Robert Silverberg - In Another Country

“Pardon me,” he said, a little to his own surprise, as she came toward him.

She peered blankly at him. “Yes?”

Thimiroi offered her a disarming smile. “I’m a visitor here. Staying at the Montgomery House.”

The mention of the famous hotel—and, perhaps, his gentle manner and the quality of his clothing—seemed to ease whatever apprehensions she might be feeling. She paused, looking at him questioningly.

He said, “You live near there, don’t you? A few days ago, when I was out for a walk—it was my first day here—I heard you playing the piano. I’m sure it was you. I applauded when you stopped, and you looked out the window at me. I think you must have seen me. You frowned, and then you smiled.”

She frowned now, just a quick flicker of confusion; and then again she smiled.

“Just like that, yes,” Thimiroi said. “Do you mind if we talk? Are you in a hurry?”

“Not really,” she said, and he sensed something troubled behind the words.

“Is there some place near here where we could have a drink? Or lunch, perhaps?” That was what they called the meal they ate at this time of day, he was certain. Lunch. People of this era met often for lunch, as a social thing. He did not think it was too late in the day to be offering her lunch.

“Well, there’s the River Cafe,” she said. “That’s just two or three blocks. I suppose we—” She broke off. “You know, I never ever do anything like this. Let myself get picked up in the street, I mean.”

“Picked up? I do not understand.”

“What don’t you understand?”

“The phrase,” Thimiroi said. “Pick up? To lift? Am I lifting you?”

She laughed and said, “Are you foreign?”

“Oh, yes. Very foreign.”

“I thought your way of speaking was a little strange. So precise—every syllable perfectly shaped. No one really speaks English that way. Except computers, of course. You aren’t a computer, are you?”

“Hardly.”

“Good. I would never allow myself to be picked up by a computer in First National Plaza. Or anyplace else, as a matter of fact. Are you still interested in going to the River Cafe?”

“Of course.”

She was playful now. “We can’t do this anonymously, though. It’s too sordid. My name’s Christine Rawlins.”

“And I am called Thimiroi.”

“Timmery?”

“Thimiroi,” he said.

“Thim-i-roi,” she repeated, imitating his precision. “A very unusual name, I’d say. I’ve never met anyone named Thimiroi before. What country are you from, may I ask?”

“You would not know it. A very small one, very far away.”

“Iran?”

“Farther away than that.”

“A lot of people who came here from Iran prefer not to admit that that’s where they’re from.”

“I am not from Iran, I assure you.”

“But you won’t tell me where?”

“You would not know it,” he said again.

Her eyes twinkled. “Oh, you are from Iran! You’re a spy, aren’t you? I see the whole thing: they’re getting ready to have a new revolution, there’s another Ayatollah on his way from his hiding place in Beirut, and you’re here to transfer Iranian assets out of this country before—” She broke off, looking sheepish. “I’m sorry. I’m just being weird. Have I offended you?”

“Not at all.”

“You don’t have to tell me where you’re from if you don’t want to.”

“I am from Stiinowain,” he said, astounded at his own daring in actually uttering the forbidden name.

She tried to repeat the name, but was unable to manage the soft glide of the first syllable.

“You’re right,” she said. “I don’t know anything about it at all. But you’ll tell me all about it, won’t you?”

“Perhaps,” he said.

The River Cafe was a glossy bubble of pink marble and black glass cantilevered out over the embankment, with a semicircular open-air dining area, paved with shining flagstones, that jutted even farther, so that it seemed suspended almost in mid-river. They were lucky enough to find one vacant table that was right at the cafe’s outermost edge, looking down on the swift blue riverflow. “Ordinarily the outdoor section doesn’t open until the middle of June,” Christine told him. “But this year it’s been so warm and dry that they opened it a month early. We’ve been breaking records every day. There’s never been a May like this, that’s what they’re all saying. Just one long run of fabulous weather day after day after day.”

“It’s been extraordinary, yes.”

“What is May like in Stiin—in your country?” she asked.

“Very much like this. As a matter of fact, it is rather like this all the year round.”

“Really? How wonderful that must be!”

It must have seemed like boasting to her. He regretted that. “No,” he said. “We take our mild climate for granted and the succession of beautiful days means nothing to us. It is better this way, sudden glory rising out of contrast, the darkness of winter giving way to the splendor of spring. The warm sunny days coming upon you like—like the coming of grace, shall I say?—like—” He smiled. “Like that heavenly little theme that came suddenly out of the music you were playing, transforming something simple and ordinary into something unforgettable. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yes,” she said. “I think I do.”

He began to hum the melody. Her eyes sparkled, and she nodded and grinned warmly, and after a moment or two she started humming along with him. He felt a tightness at his throat, warmth along his back and shoulders, a throbbing in his chest. All the symptoms of a rush of strong emotion. Very strange to him, very primitive, very exciting, very pleasing.

People at other tables turned. They seemed to notice something also. Thimiroi saw them smiling at the two of them with that unmistakable proprietorial smile that strangers will offer to young lovers in the springtime. Christine must have seen those smiles too, for color came to her face, and for a moment she looked away from him as though embarrassed.

“Tell me about yourself,” he said.

“We should order first. Are you familiar with our foods? A salad might be nice on a beautiful warm day like this—and then perhaps the cold salmon plate, or—” She stopped abruptly. “Is something wrong?”

Thimiroi struggled to fight back nausea. “Not a salad, no, please. It is—not good for me. And in my country we do not eat fish of any sort, not ever.”

“Forgive me.”

“But how could you have known?”

“Even so—you looked so distressed—”

“Not really. It was only a moment’s uneasiness.” He scanned the menu desperately. Nothing on it made sense to him. At home, he would only have to touch the screen beside anything that seemed to be of interest, and he would get a quick flavor-analog appercept to guide his choice. But that was at home. Here he had been taking most of his meals in his room, meals prepared many centuries away by his own autochef and sent to him down the time conduit. On those few occasions when he ate in the hotel dining room with his fellow travelers, he relied on Kadro to choose his food for him. Now, plunging ahead blindly, he selected something called carpaccio for his starter, and vichyssoise to follow.

“Are you sure you don’t want anything warm?” Christine asked gently.

“Oh, I think not, not on such a mild day,” Thimiroi said casually. He had no idea what he had ordered; but he was determined not to seem utterly ignorant of her era.

The carpaccio, though, turned out to be not merely cold but raw: red raw meat, very thinly sliced, in a light sauce. He stared at it in amazement. His whole body recoiled at the thought of eating raw meat. His bones themselves protested. He saw Christine staring at him, and wondered how much of his horror his expression was revealing to her. But there was no helping it: he slipped his fork under one of the paper-thin slices and conveyed it to his mouth. To his amazement it was delicious. Forgetting all breeding, he ate the rest without pausing once, while she watched in what seemed like a mixture of surprise and amusement.