the landing at the top of the stairs. He nodded toward the furthest one and I took his hand, leading him after me.
Inside, I started to remove his clothes and ducked forward to kiss him but he twisted his head.
“No,” he said, “no kisses.”
“No kisses for the poor prince?” I teased. He moved against me and grabbed me, lifting me off the floor and into his arms.
“No,” he said sternly, “no kisses for me.” An eyebrow went up mischievously. “But for you …!”
And then we were on the bed and I was pulling off his shirt and his pants and he was pulling my dress over my head and then — oh! This is why women come to Paris!
We made love and we made love and we made love. Tomas knew things about women that no man I’d ever met knew. He knew things about me that I didn’t know.
I was not putty in his hands — putty is too hard. I was liquid, limpid, languid — and loving it.
Somewhere I drifted off to sleep.
Sunlight streaming in the windows woke me and I twisted nervously, afraid that I’d had an unobtainable dream. But no! He was still there, his green eyes watching me anxiously.
With a cry of joy, I threw myself on him, locking my lips on his even as he cried — “No!”
Our lips touched. It was heaven.
And then … I … I … what was happening?
Big, big green eyes were looking down at me with a sad tenderness. I was being moved, I could feel it.
“Oh, querida, querida! Why did you not listen to me?” Tomas’ voice bounced off me. I quivered with its strength.
He was carrying me. In his hands. Hands?
We went out of the bedroom and through another doorway. The air was moister, warmer and I felt strangely better. Tomas, muttering curses under his breath, moved around the room, twirling me and giving me a kaleidoscopic view of empty fish tanks, dark lights, and — frogs.
“Always it is the kissing,” Tomas muttered now, elbowing off a lid. And then he dropped me.
I was wet. I slid more into the warm water. It was nice.
“A thousand tadpoles!” Tomas groaned. “Do you know how hard it is to find good homes for a thousand tadpoles?”
Tomas, I wondered, what are you talking about? Had I crossed into a madman’s world? But, if so, the water was warm and his eyes were so green. A girl could get used to bed-hopping with a man like —
“Ribbit!” I cried in terror.
“Yes, querida,” Tomas told me sadly. “You have figured it out.” A tear formed in the corner of one eye and slowly dripped down his cheek. “They say to find a prince you must kiss a thousand toads. They never say what happens when the prince kisses back!”
Why I Shot My Car
I wrote this story in 1996.
Today, it’s still science fiction but tomorrow — who knows?
It’s a look at what happens when our stuff starts to own us.
“Lieutenant,” a uniformed cop interrupted Harris’ meditation over a computer display.
“Unh?”
“Got another one for you,” the cop said, dropping a vid-disk on the officer’s desk. Beside it, with a louder thunk he dropped a pistol wrapped in a plastic bag. “The guy’s confessed, it’s on the disk.”
Harris picked up the gun. “And this?”
“That’s the weapon,” the cop replied. “Ballistics got a positive match.” With a snort, he added, “Five bullets.”
“Five bullets?”
“Yeah, a real amateur.”
“Where is he?” Harris asked, fingering the vid-disk.
“He’s in Holding.”
“Okay, I’ll get on it.” He lifted the vid-disk. “This a tape or an image?”
“Image,” the cop said. “The guy insisted on it.”
“Oh, great!”
A vid-disk image was a mental copy of the thoughts and actio
ns of a suspect — a mental duplicate of a slice of the suspect’s life.
A mental image was more than admissible evidence — it was sufficient grounds to release a suspect if the reviewing officer so decided.
However, reviewing a mental image invariably caused disorientation and pain. Harris’ hands went to his head in anticipation.
The cop grunted sympathetically and turned to leave, “I gotta get back on the beat, lieutenant.”
“Hey, wait!” Harris called when he took as closer look at the disk. “There’s no index on this!”
“Yeah,” the officer said with a frown, “the computer didn’t assign any Emotional Index to this tape.”
Harris groaned. It was normal for the analyzing computers to assign an Emotional Index on any confession using mental images. There had been that case of the poor cop who had reviewed a serial killer’s confession …
When the computer did not assign an EI it either meant that the material had no significant impact on a viewer or the system was incapable of assigning a value.
Harris pocketed the disk and headed to the Viewing Rooms — a special set of rooms for officers to review vid-disk images under supervision.
The duty sergeant assigned him Room Three and Officer Mendez. Harris had worked with Mendez before — they had no need to exchange words.
There were several chairs in the room and a table. On the table was a computer display, keyboard and vid-disk drive. One chair was different from the rest — plush, upholstered and fitted with a Viewing Helmet. Harris took that chair and pulled the helmet down over his head. Mendez lounged in another chair.
“Ready?” Mendez said, inserting the vid-disk.
“Shoot.” Harris replied.
The darkness of helmet blurred and was replaced with the light of early morning. Harris felt the usual disorientation as his ‘eyes’ adjusted to the visual perception of another person and he became the suspect.
Monday. And I was late for work. Bad enough that the kids were causing trouble but Molly and I had had another fight. It was sort of a relief to get out of the house and hop in my car. I should have known better.
“’morning, Jenny.”
“Good morning, Mark.” Jenny replied quickly enough.
I put the key in the ignition and turned it. Nothing. I tried again. Then I realized — silly me! I hadn’t stuck in the clutch. Still nothing. “Jenny, what’s up?”
“I’m not starting.”
“I noticed — why?” I looked at the gauges — nothing seemed wrong.
“I’m five hundred and two-tenth miles overdue for a service.”
I blew out my breath. We’d had this argument for the past week. “I know that, Jenny, and I promise I’ll get you in as soon as I can.”
“You could have done it Saturday,” Jenny said. “Or Sunday.”
“I was busy Saturday,” I said. “You know.”
“Yes, you and the family went to the Mall,” Jenny said. “And little Jeremy dropped his ice cream cone in the back seat —”
“We cleaned it up!”
“You tried. There’s still dried ice cream on the carpet! And I haven’t been washed in ages!”
“We’ll get to it, I promise. Besides, what’s a little dirt?” The words slipped out before I could catch myself.
“A little dirt? A little dirt?” My car responded indignantly. “It’s been a whole month since I was last washed. Do you know what that dust does to my aerodynamics? I’m losing over half a mile an hour in top speed and burning a tenth of a gallon extra every thousand miles and you say — ‘a little dirt’! Don’t you care about the environment, about your children?”
“Of course I do,” I said. “But you can’t seriously expect me to believe that not being washed for a month is going to make a big impact on anything. After all, it rained last week.”
“And did you notice that my right windshield wiper is frayed?”
“No.” I glanced at the right side of the windshield for signs of wiper tracks. “In fact, I don’t see anything wrong.”
“No, of course not,” Jenny said primly. “That’s because I compensated. But how long do you think I can go on like this?”
“Don’t worry, old gal, we won’t let you break down or anything.”
“Won’t you?” she demanded sarcastically. “Have you seen the color of my oil?”
“Well no, but the oil light’s not on,” I said. “And didn’t we get you that special long-life oil anyway?”
“That’s not the point.” Jenny snapped. “My oil’s dirty and you just know what that could mean — poorer lubrication, worse heat dissipation and —” Jenny sniffed “— early breakdowns!”
“Okay, okay,” I said soothingly. “Don’t get upset. We’ll get you serviced, I already promised. But Jenny, I’m going to be late for work.”
“I’ll book an appointment. We can go in today at ten.”
“No good. I’m going to be in meetings all day.”
“How about tomorrow?”
“Same.”
“Are you sure?” Jenny asked with suspicion. “Wait a minute! Wait a minute! I just checked with your appointments computer - you’re going to be free tomorrow from twelve until one.”
“That’s lunchtime, Jenny!”
“So? What’s more important, your stomach or my safety?” Jenny demanded. “Do you realize that my right front tire pressure is half a pound too low? I’ve compensated with the left rear pressure, of course, but it’s just too much, I tell you, too much!”
“I really have to eat, Jenny,” I told her. “Anyway, tomorrow’s a meeting with some of the boys at work, it wouldn’t be on my appointments computer because it’s a private deal.”
“Oh, is it?” Jenny said. “With the boys? Or maybe it’s not. You aren’t fooling around, are you Mark?” There was a pause. “What about that trip we took three weeks ago Wednesday after work?”
“Huh?”
“Yes. Didn’t we go to your secretary’s apartment?”
I could feel heat rising in my cheeks. “That was to drop off her briefcase!”
“Oh, was it?” Again Jenny paused. “The house computer tells me that you and Molly were fighting again. It had to turn the de-ionizer up all the way just to reduce the tension.”
“That was the kids!”
“Oh, certainly,” Jenny agreed dubiously. “And what did the kids do?”
“They were fighting, okay? And I don’t see where you, a common appliance —”
“Common! Common? I assure you that I am one of the finest automobiles that money can buy today —”
“Sure!” I snorted. Another mistake.
Jenny’s tone was pouting — “Well, I would be if you would take care of me! My differential’s a hundredth of an inch low on oil! A whole hundredth! And my right rear wheel bearing needs greasing!”
She sobbed, “You just don’t care!”
“Of course I care. If I didn’t I wouldn’t have bought you.”
“You’re just going to use me and throw me away!” Jenny protested. “And you won’t even get me proper servicing! Well, I won’t start, do you hear me! I won’t start. You’re going nowhere!”
I groaned. “C’mon Jenny! We had this argument yesterday!”
“And I didn’t start then, did I?”
“That’s right,” I said, “we decided we could do without the extra loaf of bread. But today I have to get to work.”
“You should have thought of that before you went to the Mall.”
“Huh?”
“I warned you then. I told you that you were driving me beyond my limitations —”
“Sure, but —”
“— and now you’ve done it! I’m not going anywhere unless it’s a service station!”
“Listen, you pompous collection of chips and metal — I’ve got to get to work because if I don’t I can’t pay for your service so you’d just better start up right now before my boss docks my pay!”
“Can’t pay? C
an’t pay?” Jenny’s tone switched from sarcastic to horrified between the first and the second question.
“That’s right. Remember when we took Jeremy to the hospital?”
“Yes-s,” Jenny said.
“Well, we hadn’t counted on it and it’s ruined our monthly budget.”
“How can I know you’re telling the truth?”
“Why the hell do I have to justify myself to you?” I roared back, turning the key viciously in the ignition. “Start, dammit! Start right now or I’ll —”
“What? What more could you do to me?” She wailed with all the tone of a wronged appliance.
“I’ll take you apart!” I shouted, hoping to shock her, twisting the key in the ignition provocatively.
“Hah! You can barely change a flat! I remember the day when you drove me over all that glass and I had to talk you through, step by step —”
“No you didn’t! I could have read the manual but you refused to let me!” I banged the glove compartment open, pulled out the manual and waved it at the dash.
“What’s up? Robbers? Do you need some protection? Are we going shooting?” The voice was a husky alto and belonged to the pistol I’d bought several years back when I’d spent a very uncomfortable time in one of the more troubled neighborhoods. I’d uncovered it when I pulled the manual out of the glove compartment.
“No, nah! I just wanted to show Jenny here the damned manual.”
“So you’ve got the manual, so what?” Jenny snapped.
I started rifling it, found the table of contents. “There’s an override code here somewhere.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” Jenny declared. “You’d endanger your family and yourself.”
“Just watch me.”
“I can’t let you!”
“Here it is — page ten.” I flicked over to page ten and read: “‘In case of emergencies, the artificial intelligence of your machine may be disabled with the phrase —