Expatria: The Box Set (6 page)

Chapter 7

Mathias had misjudged Kasimir Sukui's reaction to defeat. He'd offered him money—he knew what it was like to be penniless and foreign in the port of Orlyons—but that had been a bad move. He knew that he should have read the situation more accurately, but he was tired, it had been a long MidNight. Too much concentration always did this to Mathias, left him feeling fuzzy and slow. Sukui shouldn't have kept on playing as he had. Still, Mathias felt guilty; Mono was fond of the old scientist, he should have been easier on him.

What he had said was true, though. Sukui was too
stiff
. He'd spent the night writing notes and missing half of the action; Mathias had even thrown him a few chances—for Mono—but it had been no good. Sukui was a moderate player, he probably broke even more often than not but he would never be a grandmaster, like Ilya Borosche or Françime Boucher. Françime had taught Mathias most of what he knew; she had said he was a good learner, he had a
feel
for the game. Sukui did not have the feel.

Mathias turned away from Salomo's and headed for the room he kept by the docks. He didn't like confrontations, they unsettled him. He hunched his shoulders and walked.

'Winning again, eh, Matt?' It was Vera-Lynne Perse.

Mathias turned. 'Please, Vera-Lynne. I'm tired. You know my answer and I still think you have a nice face, OK?'

'You're cute too, Mathias. Or too cute. No, I just saw you and we're walking in the same direction.' She fell into step by his side.

When Mathias had fled Newest Delhi the barge captain had clearly felt his obligation was over as soon as they docked in Orlyons. Mathias had known no one until he met Vera-Lynne.

His first night in Orlyons had been a MidNight, something he had never heard of before. That night, he had wandered through the maze of streets, confused yet excited by the currents of energy that flowed through the town. There had been people everywhere, drunk and high and laughing and shouting, every single one of them a part of this thing called MidNight. Mathias's spirits had lifted themselves and eventually he'd stopped by a huge street fire and felt that maybe he was a small part of what was happening.

Vera-Lynne Perse had found him by that street fire. She had warmed her hands on his chest and then engulfed him in a piercing kiss. He had never been so close to a woman before and he had been stunned, too slow to react. Then she had paused and drawn her face away from his. 'Ooh!' she had squeaked. 'I thought you were...' Then she had kissed him again. She had taught him a great deal in the ensuing weeks. He had learnt the ways of the world from Vera-Lynne, and also the ways of some of its inhabitants.

Since those first weeks they had drifted. They had learnt more about each other and more about themselves and finally Mathias had moved into his small room in Westward Street. 'It's closer to the fishing,' he had told her. She had agreed that it was the best thing. For his fishing, of course.

The woman beside him, as they walked through Orlyons, had changed. She was more controlled now, less given to partying. She had become involved with politics, what she called the musical underground. 'We're free to play our instruments,' she would say, 'but only in the streets.' 'We play our tunes,' she would say, 'but only on this island of Clermont.' 'We sing our songs,' she would say, 'but we don't have a voice.' The underground wanted to play wherever there was an audience, but wherever they played they stirred up trouble. The bars and clubs simply didn't want them. The underground wanted to get on to Clermont's collective council, too, they wanted street politics to run all of the island, not just the port of Orlyons.

Vera-Lynne Perse wanted to change the world, and instantly, but Mathias had never been quite sure
how
. He doubted whether Vera-Lynne did either; she was just kissing a stranger at MidNight and hoping she could muddle her way through, as she always had.

'You won at the cards, did you?'

She had tried this angle before. Next she would mention Françime.

'You were taught by the best,' she continued. 'Françime Boucher was unbeatable at one time. I opposed her only once. She took everything. One learns, like that.'

'No, Vera-Lynne. Not me.'

She looked at him with her hurt expression. Once, he had found that attractive—she wanted only to be 'won over'—but now his response was a mere echo of what he had once felt.

'Look, Vera, I
know
Françime is on the collective council. I know she has sympathies with people like us, from when she
was
one of us. And yes, I know I still see her occasionally. But she reached where she is by ignoring outside pressures, by putting
herself
forwards. I can't influence her, Vera. You should know that.' He shrugged. 'And anyway, I've left all that behind. I don't want to get involved, it doesn't do any good. That's one thing Orlyons has taught me: whatever the people at the top may think, they don't run things, life goes on whatever they decide. You're wasting your time, Vera-Lynne. Why don't you just enjoy life? I didn't see you at MidNight.'

'You could at least
try
,' said Vera-Lynne. 'Everybody should have the chance to hear the new music. It feeds the soul. You do have influence, Matt, you just don't want to use it. You were scared of it in Newest Delhi—I've heard your stories, Matt, I can make my own interpretations—and now you're scared of it in Orlyons. You haven't changed one bit, Matt. Not where it matters. You're still the same irresponsible
boy
you were.'

Vera-Lynne hurried away.

Mathias didn't understand. She had no reason to let go at him like that. She must know that he could do nothing; what made her think he had any influence in Orlyons? That sort of thing was far behind him, now.

He didn't know what to think. He decided to look for Mono; at least
she
would not confront him.

'Hey, Slide!' He had spotted a friend standing in the mouth of a narrow alley. Slide was the best trombonist on the island, good with the mouth-organ, too. 'Have you seen Mono? I'm looking for her.'

Slide shook his head. 'Guess she's somewhere in Gentian Quarter, hawking vee, I guess.' Slide was spaced out; MidNight had clearly been a good one for him. Mathias set off for the Gentian Quarter, hoping Mono hadn't found a client yet. He wanted to talk.

~

Mathias had met Mono soon after his arrival in Orlyons. When Vera-Lynne had still been into partying Mono had been one of the group she mixed with. The two women were musicians and when they weren't jamming or partying they were arguing about the blues and the new music and why the clubs wouldn't let them play.

Mono had always blamed the underground. Songs like
Paragon of the Dead
and
Killing Mothers is Fun
(Parts I and III) were what put people off; singers saying 'If you believe in yourself wreck something' were the problem. Now, even traditional music was banished to the streets. Vera-Lynne always said she was missing the point, but she never seemed to say what the point was. Mono just wanted to play her stately old Gibson Semi-A, and sing a few soulful phrases. Vera-Lynne wanted to fight, her saxophone was a weapon and she screamed through it at anyone who would listen.

Mono was a real artiste, she had a natural gift for her music, she could make that old Gibson sing, she could make it weep, she could make it tell any story she wanted. She would spend every spare moment crouched over her guitar, working at an awkward phrase, testing new combinations, rearranging the old. Always, she was extending her range, broadening her grasp. One evening in her room in the Gentian Quarter, when Mathias was almost drunk and Mono was bending the strings wildly, trying to perfect a difficult interchange, Mathias had told her he could never work at something like that, he just couldn't. Mono had taken a swig from his mug of vodka-dry and said, 'No, you couldn't, could you?' Mathias had gone back to his drink and Mono to her practising.

Vera-Lynne had pushed them together. Not long after Mathias had found his room by the docks, she had accused him of becoming a recluse. 'You're too good to waste,' she had told him.

Mono had turned up at his room that night. 'Can I come in?' she had asked. Mathias knew her from Vera-Lynne's parties but he had been surprised to see her there. He let her in and pretty soon she went to work on him. Then she stopped. 'It's no good,' she said. Then she explained that Vera-Lynne had paid her the union rate—Mathias knew Mono's line of work:

she needed to support her music—and asked her to seduce Mathias. Mono was upset but Mathias found it hilarious and resolved to hire a call-boy for Vera-Lynne the very next day.

When Mono had stopped crying on his chest Mathias had asked her why she hadn't carried on. Wasn't it her job?

'I will, if you want,' she had said. 'But you're a friend, it's different. It shouldn't be like that. If we fucked you'd just be like all the others. Or maybe not, maybe you'd be
more
than all the others. Then where would I be?' She seemed desperate. 'Will you give me some space? I like you too much, I don't want to complicate things.'

Of course he had given her the space. They had grown closer, but never in a physical sense. Under Mono's restrictions, Mathias felt different to all the others. He didn't resent her clients, not even the ones like Sukui, whom Mono tried especially hard for. He had known of Sukui long before the card game; Mono said he was like her father had been, starched and withdrawn but, beneath it all, vulnerable.

Mono had taught Mathias to play the slap drums and soon he had constructed his own set of oversized bongos from a pair of gin-shells and some pigskin from a stall on the Patterdois. She told him his rhythm was good but his concentration poor, he would have to work at it. He never did, but he was good enough to back Mono's loose affiliation of buskers, the Monotones.

Passing through Greene Gardens, Mathias heard the familiar sound. Flute, sax and, as he drew closer, the gentle whisper of Mono's guitar. 'Mama gonna sell my soul,' she sang, breaking in on a saxophone improvisation and sounding almost as if it was an accident; Mathias knew how long they had practised the timing of that passage. 'But my papa done sold it before.' They were well into the third movement of the song, one of the longest in the current set. 'Mama gon' sell my so-oul.' There was a crowd of twenty or so passers-by; others looked but didn't pause. They were enjoying it, Mathias could tell by their faces and by the pile of coins and fruit in the Monotones' collecting hat.

Mono spotted Mathias and smiled. This was the music, this was what life was about. Mathias settled back to listen, the morning's confrontations behind him.

When the song finally wound down, Mathias kept his eyes closed a moment or two longer, just to let the buzz run itself down in his head, the music was that good. 'Matt, Matt!' Mono was kissing his eyelids, tugging at his folded hands. 'Matt, we've got a gig. Salomo says we can play next MidNight in his club. He says he knows we're worth it, he says he's doing it just so he doesn't have to come out on the streets to hear us. Matt, we've got ourselves a gig!'

There was no containing Mono when she was this excited. She pulled Mathias to his feet and led him running across to Milly and Katsushita, flute and sax, and said, 'I've told him, Milly, Kats. I've told him and he says...' She paused and looked at Mathias, then her face broke and she laughed with him.

'He hasn't said a word because you haven't shut up since Sal said "Yes,"' finished Milly. 'You free for the rhythm section, Matt? We want a solid sound—Mono'll need holding back if she's any like this.'

'Yeah, right.' Mathias was surprised to be asked; he hadn't thought he was that good, and anyway his mind had been off in another direction. 'Mono,' he said. 'I've been thinking over what you said about the Semi-A, about it needing more guts. I don't want to mess with the body, it's too good.' Neither did Mono, but she wanted more sound from her guitar, it was too often drowned out by the 'tones and Mono fronted the band because she
wanted
to front the band; she didn't want drowning out. 'There's a guy with some books I checked up, down on San Clemente. I found out some interesting stuff and I think we can rig your guitar with some kind of electronic amplification. I've ... experimented with something similar before and I've tracked down the parts through Alya Kik. I think it's what you're looking for.'

Mono's face was all the answer he needed. 'We'll try it,' she said. 'Yes, we'll try it.' Then her expression changed. 'Hey, Matt. There was somebody looking for you. Asking questions. Slide said they had northern accents and they called you Mathias, not just Matt. He said they were probably friends'—Mono's expression faltered—'but you'd better go easy, Matt: they might not be.'

~

On his arrival in Orlyons, Mathias had found that he had to feed himself for the first time in his life. He had no masked servants to tend to him, no kitchens of top-class chefs to feed him, no Home Secretary to organise his domestic routine. He had only himself.

He was smart, though, he could mend things and make things and sell them from stalls, he could fake terran artefacts along with the best of them; with Vera-Lynne's help he had established himself easily. It was his days in the Mondata fishing boats that proved most useful, however. In Orlyons there was a steady demand for anyone who could handle a boat or a line or, best of all, the trawlers' vast purse-seine nets. Mathias could do all three and had never been short of work.

That afternoon, after Mono told him of the Monotones' impending gig, Mathias skippered one of the big cats out of Orlyons for a night's fishing. The sea was calm, as ever, but the undercurrent had backed and was bringing cold waters up along the coast from the south. The fish were less abundant, but the cooler waters favoured the terran introductions and it was these that were the most valuable.

Repeatedly, they lay the purse-seine in a wide circle, winched its bottom closed and then hauled it up between the cat's twin hulls; since Mathias had introduced catamarans to the local fisherpeople there had been a large reduction in the capsizes that had been common before. That afternoon the catch was moderate, lots of blue bass—Idi would have been proud—lots of doggies and a few mawfish. Then, as night drew in around the boat, Mathias set his halogen lanterns over the water and wired them into the cat's power-cells, charged during the day by the motion of the waves. The catch was good, that night. The profit would be high, after the boat-owner and docking dues had been paid.