Rebecca

Chapter 15 of Microcosmia

Microcosmia

Chapter Fifteen

Rebecca

The bomb arrived without warning, without warhead or fins, without a protracted heart-stopping scream of descent.

It came instead on Mudhead’s black magic carpet, in a dusty Ford Explorer almost sagging with superfluous chrome. Magnetic signs on the rear panels certified media clearance. Decals portraying the logo of some tacky periodical were plastered all over these signs, on both bumpers, and across the upper windshield. A toy American flag hung from the radio’s antenna, toy Djibouti and Ethiopian flags from the grille.

The Explorer, having majestically climbed the new Onramp onto Ridge Bridge, halted adjacent to the Stage facing the Big Clock. The passenger door swung open. A very long, very supple leg oozed out like honey from a hive, and a tiny, spotless hiking boot hovered for half a minute. The brown knee bent. The perfect thigh extended…and extended…until it seemed every sidelong Afar eye must bulge and explode. But at the moment of truth an impeccably folded hem caught the sun, and out stepped the most beautiful California bunny Vane had ever seen.

The abrupt insinuation of this goddess threw him completely out of whack. In the first place, as a healthy young man months removed from titillation, he was instantly aroused. In the second, as a man of vision attempting to stand for something profounder than instant arousal, he was instantly deflated…Cristian Vane had been groomed for failure from the moment that cold-hearted, skinny white w***e had--Vane was outraged (albeit quietly, and with great dignity)…a spoiled, near-naked Western wench had come to parade her privates in front of his innocent multitude, to treat Mamuset like the French Riviera on a fat summer noon.

Not only that, she was press--and the level of press that had, for way too many years, portrayed him as a clueless prince. Vane hated her, immediately and absolutely. Right away he knew They had found him. Somehow. Those ruthless, fabricating parasites had reached across two continents and an ocean to further mangle his name. It had to be that whole silly Kid Rameses business.

Of course she was gorgeous. They wouldn’t have sent a plain woman; not to shatter the guard of a conceited, paranoid billionaire playboy. Vane probably had a stable both fair and dark, probably went through beautiful women like Kleenex. He might even be keeping ranks of innocent young boys hopped up on drugs and promises, if there was even a scrap of truth to the rumors. Who knew what went on in a lawless, backward country, where the remedy for an atheistic fatcat’s raging libido was only a voodoo dance away?

Then there was all that adrenaline-junkie malarkey; the dope dealing, the treasure hunting, the shootouts on the Red Sea. Vane was a dangerous man, and a secretive one. He’d certainly view the conquest of attractive blondes as a challenge as natural and appealing as narcotics and gunplay.

But the airbrushed model They’d sent, now performing a sound check in the shade of her sensible parasol, was obscenely beautiful. She was far too perfect for weariness--or for genuine sweat, for that matter; only the daintiest beads of amber clung to the down on her nape and arms. Skin too perfect to burn, lips too perfect for paint, a figure too perfect for support; she stood poised without posing--sensuous, sleek, and silky, but way too perfect to care. And either she’d mastered the subtlest applications of makeup, or, even in this dark and diseased part of the world, every part of her perfectly sculpted face blushed the rose of ultimate health. The capper: a spun-gold ponytail, cheerily catching the merciless sun, wagging behind a cute little denim cap with a shocking-pink press badge.

She was an erotic angel. This uncomfortable contradiction posed a real problem for closet misogynist Vane: by not typifying the classic slatternly dumb bombshell, she made it difficult to justify his natural contempt. He ogled her peripherally as she leaned in to retrieve a large suede bag. Catching herself holding this bag like a purse, the woman slung it over her shoulder and playfully tossed the parasol to a driver obscured by glare. The door closed. Vane looked away nonchalantly. The Explorer, relieved of its dazzling cargo, motored back across Ridge Bridge and rolled to a rest.

The man in black turned to face his unbidden guest, bracing himself for the chirpy greeting and pretty extended hand--but the blonde woman walked past him and stood looking over the community, her hands on her hips. She extracted a video camera from the bag, looped its strap around her neck, and brought the camera to her shoulder. It was the smallest, sleekest instrument of its kind Vane had ever seen. A tiny red jewel appeared on its front panel. The woman panned left and right.

“Cristian Vane,” he tried. “I run this place.”

She said through her teeth, “So I’ve heard.”

Backing off a notch, Vane studied her unobserved while she panned. She was his age; maybe a bit older. Early thirties. But from different angles, and at different approaches of light, she could pass for her late, mid, and early twenties. There was even one scary moment, when she lowered the camera to study the community critically, that a freak of sun revealed a tender golden teenager with wide-set emerald eyes.

“Can I help you with something?”

“Just looking.” She swept an arm above the wide field of aluminum cottages. “So this is where you keep your people?”

Vane’s expression locked up on him. “Why did I just get the impression you used the word ‘people’ as a euphemism for slaves?”

“Then what do you call them?”

“I don’t call them anything. They live here. I live here. The damned donkeys live here.”

“One big happy family.” She swiftly raised the camera and directed its lens at his face. The red jewel lit up.

Vane threw out a hand and the woman lowered her camera. The red light disappeared.

“Perfect. Now I’ll look like some hit man hiding his face as he’s escorted from court. Is that what you came for?”

“Mr. Vane. It is the policy of M & S to respect the rights of its subjects. We don’t print photos without permission. So if there’s a problem, perhaps we could discuss your druthers, preferably somewhere off of this hotplate.”

“S And M? What sort of enterprise do you work for, anyway?”

The pretty nose crinkled in annoyance. “M & S, Mr. Vane, M & S. Movers And Shakers.” She wagged her head. “I realize you’re cut off from the real world out here, but surely you receive some news in some way. Movers And Shakers is just the biggest, just the glossiest, just the fastest-growing alternative news magazine in America. I write a column: Rogue Bulls. It’s a very successful column. I mostly work out of our main office in sunny California. You remember California, don’t you, Mr. Vane? California definitely remembers you.”

Mr. Vane bowed and gallantly swept his robes, but his tongue betrayed him. “You’ll forgive me, my dear, but I’m afraid my company removes me from the worlds of movers and shakers, nor have I time for the pleasuring of lovely young ladies, um, Miss?”

Her eyes burned. After a minute she muttered, “My name is Rebecca King, both professionally and casually. And I’m here on business, Mr. Vane.”

Vane said quickly, “Look. I’m not a flirt. I’m actually quite uncomfortable around women--” He caught himself. He’d almost added especially pretty ones. His eyes toed the dirt. “It’s just that I’m not really all that sure what you expect me to say here.”

“Try being honest. And don’t embroider. But don’t be evasive, either. We’ll get along just fine.” She reached back, slipped the band off her hair, and removed the cap for a couple graceful shakes of the head. Aureate cascades billowed, fell, whipped side to side. The tresses rolled like water over her shoulders and down her back, continuing to flash at the least movement.

“So…” Vane hemmed, “…tell me. How do I come off in the States? Or need I ask? You weren’t exactly gushing when you got here.”

King pulled an enormous pair of sunglasses from her fanny pack. The massive lenses did nothing to diminish her beauty. “There’s a dichotomy,” she said shortly. “There are exactly two breeds of Vane-watchers. There are the ones who think you’re a virtuous lunatic, and the ones who’re sure you’re an evil genius. The latter far outweigh the former.”

“Why ‘lunatic’?”

“Because it doesn’t make any sense the other way. No sane man steps down in life.” She folded her hands behind her back and took a longer look around. “It may be the world’s oyster,” she punned, “but it’s your pearl.” The sun leaped lens to lens as she varied her gaze. “Mr. Vane, please don’t get me wrong, but I’d like you to be just as honest with yourself as you’re very definitely going to be with me. Consider: every healthy criminal knows he’s unfairly accused. Just as his mother knows he’s a ‘good boy.’ Just as everybody knows everybody else is at fault. We’re all victims, and we’re all good people. We’re just misunderstood. By the same token, we’re all certain that everybody else is less scrupulous than we, and that the most successful people are ipso facto the least scrupulous. Suspicion fosters fascination, and vice versa.” She held out her hands, twisted one around, and peered through the frame formed by her thumbs and forefingers. “In our commercial system the strength of a celebrity’s appeal is directly related to his mysteriousness. Our uncertainty makes him sexy. We, the soap loving public, want dirt on our latest bad boy, and we’re willing to pay up the yin-yang for it. A kind of gratification comes from the piling on of this dirt. But, like the gratification that comes from sex, the bashings become increasingly inadequate. We want stronger stuff--sensational stuff, graphic stuff. It becomes harder and harder to get off, and, Lord knows, we’ll never be truly satisfied until the ungrateful son of a b***h is lynched. Now I’m warning you, Mr. Vane. You’ll face interviewers a lot tougher than me, so you’d might as well come clean right here and now. People will forgive you for being human. Just don’t lie to them. It insults their intelligence.”

“What makes you think I’m a liar?”

King tore off her shades and raised a hand sharply. “Look, you’ve got a lot of charges to answer, okay? One way or another I’m coming out of here with a story, and with an interview on tape.” She circled him critically. “Try thinking before you open your mouth. There’s a simple approach to this business, Mr. Vane. Forget you’re a big shot. Instead, try to imagine yourself a viewer:

“You’re Joe Anybody, sitting in front of the tube in your two-bedroom apartment, sharing the sofa with dog hair, a Banquet frozen dinner, and your calorically-challenged wife. Now cut to a news blurb leaping across the screen. The set’s speaker grabs you, overpowering the squalling of the kids. The blurb’s about that freaking egomaniacal tabloid billionaire who refuses to go away. What’s his face? Oh yeah. That celebrity jet-setter Vain Somebody-or-Other. You’ve hated him at least as much as you’ve hated all those other philandering, dope-snorting ingrates--all those superstar superstuds who make a show of gallivanting with supermodels and super agents and more supermoney to burn over a giddy weekend than you’ll see in your whole miserable lifetime. And there’s that spoiled California superprick again, all ready to dole out another emotional mugging. What’ll be his latest escapade? How shiny his newest plaything? And how common, boring, and unhappening is he gonna make me, Joe Anybody, feel? Well go ahead, you lucky dumb son of a gazillionaire. Emasculate me some more.”

Vane had simmered long enough. But before he could open his mouth to protest, that hand was back up like a crossing guard’s.

“Stop gushing about your golden life! Don’t give Joe the luxury of hating you personally. But don’t be self-deprecating, either, and don’t try to sell him on your love of the arts and humanity. Your father’s ghost won’t go away that easily. Try to not smirk or sneer. Do let Joe know if you’re cooking up something super-dastardly, but never, ever be super-specific.” Her green eyes went gray. “And don’t you little-girl me or I’ll hang on your gonads until you sing like a patriot. Peacocks always do. And when they sing off-key I just squeeze until they get it right.” The shades went back on.

“Are you done?”

“You’re being pre-interviewed, Mister Vane. You’ve got lots and lots of explaining to do. Laying the groundwork can save us needless stops and starts.”

“You’re not pre-interviewing me, lady, you’re killing me.”

“Rebecca.”

He looked down and took a couple of deep breaths. It was already way too late to go for a natural, comfortable relationship; the roles were all messed up. But Vane wasn’t about to be bullied or berated by some blonde bimbo with a video camera. They walked with affected casualness, like awkward first-daters. He kicked a stone off Ridge Bridge. “It behooves me to be a gentleman, Rebecca. However, there’s a kind of etiquette we share around here. I’m afraid your…hostility…might be misinterpreted by these basically trusting people.”

“I should be humbler in your presence, Mr. Vane?”

“Cris.”

“So you’re saying, Mr. Vane, that they might be confused by Master’s sudden show of submissiveness?” She looked around. “Just where is the House of Pain, anyway?”

“Ah, for Christ’s sake.”

“All charges are alleged, Cristian Honey. Even Joe Anybody’s knowledge is a media-filtered thing. But it doesn’t matter. He hates you already. Just like he hates all the plum-perfect talking blonde heads like me…who also represent the unattainable, and who thereby mock the drought of his dreams.”

Vane ground his teeth. Not only pretty and acerbic, but smart. An insidious and unfair combination. “Ms. King--”

“Rebecca. Miss.”

“All…right! Now just what the hell am I charged with? I’ll gladly defend myself, or plead no contest, or even non compos mentis, if that’ll clarify for you. But I honestly have no idea why you, and why Joe Anybody, and why God Almighty, for that matter, are so freaking pissed at me!”

This little display of passion got her attention; King knew, from long experience, that the sensitive-celebrity type is no stranger to psychotic outbursts. But she’d come for a fight as well as an interview. She cleared her throat aggressively and hurried through her words. The tactic worked well for her; the longer she extended her verbal flow, the ballsier she grew. “Mr. Vane, maybe you aren’t aware of just what a luminary you’ve become back home. Now, some celebrities have their fifteen minutes, while others possess an indefinable quality that gives them lasting appeal. A man of mystery, such as yourself, attracts rumors the way a magnet attracts iron filings. You’re like a personality assembled by an Identigraph: gossip-mongers slap claims on a general impression until the compleat scoundrel is exposed. Okay? The general impression of Cristian Honey Vane is Spoiled Godless Pervert. That’s the reputation you’ve carried, like it or not, accurate or not, since the public’s first view of the little boy at the famous Vane mansion’s snazzy gates back in ’72, being led from a godawful-pink limousine by some bleached, beat-up witch in a slinky black dress. That was the original snapshot the public had to go by--you, Morticia, and money. And this was just when your father’s fancy lawyers were fighting off all those freaky charges of hush shenanigans involving Guatemala’s State Department. Journalistically speaking, I cut most of my teeth on archival images of that convoluted fiasco. Little Richie Rich and his nanny w***e, in a loony palace run by a faded, probably treasonous old basketcase. What a gammy group.” She took a deep breath.

“Throughout your life there’ve been other snapshots, of you and your crowd. There are pictures of shifty sycophants, rumors of lewd parties, stories of venal shadows flitting between the police station and the mansion.

“And the headshots of growing master Vane invariably reveal a morbid, friendless, media-shy enigma. Reasonably attractive, but with an expression that could curdle blood. A man without a soul.

“After your father died, the tabloid press pushed the man-without-a-soul angle to the hilt. Your disappearance couldn’t have been timelier. Now every Vane-watcher could toss a sin and have it stick on an initial impression: traitor, gun runner, drug kingpin. Womanizer, pedophile, or outright fairy--it didn’t matter. If it titillated, if it infuriated, it was you.”

They walked back in silence. In the Big Tarp’s shade Vane said, “You’re going to savage me, aren’t you?”

“We’ll see.”

“Miss King, you’re obviously shrewd enough to realize what’s truth and what’s garbage. And you’re absolutely right. I’m a made-in-the-shade rich boy who never had to punch a clock or dig a ditch.” He faced the community and spread his arms so that his black robe’s sleeves swept back dramatically. “But now take a look around you. Forget Joe Anybody. Forget your assignment. Forget the way people see you and me. You’re a journalist; you’re trained to observe. Take it all in. Let your eyes bask in the neon and glamour, let your camera linger on the frolicking playgirls and endless buffet.”

“I said,” she returned nastily, “alleged. Rumors, Mr. Vane, are only rumors, but they make up a major part of the business I’m in and, believe it or not, they’re founded in fact ninety-nine percent of the time. I’ve never in my life met a genuine philanthropist. Especially of the rich celebrity ilk.”

“Then maybe you’re just jaded by your job. If you really knew me, if you really knew what I’ve been through, you’d realize that that class of people makes me as sick as it makes you. Maybe sicker. But go right ahead and describe that great Vane motive for me, so I can understand it too. Like I said, I’ve never once punched a clock, and I’ll never have to. Yet I’m up every day with the sun. No weekends, no holidays. You’re absolutely right, Rebecca. I don’t have to dig ditches.” He showed her his palms. “But go ahead and count the calluses anyway.”

“So what’s your angle, Mr. Vane?” She thrust forth her chin. “Why are you hiding in Africa? Enquiring minds want to know.”

“I’ve been asking myself that same question lately. But look, Rebecca--”

“Miss King.”

“Miss King. Look, Miss King, you’re free to walk around and videotape all you want. Consider the place home. There are cool drinks in Cellar, and an assortment of refreshments to choose from in Basement. Many delicacies are made right here.”

“I think I would like to interview one of your tenants first. I think I would like to interview…” she swung a finger round and paused on an elderly man combing his camel, “him. Or would you prefer to screen him first? Let me forewarn you, sir: I have earned a reputation for brutality. Many of my subjects even consider me something of a b***h.”

Vane raised an eyebrow. “The Devil, you say!” He blew out a breath. “Okay. But go easy on him. Like anybody else here, he can do drills, man Bulwarks, and build a damned fine Square. There’s not much more you’ll get out of him.”

“So if these people can’t speak for themselves, I am to assume the only source of information is their noble leader? That’s it?”

Vane wagged his chin sadly. “Water, water,” he said. “Everywhere.”

King tilted her head, and the corners of her mouth slowly turned up. “Mr. Vane, when it comes to information, I am a human divining rod.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “A divine what? Oh…damn it! There I go again. My most effusive apologies, Miss King. You were looking for what? Information? There are no secrets here. Come with me. I’ll give you the grand tour.”

“What about Mitchell, my driver? He will certainly parch in the car.”

Vane depressed the transmit button on his radio. Mudhead, at arm’s length facing Mecca, turned at the squeal of feedback. He kept his eyes down lest he be blinded by the golden display of flesh at Vane’s elbow.

“Rebecca, this is Mudhead. He’s an all-around go-between, a wizard with a needle and thread, and practically the only other person this side of Gibraltar who speaks English. Mudhead, would you please assist Miss King’s driver while I show her around? His name’s Mitchell. Get him some shade and a drink or three. Jack Daniels would be nice.”

Mudhead bowed deeply and slunk away.

Vane led her down the Steps, offering his arm at the base. King, smiling sourly, used the projected wrist as a peg for the strap on her camera case. Vane looped the case over his shoulder and followed her around eagerly, awed Mamusetans lining their way like parade goers. Heads popped up grinning as they walked Domo to Domo. He saw more than one thumb raised high. “They’re all the same,” said Vane proudly. “Mostly families. You won’t find anybody bound and gagged in a closet, if that’s what your editors are expecting. These people understand very little English, but they’re friendly and eager to please. And they seem to like you.”

King ran her camera over the beaming faces. “I’ll admit I expected worse.”

“You should’ve seen this place when I first got here.” He pointed west. “Fields are that way. All kinds of grains. We’re even developing rice paddies on West Rim’s tiered inner slope. There’s plenty of water, which we import via pipeline from a river south of here. These domiciles receive their living water through PVC running under their properties. Main lines run beneath Streets, so that there’s actually a pipe grid corresponding to the roads. Everybody helps everybody here, Miss King. There are no disputes about water lines and property rights. That family there probably put almost as much effort into building their neighbor’s place as their own.”

“So no wild parties? No drug deals or harems?”

“It’s all very dull, Miss King. I’m almost embarrassed to admit that life here is anything but wild. We eat, we work, we do drills…” Now Vane, for the first time, looked upon his creation as an observer. It was with an almost paternal pride that he turned smiling on Rebecca, even as a boy no older than twelve ran by waving an M16.

King blew it. “You--you fraud! You’re letting children have access to guns? My God! They were right about you!”

“Who was…who was right?”

“I want to know what’s going on here, buddy, and I want to know now!” She looked at the innocent faces around her, gone in an instant from sunny to scared. “To what end are you using these people?”

For a moment Vane saw red. Every expletive for female ran tommy-gunning through his head. “They’re not,” he spat, “being used!” The Afar shrank back, bewildered. “I busted my a*s and broke the bank to make this place the best home they’ve ever had. I took a bullet, okay? Do you hear anybody crying about how terribly he’s suffering, man? Huh? Do you see anybody fleeing? For Christ’s sake, lady, quit painting me as the heavy, willya?”

“Armed children? You call that a good home?”

Vane threw up his arms. “It’s not even loaded!”

The crowd broke up, but King didn’t budge. “Why the weapons, pal? I’ll find out! Don’t think I won’t!”

Vane stared out at the Bulwarks, controlling his breathing. How to get rid of her . . . did she ever shut up . . . he clenched his teeth and jammed his knuckles in his eyes. Finally he said dully, “There’s this guy, a general in control of Port Massawa. He’s got designs on using me to expand his power. A Franco Somebody-in-an-Abbey. It’s a long, long story, but he’s already spilled blood here. And boy, is he gonna get it when he comes back.”

King shook her head. “You’re an amazing man, Mr. Vane, an amazing man. You really don’t keep up on the world, do you? Franco a’ Muhammed en Abbi died in April.”

Vane blinked at her. “Dead?”

“Very. He’d been putting together a personal assault force. At least that’s the gist of it from Reuters. He was meeting with his top men in a hangar stocked with explosives. A small plane did a nosedive into the hangar and put der general into orbit.”

“How about that.”

“The new man in charge of Massawa has completely cleaned the place up.”

“How about that.”

King studied him clinically. Vane appeared dazed by the sun. She turned up her nose and panned the Bulwarks with her camera. “About those fields.”

He shook himself. “No poppies. No hemp. I’m sorry, Miss King, but it appears you’ve traveled a long way to cover a story that doesn’t exist.”

“All stories aren’t necessarily sensational, Mr. Vane. I’m afraid you’re going to have to accept my interview. Like I said, I’m not leaving here empty-handed.” They strolled back to the Mount. “If you’re self-conscious about being filmed, we can work with Mitchell. He’s an expert lighting-and-makeup man. A magician. He can make you look like George Hamilton if you want. And I’m not hard on a subject if I like him. It’s only the posers who get reamed.”

“And,” Vane asked carefully, “do you like me?”

She considered. “Personally? You come across as an okay sort, I guess. A bit high-strung. Professionally? I’ve certainly met men more charismatic. But they’re the ones who always turn out to be weasels. Charisma’s developed over a lifetime of personal drum-beating.” She stepped back. “The Darth Vadar get-up will work fine. I might even enjoy this.”

“What about your own charisma?”

“Me? Skin-deep. Not many men get beneath the surface.”

“I’ve been told that patience and persistence are virtues.” They had reached Bottom Step. “We can go back up the Steps to your car, or you can reach it from the road. Tell your friend we won’t be needing his expertise.” Rebecca smiled thinly and turned on her heel. He watched her walking along Stage Street, his eyes, like every other male’s, melting on her pert tail. Vane continued to stare while climbing the Steps. “How does nature do that?” he asked Mudhead at Top Step.

“Allah master sculptor. Westernwoman master tease.” He tapped Vane’s temple with a forefinger. “Nature in here.”

“I want you making yourself scarce while I’m being interviewed, Mudhead. You look like a Zambian waiter. Speaking of which, be a good lad and run down to Cellar and Basement. Bring up some Egyptian beer and baklava. Let her get a taste of what life is like here. How do I look?”

“Like blushing donkey.”

“Excellent.” He thought for a minute. “If I face the community I’ll be in shadow. That’ll look cooler, but it’ll be all me. If I face the Wall the community’ll be a great background, but I’ll look like a crowned jack o’ lantern.”

“Lousy movie.”

“It’s just an interview. Now go get the popcorn, damn you. And don’t do any thespian work for us. I’ll give you a ring if the script calls for a loitering mummy.”

Mudhead peered over his spectacles. “Bossman no actorman. Never buffalo cameralady.” He vanished down the Steps.

Vane called after him, “Who said anything about buffaloing anybody?” and began positioning chairs around the table, pulling two as close as possible. He kicked back so that he was half in shadow with ankle hooked casually on knee, adjusted his turban forward slightly, buffed its precious stone with his silk robe’s sleeve. Vane pulled the headphones off their Wall hook and set them on the table’s corner, heaping the long spiraling cord to coil rattler-wise before trailing off the edge.

And she strolled across Ridge Bridge looking like a runway model for exclusive camping wear, sporting an olive leatherette cross-harness, stylish canvas-and-denim camera bag, and elegant matching case. King tested the table for stability, said, “Good,” and removed a mount from the case, screwed the video camera onto the mount, and levered the mount down. She then placed a miniature monitor on the table, adjusted its angle, and attached a coaxial cable between the camera and monitor.

“The camera will be on you, but I can pan and zoom with this.” She showed him a small keyboard with joystick, and plugged the keyboard into a port on the camera’s rear. “Nickel-cadmium batteries. Don’t be alarmed if it seems to move on its own.” The camera swiveled on its mount as she demonstrated the remote. Vane could see the instrument’s iris dilate and contract. “It has a condenser microphone. Say something.”

“You look stunning.”

“No good. The pickup’s hollow. The level’s all wrong.” She stepped up with a tie-clip microphone. Vane sweated as she fumbled with his flowing robes. Her knee rested against his for an excruciating half-minute.

“No wires?” he managed.

King didn’t miss a beat. “On every move you make.” She studied a tiny meter on the remote. “Go ahead.”

“Go ahead where?”

“Check.”

Vane blinked. “Check what?”

“Mr. Vane, what motivated you to set up this enterprise?”

He squirmed a little. “It’s not all that simple.”

“Start again. Mr. Vane, what brought you here, to the Danakil Desert in Ethiopia?”

He rolled his shoulders and cleared his throat, stared uncomfortably at his perched foot. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Don’t avoid the camera,” Rebecca said. “Try to relax and be conversational. Don’t mumble. Speak clearly and with conviction. Start again.”

“Wait!” Vane said, as Mudhead’s starched white cap popped into view. The African was balancing, on a silk-covered tray, six bottles of beer in a Stonehenge arrangement. Nestled in the center was a small plate of powdered cookies. He slunk up to the table with his head lowered as though fearing a beating, carefully slid the tray between them and bowed almost to the Mat. “How else dirty servant,” he whimpered, “please mighty Bossman?”

The golden hand moved on the joystick, the camera swung to face the recoiling server.

“Ah, Christ,” Vane groaned. “You’ll edit that out, won’t you?” He glared at Mudhead. “Or maybe he can perform his famous burning man dance for you.”

Mudhead clasped his hands under his chin and backpedaled down the Steps, bowing energetically all the way.

“He’s a very good subject,” Rebecca said, smiling at her own pun. The woman seemed to glow even in shade.

Vane pounded down a beer. “Start again,” he said. The camera swung round. He looked out over Mamuset.

“When I was a kid I always thought life was pretty meaningless. I’ll admit that Father’s wealth gave me certain advantages.” He took a deep breath. “I understand that people watching this will probably think I’m a shallow guy, and that all my actions come from being rich, or are reactions from a guilt-trip about being rich. So be it. I’ve got a boatload of money and a bushelful of time. Circumstances couldn’t be any better.

“Ask yourselves: if you were in my shoes, what would you do? Buy a different-colored Lexus for each day of the week? Erect palaces in Naples, in Papeete, in Bordeaux? How long before you crashed to a state someone I once knew defined as ennui?

“I had an epiphany. Not long before I came here. Like all insights, it was the cumulative expression of countless thoughts, feelings, and memories. Impressions. This particular epiphany placed my life in context with the Big Picture. I saw myself as one of billions. There were billions before me and billions more to come. Given all that, there’s not a damned thing a man can do to make a difference. But he can make a statement. For what it’s worth. His very existence should be a statement, an attempt to exemplify certain principles which, I believe, are universal.”

“Okay,” Rebecca said. “I’m going to cut here. Mr. Vane, you’re not being asked to pontificate. Nor is the watching public going to be all that interested in the tribulations of privilege, or in your billions of epiphanous whatevers. We don’t want to expend endless tape on your childhood memories, or on your adult philosophy.” She held up a hand. “Not that you’re not a fascinating man. Believe me, you are. But you’re rambling, you’re digressing. What M & S sent me here to capture is the real skinny. Why you came here. Why you’re doing all this. Not your moods, not your life story. We can make that Part Two. But it won’t sell unless we know why there was a Part One. The big apology should come after.” She fanned her perfect face. “Tell you what. Let’s take a break.”

“Before we’ve even started?”

“Before we’ve even started. This is my fault. Part of the pre-interview should have been an explanation of the ground rules. M & S is looking for a story, not a confession.” She helped herself to a beer.

“I’m not confessing! I don’t have a damned thing to apologize for! And I am telling you why I came here, and why I’m doing what I’m doing.”

“You’ve told me nothing,” Rebecca said coldly, and for a moment Vane despised her. “You haven’t mentioned a single name, or a date; not a friend or an enemy. This is already the least visual interview of my career.”

“Look, lady, why would I be doing all this if I was even half the skunk you seem to think I am?”

A shadow darkened her eyes. “Didn’t I just ask you that? Isn’t ‘why’ the operative word here? Jesus.” She inhaled deeply. “Take a minute or two to get your story in order. We’ll start all over, at Frame One. But please this time just answer my questions directly. Everything else will be cut anyway.” She wiped a slender forefinger across her perfect lips. “Mmm! Good cookies!”

Vane got to his feet. “I don’t have a story. I don’t know why I’m here. This interview’s a total bust.” He opened another beer, stepped to the shade’s lip and looked over the community. All the little Domos were baking in the sun. It struck him that the heat kept things very quiet. He could almost hear his heart beating. For just a second he had a wild hallucination, a gorgeous vision of shade trees lining Streets and Squares. Tamarinds, elms, sycamores; a broad canopy of cooling green. Saplings by the thousands. Better yet, young and mature trees imported in planters. Then, within Squares, peaches, apples, oranges, avocados. It could be done. Shipped, freighted, trucked. Mudhead’s sweet road was waiting. Vane’s vision vanished quickly as it came. He wiped his moist palms on his thighs and walked back to his chair.

The golden woman fanned herself, looking, somehow, radiantly bored. “Then maybe we’ll try the philosophical angle. Maybe we can salvage something. Editing can work miracles, Cristian, but you’ve got to have some meat before you can fillet. Now give me half-profile.” She unscrewed the video camera from its mount and hefted it, peered into the viewfinder. “So when did you get the idea to start all this, Mister Vane?”

He took a swallow of the dark, bitter beer. “It was the day my father died. He wanted me to run his empire, fully expected me to. Watching him die was the first blow of the day. Not because it hurt. Because it didn’t hurt. Does that make any sense?”

“This is your show. Go on.”

“I had to kick out all those people who’d been living at the Rest. It felt right to do it, because they were leeches, but later it struck me that I’d not only disrupted the lives of dozens of people, I’d removed myself from the one thing I’d ever had resembling a family. Then there was this woman who was masquerading as my mother.”

“That would have been the skinny Elvira-type?”

“I had to dump her too. Suddenly I didn’t even have a mother. I took off in the Lincoln. While driving I got a call telling me the man who had raised me had just had a heart attack. I was now all alone in the world. My father’s company was in my ear telling me I had all these responsibilities and my head was about to explode.”

“And?”

“And I ended up in some cheap hotel room. I was just about as depressed as a human being can get.”

“That would have been the spot where they found the abandoned Lincoln.”

“I saw some feature on the room’s cable set about this very spot.” Vane gloomily waved an arm. “All these Afar were here to die, and nobody gave a crap. The show, and it was a show, was put on by some religious group trying to exploit money from viewers. I just couldn’t take any more.

“I guess I had some kind of nervous breakdown. I got drunk and staggered around the beach for days, balancing suicide against genocide. Either would have suited me fine. I went to my father’s funeral and drew a blank. I only know I woke up in his big old crypt half-frozen and sick as a dog. But the situation sobered me. I felt I had to do something positive and meaningful with my life. Something that wasn’t all about me. I knew I wasn’t ready to die.”

“A mature decision. So, Mister Vane, could we conclude that this place is your attempt to rebuild a family structure in your life? And would it also be fair to assume you’re subconsciously filling your father’s shoes as empire builder?”

Vane turned to stare at her, his eyes blazing.

“That’s good,” she said, “with all the little houses stretching out behind you. Tell the camera about the little houses, Mr. Vane, and all about the little people who live in them.”

“Some other time.”

King sighed. “All right, all right. Take five.” She shook her head. “It’s probably not fair of me to come barging in here expecting you to perform on cue. Relax a bit and figure out what you really need to say.” She began stuffing equipment back in the matching carrying case, saying incidentally, “I’ll be staying over.”

Vane paled. “You see our accommodations.”

“I’ll make do. Is there any way out of here on my own? I don’t want to keep Mitchell if he’s not needed.”

“There’s a small plane,” Vane said absently. “Piper Cub. Comes out of Addis Ababa. Brings us our mail and minor supplies. The pilot will do Djibouti if he has advance notice.”

“That’s fine, then. A 360 with you out of the picture, please.” Vane hunched on the Mat while Rebecca did a slow pirouette, coiling in place as she turned, then reversing the motion. She carefully repacked her video camera.

He shook his head. “They’ll be safe here.”

Smiling faintly, King slung the packed cases over her shoulders, clipped them to the leatherette harness, and walked back across Ridge Bridge to the Explorer.

Vane slammed on his shades and stepped out into the pitiless sun. He fired a fistful of pebbles at his Domo across Stage Street. Who invited her in the first place? Why did her distaste for the rich and famous have to come off as something so personal? And why couldn’t he stop thinking about her?

Twenty minutes later she came padding back to the Stage using Mudhead for a pack mule, her equipment cases now looped over his shoulders, an extra-large case dangling by its strap from his neck. On one shoulder was a folding cot, on the other a rolled sleeping bag, and, on his bowed black head, a cute little snow-white safari hat. King glided alongside, gently teasing while shading him with her parasol.

Yet it was all downhill from there. Vane grew increasingly awkward during interviews, King correspondingly impatient. In a tacit compromise, she took to filming him from a distance as he went about his daily business. Their tension was contagious, echoed in a hundred raised voices of the normally complacent Afar. But that night, dining on Top Step, the mood was much mellower. There were just so many stars.

Looking down at the twelve-volt haze, King said levelly, “I think I’ve got enough to satisfy my editors. If today was any indication, it’s a pretty constructive, non-threatened little world you’ve got going here.” She sawed a tiny triangle out of her flatbread, nibbled it down with her perfect teeth. “Maybe I owe you an apology for the interviews, Mr. Vane. I was operating on a preconceived notion, and I was biased.”

“Cristian.”

That same wan smile. “I still have to write my story, so I still have to throw that little three-letter word at you.”

“Which word?”

“Why. I mean, why still. Because I’m still trying to find a genuine angle.”

Vane looked away. “Spiritual thing,” he said presently, and pushed back from the table. “I simply can’t understand how this can be so obvious to me and to no one else. Wait till it’s over, Rebecca. Wait until your eyes can see what’s in my head.”

“I’m not blind, Cristian. But maybe your motives need explaining. Because maybe no one else can afford the luxury of creativity in a pure form. The rest of us have deadlines, and mouths to feed that are dependent on our meeting those deadlines. Sure we’re skeptical of those who have all the advantages.”

“To quote Joe Anybody.”

“Look, Cristian--”

“Cris.”

She looked down and shook her head. When she looked back up her eyes were burning. “I’ll tell you something, man. I do my homework. And I always end up knowing more about my subjects than they know about themselves. For instance…oh…I’ll bet you didn’t know your papa was investigated by the CIA, did you? Yep. Seems he got in a jam in Guatemala and offered the patent on a certain microchip to the government of that sad little country if they’d only reunite him with a dancer he’d fallen in love with in an American bar in Peseta. A place called Rosarita’s Red-Hot Cantina. She was a stripper, billed as Li’l Pink Honey Pot, who performed a very popular routine involving foot-long pork sausages and pink whipped cream. Her real name was Bonita Alvarado, and your old man knocked her up, old as he was, crazy as he was. When he learned she was pregnant he showered her with sausages, honeycombs, and cinnamon jelly beans. He pursued her through term, and in the process fell wildly, fell blindly, fell idiotically in love with her.”

Vane said quietly, “A stripper.”

“Contempt for the rich and famous,” King went on brutally, “is universal. It’s pure envy, of course, but it’s real nonetheless.” She patted her lips with a monogrammed hankie, sawed off another minuscule wedge of flatbread. “Now, there’s a difference when it comes down to doing a job. Then one has to dissociate one’s feelings from one’s work. Take my job, for example. It has nothing to do with my tastes. I’m hired to come out here and get a story, and to be utterly objective in the process. I’m a tool, a journalist. Not a groupie, not a therapist.” She took a petite sip of her Zinfandel. “On my days off, on my own time, I’m free to hark back and take a subjective approach to the whole matter of Cristian Honey Vane. Then I can love him or hate him, be sensitive or indifferent.”

Vane stirred his injera, spooned a large chunk of chicken from the spicy stew. “And what do you think your objective take on this place’ll be?”

“Expect a positive piece. I’m guessing people will be pleased with what you’re doing, especially in contrast with all the headaches that make up the straight news back home.”

“And…what’s your subjective take on Cristian Vane, the man? Just for curiosity’s sake.”

She rang a fingernail against her empty glass. Vane, guessing he was being tested, offered a crooked smile and filled the glass halfway. He was about to set the bottle back down when their eyes collided. He raised the bottle and continued pouring until the glass was brimming.

“Generous guy,” Rebecca said. “Hides a big heart behind a typical show of macho indifference. More sensitive than he’d like to admit.” She drained half the glass in a single draught and grimaced prettily. “Clumsy with women; thinks, like most insecure men, that females are impressed by displays of confidence and chivalry. E for effort.” She finished off the glass.

Vane poured the last of the bottle into his own glass and drank it down. He stood up, said, “Excuse me,” and nonchalantly stepped off of Top Step. Once he was out of view he scampered down the Steps, rousted Mudhead and sent him for two more bottles and a tray of date pastries. By the time Mudhead made it back, Bossman and Cameralady were dangling their bare feet off of Top Step, remarking the Domos and stars. Vane snatched the bottles and corkscrew and shooed the African off.

He popped a cork. “Pardon me while I grab the glasses.”

“Forget it,” King slurred. “Manners don’t become you.” She hiccoughed. “And I get sick of having to be dainty all the time.” She took the bottle by its neck and knocked it back.

Vane raised an eyebrow. He popped the cork from his own bottle and swallowed deeply. “Awkward with men,” he said, and nudged her playfully. “Tries intuitively, like most beautiful women, to control them by appealing to their egos. Knows they’ll strut without realizing their strings are being pulled. It’s all a dance. Both sides. Silly-a*s minuets.”

She took another gulp. “Hogwash. I don’t need to win your affection. And why do I get the feeling you do your dancing alone?”

“Probably,” Vane bristled, “because you believe that garbage you write.”

“That’s the spirit, tough guy. If you’re going to win me, you’ll do it with bayonets, not with violins.”

He snorted. “What makes you think I’m trying to ‘win you’?”

King’s answering grin was lopsided. “Oh, come on. Just drop the masks, okay? What straight guy doesn’t want to win a pretty woman?”

Vane shook his head. “You know what? You’ve got one humongous ego for a skirt, and one hell of a lot of nerve. Nobody can read anybody else’s mind.”

“Nobody needs to.” She really kicked the bottle back. “Listen, Cris, there isn’t a woman on this planet who doesn’t know exactly what’s going on in a man’s head whenever he’s within hailing distance. You guys get silly, you get solicitous. Flirtatious or standoffish. Doesn’t matter. You change. You stop being the simple headlong weenies we’ve all come to know and love. Let a man get a peek at some leg or a whiff of perfume and he’s totally transparent. Laugh at one of his dumb jokes and watch his testosterone go through the roof. Suddenly he’s Goofo the Clown. Tell him he’s strong, cute, smart, sexy. Whatever. The fool’s dancing on cloud nine.” She took a gulp and rocked against him. “So don’t tell me about humongous egos.”

Vane rocked right back. “And don’t you flatter yourself. Men aren’t as simple as all that. It’s not easy surviving this world without the benefit of scents and paints and a cornucopia of specialized undergarments. Talk about masks!”

They leaned against each other, then leaned heavily on the wine, drinking furiously through ten minutes of electric silence.

Finally Rebecca belched sweetly. “How you must…suffered. But no mask here. All real; underneath, on top too. What you see…what you get.”

Vane looped an arm over her shoulders. King oozed right out. “Figure speech,” she said. “Where’s ladies’ room? And after that, where in hell guesthouse? I’m…done.”

“Sorry,” Vane mumbled. “No ladyroom. This’s first time entertained actual lady.” He pointed at a common outhouse just off the Mount. “H’ever, if you can manage, there’s a not-so porta potty right…down…there! Septic tank under thatch roof. Like Afar temp’rary house. No slight ’tended.”

“Cute,” King said, wobbling to her feet.

“Very!” he called after her, and closed his burning eyes. When he opened them again she was coming up the Steps, fighting the last few. “Even stumble well,” he gassed. “’pologize ’bout fusillyties, but royalty come…rarely.”

“Beatsa squat hole anna palm fron’.” She stared at him. “You’re drunk, Mister Cristian! I don’ trus’ you. Not at all.”

“Good call.” Vane forced himself to his feet. “Sleep my place,” he sprayed, pointing at his Square. “I’ll sleep…here.” He winked ghoulishly. “See? I’m…harmless after all.”

Rebecca hurled down her gear. “I’m fine!” She tried wrestling her cot out of its bag, tangling everything hopelessly.

“Help,” Vane said. “I’ll.” He stumbled over.

King was instantly sober. She indicated her pretty brown knee. “One more step and you’re a eunuch.”

Vane wobbled there, disappointed and hurt. “Welcome!” he pouted, before pitching headfirst down the Steps. He had fractured memories of Mudhead hauling him to his feet and leading him inside, and then of that same white-swathed, barking black creature binding the Domo’s gills for the night. He remembered fighting the African for some reason, and finally being thrown on his bed like a bundle of dirty laundry.

Any amount of night might have passed before the door swung in and that damned golden statue was eclipsing the Stage lights. It had to have been at least a few hours, for most of Vane’s drunk had been replaced by hangover. He saw the goddess clearly, though she should have been no more than a gold-tinged silhouette in a white-light nimbus. His imagination supplied the details. Her figure rounded off the throbbing glare, tapering in bottlenecks and sweet amber fields. Her hair, perfectly mussed, shimmered in a tight corona that crackled with random prominences. “I came to apologize,” the goddess said. “Also, sleeping on that folding cot is a lot like sleeping on a folding cactus.” She began to unbutton her blouse. Vane’s jaw dropped and his mouth worked soundlessly. “You don’t have to say anything,” she whispered. “Anyways, I’m in no mood to argue.” The blouse slid from her shoulders in a flash of gold.

Rebecca kicked shut the door and stumbled to the bed.