from the occupant made me think for a moment that it was Gerda inside.
It wasn’t, though. I caught a glimpse of the face and realized it was some other staffer in the blond wig of a Roman prostitute. Or, I realized on second look, it wasn’t a staffer at all. It wasn’t anyone alive. Palanquin, passengers, and bearer were all simulations.
I couldn’t always tell the difference, unless maybe it was raining and I noticed the figures of the virts weren’t getting wet. This time there wasn’t any doubt. The side of the litter changed color to a sort of ripple of green and violet. Then it bulged out, and the figures of a young Asian couple jogged right through the palanquin.
Tourists were always doing that kind of thing, just to show off. Virts were as tenuous as air, and they didn’t care what the customers did to them. What I myself minded, though, was that this couple, once they had crashed their way through the phantom palanquin, hurried right over to my wine bar, where they stopped, giggling to each other, and stood without speaking.
I remembered I was supposed to be unloading wine on them. “Wine?” I asked. “ Vino? Vin? Wein? ” That was about as far as I could go with European languages, and didn’t know any of the Asiatic ones that might have been more useful. It didn’t matter. The youngsters did not seem interested in wine in any language. What they seemed to be interested in was a man slowly approaching down the street.
He was kind of interesting, at that. He was middle-aged and wore a data opticle in his right eye. He was less stylishly dressed than the young people, but the wristscreen on his right arm was set with diamonds and he wore big, jeweled rings on all the fingers of his left hand. He wasn’t alone, either. Eight or ten others of scattered ages followed him. “Good afternoon, sir,” the man said to me, holding his unadorned right hand out for shaking. “I am Dr. Basil Chi-Leong, hello, and you are?”
“Brad Sheridan,” I said, shaking his hand because I couldn’t see any way out of it. Then I was surprised when this Dr. Basil Chi-Leong didn’t let go of me at once. “Now that we are friends,” the old man said sunnily, “I may ask a favor, I think? To be photographed by my family members with you? If I may? All right? Then thank you,” he said, and threw one skinny arm around my shoulders before I could get out of the way.
At that point he changed his tone, and his language, and began issuing orders to his family.
Each one of the adults immediately began snapping pictures of me with one variety or another of camera, still, motion, stereoscopic, and who knew what other kind, as they took a picture with one instrument and then let that one hang from its neck strap as they reached for another. They only stopped when Dr. Chi-Leong raised his hand commandingly. He dropped half a dozen random coins in my meal bowl, still sticky with the remains of my revolting lunch, and said, “That was most enjoyable, Mr. Bradley Sheridan. Allow me to introduce my mother, Madam Katey Chi-Leong, who speaks no English, but is an avid taker of pictures. These others are my three sons and the wives thereof, with grandsons and granddaughters. We are from the Republic of Singapore, perhaps you have visited it? No? That is too bad. But you will not mind if Madam Katey Chi-Leong, my mother, takes some additional pictures of you? And we will each have a cup of your best wine, if you please.”
They did, too, every damn one of them. Even the children. I thought for a moment of refusing to sell wine to the littlest ones, no more than three or four years old; but the pleasure of selling fifteen asses’ worth of wine in five minutes decided me against asking for IDs.
Actually, none of the children drank any of the stuff anyway. They carefully held their cups at arm’s length, to avoid spilling them, or perhaps to avoid the smell of their contents, then set them down untouched on the countertop.
It wasn’t, though. I caught a glimpse of the face and realized it was some other staffer in the blond wig of a Roman prostitute. Or, I realized on second look, it wasn’t a staffer at all. It wasn’t anyone alive. Palanquin, passengers, and bearer were all simulations.
I couldn’t always tell the difference, unless maybe it was raining and I noticed the figures of the virts weren’t getting wet. This time there wasn’t any doubt. The side of the litter changed color to a sort of ripple of green and violet. Then it bulged out, and the figures of a young Asian couple jogged right through the palanquin.
Tourists were always doing that kind of thing, just to show off. Virts were as tenuous as air, and they didn’t care what the customers did to them. What I myself minded, though, was that this couple, once they had crashed their way through the phantom palanquin, hurried right over to my wine bar, where they stopped, giggling to each other, and stood without speaking.
I remembered I was supposed to be unloading wine on them. “Wine?” I asked. “ Vino? Vin? Wein? ” That was about as far as I could go with European languages, and didn’t know any of the Asiatic ones that might have been more useful. It didn’t matter. The youngsters did not seem interested in wine in any language. What they seemed to be interested in was a man slowly approaching down the street.
He was kind of interesting, at that. He was middle-aged and wore a data opticle in his right eye. He was less stylishly dressed than the young people, but the wristscreen on his right arm was set with diamonds and he wore big, jeweled rings on all the fingers of his left hand. He wasn’t alone, either. Eight or ten others of scattered ages followed him. “Good afternoon, sir,” the man said to me, holding his unadorned right hand out for shaking. “I am Dr. Basil Chi-Leong, hello, and you are?”
“Brad Sheridan,” I said, shaking his hand because I couldn’t see any way out of it. Then I was surprised when this Dr. Basil Chi-Leong didn’t let go of me at once. “Now that we are friends,” the old man said sunnily, “I may ask a favor, I think? To be photographed by my family members with you? If I may? All right? Then thank you,” he said, and threw one skinny arm around my shoulders before I could get out of the way.
At that point he changed his tone, and his language, and began issuing orders to his family.
Each one of the adults immediately began snapping pictures of me with one variety or another of camera, still, motion, stereoscopic, and who knew what other kind, as they took a picture with one instrument and then let that one hang from its neck strap as they reached for another. They only stopped when Dr. Chi-Leong raised his hand commandingly. He dropped half a dozen random coins in my meal bowl, still sticky with the remains of my revolting lunch, and said, “That was most enjoyable, Mr. Bradley Sheridan. Allow me to introduce my mother, Madam Katey Chi-Leong, who speaks no English, but is an avid taker of pictures. These others are my three sons and the wives thereof, with grandsons and granddaughters. We are from the Republic of Singapore, perhaps you have visited it? No? That is too bad. But you will not mind if Madam Katey Chi-Leong, my mother, takes some additional pictures of you? And we will each have a cup of your best wine, if you please.”
They did, too, every damn one of them. Even the children. I thought for a moment of refusing to sell wine to the littlest ones, no more than three or four years old; but the pleasure of selling fifteen asses’ worth of wine in five minutes decided me against asking for IDs.
Actually, none of the children drank any of the stuff anyway. They carefully held their cups at arm’s length, to avoid spilling them, or perhaps to avoid the smell of their contents, then set them down untouched on the countertop.
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