William Gibson - Pattern Recognition

Even her relationship to the footage is changing. Margot had called the footage Cayce's hobby, but Cayce has never been a person who had hobbies. Obsessions, yes. Worlds. Places to retreat to. “But it's no-name,”

Margot had said, of the footage, “that's why you like it. Isn't it? Like your trademark thing.” Margot had discovered that most of the products in Cayce's kitchen were generic, unlabeled, and Cayce had admitted that it wasn't a matter of economics but of her sensitivity to trademarks. Now she glances ahead to see if the Asian man is still there, but she can't see him. She checks her Casio-clone.

Time for Blue Ant. Time for Dorotea.

The receptionist sends her up to the third floor again, where she finds Stonestreet in one of his exquisitely slept-in suits, this one gray, red hair sticking up in several new directions. He's smoking a cigarette and flipping through a document in a pink Blue Ant folder.

“Morning, dear. Lovely seeing you, Saturday. How was your ride home with Hubertus?”

“We went for a drink. In Clerkenwell.”

“That's the real version of that place we're in now. Some lovely spaces there. What did he have to say?”

“No shop. We talked about the footage.” Watching him carefully. “What footage is that?” He looks up, as if concerned that he's somehow lost the plot.

“On the web. The anonymous film that's being released in bits and pieces. Do you know the one?”

“Oh. That.” What does he know? “Helena said you called and asked about Trans.”

“Yes.”

“Word-of-mouth meme thing. We don't really know what it does, yet. Whether it does anything, really. Where did you hear about it?” “Someone in a pub.”

“Haven't had anything to do with it myself. Cousin of mine runs it, such as it is. I could arrange for you to meet her.”

“I was just curious, Bernard. Where's Dorotea?”

“Due any minute, I'd imagine. She can be difficult, can't she?”

“Hardly know her.” She checks her hair in a mirrored panel and takes a seat without removing her jacket. “Hubertus is in New York?”

“Yes. At the Mercer.”

“I saw him there, once, in the lobby bar. He was talking to Kevin Bacon's dog.”

“His dog?”

“Kevin Bacon was there with his dog. Hubertus was talking to it.”

“Didn't know he liked pets.”

“A celebrity dog. But he didn't seem to be talking to Kevin Bacon.”

“What do you make of him?”

“Kevin Bacon?”

“Hubertus.”

“Are you serious?”

Stonestreet looks up from the faxes. “Moderately.”

“I'm glad I'm contract, Bernard, not salary.”

“Erm,” Stonestreet says, and seems relieved as Dorotea enters in serious Armani business drag, blackly deconstructed. This is, Cayce senses, for Dorotea, virtually an anti-fashion statement. A look that wouldn't be out of place at an upscale execution. “Good morning,” she says. To Cayce: “You are feeling better, today?”

“Yes, thank you. And yourself?”

“I have been in Frankfurt with Heinzi, of course.” And it's your fault. “But I think that Heinzi has worked his magic. He has nothing but good things to say about Blue Ant, Bernard. 'A breath of fresh,' he calls it.” She looks at Cayce. Blow me.

Cayce smiles back.

Dorotea takes her seat beside Stonestreet, producing another one of those expensive-looking envelopes. “I was in the studio with Heinzi when he did this. It's such a privilege, to see him work.”

“Show it to me.”

“Of course.” Dorotea takes her time unfastening the envelope. She reaches inside. Pulls out a square of art board the size of the last one. On it is the Michelin Man, in one of his earliest, most stomach-churningly creepy manifestations, not the inflated-maggot de-shelled Ninja Turtle of the present day, but that weird, jaded, cigar-smoking elder creature suggesting a mummy with elephantiasis. “Bibendum,” says Dorotea, softly.

“The restaurant?” asks Stonestreet, puzzled. “In the Fulham Road?” He's sitting beside Dorotea and can't see what's on the square of board. Cayce is about to scream.

“Oh,” says Dorotea, “how stupid of me. Another project.” Bibendum, for Cayce knows that that is his name, goes back into the envelope.

Dorotea produces Heinzi's revised design, which she shows to Cayce, and then, almost casually, to Stonestreet.

The sixties sperm Dorotea showed on Friday has mutated into a sort of looping comet, a loosened-up, energized version of the manufacturer's logo of the past decade or so.

Cayce tries to open her mouth, to say something. How did Dorotea know? How does she know?

The silence lengthens.

She watches Stonestreet's red eyebrows go up, a millimeter at a time, wordlessly and incrementally interrogative. They reach a point of maximum ratchet. “Well?”

Bibendum. That's his name. And also the name of a restaurant in the retrofitted Michelin House, where of course Cayce has never gone. “Cayce? Are you feeling well? A glass of water?”

The first time she'd seen Bibendum had been in a magazine, a French magazine. She'd been six. She'd thrown up. “He took a duck in the face at two hundred and fifty knots.”

“What?” An edge of alarm in Stonestreet's voice. He's starting to rise. “It's fine, Bernard.” She's clutching the edge of the table.

“You don't want water?”

“No. I mean, the design is fine. It works.”

“You looked as though you'd seen a ghost.”

Dorotea smirks.

“I … It was Heinzi's design. It … affected me.” She manages a mechanical grimace, something like a smile.

“Really? That's marvelous!”

“Yes,” Cayce says, “but we're done now, aren't we? Dorotea can go back to Frankfurt, and I can go back to New York.” She gets up from her chair, feeling unsteady. “I'll need the car, please.” She doesn't want to look at Dorotea. Dorotea's the one with the jack move, this morning. Dorotea's won. Cayce is spooked now, to the core, and this is nothing like the Asian Sluts flat-invasion feeling. This is way worse. Very few people have any idea of the extent of her most problematic trademark phobias, and fewer still of the specific triggers. Her parents, a number of doctors, therapists of various kinds, over the years a very few very close friends, no more than three of her former lovers.

But Dorotea knows.

Her legs feel wooden. She gets to the door, somehow. “Goodbye, Bernard. Goodbye, Dorotea.”

Stonestreet looks puzzled.

Dorotea's beaming.

AND now all those rushing eager people are gone from the streets of Soho, and thank God the car is waiting.

In Parkway she starts to pay the driver, then remembers it's the Blue Ant car. Unlocks the street door with Damien's big brass key, takes the steps two at a time, the two black German keys at the ready.

And finds a Michelin Man, its white rolls executed in felt, garroted to the doorknob with a thick black cord.

Starts to scream but catches herself.

Breathe.

“He took a duck in the face at two hundred and fifty knots.”

She checks for the hair. It's still there. The powder dusted around the knob will be gone, but the perimeter is still secure.

She avoids looking at the thing lashed to the knob. It's just a doll. A doll. She uses the German keys.

Inside. Locking and chaining the door.

The phone rings.

She screams.

Answers on the third ring. “Hello?”

“It's Hubertus.”

“Hubertus…”

“Yes. Of course. And?”

“And what?”

“You've slept on it.”

She opens her mouth but nothing comes out.

“You've signed off on Heinzi's logo,” he says. “That's a wrap, then. Congratulations.”

She can hear a piano in the background. Lounge stuff. What time is it in New York?