Metropolitan by Walter Jon Williams Page B

wasn’t a thief. She begins to look anxious, perhaps wondering if she’s missed something.
    Too late , Aiah thinks. Too damn late.
    Among the relatives Aiah can see little knowing glances being exchanged. She hates being the subject of scrutiny, or pity, or speculation— whatever it is. She bolts up from the sofa, goes to the cooler, takes another beer. Maybe it’s time to go.
    She takes her tote and wanders out into the hall, finds the elevator miraculously standing empty, and takes it to the ground floor. The last of the Assassins have just marched past and the crowd is pouring out into the street, and Aiah goes with them. She buys a sandwich from a vendor, bread filled with vat shrimp spiced to perfection and hot from the fryer; and by the time she’s finished eating, the Dolphins Parade is starting, led by the huge red fiberglass float of King Crab waving his pincers over the crowd. People dressed as fish and crustaceans prance past. Some minor video actor is the Lord of the Dolphins this year, one Aiah knows is supposed to be famous; he stands on his float and tosses presents to the crowd: cheap plastic puzzles, whistles, crackers, toy drums.
    Aiah finishes her beer and drifts with the crowd. A stilt-walker offers her a drink from his wine flask. The Griffins and the Jaspeeris march past — the last are a burlesque, Barkazils mocking Jaspeeri over-seriousness and manners. The briefcase beaters leave her in stitches, people in suits with great gouts of lace pouring out of the sequined collars and sleeves, who chase each other and whack each other with briefcases. Overhead, the sky sizzles with patriotic displays and bright advertisements.
    She wanders into a bar, eats some bread chips and lets people buy her drinks. Video screens show extravagant parades from all over the world. A procession marches past outside while she’s in the bar enjoying herself. She feels more relaxed than she’s been in years — hell, she’s probably going to prison, she might as well have a good time while she still can.
    Aiah pushes out of the bar onto sidewalks ankle-deep in rubbish. Her shoes stick to the concrete as she walks. Music rackets out of a basement club, and the line is fairly short; Aiah joins it. There’s a special on some fashionably new cocktail, two for one, so she orders a pair of them and, while she’s waiting, cruises the dance floor.
    The band is solid in its grove, glorious, the musicians sweating harder than the concrete wall of the old cellar-turned-club. Aiah returns to her table after two dances and finds her drinks waiting for her. She sips one, gets an invitation to dance, says yes.
    There are a lot of men in the club. The one who interests her is Fredho — he’s utterly skilled on the dance floor, and when they spin to the music he makes her feel like a much better dancer than she is. If he can’t find a partner he dances by himself, spectacular spins and high kicks, handstands and splits. He wears an expensive white raw silk jacket over his bare chest, and the jacket’s got to be a gift because he doesn’t give a damn what happens to it; it’s smeared with dirt from the floor and the satin lining is coming to pieces as he thrashes around inside it. His skin is the fine brown color of burnt sugar, and his chest is smooth — lucky, because Aiah doesn’t want to be reminded of Gil’s hairy chest, not when she’s thinking what she’s thinking. And Fredho is nice— arrogant enough, but not demanding. At one point, ending a slow dance, he asks if she’ll take him home. She leans back in his arms, looks at him through slitted eyes, tries to make up her mind. “Maybe later,” she says, and leans forward to lick a trail of sweat off his chest— something she’s been thinking about for several minutes now.
    He shrugs, lets her go back to her table, dances alone for a while. Aiah wonders why he wants to go to her place, if he’s got a woman waiting at his own, and then she decides it doesn’t