Connie Willis - Spice Pogrom

(He can’t seem to tell the difference between closing and close,) she thought (and he has trouble pronouncing some words, like “honeymoon.” He still thinks we’re getting married, but that’s Charmaine’s fault. With all her real-estate talk, I think he’s gotten the idea marriage is something you can go out and buy.) She tried to think. (He doesn’t understand when I tell him he should stop buying things.)

(Has he ever talked to you about the space program thing the Eahrohhs are supposed to be negotiating?)

(No. Stewart said the Japanese linguists had figured out that there was a small core group of officials and a couple of translators and that everybody else was a passenger. Stewart said Okee’s one of the passengers. Noru hito.)

(Noru hito, huh? Did you know that some Japanese words have as many as ten different meanings? Noru hito also means…)

There was a racket on the steps, and Molly and Bets burst in wearing leotards covered with red, white, and blue sequins, and sequined military hats. Bets was carrying a Sony chip recorder. “Ith he out of the bathroom yet?” Molly said breathlessly.

“No,” Hutchins said.

“Good,” Molly said. “We’ll have time to practith.” She adjusted the chin strap on her hat. Bets stuck a music program into the Sony recorder and pushed down the play key. They both positioned themselves in front of the bathroom door, clanking as they walked.

“Those are tap shoes,” Chris said.

“I know,” Hutchins said. “Baby June and Gypsy strike again.”

“Ready and…” Bets said. “Hop, shuffle, step. Hop, shuffle, step.”

She was late to lunch. Okee had refused to come out of the bathroom until Molly and Bets stopped tap-dancing, and then they demanded their turn in the bathroom. While they were in there, they used the curling iron and blew a fuse. It was almost noon before Chris could have her shower.

By the time she was dressed, Hutchins and Okee had both disappeared. She went out into the hall. Charmaine’s lawyer had set up an ancient Apple and two disk drives on a chair. He had the case off the Apple and was digging around inside and swearing to himself. The old man with the baseball cap was playing solitaire on the top three steps. Molly and Bets were on the landing in pink tutus and ballet slippers, hanging on to the railing as if it were a barre and practicing the ballet positions. The chip recorder was blaring, “The Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy.”

“Do you know where Mr. Okeefenokee is?” Chris shouted, and then realized it was a stupid question. If they knew, they would be subjecting him to the Sugarplum Fairy.

“Don’t interrupt uth,” Molly said. “We’re trying to practith.”

“He’s in with Mr. Nagisha,” Charmaine said. She was sitting on the second step from the bottom, watching Mr. Nagisha’s TV and painting fans on her fingernails. She was dressed in a red strapless dress and spike-heeled shoes. “He asked him to explain leases, but I think he’s really hiding from the cast of Swan Lake.”

“Is Hutchins in there with him?” Chris said, coming down the stairs toward her.

“No. About half an hour ago he said he had something he had to do and left.”

Chris looked at her watch. “Oh, dear, I’m supposed to meet Stewart for lunch, and I don’t dare leave Mr. Okeefenokee alone.”

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Charmaine said, blowing on her fingernails. “I don’t have anything better to do.”

“I thought you had a date.”

“ ‘Had’ is right,” she said, jabbing the fingernail-polish stylus in the direction of the landing. “He didn’t come up here to find me. He came up because he figured with all this overcrowding there’d be lots of real-estate contracts to draw up. And marriage contracts. Only he can’t seem to tell the difference.” She jammed the cap on the stylus. “He wanted to know if I’d be interested in a lease option. That’s where you get to move in before you close the deal, if there’s a closing. Go on. Don’t be late for your lunch.”

“All right,” Chris said, wondering what had made Hutchins run off like that. “Let Mr. Okeefenokee do anything he wants, but whatever you do, don’t let him go shopping.”

The bullet was jammed with people carrying flight bags and looking exhausted. Getting off at the ginza, she almost lost her shoe again. This time, since Hutchins wasn’t there, she curled her toes and jammed them against the end of the shoe, and it stayed on, but just barely, and she got such a cramp in her foot that she could hardly walk.

The ginza was jammed with bicycles and people carrying huge, bulky suitcases who had a tendency to stop suddenly in the middle of the footwalk to stare at the city far above. It took nearly fifteen minutes to get the half block from the bullet to the Garden of Meditation.

Stewart was standing outside, tapping his foot and looking at his watch. “Where have you been?” he said. “I’ve been waiting half an hour.”

“I couldn’t get into my bathroom,” she said. “Molly and Bets…”

“Those two cunning moppets I saw on the phone yesterday?” Stewart said, taking her arm and steering her into the restaurant’s anteroom. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen two such adorable little girls.”

“They’re circus midgets,” Chris said, but Stewart didn’t hear her.

He was waving wildly at a waitress. “For heavens’ sake, take your shoes off, so if they do have a table we can sit right down. I don’t have much time. If you’d been on time we could have gotten right in, but now we’ll probably have to wait.” He pulled his shoes off and started through the crowd to find the waitress.

Chris took her shoes off and gave them to the pretty Japanese attendant. She flexed her cramping toes. I should get tap shoes with straps, like those “two charming moppets,” she thought.

(Lose your shoe in the bullet again?) Hutchins said at her ear, and she whirled around, but there was no one behind her but the attendant and a wizened old woman who couldn’t seem to find her shoes.

“No,” Chris said. The attendant was looking at her oddly, which meant she had spoken aloud again. She clamped her mouth shut and said silently, (Where are you?)

(At Luigi’s. Sorry to run off this morning, but Charmaine told me about a job waiting tables, and I thought I’d better check it out. I can’t keep taking breakfast money out of your purse forever. Is Okee with you?)

(No, I got Charmaine to watch him, but you’re not going to be staying long enough to worry about breakfast. I’m going to have Stewart find you and Mr. Okeefenokee another apartment this afternoon and…)

Stewart came back, elbowing his way past the wrinkled crone, who was still rummaging through the shoes. “They gave our table to somebody else fifteen minutes ago,” he said accusingly, “and they won’t have anything else for an hour and a half. We’ll have to eat at the sushi counter.” He led her through the crowd to the wooden counter and scanned it for seats. “Have you ever seen such a mob?”

“Yes,” Chris said. “In line for my bathroom. Stewart, since I talked to you yesterday, Mr. Okeefenokee…”

“There aren’t two seats together,” he said, pointing at the only empty stools, which were separated by an exhausted-looking man with a camera and a shuttle bag, “which is what happens when you aren’t on time for your reservations.” He motioned her toward one of the stools, sat down on the other, and handed her a menu. A waitress appeared immediately. Stewart snatched the menu out of Chris’s hands. “I’ll have the jiffy lunch. What is it?”

“Eel. It comes with fries.”

“I’ll have that, and she’ll have the sushi salad.”