Connie Willis - Spice Pogrom

“I want you to come home with me this afternoon,” Chris said across the exhausted-looking man, who had propped his arms on the sushi counter. “You’ve got to talk to Mr. Okeefenokee. Yesterday he—”

“Okeefenokee?” Stewart said, with the same horrified look he’d had on the phone the day before. “I have asked you repeatedly to learn the correct pronunciation of his name. You obviously don’t realize how delicate our relationship with the Eahrohhs is right now or you wouldn’t…”

“I’m sorry, Stewart, but Mr. Ohghhi…” She automatically opened her hand to look at what wasn’t written there anymore.

(Ohghhifoehnnahigrheeh,) Hutchins said.

“Ohghhifoehnnahigrheeh,” Chris said. “Yesterday he brought home—”

(How delicate is the relationship with the Eahrohhs right now?) Hutchins said.

“Well?” Stewart said. “Don’t just stop in the middle of a sentence like that. What did he bring home?”

(Ask him,) Hutchins said insistently. (Ask him what he means by a delicate relationship.)

(How do you know what’s he’s saying?) Chris said. (I thought these subvocalizers only picked up what the person said under his breath.)

(It does. You’re subvocalizing what Stewart’s saying. Okee says that happens when the person’s upset.)

(I am not upset,) Chris thought. (And would you please stop eavesdropping on this conversation?)

(No. Ask him how the negotiations are going. This is important, Chris. Please.)

“I took the time for this lunch because you told me you had to talk to me,” Stewart said, “and now all you do is sit there staring into space.’” “I’m sorry, Stewart,” Chris said.

(Please,) Hutchins said.

“How are the negotiations going, Stewart?” she said. The exhausted-looking man was lying in his sushi.

“We’ve had a breakdown in communications. Nothing for you to worry about, though. In fact, it may work to your benefit. The Japanese have decided that because the negotiations are taking longer than we expected, they’ll match the compensation NASA’s been paying. Which is only fair since this mess is their fault. If they’d allowed NASA to build the size shuttle base they wanted, this overcrowding problem would never have happened.”

(What kind of breakdown in communications?) Hutchins said.

“What kind of breakdown in communications?” Chris said.

“It seems the Eahrohhsian the Japanese team thought was their headman isn’t in charge, after all, or he used to be and isn’t anymore or something. Their concept of roles is apparently different from ours.”

“Yes,” Chris said, thinking of Molly asking Mr. Okeefenokee to get her a role in Spielberg’s movie.

“This mix-up could jeopardize the whole space program, and the American linguistics team is furious. They want to transfer the Eahrohhsians down to Houston immediately, where they can use translation computers to…”

(Immediately?) Hutchins said, but Chris had already said it out loud.

“If they can get the Japanese to agree to it. I think they will as soon as they’ve had time to save face. Two or three more days at the most, and Ohghhifoehnnahigrheeh will be out of your life forever.”

And so will Hutchins, Chris thought.

The waitress came back with Stewart’s eel and a check, which she stuck under the fingers of the sleeping man. “We’re out of sushi salad,” the waitress said. “We got tacos and Hungarian goulash. Do you want one of them?”

“Two or three more days, and you’ll have your apartment back and we can think seriously about going condo. But in the meantime, you’ve got to make sure you don’t do anything to upset Ohghhifoehnnahigrheeh. The smallest thing, and our chances of negotiating a space program could blow up in our faces.”

(Let him do anything he wants,) Hutchins said. (I don’t care what it is. Rape and pillage. Anything.)

“Oh, shut up!” Chris said.

“Look, don’t take it out on me,” the waitress said. “It’s not my fault we’re out of the sushi salad.” She flounced off.

“I realize having to share your apartment with an alien has been a strain,” Stewart said stiffly, “but you didn’t have to yell at the waitress.”

“I didn’t,” she said, thinking furiously at Hutchins (This is all your fault. Go away and don’t say one more word to me.)

“Who were you yelling at, then?” Stewart said. “Me?”

“No,” Chris said, “Mr. Ohghhifoehnn…” She stopped and waited, listening. Hutchins didn’t say anything. Good, she thought, I’m glad he’s gone. The waitress reappeared and lifted the sleeping man’s head up so she could take the sushi board out from under him. She pointedly did not look at Chris. “Yesterday the alien brought home…”

“Can I have the check, please?” Stewart said. “And wrap this up so I can take it with me.” He slapped down a credit card and slid off the stool. Three people dived for it. “I’ve got to be back at the office by fourteen-thirty.” Chris struggled through the crowd after him. By the time she made it to the anteroom, he had found his shoes in the jumble by the door and was pulling them on. “Let him bring home anything he wants,” he said, bending down to tie his shoelaces. “And whatever he wants to do, let him do it. I don’t care what it is. It’s only for a couple of days.”

Chris waited for Hutchins to say, even rape and pillage? but he didn’t. He’d gone away, and in a couple of days he really would have gone away because Mr. Okee-fenokee would have been transferred down to Houston, and he wouldn’t be able to use the excuse anymore that Mr. Okeefenokee wanted him to stay, and she’d never see him again.

“Now,” Stewart said, straightening up. “What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

Chris looked around the suddenly quiet anteroom. There was no one in it except the attendant, who was patiently lining up pairs of shoes by the door. The old woman who’d been in there before must have found her shoes.

“Well?” Stewart said.

“I wanted to talk to you about all the things Mr. Ohghhi… the alien’s been buying, but yesterday after I talked to you, I had a long talk with him, and he promised not to buy anything else. That’s what I wanted to tell you.”

He looked worried. “Are you sure you should have done that? You don’t want to do anything that might…”

“Upset negotiations?” Chris said. The waitress brought Stewart his credit card and a cardboard container with a metal handle. Two teenaged girls wearing “Close Encounters of the Fourth Kind” T-shirts came in and began looking for their shoes. “I’m sure I did the right thing. Don’t worry. It won’t upset your negotiations. I’ll go along with anything he wants.”

“Good,” he said, putting his credit card away. “Oh, and listen, when this is all over, I want you to come over and look at the apartment next to Mother’s. With the compensation we could buy it and sublet yours.”

He and the teenaged girls left together, and Chris started looking for her shoes. They weren’t there. “Very busy. Much shoes,” the attendant said in a passable imitation of the way Mr. Okeefenokee used to talk. “Not steal. Wrong take.”

Chris thought of Hutchins diving bravely into the bullet to rescue her shoe. You could get my shoes back for me, she thought at him. “Where are you?”

There wasn’t any answer. “Wrong take. You mine,” the attendant said, and removed her getas, which were no more than a size four.

“Not fit. Wear size eight,” Chris said in a passable imitation of the way she had talked to Mr. Okeefenokee before she met Hutchins, and wished again that he were here.

The attendant finally found her a pair of disposable tabis. The thick, toed socks were better than nothing, she thought, and smiled and thanked the attendant, but before she had gone twenty steps, she had come to the conclusion that they weren’t. She stepped up in a doorway and tried to massage her crushed instep. It was only half a block to the bullet platform, but she would never make it. And even if she did, she’d be crippled for life by the crowd on the bullet.