and sat down anyway. He ordered drinks.
“So: everyone works for Paulie now?”
“It’s temporary, Vic,” Fat Antoyne replied quickly, as if he had been expecting that question.
“It’s work,” Irene corrected him, at the same time giving Vic a look. “Everyone has to work,” she said. “I don’t care how direct I am when I say that.”
Naturally, a person with Antoyne’s skills sought port work, shipyard work, Irene went on to explain; but the civilian yards weren’t doing as well as anyone thought. “He looked everywhere, and evidently I found him this opportunity instead.” Things were tough all over, she reminded Vic, and in a shortening labour market you couldn’t always have your first choice: luckily Paulie DeRaad was there to fill the gap. She had always found Paulie to be a fair employer, also he was known for good pay. Vic could see how well it was working out, she said, by the new sharp way Antoyne could afford to dress.
Vic agreed he probably could.
“I didn’t have no real place there,” Antoyne said suddenly, meaning Liv Hula’s bar. As he saw it, that was the problem. “All I wanted was a chance to fit in, Vic.”
“Still,” Vic said, “don’t you miss those nights we caned it with Liv?”
“Another benefit is, here they just call me by my name. Which I prefer that. Not ‘Fat Antoyne’ like in some other joints.”
“It’s great you lost weight,” Vic said.
To Irene, with her honed Mona instincts for the feeling nature of life, Vic Serotonin had the face of someone who walked around the town a lot on his own. When he finished his drink and said goodbye to them both, and added courteously to Irene, “Be sure and have a nice night,” she felt all the things Vic didn’t know about himself quiver in her own nerves. She watched him make his way through the Semiramide crowd, passing a moment with Alice Nylon on the door, and told herself sadly, “I knew a million men like him.” With his black hair and sad hard eyes, he looked like the New Nuevo Tango itself, she had to allow. But he had no idea about other people, and less than no idea about himself. She couldn’t express it any other way. A man who walked around a lot on his own and despite that knew himself less well than others knew him. She put her hand over Fat Antoyne’s.
“Vic Serotonin,” she said, “will learn too late about the realness of the world, and how none of us is put here in it long.”
Fat Antoyne shrugged. “We don’t need to think about him.”
This was his signal they should return to the conversation they were having before Vic interrupted them. It was the same conversation they had every night since Joe Leone died, the mythodology of which was: they would soon leave Saudade and travel the Halo again, but this time together. Which was surely, as Irene pointed out, the simplest and most direct of gestures, since travel had by definition brought them both here and together in the first place. “I’ve washed so many planets out of my hair, why not this one?” she said. “Joe would want it for me,” she said. “I know he would!” Her eyes were reckless and bright. “Oh Antoyne, wouldn’t it be so nice?” Antoyne, less certain, was anyway pleased she said it. Each time they had this talk, he felt bound to warn Irene she could find more rewarding travel companions than himself—and better men, though he had had his day, that was certain. In response, he would always hear her say:
“Never talk yourself down, Antoyne!”
If he talked himself down, she warned him, a man wasn’t for her. She counted herself fortunate, she said, to meet Antoyne the awful night Joe died. She was known for her belief that life was follow your heart and never talk yourself down. The future was bright for both of them now, and sad men like Vic would never find that out.
Unaware of these harsh judgments, Vic Serotonin made his way down through Moneytown to the Corniche. Half an hour’s walk brought him
“So: everyone works for Paulie now?”
“It’s temporary, Vic,” Fat Antoyne replied quickly, as if he had been expecting that question.
“It’s work,” Irene corrected him, at the same time giving Vic a look. “Everyone has to work,” she said. “I don’t care how direct I am when I say that.”
Naturally, a person with Antoyne’s skills sought port work, shipyard work, Irene went on to explain; but the civilian yards weren’t doing as well as anyone thought. “He looked everywhere, and evidently I found him this opportunity instead.” Things were tough all over, she reminded Vic, and in a shortening labour market you couldn’t always have your first choice: luckily Paulie DeRaad was there to fill the gap. She had always found Paulie to be a fair employer, also he was known for good pay. Vic could see how well it was working out, she said, by the new sharp way Antoyne could afford to dress.
Vic agreed he probably could.
“I didn’t have no real place there,” Antoyne said suddenly, meaning Liv Hula’s bar. As he saw it, that was the problem. “All I wanted was a chance to fit in, Vic.”
“Still,” Vic said, “don’t you miss those nights we caned it with Liv?”
“Another benefit is, here they just call me by my name. Which I prefer that. Not ‘Fat Antoyne’ like in some other joints.”
“It’s great you lost weight,” Vic said.
To Irene, with her honed Mona instincts for the feeling nature of life, Vic Serotonin had the face of someone who walked around the town a lot on his own. When he finished his drink and said goodbye to them both, and added courteously to Irene, “Be sure and have a nice night,” she felt all the things Vic didn’t know about himself quiver in her own nerves. She watched him make his way through the Semiramide crowd, passing a moment with Alice Nylon on the door, and told herself sadly, “I knew a million men like him.” With his black hair and sad hard eyes, he looked like the New Nuevo Tango itself, she had to allow. But he had no idea about other people, and less than no idea about himself. She couldn’t express it any other way. A man who walked around a lot on his own and despite that knew himself less well than others knew him. She put her hand over Fat Antoyne’s.
“Vic Serotonin,” she said, “will learn too late about the realness of the world, and how none of us is put here in it long.”
Fat Antoyne shrugged. “We don’t need to think about him.”
This was his signal they should return to the conversation they were having before Vic interrupted them. It was the same conversation they had every night since Joe Leone died, the mythodology of which was: they would soon leave Saudade and travel the Halo again, but this time together. Which was surely, as Irene pointed out, the simplest and most direct of gestures, since travel had by definition brought them both here and together in the first place. “I’ve washed so many planets out of my hair, why not this one?” she said. “Joe would want it for me,” she said. “I know he would!” Her eyes were reckless and bright. “Oh Antoyne, wouldn’t it be so nice?” Antoyne, less certain, was anyway pleased she said it. Each time they had this talk, he felt bound to warn Irene she could find more rewarding travel companions than himself—and better men, though he had had his day, that was certain. In response, he would always hear her say:
“Never talk yourself down, Antoyne!”
If he talked himself down, she warned him, a man wasn’t for her. She counted herself fortunate, she said, to meet Antoyne the awful night Joe died. She was known for her belief that life was follow your heart and never talk yourself down. The future was bright for both of them now, and sad men like Vic would never find that out.
Unaware of these harsh judgments, Vic Serotonin made his way down through Moneytown to the Corniche. Half an hour’s walk brought him
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