replacing the works-and-wares from a dead platform like that.”
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it? That gimmick almost made me angry, before I realized what she meant to say.”
Eugene scratched his head. “You got me. Not my variety of gimmick at all. Paul would know, Paul’s a scholar.”
“Who’s Paul?”
Eugene smiled guardedly. “Paul pretty much lays down the law in our little scene. Y’know, I don’t like being told what to think. Because I’m not much for ideology. But I trust Paul. And I think that Paul trusts me.”
“Is Paul here tonight? Introduce me, all right?”
“Sure.”
Eugene led her across the bar. Haifa dozen people were eagerly clustered around a muscular red-haired young man in a vivid display suit. His suit jacket showed a splendid satellite view of night-lit Praha, patterned streetlights sprawled across his black lapels and down both his glossy sleeves. He was telling some lively and elaborate anecdote in Francais. His enthralled listeners laughed aloud, with the clubby sounds of friends absorbing in-jokes.
Maya waited patiently until the story was wound up in a torrent of alien wisecracks. Then she spoke quickly. “Ciao Paul! Do you mind English?”
The red-haired man scratched his beard. “I have great respect for the English language, but that’s Paul there at the end of the table, darling.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t do that, okay?” Eugene muttered. He led her past a clutter of legs and drinks.
Paul was dark and stocky and clean-shaven, wrapped in quiet conversation with a sharp-nosed woman with black bangs and no lipstick. Paul was groping with an oversized table napkin. The square decorative cloth had a life of its own. It flapped and wriggled and seemed determined to crawl up Paul’s forearms.
Eugene whispered. “Let me get you something.”
“A mineral water? Thanks.” Maya perched on the edge of the couch and watched as Paul and the dark-haired woman discussed the glimmering, flopping cloth in rapid and fluent Italiano.
Paul wore gray fabric trousers and a buttoned fabric shirt in faded khaki; he’d thrown his coat over the back of the couch. The woman wore dark tights and boots and elbow-length white smartgloves. The woman was putting a lot of effort into ignoring her.
Paul deftly pinched a corner of the kerchief. The wriggling cloth went limp. He attached the kerchief to a slender cable, pulled a notebook from beneath the couch, and, still speaking nonstop Italiano, began pounding the keys and observing a readout in some grisly technical dialect of English.
Paul touched a final key and a process began execution. Then he turned alertly to Maya. “American?”
“Yes.”
“Californian?”
“That’s right.”
“San Francisco.”
“You’re very clever.”
“I’m Paul, from Stuttgart. I program. This is Benedetta, she’s a coder from Bologna.”
“Maya. From nowhere in particular, really. Don’t do much of anything.” She offered her hand to the woman across the table.
“You’re a model,” Benedetta said wearily.
“Yes. Sometimes. Barely.”
“Ever had one real idea to trouble your pretty head?”
“Not really, but I can dust myself off if I trip over one.”
Paul laughed. “Benedetta, don’t be gauche.”
Benedetta brushed at Maya’s fingers with her smart-glove, and slumped back into the couch. “I came a long way to talk to this man tonight. I hope you can wait to flirt with him until everyone gets very tight.”
“Benedetta’s a Catholic,” Paul explained.
“I am
“Benedetta is also a miracle of tact,” Paul said.
“I only wanted to ask about the mural,” Maya said.
“
Eugene had returned from the bar, but he was wrapped up in another story from the raconteur. Eugene was leaning on his elbows on the back of the couch, snorting with laughter, and sipping absently from Maya’s mineral water.
“Tell me about this Eva person. Where is she now?”
“She took too many tinctures and fell off her bicycle, and she broke her neck,” Benedetta said coolly. “But the medicals patched her back together. So she married a rich banker in Espana, and now she works for the polity in some stupid high-rise in Madrid.”
Paul shook his head slightly. “You’re very unforgiving. In her own day, Eva had the holy fire.”
“That’s for you to say, Paul. I met her. She’s a perfect little middle-aged bourgeoise who keeps houseplants.”
“She had the holy fire, nevertheless.”
Maya spoke up. “Her mural. It’s all about people like yourselves, isn’t it? When they’re left to themselves, they do miracles. But when they’re scrutinized and analyzed from the outside, then they dry up.”
Paul and Benedetta exchanged surprised glances, then turned to look at her.
“You’re not an actress manque, I hope,” said Benedetta.
“No, not at all.”
“You don’t dance? You don’t sing?”
Maya shook her head.
“You don’t work in artifice at all?” Paul demanded.
“No. Well—sometimes I take photographs.”
“It had to be something,” Benedetta said triumphantly. “Show me your spex.”
“Don’t have any spex.”
“Show me your camera, then.”
Maya pulled the tourist camera from her woven purse. Benedetta gave a short bark of laughter. “Oh, that’s hopeless! What a relief! For one terrible moment I thought I’d met an intelligent woman who liked to wear spangled tights.”
A tall man in a long gray coat and mud-smeared work pants stumbled down the stairs. “Emil has come,” said Paul, with pleasure. “Emil has remembered! How amazing! Just a moment.” He rose and left them.
Benedetta watched Paul go, with deep irritation. “Now you’ve done it,” she said. “Once Paul gets started with that holy fool, there’ll be no end to it.” She unplugged her writhing handkerchief and stood up.
It wouldn’t do to be abandoned. Not when she was just getting through. “Benedetta, stay with me.”
Benedetta was surprised. She looked at Maya forth-rightly. “Why should I?”
Maya lowered her voice. “Can you keep a secret?”
Benedetta frowned. “What kind of secret?”
“A programmer’s secret.”
“What on earth do you know about programming?”
Maya leaned forward. “Not much. But I need a programmer. Because I own a memory palace.”
Benedetta sat back down. “You do? A big one?”
“Yes, and yes.”
Benedetta leaned forward. “Illegal?”
“Probably.”
“How did someone like you acquire an illegal memory palace?”
“How do you think someone like me acquired an illegal memory palace?”
“I hate to speculate,” Benedetta said, pursing her lips. “May I guess? You traded sexual favors for it.”
“No, certainly not! Well … Yes, I did. Sort of. Actually.”
