Midnight Lamp

by Gwyneth Jones

  ‘Hollywood seduced us, briefly,’ said Verlaine, ‘But we leave with our intacta restored, because we leave the seduced parts of us behind.’

  ‘Someday everyone will live like us. A snippet here, a version there.’

  ‘I call it depraved. As if the virtual world wasn’t crowded enough.’

  Fiorinda sat on the edge of a fake parterre of red and yellow tulips, slightly on the defensive because she didn’t have an avatar; getting drunk with Lou Branco. She had the size of the money man now. He was like Cack Stannen without the sweetness; he was a type she’d often met in her work with the drop-out hordes, except he didn’t smell and didn’t sleep in doorways. Someone who can do one thing freakishly well, all else is whirling chaos, human relationships a mystery. So, he was still a shark and a childish vindictive bastard, but Fiorinda rarely had trouble getting on with the socially disabled.

  ‘What’s the deal with Rob, then?’ Lou was intrigued by the group marriage, by all the strange English sexual habits. ‘Three laydees, one guy. How does that one work? Does he have a rota?’

  ‘Well, no. There’s a ritual. Rob leaves his shoes outside his bedroom door—’

  ‘Uhuh?’ said Lou, eyes fixed on her face, propping his jowl on one hand.

  Fiorinda took a slug of champagne from the bottle they were sharing. ‘The Babes come up, they pee into his shoes, and Rob then sniffs the mixture.’

  ‘They pee in his shoes-?’

  ‘Yeah. Then he sniffs it, and he can tell from the blend which of them he should spend the night with, or which two of them, or whatever.’

  ‘Uhuh, uhuh. Well, that’s… He must get through a lot of shoes.’

  ‘It’s called “Taking The Piss”.’

  The toad pondered. A grin dawned, a guffaw followed. He choked, snorted, and beamed at her. ‘You’re all right, Fiorinda. I thought you were some snooty do-gooder, look down your nose ladidadi broad. But you’re okay.’

  ‘It’s the accent.’

  Fiorinda stood up and walked. Lou followed, making a short diversion to pick up another bottle. ‘You lookin’ for someone?’

  ‘I thought I saw Janelle.’

  ‘Nah, she’s still sick,’ There was a flicker in Lou’s eyes, as of someone who knows an illness is diplomatic. ‘It’s a hell of a thing, the viral pneumonia.’

  ‘I had a friend die of it.’

  ‘She’s getting the best care, I’m sure. Let’s party.’

  ‘Lou, where do the crash dummies live?’

  ‘They ain’t alive, baby.’

  ‘Native English. We say, where does it live, meaning where is it?’

  ‘Oh right, okay. Okay, c’mon that’s easy.’

  He led her away from the crush to the dull part of the vast inventory floor, where no perverse works of creation filled the spaces between the machines. He stopped by a scanner, the housing sleek and amorphous, a slug the size of a limousine. The flatbed was covered by a shaded dome.

  ‘You want to see them? I know how to do this. I get the safety off, we got no goggles but it’s no big deal… Look away, now.’

  Fiorinda looked away, Lou shaded his eyes while the lightnings played. When she looked back the dome was sinking into the floor. The flatbed looked like a crowded Underground carriage: or a fishtank in a brothel, where the whores wait to be chosen on the other side of the glass. The dummies were lifesize, fully dressed, personality in their eyes, they just didn’t move and didn’t seem aware of being looked at. They were not taking up enough space, there must be arms and legs overlaying each other, heads and bodies at odd angles, but you couldn’t spot where it happened. On the scanner’s monitor screens code teemed away, picking up the angle of her gaze, flipping from one stunning complexity to another—

  ‘I guess you know the story,’ said Lou. ‘The Screen Actors Guild said Digital Artists had to use real character actors. It was a condition, or they couldn’t scan the stars, and that was virtual movies over a barrel, a benchmark case. They picked out these random second rates, gave them a stingy wad of bucks apiece, and they’ve never paid a royalty since, not in ten years.’

  ‘No substantial reuse.’

  ‘The studio never needs that. Not the way substantial got defined, hehehey! Don’t need the fuckin’ stars either, but that’s a whole other deal… They call this toybox the index. I can animate, I can sort them by ethnics, age, sex, dentistry, you name it. I can make ‘em talk, isolate you a psychological characteristic uh, no, I forgot how to do that. Whaddaya think?’

  It was like visiting Vireo Lake, she didn’t know how to react. She was a savage from the rainforest again, looking at stolen souls.

  ‘There’s something called entanglement.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Always hearing about that shit. You prick one of these code-bunnies, some saddo thesp pumping gas in Bakersfield bleeds, and so what? We’re all connected, isn’t that the line? I stick with my balance sheets.’

  ‘I believe they’ve been used in ways they didn’t contract for.’

  Lou gave her a sour look: hearing the do-gooder princess after all.

  ‘We all get that, baby.’

  ‘And no one’s out of the loop. I’m just drunk. Let’s get back to the party.’

  The English had rehearsed for their reprise in the virtual Hollywood Bowl at the studio village, keeping the show under wraps; and because no one was taking chances with the rescued hostage. Fiorinda arrived there, for the first time by orthodox means, with the crowds, in a shaded limo, swamped by an armed escort; and was delivered to her trailer. She glimpsed rustling eucalyptus slopes, heard Snake Eyes big band sound in the distance, lets get together and feel all right…(Oooh, I’m late); and stepped into her gilded cage.

  Slaves-for-the-night were arranging bouquets, funeral-home ranks of them. Fuck. How did that get past my radar? She considered throwing a tantrum. I don’t like cut flowers, everyone knows Fiorinda hates dead flowers! Get them out of here!!!. But nah. I am not psyched-out, this is childish. A bunch of long stemmed pink roses, old fashioned roses with thorny dark stems, threw her for a moment. Her father had sent pink roses, exactly the same kind, to her dressing room, one very bad night long ago—

  ‘Who sent all the flowers?’

  ‘I’m not sure, Miss Fiorinda. Everything’s been through security, they’re still holding the cards and packaging. Would you like me to get a list?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  I am not psyched out. You know about me, and I know about you.

  She was being coifed by the wig person when Puusi Meera swept in, wearing green and gold and some amazing emeralds. Her entourage filled the trailer, backing Fiorinda’s attendants into the bathroomette.

  ‘Now Fiorinda, I know you want to be alone. It’s no joke, r-r-revving yourself up to go on stage again, I can imagine, after the ordeals you have been through. And such a big crowd! Do you know, the old Bowl might be genuinely sold out this time? But me, you have to see. Let me look at you!’

  Puusi had been a little frosty since her protegée returned from the dead. Possibly she felt that suicide (which never looks bad on a star’s resume) was enough of a trick, without Fiorinda having the cheek to come back and reap the benefits in person. She took Fiorinda’s hands and raised her to her feet, a tinseltown cocktail of malice and sentiment glowing in her great liquid eyes. Fiorinda was then left standing, on the auction block as it were, while Puusi settled resplendent, in an armchair vacated by the wig-person’s assistant.

  ‘Hm. This is one of your famous party frocks.’ It was the smouldery-opal dress that Sage and Ax had bought for her. ‘Very young, very little girl, which you are not quite… And the wig just like your own style, messy-natural. Mm, what else?’

  ‘This is it. I don’t do costume changes.’

  ‘That’s sweet, and brave, but it’s not what the people want, you will be so little and far away, and they will not think they are getting their money’s worth.’

  ‘I’ll be okay. I have Sage to light me.
There’ll be spectacle.’

  ‘I had forgotten he does lights. How charming that you people do all your own chores.’ Puusi’s beautiful brows drew together. ‘Is he well? I think he’s looking peaky again… But you have no jewellery.’

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘You were probably going to wear costume jewels. You have no money, and the studio is so stingy. I thought of this, and I have come to the rescue. You will wear the earrings I gave you. Sit down, sit down, I will do it.’

  Puusi beckoned, one of the entourage people proffered a casket. The goddess herself clipped the diamond and ruby falls onto Fiorinda’s ears, took up a brush and comb and arranged the borrowed curls so her gift was displayed to best advantage. ‘And this necklace, which is valuable and only a loan. I want it back.’ She fastened a diamond dog-collar, and shook her head in tender pride. ‘What has happened to the house with the bloodstained walls? Or that skinny yellow-faced girl who came to see me, and told me how she tried and tried but she could not scrub away the dirty shame of the past? You are free now, aren’t you, Fiorinda?’

  ‘Not right this minute. But I plan to be.’

  ‘Good, good. I thought so, I can see it. Now up, stand up again, let everybody see.’ The entourage murmured appreciation. Someone opened champagne, and everyone toasted each other. Puusi and Fiorinda moved off camera to one of Fiorinda’s sofas, ‘You are looking well,’ said Puusi. ‘Very spunky, and your skin is much better. Are you getting a lot of sex?’

  ‘Spunk to my back teeth. Puusi, would you do something for us? Can you persuade the studio not to call the movie Runnymede? I know it isn’t a big deal. I wouldn’t say this to Harry, but it’s only a little virtual biopic, it will come out and nobody will think twice. But Runnymede is going to sound so daft at home.’

  The name change had happened at committee stage. None of the execs had liked Rivermead, they didn’t think it was historical enough: so the birthplace of the Reich had been moved to Surrey, and located where the Magna Carta was signed. The English were past caring: poor Harry was very upset.

  ‘Oooh.’ Unexpectedly, for a moment, a human being looked out of the goddess’s eyes. ‘One river, two places, that’s very difficult for movie folk.’ They laughed, and chinked glasses. ‘I will do my best!’

  Puusi and her crowd departed. Fiorinda discarded the earrings and the collar. Her wig was taken away for finishing touches and the make-up team set to work: buffing and burnishing, smoothing and blending. Your teeth are English but fine, they assured her. You are so natural, these strong brows, so wonderful, just a light, a very light… The room reflected in the mirror reminded her of the luxury flat where her father used to fuck her: heaped with the presents that she couldn’t take home. And to think, once I wanted to end up here, cosseted like a queen-grub, Bleggh. It was my only aim in life. She wondered how much of her revulsion now was really down to the fear of becoming a magic psychopath. And how much was down to the bitter disillusion of that twelve year old kid?

  He doesn’t love me, he never loved me.

  The trailer had screens instead of windows. No sound, but without moving her head she could see the cowled stage. Ax was playing now, in his fine red suit with his Fender: isolated by the lights so he seemed alone, on the stage that was actually crawling. He looked very serious. Her stomach clutched. Not long now.

  ‘Miss Fiorinda? We’re all finished.’

  ‘You can call me Fiorinda if you like,’ The face in the mirror, to her disappointment, did not look unearthly lovely, just looked like Fiorinda with a high gloss. ‘If you call me Mizz anything, it’s Ms Slater. I’m not a variety act.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ms Slater, er Fiorinda.’

  She’d put the diamonds back in the casket. She changed her mind, took out the earrings and clipped them on. I remember every face, everyone who brought me here. I fill myself, I fuel myself, I’m a holocaust, I’m a firestorm.

  Among the dewy planters of a VIP enclosure, Allie and Dilip, noncombatants, had been cornered by tv folk. ‘Don’t you often get the feeling that decisions affecting your career are being made in the bedroom?’

  Dilip, grinning: ‘No, we have the distinct impression they have better things to do in the bedroom. Or anywhere else they consider semi-private!’ He wouldn’t be on stage, but Fiorinda’s return had been a tonic. Maybe DK wasn’t quite knocking on heaven’s door.

  ‘They’re in charge because we want them to be in charge,’ Allie was finding the tone hard to maintain, considering what was really going on tonight. ‘It’s a democracy, we voted them into power, we love where they’re taking the band.’

  What band? An opportunist concoction that had never existed.

  A big, jowly man had the next turn. ‘What do you think of the situation in Uzbekistan, Ms Marlowe?’

  ‘It’s an appalling tragedy.’ Allie didn’t miss a beat and didn’t elaborate. You can’t stop them talking about their favourite topic. The Oil Wars, the awful complicity of the House of Saud: and still going on, despite everything. Vile, sickening, senseless waste of lives and resources, but you can’t say that. Can’t say anything un-American, you just can’t. You say the most anodyne thing and move on.

  Dilip, (sigh), picked it up. ‘It’s a spat on the upper decks of the Titanic, while the ship goes down by the bows. To those of us below, already in the lifeboats, this behaviour simply looks bizarre, an understandable madness—’

  Allie tried to kick him under the table but failed, and then thank God the break was over, they were no longer needed, live transmission returned to the stage.

  Last call. She checked the full length mirror, and knew that she was having one of those redhead nights. It wasn’t the make-up, or the borrowed curls (which felt disgusting), it was an electricity. The dark opal bodice fitted like a glove, her skirts were glittering embers, smoky feathers; and the cowboy boots, chestnut stitched in aubergine, excellent. Puusi was right. Fiorinda of the party frocks was so over, so nauseating in this high-gloss version, MOR chanteuse. But for tonight it worked. Never in doubt, she murmured: grateful to the goddess for injecting a bracing dose of professional needle into this stunt. Here I am. From abused child to global star. It didn’t work out quite the way I hoped, but here I am. I made it, mummy. I made it, Rufus. Are you proud of me?

  ‘The men band together,’ she said, softly. ‘The women are driven apart.’

  ‘You look great,’ the make-up artist assured her, misunderstanding.

  The wig-person gave her a hug and whispered, ‘Puusi’s a bitch.’

  ‘I didn’t mean Puusi. Well, here I go. Thanks fer everything.’

  She rubbed her bare arms, trembling in shadow just out of sight of the crowd, looking up at the hollow tiers, remembering this place as if she’d visited it in a dream. She was offered something and shook her head impatiently. Someone touched her, don’t fucking touch me. Who touched me? Oh, it was Sage. Nothing seemed real. She saw her path out onto the stage, there I will walk, guitar where it should be, good. How strange, this could be the last time ever in my life I stand like this, waiting to go on, looking into all those dark eyes—

  Now we will do what you asked me to do, sister.

  Fucked-up, falling-apart normality will be restored, with information-space science throwing up weird tech that nobody thinks twice about, and I will be alone again. People like Moloch will come after me. If there are other candidates, they will challenge me. But deal with the problem at hand… She summoned her friends, whose touch she could not endure, to her mind. Sage, my pilgrim soul, Ax, my darling guitar-man. Allie and Dilip, Rob and Felice and Cherry and Dora, Chip and Verlaine. Anne-Marie and Hugh; Doug Hutton. And so many others, every face, but now it’s time.

  You won’t fold, Fat Boy? You insist on doing this? Let’s do it.

  The futuristic technology marvel was over. The Chosen had bilocated from England, done their set and dematerialised. Just like Star Trek! After the break Ax came back with Sage (costume changed into black and white, jeans and s
inglets), and Fiorinda walked on. She picked up her guitar, donned it and gave the Bowl her calm little wildcat grin. ‘Good evening Hollywood!’

  ‘HI FIORINDA!’

  ‘Be patient with me, I don’t speak very good Californian. But you may well believe, I’m EXTREMELY pleased to be here!’

  Sa, re, ga, ma,

  Pa, dha, ni,

  Which god is notorious

  In the neighbourhood?

  Eh, it’s the god of fucking

  And his sugar cane bow-

  Oh, oh, oh,

  Sugar cane bow-

  The second concert at the Hollywood Bowl would have mixed reviews. The West Coast music scene had ignored the first event, as (slighted) they’d ignored the English invasion, rating it as nothing to do with them. They took notice of the second show, and elected to find it dirty, fat, and impressive. They loved the big band, with Anne-Marie Wing and Smelly coming in for a special mention. The industry loved the tech feat, the US end of which had been handled by I-Systems, who were planning to develop b-loc; under licence. Some pundits who’d seen both shows preferred the first, and spoke of a dullness, a shadow on the second: some called the same atmosphere a mood of dark intensity. The Brits (sorry, English) were fey, it was said; both off stage and on. A Celtic term, something about forseeing your own death… According the live polls the audience had a very good time (with pockets of resistance). Easily as good as the last concert. The peaks came when the Chosen materialised, and when Fiorinda walked on and did ‘Sugar Cane Bow’. Towards the end of the Triumvirate set (basically Fiorinda on this occasion, with her lovers in support), as the material moved from the ballads to the dance tracks, the response of the biometric-wired sample went haywire, off the scale.

  At last the three of them came to the front and stood wide spaced, Fiorinda in the centre. Ax had the Fender he’d been playing in his solo spot, Sage was empty handed, leaving his boards to run. The Angelenos yelled approval at the opening of ‘Strange Kisses’ from Yellow Girl, a favourite LA clubs dance anthem of this ‘English’ summer. The three sang, the fierce purity of her voice soaring above the men: holding out their arms to each other, and to the world out there, send our defiance…