Zeitgeist

by Bruce Sterling

  Starlitz rose from his bench and trailed her.

  The Yankee tourist opened a small gate and walked up the steps of a whitewashed suburban home. A plaque at the door read BARBARLIK MUZESI. She read a framed, typed announcement on the wall, and pulled a change purse out of her bellows thigh pocket. She carefully counted the zeros on a slender stash of Turkish lira. Then she scuffed her lug-soled boots on the welcome mat, yanked the iron-grilled door, and stepped inside.

  An aged museum guard silently accepted her money. Starlitz pulled a fat money clip from his pocket and paid up as well.

  Lefkosa’s Museum of Barbarity had once been a private home. A famous Cypriot atrocity had taken place inside it. The place had been consecrated to the murders. It had become a neat and dainty little atrocity exhibition.

  The walls were hung with pedantic care, with many period photos showcasing a stark variety of Greek inhumanities to Turks. There were many burnt and bulldozed homes, schools, mosques, and shops. There were profaned flags, smashed windows, and vile graffiti. There were dead people dug out of pits, with filthy improvised clothesline still binding their mummified wrists. Even Turkish statues had been shot in the head.

  Starlitz edged a little closer to his target.

  The woman spoke first. “I sure ain’t with this! Why didn’t we cluster-bomb these sons of bitches? How hard could that be?”

  Starlitz proffered his bakery bag. “Chocolate croissant?”

  “Yeah!” She dived her hand into the bag, removed a flaking pastry, and munched with gusto. Then she jabbed at a ghastly photograph with a tooth-severed croissant horn. “Look at them dead kids! Where was CNN when that was goin’ down? fuckin’ media creeps are never around when you need one!”

  “Been in-country long?” said Starlitz.

  “Nope! Just cruisin’ by to see the local sights.”

  “Where you from?”

  She shrugged. “All over! I’m an army brat.”

  “What do your friends call you?”

  She stared at him. “My friends call me Betsy. But you can call me ‘Mrs. Ross,’ fella.”

  “My name’s Lech Starlitz, Mrs. Ross.” Starlitz dug into his pocket and removed a hundred-dollar bill. He smoothed it between two fingers and handed it over.

  “What’s this about?” she said warily.

  “It’s for listening to me for a minute.”

  “Okay.” She tucked the bill in her pocket. “Talk.”

  “You ever heard of a girl group named ‘G-7’?”

  “Heck, yeah, I heard of G-7! I’m down with all that shit, NATO, UNPROFOR, Gulf Coalition, you can name it!” She scowled. “You’re not dressed well enough to be a pimp, mister. You look like you slept in those clothes.”

  “I have a business proposal for an American female expatriate. Somebody just like you.”

  “So what’s the deal with you, you some kind of intel puke?”

  “I’m a pop-music producer, Mrs. Ross. I manage a touring act.”

  Mrs. Ross blinked in surprise. “Huh.”

  “I need you to be a performer. You get gophers, a makeover, hair extensions, and a total new wardrobe. Plus limos, big hotels, free food, free travel, and big screaming audiences of teenage girls. The works. I wanna make you a star.”

  “Ooh-rah,” she said slowly. She looked him up and down. “What’s your real problem, exactly? You’re insane, right? You’re mental.”

  “Nope. No bullshit. It’s a serious offer.”

  “Well,” she admitted slowly, staring at the photo-studded wall, “I gotta admit it, that would be me all over. That is my vida loca, right up and down. Me, the overnight sensation.”

  “Here,” Starlitz said persuasively. He handed her another hundred dollars.

  “You mean it,” she realized.

  “That’s right. And there’s lots more where that came from.”

  She narrowed her eyes warily. “Well, what’s the mission assignment, then? You better make it well defined, bubba.”

  “You have to sing and dance. In public.”

  “Well, I can dance. I dance great. I’m not real big on singing.”

  “That’s okay. The G-7 act is a road show. It’s all done with tapes and computers.”

  Mrs. Ross stuck her thumbs in her armored concho belt and rocked back onto her bootheels. “Come on, homeboy. I can tell you’re up to something you’re not telling me.” Suddenly, she grinned. “You’re not the bad boy that you think you are, know what I’m sayin’? I’ve seen worse dudes than you. I’ve even done worse dudes than you.”

  “Get a grip, Mrs. Ross. I manage the G-7 act. I am the boss. I’m all about the game plan and the money. There are six other girls on the bus with you. You are just one of a crowd.”

  Mrs. Ross looked down at the museum floor. The humble wooden boards were deeply scuffed with thirty years of constant foot traffic. Then she looked up resolutely. “How much money are we talking? Because I owe my hotel some money. Kind of a lot.”

  “Not a problem, babe. We pay off hotels every day. We even wreck hotels, sometimes.”

  “I had to pawn some shit too. Some personal shit.”

  Starlitz nodded. “I will assign you a personal assistant, who will retrieve your personal shit.”

  “I make a lot of long-distance phone calls. To Bosnia, mostly. Because my ex-husband’s in uniform there.”

  Starlitz grinned. “Phones, we got.” He was really touched by the armed forces ex-wife thing. There was a very good, convincing smell about all this.

  STARLITZ TOOK MRS. ROSS OUT FOR AN EARLY LUNCH. Footloose, broke, newly divorced, and half starved, she fell on her lamb kebab like a timber wolf. They dawdled over hot Turkish coffee until a large white limo arrived for them from the Meridien.

  Once they were safely back in Girne, Starlitz handed the newly recruited American One into the capable hands of Tamara.

  Tamara undertook a brief inspection of the merchandise, with all the delicate tact of a Balkan horse dealer. Then Tamara passed Mrs. Ross on to the G-7 makeup people. “There isn’t much time,” she told them coldly. “Do your best with her before you pack for Istanbul. Hurry.”

  The new American One was rapidly hustled out of earshot. “So, what do you think of this one?” Starlitz asked Tamara. “Not bad for such short notice, eh? Great muscle tone.”

  Tamara shrugged. “I like her skin. Very Jody Watley, very Mariah Carey. It’s a nice American color.”

  “You seen Mehmet Ozbey around? Ozbey was bitching at me earlier. He didn’t think I could find a new American One overnight.” Starlitz chuckled falsely. “Shows what he knows.”

  “I knew you’d get someone,” she told him, bored. “You always get somebody. I hope you didn’t get us another crazy one.”

  “Any problems dumping the last American One?”

  “Of course not. I took care of all that. She’s gone.” Tamara’s tight eyelids narrowed. “There is a new problem, with the Italian One. An Italian man is here, someone who knows her. I don’t like this Italian man. We’re trying to pack for Istanbul, and he’s bothering the staff.”

  “Okay,” said Starlitz. “Send this problem to my office. I’ll square it away.”

  Starlitz went to his hotel room and showered. He ripped the dry-clean plastic off a Carnaby Street bespoke ensemble in vivid chartreuse. He dressed and went to his office at the Meridien. It had a spectacular view of the rocky Cypriot coast, over a handsome balcony at the rim of the hotel gardens. Reaching across the rail to a straggling hibiscus, Starlitz snagged a boutonniere. Then he sat behind his borrowed desk, opened a drawer, and removed a large glass ashtray.

  The Italian arrived. He was a silver-haired and courtly gentleman, who walked with a slight limp. He was wearing a Borsalino hat, a tailored seersucker shirt, and a pinstriped Milanese sport jacket. He carried a nifty Hugo Bosca hand-stained leather valise.

  “Mr. Sarlinz?”

  “Si?” Starlitz half rose.

  The man delivered a business card. “I r
epresent a protective service. We are international security experts.…”

  “Take a seat!” said Starlitz. He examined the card and tucked it in the desk. “Cigarette, Signor Patriarca?”

  “No, thank you.” His visitor coughed politely. “I had to quit.”

  “You don’t have a spare lighter, do you?”

  “No.”

  Starlitz hunted through several drawers and found a paper book of Meridien hotel matches. He lit up with a flourish. “So, what can G-7 do for you?”

  Mr. Patriarca perched neatly on the edge of his chair. “Travelers have many hazards. It would be a shame if your company had an accident. My people, we can help you. We can insure that you have no security problems.”

  Starlitz exhaled and scratched his head. “So is this, like, a kryusha pitch you’re giving me here?”

  “What?”

  “Kryusha, you know. Like, Tambovskaya kryusha, or Fizba kryusha?”

  “What are those words, Russian words? I don’t understand Russian.”

  Starlitz smiled helpfully. “Sorry, man, I just assumed a protection racket had to be Russian. So, who are these insurance people of yours? Ndrangheta?”

  Patriarca scowled. “The Ndrangheta are Calabrian!”

  “How about Camorra?”

  “The Camorra are Corsicans!”

  Starlitz stared at him in wild surmise. “Don’t tell me you’re Sicilian Mafia.”

  “We never use that word, Mafia,” said Patriarca with dignity. “That is an old, ugly word, invented by police! We are businessmen of honor. We have many restaurants, shipping companies, construction companies. And we have excellent insurance policy—just for you.”

  “Wow! Really? This is too good! Just one moment. Let me contact my business associate.” Starlitz picked up the desk phone and dialed the penthouse. After a brief interregnum with Ozbey’s staff he got through.

  “Leggy,” Ozbey grated, his voice thick with hangover. “How glad I am that you returned to us. I was concerned.”

  “Mehmetcik, you’re not gonna believe this. I got a soldier from the Sicilian Mafia down here. Right here in my office, right now!”

  Ozbey was skeptical. “In Turkish Cyprus? Is this a joke?”

  “No, man, he’s serious! And he isn’t Turkish ‘Maffiya’ or Russian ‘Maphiya,’ this guy is good old-fashioned, traditional, mafia Mafia! He’s shaking us down!”

  “What a surprise!” said Ozbey, his voice rising in an eager arc. “I have to see this Mafia man right away!” It had clearly been a long, eventful, decadent night for Ozbey, but the new business prospect was cheering him right up.

  Starlitz hung up. “My associate wants to discuss your proposal.”

  “Is he bringing money?”

  “Money? You bet! He’s very well-to-do. Has checkbooks like you wouldn’t believe. Has his own banks, even.”

  Starlitz tapped ash from his cigarette. Then the office door slammed open. Frosted glass shattered and fell out of it. Three of Ozbey’s goons catapulted through the doorway, carrying Israeli-made Uzi submachine guns. They were breathless from racing down the stairs, but they gave Patriarca three cheerful grins, so redolent with evil that the room’s stuffy air seemed to crystallize.

  Drey held up his right hand, making a gang sign with his scarred fingers: the two middle fingers touching the thumb for a muzzle, and the forefinger and pinky lifted for the wolf’s ears. Drey gazed at Mr. Patriarca quizzically as Patriarca went pale with recognition and terror. Then Ali, lumbering silently forward, punched Mr. Patriarca in the head. Patriarca fell from his chair. The three Turks stomped him lavishly and removed two handsome pistols from his belt and his armpit. Drey took his pulse, and then they stomped him some more.

  At this point Ozbey arrived from the elevator.

  Ozbey chided the boys gently in Turkish. “Sorry about the glass door, Leggy.”

  “I’ll have Turgut Altimbasak look after that.”

  “Mr. Altimbasak is not with us anymore. Get a better office. We leave Cyprus soon anyway.” Ozbey looked down at the prostrate Patriarca. He bestrode him. He prodded him with a polished shoe. “ ‘Sicilian Mafia.’ The very idea.” Ozbey shook his head. “How old and tired he looks! He’s very weak. And so dishonored! This is sad.” Ozbey glanced up, brown eyes gleaming. “Isn’t it? It’s sad!”

  THE HOTEL’S MANAGER HAD VANISHED DURING THE night. Khoklov was also nowhere to be found.

  A brand-new crew of Turkish hotel consultants had flown in overnight from Istanbul. To judge by the terrific racket, they were already fully engaged in remodeling the casino. The local Cypriot staffers were petrified by this powerful offshore intervention. They were hunched and hopping like rabbits, scampering from wing to wing and room to room.

  Starlitz, adapting to the confusion, helped himself to a fine new suite on the second floor of the seaside wing. He called the operator to have his phone rerouted. No one was working the phones. Instead Starlitz found himself confronting the hotel’s voice-mail service.

  The digital phone service spouted a brief canned intro in Turkish, and then horribly disgorged its mangled contents.

  A woman’s intonation, her voice chopped and jerky. Bouncing off the ionosphere. Blistered by buckling software. The nemesis voice of a pursuing Fury:

  “… in an area of total killer creep conditions—the agency of shadow stock bubble—cut evil empires gray dust of broom heavy—heavy blue twilight exit visa smoke bones—cut you … in for suckers dirty marks expelled the airport laughing and pointing come and get … set your watch by it, Leggy … ohmigawd are we ever in Hicks-ville … ”

  Starlitz put the phone down, hands tingling with dread.

  Starlitz sat frozen behind his empty desk, feeling dislocated terror sink into his flesh. A thumb had come from dark futurity to nail him. There could be no safety here. There could be no such reprieve.

  Itchy urgency overcame him. Spooked and restless, Starlitz began to tour the hotel. Mrs. Ross was undergoing radical image surgery, but the other G-7 girls looked okay. They’d been burnt out like matchsticks when they’d first hit Turkish Cyprus, but they were bored by their vacation now, they were jittering to hit the stage again. They’d packed up for their final limos to the airport, while their groupies engaged in the traditional status battle to see who got to sit next to the star. The sound and lighting guys had been the first G-7 agents to go; they were already settling into the Istanbul Stadium Hotel, flopping down the jaws of their cell phones, demanding fifty-amp fuses, manufacturing brand-new road hassles.

  Ozbey was in fine fettle. He was keeping the Meridien’s penthouse on indefinite personal loan. The next floor down had been freshly given over to a brand-new, gathering thundercloud of Turkish television technicians.

  Down at the front desk the Meridien’s guests were being reshuffled en masse. They were cheerful about it, since the new owners were canceling their outstanding bills, in an eerie gush of sinister generosity.

  It all looked far too good. Starlitz ground his teeth and returned to the emptiness of his new office. There was no Khoklov, and no Viktor. And no answers. Time was short, and he could feel the pressure building steadily.

  After a stiff interior battle Starlitz plucked a crisp meishi business card from the innermost depth of his wallet. He made a phone call.

  The phone was answered in Japanese. It was one of the eccentric millionaire’s glamorous uniformed staffers.

  Starlitz requested an audience with Makoto.

  “How it hanging, Reggae?” said Makoto. “Is there good news?” Makoto had amazing, uncanny English. Makoto’s grasp of English grammar was a little uneasy, but he was the world’s most polished vocal mimic of American pop-music diction. Give him a glass slide and a cheap guitar, and Makoto could outslur Robert Johnson. He could sound more lonesome, tunesome, and tubercular than Jimmy Rodgers. He even had better slack-key guitar and falsetto Hawaiian pidgin than Bradda Iz. Makoto was perfectly capable of calling Leggy “Leggy.” He called him “R
eggae” just for old times’ sake.

  “No, Makoto, there’s a problem. A big problem. I can smell it. Is there something awful on your end? Anything really weird happening? Major earthquake, nerve gas in the subways, something like that?”

  “No, no! Everything beautiful here!”

  “Then, yeah, it’s just like I thought,” Starlitz said. He stared out his new window at the tops of the swaying palms. “The time has come for me to pay some kind of dues.”

  “A money problem? Don’t worry so much about money! Because we are friends.”

  “It’s not the money, no. That would be too simple.”

  “A talent problem. I’ll send you new Japanese One. Someone cute and shiny. I keep telling you, Reggae, hire real musicians! Pay scale! You know? It’s easier.”

  “The girls are fine. The act is fine. No, this awful thing, it has gotta be”—Starlitz sighed—“a personal problem.”

  There was a long silence on the line. Makoto was stunned. “But you are Reggae!” he protested at last. “You don’t have personal! No personal at all.”

  “Well, normally that’s true. But this is a funny time, man. It’s the end of an era. This is, like, my Y2K personal problem. It’s, like, looming up here.”

  Makoto sucked air between his teeth. “Well! I don’t know what to say.”

  “This is dead serious, man. I’m not sure I can hold up my end. I might have to take some kind of … leave of absence.”

  “ ‘Leave of absence’? What is that? That’s not in our agreement, Reggae.”

  “I know that. That’s why I’m calling you, right now. You are the honcho, and I’m the line worker. I gotta have a vacation. That’s my pitch. I need some personal time. How about it?”

  “Okay! No problem! Come to Kauai!” Makoto coaxed. “Good vacation here! Sandy dancing on beach. Barbara taking hula lessons! Barbara love Hawaii, I love Barbara, so it’s beautiful Pacific paradise.”

  “Later, man. I just want you to know that I haven’t forgotten that mah-jongg game we had in Guam. I might have to drop a stitch or two with the G-7 act, but I’m standing by that bet we made.”

  “Of course you are stand by our bet,” said Makoto pleasantly. “You are my friend, you are honest.”