LoveStar by Andri Snaer Magnason Page B

I’m not allowed to use old photos or mention anything that could be classed as trade secrets. I’m not allowed to know why the Million Star Festival is being held. You forbid me to write about your parents, not a word about your sons or daughter, and nothing about Helga. I’m not even allowed to reveal your real name! WHAT THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO WRITE?”
    LoveStar flushed crimson and trembled with fury. “GET OUT!”
    LoveStar shook as the author stormed out. He strode back and forth across the room, then sat down at the glass table again but was too restless to draw.
    â€œGoddam impudence,” he muttered. “Damn fucking impudence.”
    He followed the author with his lens but retained his ears. Cursing, the author took the elevator down to the iSTAR headquarters. LoveStar hardly recognized the surroundings there; workmen had turned the whole place upside down. A few weeks ago the entire wing had been white; before that everything had been smothered in antique furniture and flowers. Mood people were restless by nature; they had shake-ups at regular intervals and chucked out all the furnishings. The author went into an office, threw up his hands, and tossed the manuscript on the floor. A moodman with a neat suit and dyed hair hushed the author and pointed out the recording butterfly in the corner. The author looked at the butterfly and, seizing a rolled-up poster, squashed it against the wall. Blinded, LoveStar rubbed his eyes, groped around in the darkness, and almost fell off his chair when normal eye-contact was re-established. He swore, grinding his teeth, and sent his secretary a message:
    â€œSend the jerk a thousand Hail Maries and a Trap.”
    â€œA cry-trap, cramp-trap, heartburn, lumbago, pins and needles, erection, hiccups, or urination trap?” she asked instantly.
    â€œUse your imagination!”
    He activated a new butterfly and watched the author running bent double into the men’s room, muttering ceaselessly: “ Santa Maria madre di Dio prega per noi. Santa Maria madre di Dio prega per noi   . . . ”
    LoveStar’s jet flew through the night. He had set in motion a chain of events with no end in sight and was feeling deeply concerned about the Mood Division. It was capable of anything. He had a lot to be grateful to the mood guys for; they had followed him through thick and thin. They looked up to him, flattered him, quoted him, and followed his ideas single-mindedly. They undertook the dirty work, dealing with any problems, whether they were accidents, ethical questions, politics, or religion. Moodmen managed to convert all ideas and discoveries into pure, clear Mood. Without ever specifying exactly what their goal was, they had gradually infiltrated the innermost core of the organization. LoveStar was confident he could control the moodmen during his lifetime, but what then?
    The jet flew at three times the speed of sound at an altitude of forty thousand feet. Outside the sky was dark and a star fell. Someone’s just died, he thought. In three hours’ time more falling stars could be expected when the Million Star Festival began.
    The instant LoveStar landed up north and the world was informed of the greatest discovery of all time, a hundred million stars would fall from the sky. A hundred million bodies would burn up in the atmosphere, illuminating the darkness like stardust in the spectacle of the century.
    In LoveStar’s hand was a seed and in the seed was a kernel and in the kernel was so much life that he was afraid that if the seed was damaged the world itself would crack like an eggshell.

INDRIDI AND SIGRID
    Indridi and Sigrid’s perfect world cracked like an eggshell several weeks before LoveStar found the seed. The cause was one little letter. It reached them one beautiful day, as all days appear to the eyes of those who believe they have found true love and happiness. When Sigrid came home at midday for a bit of