“Fifteen years later I was working for Visions/Rumelia, and once again I stood by the high, gilded gate. ‘What secrets does this young beauty know,’ I said on that occasion, ‘that maintain her position as the world’s premier moddy star?’ My story didn’t go on to reveal any actual secrets, of course. Honey Pilar never tells her secrets. But she did make a rare personal appearance and answered some mild questions about her favorite foods and her thoughts on the world situation. She was tanned and smiling and, well, perfect. A week before that interview, a poll had announced that sixty-eight percent of the seven billion people on earth could identify her face. Eighteen percent could identify her naked, unaugmented breasts.
“Today, Rio Home Data has asked me to begin this series it calls Honey Pilar: A Quarter Century of Fascination. Never in the history of the personality module industry has one performer so dominated the charts. Since her now-classic first moddy, A Life in Lace, she has turned out thirty-eight full-length recordings and nine of the ‘quickies’ that ABT experimented with and then abandoned. Her total sales top one hundred and twenty million units, and every one of her recordings remains in print. As of last week, she has eight titles on the Brainwaves Hot 100 Chart, with two in the Top Ten.
“The question always arises, what has this remarkable success cost the young woman who became Honey Pilar? A Life in Lace was recorded when she was only fourteen years old. Has her career been at the expense of her happiness? She’s been married four times, and she lives a private, almost reclusive existence. She rarely grants interviews, and in keeping with that, she refused to appear with us on Rio Home Data. Her legions of fans want to know: Just what kind of woman invites the whole world to listen in on her private sexual experiences? Is Honey Pilar providing surrogate passion to millions of people dissatisfied with their own love lives, or is she merely pandering to an emerging taste for high-tech titillation? We can only speculate, of course, but next time, in a highly personal way, I’ll tell you how this reporter sees it.”
Kit and Honey are having dinner in a small, dimly lighted cafe near the ocean. There is a tall white taper burning on their table and, shining through their wineglasses, it is casting soft burgundy shimmers on the linen tablecloth. Across the narrow room there is a stage made of scuffed green tiles. Lively North African music, distorted and shrill, is playing too loudly through invisible speakers; hovering just an inch or two above the stage is the holographic figure of a demure-eyed, big-hipped belly dancer. There are streaks and scratches on the woman’s face and body, as if this recording has been played many times over many years.
Honey Pilar sips some of the wine and makes a little grimace. “How are you thinking?” she asks in a soft voice.
“It was all right,” says Kit. He looks down at his broiled fish. “What do you want me to say? It’s always all right. It’ll sell a million; you outdid yourself. Your climaxes made the dials go crazy. Okay?”
“I never know you telling me truth.” She frowns at him, then picks up a delicate forkful of couscous and eats it thoughtfully.
Kit tears a chunk of the flat bread and puts it in his mouth, then takes a gulp of wine. Communion, he thinks, I’m absolved. Time for new sins. “You don’t believe me when I tell you it was all right? You don’t take my word for it? If you didn’t believe me a minute ago, what can I say or do that will make you believe me now?”
Honey looks hurt. She puts her fork down carefully beside her plate. Kit wishes the shrieking Arab music would die away forever. The cafe smells of cinnamon, as if teams of bakers have been making sweet rolls all day long and then hidden them away, because nothing on their plates or on the menu contains the least hint of cinnamon. Kit knows that Honey wants desperately to go back to the house in Provence. She’s not comfortable in strange places.
Kit finishes his glass of wine. He reaches for the bottle, tops up Honey’s glass, then fills his own. He takes out a beige pill case from his shirt pocket, finds four yellow Paxium, and drinks them down with a Chateau L’Angelus that deserves better. “What next?” he says.
“What next now?” asks Honey. “What next tonight, what next tomorrow, or what next we make another moddy?”
Kit squeezes his eyes shut and lets his head fall back. He opens his eyes and sees black beams made of structural plastic crossing the space overhead. He wishes that something, anything, with Honey Pilar could be simple, even dinner, even conversation. So she’s the most desirable woman in the world, he thinks. So she makes more money in one year than the CEOs of any ten major corporations you’d care to name. So what. His private opinion is that she has the intelligence of three sticks and a stone. He lowers his gaze and forces himself to smile back at her. “What do you want to do, sweetheart? Stay here, go back home, take a trip? You’ve earned a vacation, baby. We’ve got your next blockbuster in the can. The world is at your feet. You name it, chiquita. Someplace exotic. Someplace you’ve always wanted to go.”
He knows, as well as he knows anything in the world, exactly what she will say next.
She says it. “I rather only go home.”
“Home,” he repeats quietly. He finishes the wine in one long swallow, and signals the waiter.
“Kit,” she says, “I was in happy mood. You always do that. You always make me feel I choose wrong.”
I was in a happy mood, thinks Kit. Then I woke up, and we were married. But don’t let me kid you, sweetie. It’s been great.
“It is very early in the morning, and the haggard winter sun is rising over the red-tiled roofs of Santa Coloma. Wrapped in scarves, packaged in parkas, slapping their mittened hands together to fend off frostbite, Fawn and Dawn huddle against the fogged plate-glass window of the Instant Memories Modshop on Bridger Parkway. Fawn and Dawn are standing in a long line of people waiting for the manager to open the store. They’ve been waiting all night in the cold and wind and sleet, because today’s the day Honey Pilar’s new moddy, Slow, Slow Burn, goes on sale. Fawn and Dawn want to be the first in their neighborhood to own the new Honey Pilar. They want to get it as soon as the shop opens, and take it to school with them. Fawn and Dawn are in the ninth grade; these days in Santa Coloma, ninth graders all have their skulls amped, except for the trolls and feebs.
My God,’ mutters Fawn, shivering, ‘I haven’t felt my toes since midnight’
“‘I haven’t felt my lips,’ says Dawn. ‘Or my nose, or my ears, or my fingers.’
But if we leave now, I’m going to feel like a total fool.’
“‘We can’t leave now. These jerk-offs behind us will get our place.’
“Fawn makes a face. ‘If only the wind would stop blowing.’
“‘Oh, sure, the wind. If only the wind stopped blowing, it would still be, like, ten degrees below zero or something.’
“Fawn rubs her cheeks. ‘Hey!’ she cries. She points through the display window. ‘Here he comes!’
“‘Let us in now,’ Dawn prays to the store manager, ‘and you can have me right on top of the cash register.’
“The manager is, in fact, opening the front door. He’s smiling in anticipation; the store is going to make a fortune today. Slow, Slow Burn is stacked up four feet high in the front window, piled up beside every register, and loaded into cardboard dumps scattered all around the selling floor. You can’t turn around inside the store without staring into the liquid green eyes of Honey herself. Her holographic likeness is more than just inviting; if the mythical sirens had looked like Honey Pilar, they wouldn’t have needed to sing.
“When the door opens, of course, what disappears is any respect for the length of time Fawn and Dawn have been waiting in the freezing night air. They are pushed aside by the jerk-offs behind them, and by the jerk-offs behind them. Fawn and Dawn are cast aside by the charging throng of people. They announce that this is truly unfair and rude, that they’d stood in line longer, that they are going to complain, but no one listens. The flood of bakebrains shoves the two girls this way and that, until they are afraid of being tra
mpled. At last, however, first Fawn and then Dawn are pitched up like driftwood at the front cash register, each with credit card in one hand, moddy in the other.
Wow,’ says Fawn, as she clutches her package and fights her way out of the shop.
“On the street again, with the air so cold it shocks nose and throat, the two girls wait for the bus to take them to school. ‘Are you and Adam going to use it tonight?’ asks Dawn.
“Fawn’s eyes open wider and she smiles. She taps the crown of her head, the corymbic plug invisible now beneath her hair. I’ve got it all down on this moddy,’ she says, her smile becoming sly. ‘Who needs him anymore?’
“Think what study period will be like, to be Honey Pilar in the throes of ecstasy, instead of Fawn and Dawn in the grip of homework.”
The two account executives sit on a couch in the north parlor. “Nice, huh?” says one of the admen. Kit thinks that “nervous” doesn’t begin to do the man’s condition justice.
“I think—” says Honey.
“She doesn’t like it, either,” says Kit. He has to be tough, and quick, or else she’ll say something and these Madison Avenue guys will think they’re doing her a favor. And then it will make it that much harder to deal with them the next time. Kit wonders why Honey hasn’t learned this by now.
“I think it work fine,” says Honey.
Kit gives her a stern glance, but she ignores it.
“Good,” says the adman, tremendously relieved. “We think we’ve put together a nice spot here.”
“I’m not sure,” says Kit. He doesn’t want these men to get too self-congratulatory.
“Kit,” says Honey, “be quiet. I like it. It’s for my moddy, I like it.”
Kit realizes that he’s going to have to have a serious talk with Miss Honey Pilar, International Star. He doesn’t tell her how to do her job, he doesn’t want her telling him how to do his.
“The girls, they pretty,” she says.
The account executive’s smile grows wider. “My daughters,” he says in a proud voice.
Later that evening, after the account executives have had dinner and gone back to their hotel, Kit watches what he has come to call Moodswing by Candlelight.
Honey Pilar marches, dressed in tight zebraskin pants—not zebra-stripe, but the genuine pelt of a former zebra, which is becoming less obtainable all the time—and a gauzy moire tunic created by the actual hands of Lenci Urban of Prague - not by one of his underling designers but by Lenci himself, making the item even dearer than the zebraskin - back and forth in front of the long, high picture window. Kit watches her eclipse first the lighthouse beyond, then the strings of lights marking the marina, then the sallow moon maundering over the ocean. Honey reaches the far end of the room and turns, blocking out the moon again. In the air is the heavy scent of incense, church incense, the fragrance Honey Pilar loves best because she thinks it reminds her of her childhood, but she’s not sure. Tonight Kit hates it, and he’s panting in shallow breaths, feeling an obscure panic begin. In a corner of the room is the largest commercial datalink money can buy, where Honey can keep an eye on it while she’s stalking first east and then west. Kit sits at the keyboard and calls up the first reactions to Slow, Slow Burn. Honey watches it indict her.
Total sales for the first seven hours of release: 825,000 units.
“Eight hundred thousand,” says Honey Pilar. She is carrying half a melon in one hand, hacking at it with a knife she holds in the other, and flicking seeds across the dusty rose carpet.
“Eight hundred thousand,” says Kit noncommittally.
“In one day, I sell eight hundred thousand. Eight hundred thousand people come out of their house all over the world, they just to get the new moddy. You don’t know what can be happening, the rain, the bombs in the airport, the police, all these people come out to pay money for me.”
Kit presses a key and columns of figures begin to scroll up the screen. “Sales are up in Provence and Aragon,” he says. “They love you here.”
“I see that, I see,” says Honey. She tosses the bulk of the melon into a corner of the white-on-white brocade couch. “I see also I have no million sales today, first day. I thought a million sales. You told me a million sales, so I don’t worry.”
Kit glances up at the ceiling, hoping for courage. “A million sales, eight hundred thousand, what difference does it make?”
“Sales up at home,” she says, turning her back on him, looking out the window. Far below, the crisp thin line of surf wrinkles toward the beach. “Sales down in England, Burgundy, Catalonia. That list get longer.” She faces the screen again, and the sales reports are like the incessant waves, each one weak by itself, but in their sum they are victorious, devastating. “Turn it off,” she pleads.
Kit is glad to kill the data. He watches Honey Pilar misplace her manic energy. How quickly she is drained and empty. She will not pace for another day, perhaps longer if this is a bad spell. Kit feels a peculiar thrill, knowing that none of the eight hundred thousand who have bought the new moddy could even imagine their dream lover in such a mood, that he alone is privileged with this intimacy. She lowers herself into a black leather chair and draws her small feet up on the cushion. She hugs her knees. Kit knows that she wants him to tell her the sales figures mean nothing; he does not say anything. He knows she wants him to come over and rub her neck and shoulders. She always does. He will not. It is a way for him to assert himself, to establish that he, too, has a life and an identity. He watches her massage her temples with trembling fingers. On the first day of sales, Honey Pilar’s latest moddy has sold eight hundred twenty-five thousand copies. Her previous moddy, on its first day, sold nine hundred seventy-two thousand. The one before that, one million, two hundred thousand. Is this a trend?
Goddamn right, it’s a trend, Kit thinks. If it weren’t, why have computers track the numbers? Honey and Kit respond differently, however. Kit doesn’t see any practical point in mourning a hundred thousand sales one way or the other.
Still, Honey Pilar weeps quietly. In the silence, in the candlelight, in the cloud of burning incense, there is a peculiarly supplicatory feeling in the house. Honey herself seems wrapped in a fragile innocence. Kit thinks that, for him, this was once one of her chief attractions.
“This is Jerome Nkoro for New York Comm Net Morning Magazine, and have I got a moddy for you. Today I’m going to be talking about Slow, Slow Burn, Honey Pilar’s new moddy from ABT.
“In these days, when, thanks to surgical and biological wonders we’ve all come to take for granted, men and women routinely maintain their youthful looks well past their seventieth or eightieth birthdays, it probably shouldn’t be too unusual that our number one fantasy girl has just celebrated her forty-fifth. Honey Pilar is forty-five. Does that make you feel old? It makes me feel like the last of the dinosaurs.
“I can remember having holos of Honey Pilar in my bedroom when I was twelve, alongside my Death to Argentina football and my scale model of the Mars colony. My first sexual experience was a dream in which Honey Pilar couldn’t remember her locker combination. And now they tell me this is her thirty-ninth moddy, and she’s old enough to be a grandmother.
“But don’t get me wrong, I still think Honey Pilar is the most exciting woman in the world. I’ve left word with my secretary that, if Honey calls, she can have my home phone number anytime. The problem with Slow, Slow Burn is not Honey, or the fact that she’s no pouting teenager anymore. The problem is that my moddy library has two full shelves devoted to her, and I’m beginning to ask myself, ‘Do I really need another Honey Pilar moddy?’
“I’ve never had a complaint yet from anyone when I’ve suggested we use one of Honey’s moddies. My partners agree with me that they’re likely to get more pleasure from Honey than from anyone else’s moddy (or from me, either, for that matter. Sometimes, when we explore the limits of the bizarre, we do it with no moddies chipped in, with our own unembellished brains. I don’t recommend this to you beginners out there
). I use the moddies myself now and then, to see what it’s like from the Honey Pilar point of view, and it’s always an incendiary experience. So whether the moddy is turning my partner into a hungry, writhing Honey Pilar, or consuming me in one of Honey’s recorded sexual firestorms, there’s never any chance that she will fail to perform.
“The question is simply this: How will she continue to keep our interest? Her partner on Slow, Slow Burn is an uncredited seventeen-year-old. As she gets older, must her partners get younger? I am horrified by the vision of Honey Pilar offering the kids ten-speed bikes to entice them. And doesn’t a lifelong relationship with three-dozen plastic moddies begin to resemble (I hate to suggest this) a marriage? I mean, if for the sake of variety you decide not to use the Honey Pilar moddy tonight, what are you left with? You’re left with the person whose sexual performance led you to use the moddy in the first place.
“I realize that so far I haven’t said anything terribly cogent about Slow, Slow Burn itself. I’m not being fair to Honey Pilar, because her new moddy is right up to the standard she’s set throughout her long and dazzling career. I guess it’s just that after all these years, I’m beginning to realize that although I’ve been to bed with Honey Pilar a million times, I’m never actually going to have her, not in any real sense at all. All I’m going to have is two shelves of plastic with her name on it, and an exquisitely detailed knowledge of what she’s like in the sack.
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