by John Barnes
He wasn't a really accomplished musician, but he was good enough, and well-practiced enough, to be adequate, and what he sang was a loose translation of the Canso de Fis de Jovent. Normally I hate to hear the standards paraphrased or altered for some transient cause or occasion, even though that's quite common in Nou Occitan. This time, however, he had begun from the translation, and what he had done seemed wise and appropriate—removed the specifically Occitan places, changed the gender to neuter, and emphasized the aspects of courage in the face of loss, of waste. It had real power; certainly all of us wept without shame.
On the way out of the hall, everyone stopped to look into Valerie's eyes and greet Betsy. Then, finally, we took that poor broken body down to the recycler, and fed it in.
I had about decided to cancel classes anyway—I couldn't imagine that much learning would go on that day—when the com pinged for me. I pulled my unit from my pocket and found myself looking at Ambassador Shan. "You would seem to be the logical person for this announcement; please post it to the Center. The Bazaar will open on the Embassy grounds in six hours—just at the end of First Dark."
"Isn't that early?"
"Very."
"And I thought there was going to be more warning—"
"There was. There isn't now. And unless Saltini has this line bugged, he doesn't know yet. He's last on my list to call. Make sure word of that gets around as well, please?"
"Yap," I said, like a real Caledon—that is, doing my best not to let anyone know I was enjoying it.
"And—er, if I may mention, Giraut, the funeral was magnificent. Simply magnificent."
"I just provided the building. Other people did the work."
"Pass my compliments along to them, then. I have many others to com; I'll talk to you at greater length soon."
Arid with that he was gone.
I got on the public address system and made the announcement; in six hours all the wonders of the Thousand Cultures would be on display in the Embassy. Saltini's evident fear of the Council of Humanity meant that as long as everyone traveled together going to and from the Bazaar, it was unlikely that anyone would encounter much trouble.
I had half assumed I would have to declare a holiday for the Bazaar opening; I hadn't realized the half of it. An hour before it was due to open, my students were forming a line outside the Embassy; twenty minutes after that they were no more than five percent of that line. I had seen one Bazaar, as a teenager, and been dazzled and astonished, but naturally every Bazaar afterwards is larger, since more and more cultures are added to each one. This was a good third larger, for Nou Occitan had launched a crash program to get a springer built, so that even though we were remote, we had made Connect before many other cultures. Most of the outermost colonies were only now making Connect, like Caledony, and a few like St. Michael had not done it yet.
There were actually 1238 cultures in existence, and more than 1100 were represented. Many just had simple booths with one or two bored attendants ("THORBURG. PRESERVING THE MILITARY TRADITION ... BECAUSE WE JUST MIGHT NEED IT AGAIN. ASK ABOUT OUR FOREIGN LEGIONS" was doing relatively little business; there were a lot of people at the jobs in hedonia booth until they discovered that what the Hedons wanted was people raised in sufficiently traditional cultures to be actually unwilling, and preferably even shocked, for abuse at orgies). Others—notably the United Cultures of Dunant, an amalgam of the heavily interblended cultures of the oldest settled colony planet—had full-fledged pavilions with incredible mixtures of products on display.
I found myself chatting with Major Ironhand at the Thorburg booth mostly because I felt a bit sorry for him—people were swinging around his booth as if he had a gang of thugs hidden under the table waiting to leap on them and force them into uniform. "Nou Occitan," he said. "Yeah, I was stationed at the Bazaar there for a few months. We actually had a few recruits, and I'd have to say it was a fun place; loved the simulated fighting, and it was certainly pretty."
A little further conversation determined that he'd actually been to some of the same places I had; Thorburgers wear their hair braided down their backs "in time of peace"— which of course is what there's been for six hundred years, so nobody has any idea what they'll wear if a war breaks out— and he'd apparently just stuffed it down the back of his neck and gone out to be a jovent. He seemed to have a good feel for music and poetry, so it wasn't purely as a brawler, as I had feared at first. On the other hand, I couldn't help noticing that it had been very easy for him to fit into Occitan society (most offworlders stayed on Embassy grounds there) and that he had successfully raised several companies of Occitans, enough to form their own Legion. "Best-looking uniforms in the army," he said, grinning, "god knows what history book they got them out of. Wild people to get drunk and stupid with. And they're smart and disciplined on duty." Thorburg was practically a pariah among the Thousand Cultures—even the many cultures that shared their planet with them didn't like them much—and it seemed unpleasant to me that we Occitans got along so well with them. When I talked with Aimeric later, he claimed it was because we were the only two really Romantic cultures.
After establishing that Major (it seemed an odd name to me, but I could tell that he liked being addressed by it) would be around for a year or so, and thus I'd have many more chances to talk with him, I took a stroll around the main concourse.
"Giraut! Giraut Leones!"
I turned around to find myself facing Garsenda. My jaw must have dropped like a brick, because she giggled and said, "Hi. We've got to talk. But come on over to the Occitan booth—I'm the only one there and I can't leave it unattended."
In a sort of daze, I followed her. She was wearing traditional Occitan clothing, but her jewelry seemed more Interstellar.
"So how have you been?" she asked, as she handed me a strong mug of coffee, stuff that tasted amazingly of home. "I mean, we all know what you've been doing, but how are you feeling? Do you ever get a chance to perform anymore?"
"You all know what I've been doing?"
Garsenda smiled and winked at me. "Listen, first thing ... you knew when we went into finamor that I was a climber, didn't you?"
I nodded; I supposed I had. Few things are as flattering as having someone who is trying to elbow her way into good society decide that you are a logical doorway.
"Well, I have to say, I'm not an awfully competent one; I went and lost you just before you came here, and considering what your status is like back home—especially since Marcabru has made such a fool of himself as Consort—"
"Er, I've only been getting letters from my father about the weather and his tomatoes, and letters from Marcabru."
Garsenda snorted. "I can imagine. Sit, sit, thanks to your Center, everybody's seen Occitan stuff and nobody bothers coming here, although the aintellect tells me that tons of music and art and clothing patterns have been ordered. I'm going to look brilliant without having to do very much."
"How did you end up with this job?" .
"Well, they wanted someone who had lived Oldstyle, and was willing to do it again at least a bit. And you'd be amazed how few are left or willing to admit it. Marcabru and Idiot Girl were trying to impose a cutoff from the Council of Humanity, or at least severely restrict contact, in order to squelch the Interstellars. That idea didn't stand a chance—too many people like Fort Liberty coffee, sporting goods from Sparta ... well, you know—still, our monarchs managed to do a lot of petty harassment, and practically destroyed the Oldstyles because most of them can't stand Marcabru. Even Pertz's has gone all Interstellar, just because they've managed to make it this embarrassing hyperconservative thing to be. So I was one of the few applicants—maybe partly because I, uh, well, had made quite a reputation as an Interstellar.
"As for how. we all know what you've been up to, of course Marcabru was always reading your letters out loud at Court—oh, I didn't tell you, but we finally got a few Interstellars in at Court, and even though Idiot Girl practically fainted—"
"S
he is the Queen," I said mildly.
"No, he is. She sits in her room and writes verses that no one else can understand, and he wanders around the Palace in a weird Oldstyle outfit—much more extreme than anyone else ever wore—challenging everyone he can find to fight. Anyway, as I was saying, Wilson stayed in its orbit even after Interstellars got in."
I shook my head slowly. "You know, I think you've talked to me more in the last five minutes than you ever did while we were in finamor."
"Well, there's more to say now than there was then." She brushed her hair back and I saw that the scarring on her ears had healed.
"So have you gone back to Oldstyle for good, or—"
"No, this is more or less a costume," she said. "Let me finish the story, because it's something you need to know, and I'm afraid time to talk may get short later. So at first Marcabru was making a lot of capital out of the idea that you were finding out what the rest of the Thousand Cultures were like, and they were all gray ugly artless places, that we were the last outpost of civilization ... but then after a while ... well, the things you said about these people ... Giraut, don't let it upset you, please, but you're a hero to the Interstellars. So is Bieris—there must be five hundred painters trying to imitate her—but you're the real hero."
I wasn't sure I was still breathing. "Me? What did I do?"
"Those letters. You really brought the Caledon culture alive to us; even through Marcabru's sarcastic readings. There's at least twenty people I want to meet here— Thorwald, and Paul, and this marvelous Valerie you talk about—we just met Ambassador Shan this morning and he's exactly like what you describe."
Her eyes were shining and she was so excited that I asked, "But—surely you've had a chance to see what Utilitopia itself looks like, or the Morning Storm, or—"
"I won't get to travel much—I'm so frustrated that I'll be within a few kilometers of the Gap Bow and probably never get a chance to see it, or even Sodom Gap..."
I began to laugh, softly, because the whole thing just seemed so absurd; and yet, I had to admit, even having named the two ugliest things I could think of first, that part of me wished we had about a week to just go out and see some of the sights. Call it loyalty to my Caledon friends, or just to my own experience.
"All right," I said. "So, after you go back, should I write to you? I just dropped Marcabru a challenge without limit last night, so I won't be writing to him again."
She shrugged, and all that beautiful dark hair swirled around her face. "I'm really a rotten correspondent, Giraut, but for you I would try to make an exception. Especially..." she smiled at me, and I saw a ferocity that I would never have realized was there in the old days "... since I'm sure it can be turned to some account socially."
"At least one of us has really changed," I said.
Garsenda smiled. "Both of us, but I'm glad. I think we could be friends now."
It was true. "Well, what's become of you?" I asked.
Those blue eyes were so full of laughter—maybe a slightly decadent laughter, but I still liked it "Goodness, the last time you saw me—well, I saw it on the playback. You were certainly upset and I suppose you had a right to be. That was a strange time for me too. But I don't suppose you know about the ongoing uproar among the Interstellars, because I would bet Marcabru hasn't told you."
She told me. Of all the Thousand Cultures, Nou Occitan had been one of the most extreme in enforcing gender differences, and had some of the most rigid and elaborate codes of courtesy. When Connect had triggered upheaval and change there, like most cultures it had at first lurched, not in the direction of the mean of the Thousand Cultures, but toward its own repressed side. "So you might say a lot of us donzelhas were just acting out what we'd all been afraid of in our own culture. Sadoporn is a minority taste on Earth, and in practically every other culture—the people at the Hedon booth tell me so far they have about three orders from all of Caledon, and they're all for pretty mild stuff. But in a culture like Nou Occitan, with its emphasis on gender difference and violence—well, did you know that was one of our major cultural imports right after Connect? It's just implicit in things. So a lot of us acted it out at first, the same way you go through a phase of being hyperconformist just before you drive your parents berserk. But there were a lot of other ideas floating around out there, and pretty soon it began to occur to a lot of us that maybe being rape objects getting actually raped wasn't much of an improvement over just being rape objects."
I was reasonably sure she hadn't come up with all of that by herself, but it was obvious she believed it and understood it... and worse yet, I had reached a point where I understood it, even if I was a bit uncomfortable with the phrasing of the whole thing. "Er—" I began, "that is, did you know ... um, I would watch the symbolic language right now. You know we have a political crisis in process here, and there's been a coup?"
She beamed at me as if I were a star student. "Of course I do. Just before I came I was in a demonstration trying to get the Council of Humanity to intervene against the Saltini regime."
"Well—" I told her about Betsy Lovelock. "—so, you see, 'rape' is a more loaded than usual word locally."
She nodded, sensibly, but then she said, "Giraut, did you even know that real, violent rape was common in Nou Occitan?"
My mouth started to open; and then I found myself trying 'to think—deu sait I had never threatened a woman myself... well, perhaps I had wrestled once with an unwilling virgin, but she was willing enough by the time that we ... still, did I know what had been going on in her mind? Perhaps she had just been frightened into submission.
And certainly I had known jovents enough who, armed with the neuroducer, against donzelhas who were not ... Marcabru himself had boasted to me once that he had gotten a "little ice princess" to "open her pretty mouth and satisfy me like the whore she really was" by threatening her with his epee, telling her he would use the neuroducer to give her the sensation of having her breasts slashed off, and of being sliced from anus to vagina. He had done it because he wanted to fight her entendedor, knowing that if he carried out his threat she would experience it as if real—I had thought of it as wildness, as a cruelty I would not have practiced myself, but I had also shaken my head with a certain admiration. Bloodthirstiness is a part of enseingnamen, after all.
Garsenda had been sitting quietly watching me, and finally she said, "I see it came as news to you?"
"Not when I thought about it."
"You know, you were my fourth entendedor, Giraut, and the first one who never forced me." She sighed. "I just wanted to ... well, not thank you exactly. You weren't wonderfully nice to me, but you did treat me with, oh, a little bit of dignity. Gave me an idea I might be good for something, perhaps, besides being sighed over between bouts of abuse. So when I went into the Interstellars, it didn't take long for me to ... you know. Find the really new ideas. You were part of my path to where I am now, and I guess that was a big help, and what I really wanted to say is that you looked so miserable when I saw that autocamera shot of you..."
"I was, I suppose. But it was part of my education too." I got up, feeling strangely light-headed. "I'll try to visit a couple of times before you go back. And if you get any time at all, come over to the Center and meet everyone, please. Um—when I get back ... let's look each other up. And see if maybe we can't be friends."
She stood and hugged me. Her wonderful body, fitted against mine, brought back a lot of very awkward memories, some of them physiologically expressed, but I think I managed to conceal that problem from her.
When I ran into Bruce and Bieris, they were strolling around openly hand in hand, and I was happy that they were now willing to let us all see that. I sent them over to talk with Garsenda, who I knew wanted to meet Bruce. Besides, it occurred to me, it was always possible that she and Beiris could be friends now, if Beiris could get over the impression we'd all had that Garsenda was a fool.
There had to be ten thousand people here at the opening of the Ba
zaar, and I hadn't the faintest idea what any of them was thinking about; but now that I thought of it, I had never really known as much as I felt I had.
There in the bright glare of the amber lighting, I suddenly felt a great surge of tiredness that seemed to come out of my bones and weigh my muscles down. For an instant I thought it must be the arrival of some new awareness, something I must capture for a song, and then I realized it was just that I had not slept enough. Moreover, for once, back at the Center, it was likely to be quiet, with few crises erupting. I saw Thorwald passing by and tossed him the top card so that he could take people back in the Center's cat, then got myself into a trakcar and went back home. A hot shower all to myself was an amazing luxury, and to slide between clean sheets and set the alarm for ten full hours in the future—that was paradise itself.
I woke suddenly in the dark with a distinctly wonderful sensation going on; I was a bit disoriented, but I reached down my body to find a close-cropped head and to take Margaret's hands in mine. She came up for air and whispered "It's all right. Aimeric is staying overnight with Reverend Peterborough."
I bent down and kissed her. "Margaret, that's lovely, but what on earth—"
"Garsenda told me you like to wake up that way, and sort of, uh, what to do, exactly..."
I should have guessed, I suppose. "I love it. I'm just a bit surprised. It's not ... oh, not much like my idea of what you're like. Even though I'm delighted," I hastened to add. Deu, what else had Garsenda told her? There's an Occitan saying—never introduce your current to your previous entendedora until you're sure one of the three of you is going to die immediately.
"Well, I was afraid you'd never get the idea otherwise. I'm not any good at this flirting stuff. And it's not like it's something I haven't thought about, even before I met Garsenda." She hesitated. "Am I doing it right?"
"Perfectly." No doubt Garsenda had given detailed directions. I was still trying to decide whether I should thank her or kill her. Probably both. "How do you feel about it?"