‘Thank you, Joe. What do you do? Sculptor, maybe?’
He spread his wide face in a smile and his wide hands in a kind of blessing. ‘Not exactly. I’m in garbage, mainly. Okay, laugh if you want.’
A faint blush tinged the ivory. ‘Why should I laugh?’
‘Everybody does. Not that I care, I’m not ashamed. I got me two incinerating plants now, sent all my kids to good schools out East, and now I branched out into a lot of other diversified interests…’
Behind him Mrs Doody was saying, ‘Oh, Everett and I are old friends, old buddies. See my ex married his ex’s first husband’s widow, if you can work that out! You wouldn’t by any chance have a ciggy, would you?’
Beyond her someone turned to catch a drink off a passing tray, saying, ‘Systems analyst? I thought you said he was a lay analyst,’ to someone already turning away to catch a glimpse of Indica Dinks in the crowd that was condensing around her even as she moved to the bar.
‘Is there any difference? Some people want to systematize the world, others just want to lay it, is there any difference?’ The figure in a heavy grey cowled sweater turned its back on the celebrity. ‘Maybe Wells was right, then, maybe silicon is the basis of all life; you keep meeting people who act as if they had silicon chips in their heads…’
And in independent efforts to ignore the celebrity, others raised their voices across the room:
‘…well I can well conceptualize that people have trouble finding Ruritania on a map, that should not blind us to the facts about non-hostile puppet…’
‘Isn’t that Lyle who just came in? Lyle whatsisname, the sculptor?’
‘Naw, Lyle’s got this godawful birthmark.’
‘…like you to meet Harry Hatlo, Harry is now a behavioural choreographer, but he used to be in food technology, right? On the research side was it, Harry?’
Feeling for his hairpiece, Mr Hatlo risked a nod. ‘I was what you might call a snack inventor. Only my ideas kept getting more and more kinaesthesic, you know? Like I might sort of start with seeing a new kind of crunch first, and then build a product around it, you know?’
Mr Vitanuova nodded. ‘I know. Like
‘Right. And when I invented the dipless chip, the real breakthrough was when I mimed the whole routine myself, in my office — that was how I realized what a downer chip dip can be. See first you gotta buy the mix and take it home, dump it in a bowl and add water, stir it around — and all this is just leading up to the real dipping experience. Which is all that really counts, funfoodwise.’
‘My mother used to make fresh spaghetti—’
‘Yeah, well, so I put the dip
Vitanuova turned away briefly. ‘Hell, there’s one of my boys from the demolition company. You wouldn’t believe the goddamn lawsuits that company is getting snarled up in, probably have to liquidate before—’
‘Work, yes, work situations.’ Hatlo performed a shrug. ‘I applied the same thinking to my own job situation. It turned out that my real job satisfaction wasn’t into food tech at all, but
‘Usually follows food,’ Vitanuova said.
‘These kinaesthesic ideas grabbed me more and more, until finally I got a chance to resign and start a new career in dance.’
‘Yeah I remember your firm going broke on research costs, you got squeezed out when Katrat Fun Foods took over Dipchip International, as I recollect. Excuse me, I better have a word with my employee there.’
Hatlo immediately enjoined conversation with Mrs Doody, who was borrowing a cigarette from the man in dark glasses.
‘My hubby’s got all mine,’ she explained, tearing off the filter and accepting a light. ‘He always does this, goes off with my ciggies — thanks. What did you say your name was?’
‘Felix. Felix Culpa.’
Hatlo, holding on his toupee, said, ‘Hiya, Felix. I was uh just telling Joe there how I got around to dedicating my life to the dance you might say. The name’s Harry Hatlo.’
‘Dedication,’ said Felix Culpa. ‘Discipline. The ultimate cruelty of precise articulation — the curve of arm like a scorpion’s tail.’
Mrs Doody spat out a crumb of tobacco. ‘Thanks for the ciggy, Felix. See you.’
Culpa nodded, apparently looking elsewhere. ‘Take
Hatlo said, ‘Well see most of my work is more in the line of therapy, I work for the city see and —’
‘But the point is, Stravinsky actually scored it for pianolas. It’s like a demonstration of the marriage of pain and precision. Machine cruelty.’
Judi Mazzini turned around. ‘I think I read something like that not long ago,
Culpa hesitated a second. ‘Yes, yes I’m familiar with that. And it does sum up a fascinating overview—’
‘Not very well thought out,’ she said. ‘It’s easy to point out a lot of machine arts stuff in the Twenties. I mean we all know George Grosz with his pictures of leering automata and their sexy brides. We’ve all seen
Culpa said, ‘Well I think his central concern was the er depersonalization pressures of modern societal parameters, people into robots, dancers into machines, wouldn’t you say?’
Judi Mazzini said, ‘I grant you they did a lot of mechanical ballets around then, like
‘Isn’t that Allbright who just staggered in?’ someone said, and heads turned to watch a shaggy, hollow-eyed man in an old torn storm-coat limp into the living room and set down his large briefcase. His heard was iced, and his dirty hair blended into the fake fur on his coat collar. One lapel of the coat was torn and hung down like a withered breast.
‘Goddamnit, where’s the Christmas of it?’ he shouted in the sudden silence. After a pause to pick yellow ice from his moustache, he shouted again:
‘I said where’s the Christmas of it? Where’s the holly and
Francine Moxon was beside him quickly, shoving him firmly into an armchair. ‘Allbright, we’re not hiring any Dylan Thomas acts today. Now you sit here and shut up and I’ll see you get enough to eat and drink. But behave yourself!’
‘Merry Christmas, you gorgeous piece on earth,’ he murmured, and tried to kiss her ear, before she swept away to a group where someone was explaining the difference between a lay analyst and a lay figure.
At the piano the blue-haired man sang:
