Worlds (20 page)

We met Jeff and Manny at the weapons shop next door, where Jeff was still arguing over the price of an intricately carved cane that concealed a sword. When we left with them, the merchant ran after us, waving the cane in a theatrical way, and agreed to meet Jeff’s last price. Jeff paid him, but later wished he had cut the price again, to see what would happen. Manny said he thought it might be smart to do your experiments in bargaining etiquette at some place other than a weapons shop.

We didn’t buy much else. We had been warned not to change too much money into dirhams, since you couldn’t take them out of the country and it was illegal to change them into foreign currency.

It was more relaxed than Tangier’s Casbah, and a little
cleaner, but there were several times I was glad to have two meters of husky armed policeman as an escort. Violet and I got accustomed to the “Maghrib handshake.” In a crowd, men were constantly gliding their hands across your buttocks, to make sure you had two. Violet was amused by it, but I thought it was a little disgusting. Once a man sidled up behind and touched me with something other than a hand; he got an elbow in the ribs for his effort. He growled something in Arabic but Jeff stared him down.

Most of the afternoon was delightful, though. We went past the shops into the part of town where people lived and worked, normally out of the sight of tourists. I was particularly fascinated by a man who was running a wood lathe by foot power rolling the soles of his feet rapidly over a wooden axle (the feet had nearly a centimeter of translucent callus), the power transmitted by squeaking pulleys to the thing he was working on, a cane like Jeff’s. He worked close to the wood, thick spectacles protecting his eyes. He never noticed us watching him.

There were tanners and dyers and weavers and copper-smiths and blacksmiths, most of them working in ways that hadn’t changed for centuries. We stumbled on to one electronics/cybernetics dealer, which was jarring.

… had a long sleepy bath and then at 10:30, as prearranged, tiptoed down the hall and traded places with Manny.

… but it was so sweet just to be with him. I’m afraid I’ve fallen in love again. My only consistent talent.

(28 January–3 February: Fez/Meknes, Casablanca, Kisangani, Dar es Salaam)

4 February.    The Alexandrian Dominion comes as a cold shock after the friendliness and modernity of Black Africa.

At the Cairo customs station, all women were required to buy a chador, a shapeless robe that covers you from head to foot. Only your eyes are allowed to show. We would have to wear that whenever we were anyplace a man might see us.

On our way to the hotel, we passed a large public square, fountains and beautifully tended flowers beds and topiary. On the fence around the square were impaled rotting heads
and hands from recently punished criminals. For some reason they didn’t look real.

Over the hotel desk there was a sign in several languages. I’ll copy it down:

Six days of this. Oh, well, I always wanted to see the Pyramids….

(5 February–9 February: Alexandria, Mecca, Baghdad, Damascus, Ankara, Jerusalem)

10 February.    So good to be rid of that damned chador, and to see women’s faces and bodies again. Three cheers for Krishna.

Delhi is the most crowded place I’ve ever seen, but the people are calm and good-natured….

… bed was squeaky so we moved onto the floor. The rug seemed soft to me but it took the skin off Jeff’s knees, large price to pay for not disturbing the sleep of our neighbors. So I got to be on top for the second round, doubly nice after a week of being debased for being a woman.

11 February.    We spent the afternoon in Khajuaho, at the famous Devi Jagadambi Temple, mostly. Thousands of delightful erotic sculptures, showing every possible way, and some impossible ones (Hindi demigods evidently could bend in ways that humans can’t; they also had pretty impressive sex organs). Jeff said he was taking mental notes about the positions that didn’t involve kneeling.

Several Muslim women were waiting outside the temple, while their husbands, or husband, enjoyed the sculptures. At least they can show their faces in Bharat, though they do have to wear a modified chador. Most of the men and women wear European-style clothes.

At a bookstall by the temple Jeff bought a copy of the Kama Sutra, illustrated with pictures of the temple figures.

I decided I’d better get some sleep on the way back to the hotel…

13 February.    … but our final impression of Bharat was marred by the incredible squalor of Calcutta. Our guide said it had never been worse, with some twenty million refugees fleeing starvation in Bangladesh….

14 February.    Vietnam is America’s only real ally in Southeast Asia, and wherever we go, we’re treated with anxious friendliness. Not surprising, since they’re surrounded by SSU countries, and only American military might keeps them from being overrun—especially by China, who’s been trying to absorb them for thousands of years.

(I decided not to take a side trip into the SSU, since the transportation is so expensive it would eat up half my remaining travel money. Violet went into Kampuchea to see Angkor Wat, and will join up with us in Ho Chi Minh City.)

Hanoi is a tidy, earnest place….

(15–17 February: Hue, Pleiku, Banmethuot)

18 February. The Kampucheans were not very friendly to Violet. She was even spat upon. It wasn’t simply racism, she found out. Many people believe that the independence of Nevada (and Ketchikan) is a hoax, and that visitors are spies….

(19–22 February: Tokyo, Kyoto, Osaka, Hiroshima)

23 February.    Two days’ rest before we go on to the last leg of our travels. Nothing to do on Guam but lie on the beach, swim in the warm water, enjoy each other.

And some time to try to straighten out my feelings about Jeff. I love him, all right, but it’s not the kind of love I have for Daniel. In a way it’s a more juvenile thing, like it was with Charlie, more hormones than brain cells. We both know it can’t be permanent, and that makes it sort of romantic and wistful.

It brings me up short to realize that I’ve known him longer than I’ve known Daniel, in terms of together-time, and I probably know him better than I know Daniel.

I’ve never said anything about love to him. Who am I protecting?

(25 February–6 March: Manila, Papua, Darwin, Perth, Melbourne, Sydney, Anchorage, Fairbanks, Ketchikan, Guadalajara, Mexico D.F., Acapulco)

After I got settled into the dorm, I went over to the bound-journals stacks in the library. My cigarette-paper diary was still there, but nothing else, no message from Benny.

Should have memorized the position of the papers inside the magazine. It seemed to me that they had been moved, but I couldn’t be sure. (If somebody had read them, though, it was probably Benny. Find out in a couple of weeks.)

I called his apartment and the landlord said he’d disappeared, without paying rent. He’d confiscated everything in the apartment and was going to sell it after ninety days. I said I might want to buy some of the books. Will ask Benny.

Called registration and signed up for twelve hours of “directed reading” courses in history, politics, and economics. Then I walked down to Penn Station to buy my Americapass.

It felt good to be back in New York. Not to be coping with a new language and set of customs every other day. And I’d missed it. London is cleaner, Tokyo’s bigger, Paris is more beautiful, and so forth—but no place has such exciting variety and contrast. Industry and decadence, opulence
and squalor, tranquillity and violence, past and future. Old New York.

Jeff and I had dinner together at the Vietnamese restaurant Over dessert, I complained about the extortion of having to pay for a dormitory room that would be unoccupied four days out of five, while I toured the States.

“You could move in with me,” he said.

“That would be fun,” I said, “but no solution. They would triple my tuition; that’s how they keep the dorms—”

“Not if we were married.”

I dropped a little ice cream on my lap. “What? Married?”

“People get married. I love you.”

“Jeff…” I got busy with a napkin. My brain was stuck. “Jeff, you, I thought you understood, I, Daniel and me…”

“I do understand. But you love me too, don’t you? Some?”

“You know I do. But not
marriage
. After six months, you’ll never see me again.”

“I’ve been thinking about that. There are two solutions. One, we could get a mutual-consent divorce when it comes time for you to leave. ‘Better to have loved and lost than never to have lost at all.’”

“I don’t know that I could accept that.” Marriage is sacred, if anything is.

He nodded. “I didn’t think so. But you might consider it from an anthropological perspective. Marriages of convenience are very common here, you know; when you’re among barbarians, it’s safest to temporarily conform to their customs.”

“I’m not much of an anthropologist. What’s the other solution?”

He made a little tent with his fingers and stared down at it. “I could go back to New New York with you. Or join you later, after the shuttle’s on a regular schedule again.”

“You mean you’d give up the FBI?”

“There are police in New New. They could put my talents to use. Wouldn’t they be almost compelled to take me, if I were the spouse of a citizen?”

“In normal times, yes. But, Jeff… you wouldn’t like it there. Not after growing up in New York and living the way you have. It’s too quiet and peaceful. Boring.”

“I’ve thought of that, too. I think I’ve had enough excitement.”

“But—”

“Now you’re going to bring up Daniel.” I was, as a matter of fact. He spoke formally; “I would be more than willing to join him in a triune marriage. That you love him is enough of a testimonial.” He looked directly at me. “I’d rather have half of you than all of any woman I’ve ever met before.”

“The men don’t get half,” I said, almost automatically, “the woman gets double.” I covered my face with my hands. “Jeff, Jeffie, you have to give me time to think. Ever since I was a little girl I’ve been fighting the idea of joining a triune.”

“But your family wasn’t really—”

“I know. But all the other bastards around me were.” A three-way marriage is fine for adults: stable tripod. Not so great for the children, though. They become manipulative.

“So we could start our own line, you and Daniel and me. And the Boy Scout troop down the block.”

I had to laugh. “You overestimate me. Four or five would be plenty.”

“Seriously, I don’t want to rush it. I know you need time to think. Talk it over with Daniel.”

“That presents a little problem. I haven’t mentioned you to him, at least not our relationship.”

“Do you want me to write to him?”

“No. Not yet.” I stood up and dropped a fifty on the table. “Don’t get up. I have to walk for a while.”

“You shouldn’t go out alone.”

“Just to the dorm. It’s not the Casbah.”

“Still, be careful. Why don’t you take my knife.”

“I’m okay.” I kissed him on the cheek and went out.

It had just started to rain, a steady cold drizzle, no wind. I put up my hood and was comfortable; the weather matched my mood. The cold black and double glare.

Jeff hadn’t mentioned the third alternative, that I marry him and stay here. What would that be like? Marianne O’Hara, groundhog. I couldn’t see it. Not even in this wonderful city. The Earth is closed space; history’s mistakes endlessly repeating. The future belongs to the Worlds.

But could Jeff adjust? I turned the last corner before the dorm entrance.

“Aye there, sweetbuns.” I froze. I’d seen enough cube to recognize gang talk.

Another voice: “So-o-o lonesome, she is. Oll alone t’night.”

Three men stepped out from behind the shrubbery, blocking my path. There was no one else in sight. “Get out of my way,” I said weakly. My hand curled around the spraystick in my coat pocket.

“W’d she knife us?” They were all corpse-white, heads and eyebrows shaved, dressed in tailored denim shirts and kilts.

“She w’dna. She sweet.” The first one who’d spoken stepped forward. “Just a little front-to-front, sweetbuns.” He lifted his kilt at me.

“Front-to-back, I like,” said the pimply one.

“Front-to-top,” said the tall one.

“All right,” I said, trying to keep my voice level, “but it’s not for free.”

The front one laughed and turned to say something to his comrades. I pulled the spraystick out of my pocket and fired; the luminous jet spattered him from shoulder to ear. He gasped and then vomited explosively.

The smell was hideous. I held my breath and shifted aim. The pimply one tried to ward it off with his hands, but it didn’t work and he fell to his knees retching.

The tall one very calmly reached into his pocket and pulled out a gun. He vomited a split second before he fired, which probably saved me. The bullet sang off the sidewalk and my right ankle stung from the fragments. I turned and ran.

I ran two blocks, to the dormitory’s rear entrance, then rushed down the corridor to the public phone in the foyer. I called the police; they already had a floater headed here, responding to the gunshot. I sat in the lobby (after trying to scrub the rotten-egg smell from my hand) and in a few minutes an armored policeman came in. I told him my story and filled out a complaint form.

“Do you think you’ll catch them?”

He nodded. “Blindfolded. But even if they’d had time to wash the smell away, that luminous paint adheres for days.”

“Will I have to go to court?” That could really throw off my schedule. But worth it.

“Probably not.” He looked rueful. “Not unless they charge you with assault.”

I was dumbstruck. He elaborated. “There’s no law against suggestive talking, nor ‘accidental’ exposure of genitals. If the tall one still has his gun, we can charge him for illegally possessing and discharging it But it’s probably in the sewers by now.”