“I wonder what Honey Pilar likes to talk about afterward. I guess I’m getting wistful in my old age. But don’t mind me, go out and buy Slow, Slow Bum. Like always, it does what it’s supposed to do.”
Kit and Honey are throwing a party in their hotel suite. This was the night of the annual Pammie Awards, and Honey is still clutching the special Lifetime Achievement statuette she was given. It has been a wonderful, satisfying evening for Honey Pilar. Reporters and fans and fellow artists come up to her and tell her again and again that the honor is long overdue. Honey knew well in advance that the Association was presenting her with the Lifetime Achievement, so her acceptance speech was gracious and tearful and as nearly grammatically correct as she could manage. She looks beautiful in her silver Lenci sheath.
Kit stands looking out across a city that seems to live for the night, toward a black harbor streaked with the pale green lights of bridges. He imagines that he’s on board one of the slowly moving ships creasing the dark water, going away, sailing off toward some useful existence. Beyond the window the world seems cold and clean. People are hurrying according to unknown but vital reasons, they are not…wandering. The stars are hard, white, not dimmed and hazy with smoke. Kit turns and gazes at the room, at the men and women talking and laughing. The hotel has catered this party, and the champagne is cheap and sweet. Kit sets his plastic champagne glass on the holoset for the maid to clear away. He looks for Honey.
He finds her in a corner, talking with her agent and a representative from ABT. He brings her a fresh glass of the awful champagne. Honey looks up quickly and smiles at him. Her eye makeup looks terrible. The agent indicates the Lifetime Achievement Award in her hand. “They wouldn’t have given that to you if they didn’t love you, you know,” he says.
“I owe you, too,” says Honey. Kit thinks that he wound her up too much earlier in the evening, and now she just can’t stop being gracious.
The agent smiles. “You did all the work, Honey.”
Kit thinks of the seventeen-year-old boy from the beach.
The woman from ABT swallows the last of her potato salad. “Are you giving any thought yet to retiring?” she asks.
The agent glares at her. Honey’s eyes open wide, and then she runs across the room. Kit follows her. He hears the agent say, “There isn’t any air in here anymore.”
Half an hour later the party is over. Kit and the agent are trying to make Honey feel better. “That woman was a fool,” says the agent.
Honey shakes her head. “They give me the Lifetime Award. They do when your career is over.”
“That’s not what it meant at all,” says the agent. “They were telling you that you’re the best, that you’ve always been the best.”
Kit takes a deep breath and lets it out. “I think we’d better call it a night,” he says.
The agent stands up. “Well, anyway, it’s time for me to run. Thanks for all the free drinks.” He bends to kiss Honey on the cheek. “Congratulations, baby,” he says. “Don’t worry about that ABT woman. She’ll be out of a job tomorrow.”
When they’re alone, Honey puts her head on Kit’s shoulder and sobs. He pushes her away. “Don’t start that on me now,” he says. “Don’t get into this sad and insecure business again. I don’t want to put up with it right now, I’m too tired.”
Honey stares at him. “How do you talk to me like that?”
Kit turns away. “It’s easy,” he says. “We have this same conversation about three times a week. I’ve learned my part. You’re still trying to get it right because in your line of work you don’t have to worry about learning lines.”
Honey turns him around and slaps his face. Kit gives her a thin smile. “You want me to pat your shoulder for you, is that it? You want me to tell you that you’re not getting old?”
Honey slams her fist into his chest. He flinches, but says nothing. “I tell you I hate you like this,” she says, tears falling down her lovely cheeks. She runs into their bedroom and slams the door behind her.
Kit stares after her. “You’re still my wife, you know,” he calls after her. “Get undressed, and get ready.” He knows that will make her even angrier.
This is the only part of their relationship that is all his, that exists only between the two of them. As long as there is this small domain that no one else shares, he will stay with her. Kit becomes aroused at last. “I want you,” he says.
She opens the bedroom door and looks at him blankly.
“I want you,” he says. “But tonight I want you to use this.” He offers her a pink plastic moddy. He’s never asked her to be anyone else before.
Her eyes narrow. She looks at the moddy. “But this is me,” she says, not understanding.
He laughs. “Yes, it’s you. Only younger.” Kit wants to make love to her tonight. He will hold her in his arms and let himself be carried away by her passion, but already he is thinking of someone else, a young woman with Oriental eyes, leaning close to a microphone and murmuring cryptic messages in other languages.
“Here on Venezia Affascinante tonight, we’re going to get you excited, and we’re going to tell you everything there is to tell about the people you love and the people you’d rather hate.
“There are a billion people in this world right now who don’t like Honey Pilar, and there are a billion people who don’t care. The other five billion, though, absolutely adore her, and we’re wondering tonight how they’ll take the news that her fourth marriage has come to a shattering, devastating conclusion. Shattering and devastating to her fourth husband, Kit, because after you’ve been married to Honey Pilar, the rest of the women in the world must suddenly look a little on the drab side. And poor Kit will be hearing a lot of cheeky questions from his friends from now on, like, ‘Say, Kit, how could you have screwed up such a fantastic situation? What’s wrong with you?’
“Venezia Affascinante conducted its own scientific poll of Honey Pilar admirers, and then compared the results with Kit’s own personal reactions, which we gathered via an exclusive long-distance interview. Our question to one hundred average moddy users was this: ‘Which aspect of their relationship will Kit miss the most, now that, thanks to his own stupidity, he’s been abruptly shown the way out of Honey Pilar’s life?’ The most popular reply was her quick starts, low maintenance, and high performance, if you take our meaning. The second most popular answer was Honey’s bank account, because, after all, a good deal of her irresistible attraction lies in her wealth, her extravagant lifestyle, and her association with the most stimulating celebrities in the world. The third answer was, unaccountably, her nose, which we must admit is certainly cute enough.
“It took us several hours to get in touch with Honey’s most recent ex-husband. When he finally accepted our call, we put our question to him for his definitive reply. He said, and this is a direct quote, ‘You can goddamn go to hell!’ And you’ll hear that nowhere else but Venezia Affascinante.
“Some unanswered questions remain: How long will it be before Honey Pilar marries again? Does she already have a candidate in mind? Could this be what led to the divorce? No one particularly cares what happens to Kit, of course, but every detail of Honey’s personal life is of absorbing interest to her vast army of fans. Will she continue to record new moddies, or does this alteration in her life signal a desire to make a fundamental change in her professional career as well? And if she does continue to turn out award-winning moddies, will she take over the reins of her huge financial empire, or will she look for a new business manager as well? Will that business manager be her new husband, or did her experience with Kit teach her a sad lesson about combining her emotional and business interests in one person?
“Whatever she decides, it will be impossible for Honey Pilar to keep her feelings secret for long. Not while Venezia Affascinante is on the job to bring you twenty-four-hour-a-day coverage of the world you like best, the world you wished you lived in. We’ll be back after this word.”
The two account exec
utives are sitting in the smaller of the two dining rooms in Honey Pilar’s home in Provence. They’ve finished lunch and are sipping brandy and beaming down at Honey at the far end of the long table. Both men feel very good, first because the meal they’ve just enjoyed was one of the finest in their memory, and second because this is the only time they’ve come to the walled estate with any real confidence that they’d be able to bring their business to a satisfactory conclusion.
“That was truly marvelous, Miss Pilar,” says the first adman.
“Was good, no?” Honey smiles with innocent pleasure. “Kit gone now, I have what I like to eat. Hire new cook.”
“Well,” says the account executive, letting his expression become gradually more serious. “Perhaps it’s time to turn our attention to business.”
“Go ahead,” says Honey. “You shoot.”
“Yes, well…Slow, Slow Burn has been in the stores now for a little more than six months. I trust you’ve had the chance to look over the compilation of figures we sent you.”
“Yes, I see them.”
“And I suppose you’d like me to go over them with you. They’re a little difficult to understand, even after you’ve been in the business as long as I have.”
“No, okay, I understand them fine.”
The adman frowns. “That is, I know you’ve been without a business manager ever since, uh—“
Honey gives him a reassuring smile. “Ever since I kick Kit his ass for him.”
The man from the agency looks a little uncomfortable. “And since then, as I say, you’ve been without a business manager. Well, we want you to know that we value your account very highly. We’ve represented you for almost twenty years. I’ve been sent to tell you that you may continue to rely on us during these troubled months.”
“No trouble,” says Honey.
The adman opens his briefcase and takes out a report. “We’ve taken the liberty of drawing up a plan for you, a preliminary schedule of promotional opportunities for Slow, Slow Burn and a suggested scenario for your next personality module. Slow, Slow Burn is doing rather well, although, of course, it doesn’t appear to be as great a success as we hoped at first. Our consultants have made some valuable suggestions relevant to regaining the market support you enjoyed on some of your previous releases.”
Honey gives him her brightest smile. The account executive smiles back. “May I have?” she asks, holding out her slender hand for the report.
“Certainly,” says the adman. “I’ll be happy to—“
Honey rips the papers in half while she looks directly into the man’s eyes. Her smile never wavers. “I tell you what I do—if I do promotion, and when I make new moddy.”
“Miss Pilar,” says the adman unhappily, “we have some of the best market analysts in the business studying current trends in the personality module industry, and your own standing as a recording artist. While your reputation is greater now than ever, your impact at what we call point-of-sale seems to be softening somewhat. Our proposals are designed to make the best use of what our agency considers your chief strengths—“
“In twenty years,” says Honey Pilar, “I earn much money for your agency, no?”
“Why, yes, of course.”
“We call New York. We tell your boss to do it my way. Your boss is good friend. He do what I tell him, you do what he tell you.”
The man takes out a handkerchief and mops at the perspiration on his upper lip. “I don’t think that will be necessary,” he says. “We’ll simply go back and give them your views. Later, if you should find that handling your career on your own is too much for you, we can always—“
“I handle my career thirty years,” Honey says. “Husbands, managers, or no. I handle my career. I think you go now.”
The two men from New York glance at each other nervously and stand up. “As always, Miss Pilar,” says the first adman, “it’s been a pleasure.”
“You bet,” she says.
As the men are retreating from her home, the second account executive pauses to murmur something to her. This is the first time he’s actually summoned the nerve to speak. “Miss Pilar,” he says, looking down at the tiled floor, “I was wondering if I might invite you to dinner tonight.”
Honey laughs. “You Americans!” she says, truly amused. “No, Kit was American too, and next husband will be tall blond, Swedish maybe, Dutch.”
The second adman is terribly disappointed. He hurries after his colleague, not even looking back at their client. Honey watches them for a moment, then closes the door. She is still holding the ad agency’s torn report. She goes back into the house, where she can find a wastebasket.
Introduction to
Marîd and the Trail of Blood
This story is one I commissioned, and gave George the idea for. I had been asked to edit an anthology of stories about lady vampires, and I went to several science fiction and fantasy writers (as opposed to horror writers), to get a science fictional take on what vampires are or might be. (Another story that appeared in the same anthology was Larry Niven’s “Song of the Night People,” which expanded into The Ringworld Throne.)
This also is one of my favorite Budayeen stories, mostly because it spotlights one of my favorite characters in that world, Bill the Cab Driver. Bill is a minor character in all three of the novels: Having won the lottery, he spent all the money to have one of his lungs removed and replaced with a sac containing a lifetime supply of the most powerful hallucinogen known to the underworld, time-released into his bloodstream so that Bill can be permanently, blissfully, and devastatingly stoned for the rest of his days, a condition which doesn’t improve his cab driving any.
Bill is, in his way, a very New Orleans character—like Safiyya the Lamb Lady, who also figures in the story, and Laila who runs the moddy shop. Certainly there are enough dented fenders in New Orleans to attest to the fact that, for a long time, Louisiana had no open-container law. Maybe they still don’t. George was fascinated by the strange New Orleans street-people who wandered around the French Quarter for years.
“Trail of Blood” is also one of the few Budayeen stories in which Marîd acts from an almost unselfish motive—that is, without being backed against a wall and put in peril of his own life.
Just one of those things you see on the Street on those long hot Budayeen nights.
—Barbara Hambly
Marîd and the Trail of Blood
THERE IS A SAYING: “THE BUDAYEEN HIDES FROM the light.” You can interpret that any way you like, but I’m dissolute enough to know exactly what it means. There’s a certain time of day that always makes me feel as if my blackened soul were just then under the special scrutiny of Allah in Paradise.
It happens in the gray winter mornings just at dawn, when I’ve spent the entire night drinking in some awful hellhole. When I finally decide it’s time to go home and I step outside, instead of the cloaking forgiveness of darkness, there is bright, merciless sun shining on my aching head.
It makes me feel filthy and a little sick, as if I’d been wallowing in a dismal gutter all night. I know I can get pretty goddamn wiped out, but I don’t believe I’ve ever sunk to wallowing; at least, I don’t remember it if I did. And all the merchants setting up their stalls in the souks, all the men and women rising for morning prayers, they all glare at me with that special expression: They know exactly where I’ve been. They know I’m drunk and irredeemable. They give freely of contempt that they’ve been saving for a long time for someone as depraved and worthless as me.
This is not even to mention the disapproving expression on Youssef’s face last Tuesday, when he opened the great wooden front door at home. Or my slave, Kmuzu. Both of them knew enough not to say a word out loud, but I got the full treatment from their attitudes, particularly when Kmuzu started slamming down the breakfast things half an hour later. As if I could stand to eat. All I wanted to do was collapse and sleep, but no one in the household would allow it. It was part of my punishment.
<
br /> So that’s how this adventure began. I reluctantly ate a little breakfast, ignored the large quantity of orders, receipts, ledgers, and other correspondence on my desk, and sat back in a padded leather chair wishing my mortal headache would go away.
Now, when I first had my brain wired, I was given a few experimental features. I can chip in a device that makes my body burn alcohol faster than the normal ounce an hour; last night had been a contest between me and my hardware. The liquor won. I could also chip in a pain-blocking daddy, but it wouldn’t make me any more sober. For now, in the real world, I was as sick as a plague-stricken wharf rat.
I watched a holoshow about a sub-Saharan reforestation program, with the sound turned off. Before it was over, I lied to myself that I felt just a tiny bit better. I even pretended to act friendly toward Kmuzu. I forgave him, and I forgave myself for what I’d done the night before. I promised both of us that I’d never do it again.
I laughed; Kmuzu didn’t. He turned his back and walked out of the room without saying a word.
It was obvious to me that it wasn’t a good day to spend around the house. I decided to go back to the Budayeen and open my nightclub at noon, a little early for the day shift. Even if I had to sit there by myself for a couple of hours, it would be better company than I had at home.
About 12:15, Pualani, the beautiful real girl, came in. She was early for work, but she had always been one of the most dependable of the five dancers on the day shift. I said hello, and before she went to the dressing room she sat down beside me at the bar. “You hear what happened to crazy Vi, who works by Big Al’s Old Chicago?”
“No,” I said. I can’t keep up with what goes on with every girl, deb, and sexchange in the Budayeen.
Budayeen Nights Page 12