a green swatch of sailcloth. Grommets, canvas, a toothlike metal zipper—how could these doodads lend such a down-and-dirty eroticism to so refined a female?
Aroused, Xavier touched Bari’s naked shoulder.
“Know what Azzedine once told me?” she said, as if privy to his mood. “ ‘For me, there is no vulgarity, and the street is never in bad taste.’ Or do you think the street’s always in bad taste?”
“Of course there’s vulgarity,” nuzzling her, “and what you’ve got on tonight definitely isn’t of the street.”
“But it is. I’ve taken street materials and transfigured them by reimagining, and then reinventing, them.”
“I’m reimagining you minus the dress.”
“No vulgarity,” Bari said. “ ‘There are women who can mouth the worst obscenities,’ Azzedine told me, ‘and they can go around naked and still be elegant.’ He says that such women have ‘the superior quality of being able to invent themselves.’ We designers make hay by tempting insecure people with money to believe they can buy, and then magically assume, that valuable je ne sais quoi .”
Xavier looked up. “No vulgarity? Even your rationale for your work sounds cynically vulgar, Bari.”
“Maybe. The secret’s not to do it cynically. Vulgarity is a part of us not always to be despised.”
“What?” Xavier didn’t agree.
“No arguments.” Bari gestured with the grater. “I’m not in the mood. What else are we having?”
“Broiled blue fish, stuffed crab, and steamed asparagus. The wine’s an iced Sauvignon Blanc.”
“Good,” Bari said. “Good.”
While waiting for the oven to do its work, they swayed in their stocking feet to Duke Ellington’s orchestra’s recordings of “Mood Indigo,” “Sophisticated Lady,” and a half dozen other Swing Era numbers. Dancing, Xavier told Bari in some detail about his midnight adventure, nearly a year ago, in the Phosphor Fogs.
“You witnessed the accident,” Bari said. “You saw them trying to contain it. Despite what Dr. Nesheim said, that could be how you got the radiation that’s reacted—synergistically, I guess—with your metabolism and body chemistry. Voilà , your syndrome.”
“I don’t know, Bari. I thought I’d dreamt the whole episode.”
“Who am I to say? Perhaps you did.”
Xavier demurred again. “Con-Tri said the accident took place the next morning, Bari. Perhaps my dream was a premonition of what was to happen a few hours later.”
“Are you given to premonitions, Xave?”
“Not usually. I never had a clue that you and I’d happen. I never foresaw Mikhail coming to live with me.”
“Then maybe what you think you saw, you saw, and Con-Tri was lying.”
“And why would they do that?”
“You’re the newspaperman, Xave. No guesses?”
“It hardly matters now. The NRC cleared Plant VanMeter’s staff of negligence, and the damaged reactor’s been back on line over a month now. Let’s forget it.”
Bari gave him a puzzled look, then shrugged.
They swayed to syncopated Ellington. Despite the air-conditioning, they warmed in each other’s arms.
“Popular music,” Bari eventually said, halting him and nodding at the stereo.
“Meaning?”
“Ellington was a jazzman. Jazz is an American invention, born in whorehouses and gaming casinos. But you find it listenable, this bastard child of”— wrinkling her nose in a fetching parody of high-minded distaste—“ pop culture .”
“Sure, I like it. Much of it, anyway. To what should we be dancing? Gregorian chant? Bach? Wagner?” He smiled. The notion that a man of his education and taste could appreciate only concerti and sonatas was absurd.
“You think this stuff, our grandparents’ pop music, is good?”
“A lot of it. Ellington, almost always.”
“Then isn’t it possible that The Mick’s favorite music—some of it, at least—could also be good?”
Xavier laughed. “You’ve turned Socratic on me. I guess it could. Why don’t we find out for
Aroused, Xavier touched Bari’s naked shoulder.
“Know what Azzedine once told me?” she said, as if privy to his mood. “ ‘For me, there is no vulgarity, and the street is never in bad taste.’ Or do you think the street’s always in bad taste?”
“Of course there’s vulgarity,” nuzzling her, “and what you’ve got on tonight definitely isn’t of the street.”
“But it is. I’ve taken street materials and transfigured them by reimagining, and then reinventing, them.”
“I’m reimagining you minus the dress.”
“No vulgarity,” Bari said. “ ‘There are women who can mouth the worst obscenities,’ Azzedine told me, ‘and they can go around naked and still be elegant.’ He says that such women have ‘the superior quality of being able to invent themselves.’ We designers make hay by tempting insecure people with money to believe they can buy, and then magically assume, that valuable je ne sais quoi .”
Xavier looked up. “No vulgarity? Even your rationale for your work sounds cynically vulgar, Bari.”
“Maybe. The secret’s not to do it cynically. Vulgarity is a part of us not always to be despised.”
“What?” Xavier didn’t agree.
“No arguments.” Bari gestured with the grater. “I’m not in the mood. What else are we having?”
“Broiled blue fish, stuffed crab, and steamed asparagus. The wine’s an iced Sauvignon Blanc.”
“Good,” Bari said. “Good.”
While waiting for the oven to do its work, they swayed in their stocking feet to Duke Ellington’s orchestra’s recordings of “Mood Indigo,” “Sophisticated Lady,” and a half dozen other Swing Era numbers. Dancing, Xavier told Bari in some detail about his midnight adventure, nearly a year ago, in the Phosphor Fogs.
“You witnessed the accident,” Bari said. “You saw them trying to contain it. Despite what Dr. Nesheim said, that could be how you got the radiation that’s reacted—synergistically, I guess—with your metabolism and body chemistry. Voilà , your syndrome.”
“I don’t know, Bari. I thought I’d dreamt the whole episode.”
“Who am I to say? Perhaps you did.”
Xavier demurred again. “Con-Tri said the accident took place the next morning, Bari. Perhaps my dream was a premonition of what was to happen a few hours later.”
“Are you given to premonitions, Xave?”
“Not usually. I never had a clue that you and I’d happen. I never foresaw Mikhail coming to live with me.”
“Then maybe what you think you saw, you saw, and Con-Tri was lying.”
“And why would they do that?”
“You’re the newspaperman, Xave. No guesses?”
“It hardly matters now. The NRC cleared Plant VanMeter’s staff of negligence, and the damaged reactor’s been back on line over a month now. Let’s forget it.”
Bari gave him a puzzled look, then shrugged.
They swayed to syncopated Ellington. Despite the air-conditioning, they warmed in each other’s arms.
“Popular music,” Bari eventually said, halting him and nodding at the stereo.
“Meaning?”
“Ellington was a jazzman. Jazz is an American invention, born in whorehouses and gaming casinos. But you find it listenable, this bastard child of”— wrinkling her nose in a fetching parody of high-minded distaste—“ pop culture .”
“Sure, I like it. Much of it, anyway. To what should we be dancing? Gregorian chant? Bach? Wagner?” He smiled. The notion that a man of his education and taste could appreciate only concerti and sonatas was absurd.
“You think this stuff, our grandparents’ pop music, is good?”
“A lot of it. Ellington, almost always.”
“Then isn’t it possible that The Mick’s favorite music—some of it, at least—could also be good?”
Xavier laughed. “You’ve turned Socratic on me. I guess it could. Why don’t we find out for
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