Bigend 1 - Pattern Recognition by William Gibson

Author:William Gibson [Gibson, William]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: sf, General, Science Fiction, Fiction, England, Business intelligence Fiction, Women private investigators England London Fiction, Mystery & Detective, Women private investigators, London (England), Business intelligence, London, Women Sleuths, London (England) Fiction
ISBN: 9780399149863
Publisher: G.P. Putnam's Sons
Published: 2003-02-04T04:09:50+00:00

21. THE DEAD REMEMBER

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Marina Chtcheglova, whom Cayce quickly gathers is Damien’s Russian line producer, is not the first of his girlfriends to have taken an immediate dislike to her. Seeing the torsos of the robot girls again, she remembers that the one from whom those had been so fetchingly cast had been the most vicious of cows—till now, anyway.

Fortunately she and Marina are almost immediately separated, conversationally, by Voytek, whose presence here Cayce initially accepts as a function of the Great Whatever of multiply impacted jet lag, and by Fergal Collins, Damien’s Irish accountant and tax advisor, someone Cayce knows from several previous occasions. Voytek re-engages la Chtcheglova in whatever rant he must have embarked on prior to Cayce’s arrival, this conducted in what Cayce assumes is Russian, and with a tempo and apparent fluid assurance very unlike his delivery in English. Marina doesn’t seem to like this, particularly, but seems compelled to listen.

Voytek wears his usual orphaned skateboard gear, but Marina is wearing what Cayce is trying not to admit to herself is probably this season’s Prada exclusively, everything black. Her cheekbones actually make Voytek’s look relatively non-Slavic. It’s as though she somehow has an extra pair folded in, behind the first set; Caucasian in some primordial, almost geological sense.

She looks, Cayce decides, like a prop from one sequel or another of The Matrix; if her boobs were bigger she could get work on the covers of role-playing games for adolescent boys of any age whatever.

Fergal, some genially carnivorous species of businessman draped in the pelt of an art-nerd, works mainly in music but has been with Damien for as long as Cayce has known him. “What’s it like in Tokyo, after the devaluations?” he asks, seated beside her on Damien’s brown couch.

“It’s more the way it is now than it’s ever been,” Cayce replies, a line of Dwight David Eisenhower’s that she sometimes resorts to when she has nothing whatever to offer. Fergal frowns slightly. “Sorry, Fergal. I was hardly even there. Has Damien finished his film?”

“Would to God he had, but no. He’s back to re-up financing, collect three more cameras and additional crew, and, I think,” he lowers his voice slightly, “because herself fancied a visit to the capital.”

“She’s his line producer?”

“We call her that but really it’s more post-Soviet. She’s the blat girl.”

“The what?”

“Blat. What the old boys in your country called juice, I think. She’s connected, Marina is. Her father was the head of an aluminum plant, back in the dreamtime. When they privatized, somehow he wound up owning it outright. Still does, and a brewery and a merchant bank as well. The brewery’s been a godsend, actually. They’ve been trucking beer to the site since the day we started shooting. Makes Damien a very popular fellow, and otherwise they’d be drinking vodka.”

“Have you been there?”

“For an afternoon.” He winces.

“What’s it like?”

“Somewhere between a three-month 1968 rock concert, mass public grave-robbing, and Apocalypse Now. Hard to say, really, which is of course the big draw for our boy here.

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