Chapter One
He might as well be
comfortable waiting for Grace, presuming Grace existed. Christian chose a bench
near the junction of two main paths, and sat. Although the park was alive with
people, most were only passing through, journeying from one part of the
widespread University of Noronto campus to another.
He opened the cardboard cup of coffee he'd bought at the subway station and
took a sip. It was dreadful but drinkable... just.
A cluster of students
debating the logic of the registration process drifted past. One joked that
getting properly enrolled was a secret test. If they got the right pieces of
paper to the appropriate places within the time allotted, their academic
success was guaranteed. That earned a collective, nervous laugh. Christian
smiled to himself. In the ten years since he'd graduated, the jokes hadn't
changed.
He put down his coffee
and leaned back on the bench to enjoy the morning. It was warm for the middle
of September--the smell of freshly mown grass mingled with the scent of the
nearby flowers, neatly planted in rectangular beds. A black squirrel scuttled past,
then stopped to see if Christian had any squirrel treats. It gave him a baleful
look when none were forthcoming and continued on to
investigate a garbage can. When Christian took the printout of the Internet job
posting he'd replied to from his pocket, the squirrel looked back. Still seeing
no food, it sat on its haunches and delivered a short squirrel curse before
continuing about its business.
Christian read the ad
again. "Generalist: DOS/Dostoevsky. Seeking adventure? If you know
something about computers, literature and the social
sciences, send me your resume. Also, explain what DOS and Dostoevsky have in
common, and how they differ." The sender's name was purportedly Grace X
Machina.
He wasn't looking for
adventure, just a job, but he had the qualifications-¬such as they were. He had
replied, "Dostoevsky wrote The Idiot and didn't make much of a living. I'm
not sure what idiot wrote the original DOS, but someone who didn't made a
fortune from it. Both DOS and Dostoevsky are now considered largely of
historical interest, but do have their aficionados. My resume follows..."
Grace's response was that
if he was in the park between eleven and twelve she would find, and interview
him. Which sounded as unlikely as her name--Christian suspected a prank. However,
since the alternative was to spend another day in his shoebox apartment,
contacting companies at random to solicit work, he'd decided to chance being
played for a sucker.
It was proving a good
decision. Not only was it a lovely day, but the scenery was excellent. His eyes
wandered to a rangy woman in white tights, sauntering along on the grass. That
wasn't illegal, merely unusual--people normally kept to the paths. There wasn't
anything ordinary about this woman though and from the way she moved, she knew
it. Luxuriant red hair spilled down her shoulders and over her halter-top. Her
stride had the confidence of experience. Christian tore his eyes away to again
admire the flowers. They looked as before.
Another glimpse of the
woman would be far more interesting. It would make both of
them happy. Only a few feet away now, she met his eyes, smiled, and
stopped.
"Registering...?"
Christian asked. He could have found a more inventive opening line.
"No, nice try
though." The expression on her angular face put Christian in mind of a fox
viewing a sea of unguarded chickens. "I'm not a student," she
continued. "I have, however, done considerable research in postgraduate
Biology."
To look up and meet her
eyes (pale green, fading into nothing), he had to ignore the scanty top jutting
into his field of vision. Quickly recognising the impossibility of that, he
stood. She was even taller than he'd thought, barely less than his six foot
four.
What to say to a goddess?
"Sorry if I was staring. I'm waiting for someone I don't know. I don't
know you, so I was checking to see if you were looking for someone." His
words sounded lame. Christian felt a flush of embarrassment spread over his
face. When he faced a beautiful woman his brain always tied itself in knots and
his tongue went numb.
Her eyes met his and
narrowed. He was at her mercy, and they both knew it. She put her snakeskin
briefcase on the bench by his abandoned coffee. A flick of her head sent long
hair swaying; it brushed Christian, making him shiver.
She grinned. Even her
teeth were perfect. "Another feeble excuse. You don't think any better on
your feet, do you? Well, while I'm tempted to take advantage, I must admit I'm
not your blind date." She moved closer--a breath separated them.
"It's not a date. I
answered a help-wanted ad..." He found himself babbling the story. This
was the reticent Christian Plowman? He couldn't read
her expression; he wasn't sure if she was interested or amused, and wasn't sure
he cared.
"If you think it's a
joke, come with me."
Christian shook his head.
"No, I'll wait until noon. I made a commitment."
"Oh, how
disappointing. I own several businesses myself, and I can always accommodate a
strong, handsome man like you. Don't you want to come?" She touched
Christian's arm. He gasped--her hand felt like an iron, branding his flesh.
Another headshake was the most articulate response he could manage.
She withdrew her hand,
stepped back and bent to retrieve her briefcase,
treating him to the depths her top contained. She hesitated, her other hand on
his coffee. "You going to drink this?"
Another headshake.
"No. It's probably cold by now." Hard as he tried, he couldn't keep
his eyes on hers. Her breasts were magnificently full.
"Then throw it
out." She kept the cup as she straightened. "Unless you feel obliged
to drink it. You must have intended to when you bought it."
"That's
different," he answered, taking the cup from her.
"I'm not so
sure," she responded. "Well then, may I?" Her pale eyes
flickered towards the garbage can and back.
"Be my guest."
He offered her the unwanted coffee.
Her hand lingered on his
as she took it. "But you're still sure you don't want to come with me
instead of waiting around?"
"No, I'm not sure. I
just know it's what I have to do."
"Very well then."
After depositing the coffee in the garbage can, she took a business card from
her case and gave it to Christian. "So be it. Some other time then. I must
run."
She didn't quite run.
Christian glanced at the card. "Lucille M. Firman,
Subterranean Enterprises--Sole Proprietor". She had a toll-free phone
number. The only address was for e-mail--interestingly, her address was at
diluvia.org, as was that of the mysterious Grace.
"Lucille!" he
called. "You didn't get my name."
She stopped and looked
back. "I'm Lucy to my friends. Do get in touch, Christian. Soon." She
hurried on.
She knew his name? He
must have introduced himself and forgotten, befuddled by her head-clouding
presence. Christian slipped the card into his shirt pocket and admired Lucy's
rapid yet unhurried departure. She flowed effortlessly, red hair swinging. Her
tights fit like skin, leaving little to the imagination. Christian imagined all
the same.
As Lucy reached the road
at the edge of the park a black limo pulled up in front of her and she got in,
without looking back. Christian filed a salacious daydream in the corner of his
mind, to be dealt with later. If the interview with this purported Grace turned
out to be a joke now, he doubted he'd appreciate the humour. But if so, he
could always contact Lucy. He suspected he would anyway, or if he didn't, she
would contact him. She had the aura of someone who got what she wanted, or
else. If she wanted him, however improbable that might seem, he was doomed.
But what a doom!
Christian couldn't keep Lucy's image tucked away and got lost in a replay of
her approach. This time he stood and took a step towards her. Without a word
she melted into his arms and pressed against him, her body searing his...
"Christian?"
He wrenched himself away
from Lucy. A short, dark woman in a brilliant red pantsuit stood in front of
him, smiling. Slung over one shoulder was an immense purse.
"Yes? Oh! You must
be Grace." It wasn't his day for making good first impressions.
"Indeed I
must." She swung her bag onto the bench. "No, don't bother
standing," she continued as she sat. Christian hadn't moved. "The
weight of that darn thing on my shoulder gets to be too much after a while."
She peered into it. "Here now, your resume's on top. Since you're sitting
in front of me, I don't need it." She crumpled the paper into a ball and
flipped it over her shoulder in the general direction of the trash bin. The
wind caught it and deposited it dead centre. "The job's yours. Oh yes, my
card." Her arm went elbow-deep into the bag.
Her card could have been
from the same discount printer as Lucy's-¬"Grace X Machina,
consultant", a local phone number, and the diluvia.org address he'd
written to earlier. It didn't tell Christian anything he needed to know about
his prospective employer but as Grace had said of him, she was here and he
could ask.
Grace held up a hand.
"Wait. I hope you were about to accept, but I do have reservations--for
lunch. I don't want to pressure you, so I won't ask for your answer until
after."
"Thank you."
Christian took out his wallet and put Grace's card in where folding money was
supposed to go. He considered transferring Lucy's card from his pocket and
decided against. If Grace noticed he might have to tell her about his encounter
with Lucy and he wasn't sure he could. He wasn't sure what had happened, if
anything--or whether Lucy's proposition had been long term or short. He did
know he needed gainful employment more than he needed sex and that Grace's
offer was unequivocal. He couldn't afford to turn her down.
"Come along
now." Grace stood, grabbed her purse and started
to walk in one fluid motion.
"What sort of
consultant are you, Grace?" Christian asked when he caught up.
"I've been called an
efficiency expert, trend analyst, councillor, fortune-teller, business
advisor... take your choice. Me, I don't call myself anything at all. People
tell me their dreams and if I like them and they sound sure of themselves, I
tell them to go ahead, and put them in touch with others I think can help. When
things work out, I get a percentage." She gave a trilling laugh. "The
better part of success is surrounding yourself with the right people." She
smiled--teeth as perfect as Lucy's. "I also do personnel searches. I
expect to be asked to start one today, but I'm going to be away from Noronto for a while so I need someone to stand in for
me--you."
"What will I do as
your stand-in?"
Grace grabbed his hand
and pulled him to an abrupt halt. "How could I know? You'll be the one
doing it." Her purse bumped him. "Trust to instinct and do what you
feel is right. I'm hiring you because you have good sense and a good
heart."
"But..." That
wasn't on his resume. And she obviously didn't know him at all, didn't know
what a mess he'd made of his life.
"And don't doubt
yourself." Grace took his other hand. "Your decisions will have my
blessing, whatever they are, okay?"
"Why?"
"Someday you'll be
able to answer that question for yourself. Right now... I want my lunch. Chez
Celeste awaits."
***
Christian thought he knew
Noronto well but he'd never heard of Chez Celeste. It
was close by in a large brownstone, on a side street. From the cars outside,
the restaurant was upscale. Its sign was a small brass plaque on the door with
lettering too fine to be seen from the sidewalk. Chez Celeste wasn't a place
one would find by accident.
Grace was clearly known
there, and well respected; she was greeted with a bow and they were immediately
shown to an alcove, ahead of others who were waiting. The decor was simple and
elegant, plain wood that didn't need ornamentation to show its quality. The
patrons suited the establishment--Christian recognized a
number of faces he'd seen on television or on the front pages of
newspapers, although in many cases not recently. He felt underdressed and was,
by a considerable margin, the youngest person in the room.
"Any time you want a
table, call Uri and mention you work for me." Grace reached into her
purse, took out another card and wrote a name and number at the bottom.
"He'll find room for you, no matter what. Bring your friends."
She slid the card across
the table. "And now, if you'll indulge me, I should check my
messages." She extracted a small laptop from her luggage, pulled out its
antenna, tapped a few keys, and waited. "Oh good, Cosmo says any time this
afternoon is fine. I'll tell him we'll be there after lunch." After typing
her reply she pushed in the antenna and closed the lid.
The food arrived, a small
omelette and salad for Christian, and an immense Caesar for Grace. She lifted
her fork and looked at him. "Okay. Tell me about yourself, things you
wouldn't put on a resume like your life story or your philosophy. Or don't. But
no business talk until lunch is over."
Christian wanted to ask
if the "Cosmo" they were going to see was the one and only Cosmo
Sharpe, Noronto's home-grown media mogul and
self-proclaimed prophet. But that would be business, so instead he offered
Grace part of the chronicles of Christian. That was much easier to relate than
his philosophy--as far as he was aware, he didn't have one.
He glossed over his past
jobs and how after he'd been laid off from the last, he hadn't been able to
find another. The economy had gone into depression and from the viewpoint of
many unemployed people, including Christian, had never recovered. He felt lucky
though; his previous job had lasted seven years and he'd saved enough to see
him through three lean ones. Many had been less fortunate.
Then he told Grace about
Cleopatra Wong. He'd lost her soon after he lost his job. He'd met her at
university when she'd been a business student and he an English major, drifting
towards a degree. Cleo had given him direction, pushing him up a corporate
ladder she found for him after graduation.
After the lay-off, she
got him a position selling life insurance on commission. He discovered what he
was expected to sell was fear and an expensive balm to assuage it--he walked
away from that within the month. Cleo left him a week later, claiming she was
moving in with a man she'd been maintaining an affair with for years. Christian
didn't know if that had been the truth but hadn't seen or heard from Cleo
since, or made any attempt to replace her.
Grace listened; making
the socially accepted grunts and gestures that indicate one is paying
attention. When the waiter asked if they would like dessert she ordered coffee
and a double chocolate cheesecake for Christian, and a coffee for herself. When
it arrived, Christian decided to give the treat his full and proper attention
and quickly wound up his monologue.
He took a bite. The
cheesecake was heavy and rich, cloying. He put his fork down. Grace looked at
him over the rim of her full cup. "And so the past became the present, and
then the future. What has been, always will be." She sipped and put the
cup down. "To ensure this, when you meet someone new, you hand them a
snapshot of Christian as the failure you know him to be, kindly saving them the
trouble of creating their own Christian." She sighed. "It's time for
a new image. You've presented me with the essence of the old. Now leave it
behind. The waiter will put it out with the trash."
"I can't, Grace. You
could fire up your computer and tap into databases that would tell you
everything about me."
"Maybe, and yes
maybe anyone could--if they bothered. But it wouldn't have sad music playing in
the background. Besides, anything found there would need to be interpreted.
Facts and figures are meaningless."
Christian shook his head.
"You don't understand, Grace. This is the Information Age."
"Squawk! Information
age--information age--Polly want a cracker-¬information age." Heads turned
in their direction. Grace laughed, and lowered her voice. "Nonsense. This
is an age of faith, just like any other. All that data gets shaped and moulded
by the prophets of this so-called Information Age to create the reality they
choose. These are the New Dark Ages, Christian. Ignorance rules, as
always." She waved for the bill.
"But isn't that what
you do, Grace?" She looked puzzled, so he elaborated. "Don't you
analyse the available resources and the production and sales data when you make
business plans for your clients?"
Grace laughed again,
softly. "Bafflegab. No, I leave that sort of thing to others. My focus is
on finding clients who know people are more than human resources and on finding
people who won't contort into whatever shape they think is demanded. The best I
hire for myself. You'll do well, Christian. Trust me."
She signed the cheque and
stood. "But from now on let others decide for themselves who you are.
Remember you left the old Christian behind, and see what happens. Let's go.
Cosmo Sharpe awaits."
That answered Christian's
earlier unvoiced question, although he'd been reasonably sure Cosmo Sharpe was
the "Cosmo" Grace had meant. She'd said the name like it was a
complete identification, like "Elvis" or "Madonna". In Noronto, Cosmo was probably as well known.
Outside, Grace walked to
the curb and raised her hand. A taxi pulled up immediately and they got in.
"The Factory," Grace told the driver. With a squeal of tires the taxi
made a U-turn and sped down the street.
Grace turned to
Christian. "Okay, let's hear what you think you know about Cosmo. The
short version, please."
Christian closed his
eyes, half to show he was thinking, and half to avoid watching as the taxi
swung sharply around a slow-moving Volvo. "Cosmo started by buying a small
radio station in the '60's. It was the first to play rock 24 hours a day and it
took off. When I got to Noronto fifteen years ago, it
was the country's leading station. Personally, I don't care for it
anymore."
Grace cleared her throat.
The cab lurched to the right. Christian reluctantly opened his eyes and tried
to focus on Grace and ignore the cab's weaving path. "The short
version," Grace said. "And not the Christian-centred version."
"Sorry. I'll stick
to the facts. If they are facts. Cosmo's legend has been told by the stations
he owns, so its accuracy is suspect."
Grace smiled. "Yes.
He gives himself a positive spin, perhaps too much so, much like the old
Christian gave himself a negative one. I'm glad you can see that.
Continue."
"Okay, well, his is
the basic rags-to-riches/man-with-a-vision-story." Grace's nod said she
understood.
Christian took a
tentative glance to see where they were--how long he'd have to sum up Cosmo.
Not long--the driver was making excellent if reckless progress. "Cosmo
owns the modestly named COSMO-TV, four or five cable channels, some
international satellite services, and dozens of radio stations. A few years ago
he moved operations to the building we're going to, The Factory. It's a
converted shoe-assembly plant on the self-declared avant-garde part of The
Street. Cosmo will put anything on the air, as long as
it gets an audience. Short enough?"
"Not bad.
Judgmental." The cab screeched to a halt in front of a grey-brick building
with large, smoked-glass windows. "I've known Cosmo since before his
beginnings. He's not his legend." Grace dropped a bill onto the front seat
as they got out. "Few of us are." The taxi disappeared in a cloud of
exhaust. Grace stopped outside The Factory's door and waited for Christian to
catch up. "And do remember to let people make their own decisions about
you. Follow the flow, and you'll be fine." She hurried into the building.