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me in costume at the Toronto Small Press Book Fair yesterday (photo by green_trilobite), and some more of Invulnerable (current word count around 7600).
"This came to my mailbox." It was an invitation to a gala for 'Rising Stars of Gradient Arts and Literature.' "I thought you were winding down the poetry cover?"
"This wasn't us. Apparently you really are quite good. They'll want to interview you."
"But I don't know anything about poetry, for heaven's sake. I just wrote it."
"Don't worry, it says gala. That means they invited too many people for them to each get up and talk, and if they were going to single you out for a speech you'd know by now. "You should go," added the Witness.
"I guess it's part of my cover."
"Yes, and you should go. You earned it, after all."
****
Victor's arm pained him. The graze had closed up, but straightening the arm tugged on the skin and it seared like hell. Lifting the arm hurt almost as bad; he'd taken to folding it inside his jacket a la Napoleon, and he was aware he couldn't gesture, couldn't glam things as he was wont. He'd practiced all Saturday night after Amanda had fallen asleep - the pain had been keeping him up anyway - and on Sunday after he returned to his current apartment. He could skim his hands over things, but his control wasn't perfect, and the objects would turn inconspicuous rather than completely invisible. He would have to get over this before El Hazard noticed.
This meeting, by way of contrast with the previous one, was in a meat locker; or rather a labyrinthine cold-storage warehouse abandoned some fifty years. El Hazard was in his professional garb with the heat dialed down to toast; all the same, there were some sparks coming off the pale orange tongues of flame. Victor was unpleasantly aware of the century-old cork insulation dry and rotting behind the walls. He suspected he was being tested, but didn't know if it was his intelligence or his nerve that El Hazard was uncertain of. Perhaps the boss just liked living dangerously; or perhaps he liked having a building few could find their way in or out of and that could be torched to a crispy shell at the drop of a flame-thrower helmet. He tried not to shudder, because he wasn't sure if it was the right response, but he scuffed his boot in the sawdust that lay half-an-inch thick upon the floor.
"I can incorporate your talent in my plan," began the older supervillain. "I suppose it would not be too difficult for you to conceal a couple of tunnel entrances?"
"I could conceal flats that would block the view of the tunnel entrances, as long as they didn't have to move." El Hazard furrowed his brow:
"They'll be made to work that way."
"Much also depends," Victor added carefully, "on where the tunnels are." El Hazard looked up with an expression Victor guessed was wry humour.
"Show him the map." One of the more skilled thugs unrolled a diagram on a butcher's block.
Thunk thunk thunk thunk!! With the grin of a man who never got tired of this particular trick, El Hazard rapidly hurled a stilletto into each corner. It was Victor's turn to wear the wry expression, but he didn't move a muscle otherwise. He did, however, wait for his host to approach the block before drawing any nearer himself.
The map, he saw, was of a block in Gradient's downtown core, showing the sewers - no, the old brick storm drains - and the small, exclusive contemporary art gallery that lay in the middle of the block. The Wet Sheepdog Gallery was currently showing Imogen Velez's high-profile installation piece, The Twelve Dancing Princesses. Visitors to the gallery found its usual display space full of large antique mirrors. Those who searched carefully enough (the staff would usually whisper "hot" or "cold" to those who had difficulty) would locate the cellar door behind one of the larger mirrors and descend to the building's boiler room, the floor of which was completely covered in women's old shoes, or rather castings of shoes, in solid gold. The artist had collected shoes from her friends and family, purchased anonymous ones from thrift stores and famous ones from ebay memorabilia auctions. One pair had belonged to a notorious murderess, another to Velez's kindergarten teacher. Yet another, small pair had belonged to her sister who had died before completing puberty. The casts were quite detailed - every wrinkle or scuff that had been in the leather was visible in the gold.
Some critics and visitors called the piece morbid, some a garish display of materialism. Some called it profoundly touching. A few visitors, for various private reasons, burst into tears at the foot of the stairs.
"This crazy artist chick," began El Hazard, "made a sculpture out of solid gold, and get this -- it's of a bunch of shoes. So it's all in pieces, makes it easier for us to to carry it away -- and it's on display down in the art gallery boiler room. So what's happening is, I've had a city-inspector buddy of mine order some repair work done to the basement of the business next door. It's a bookshop, but it doesn't do much business - it's one of those by-appointment-only places, and lucky for us the owner is an old man and deaf as a goddamn post. With you covering the work, we break though the wall into the storm drain, then tunnel into the boiler room on the other side. We carry out the shoes, after the gallery closes for the night, then screw down the safety valves on the boiler. It'll blow up during the night, and the mess'll cover the disappearance of the shoes till we've smuggled the gold over the border." He threw a muscular, flame-proofed arm around Victor. "You'll come with me to look at the book store tonight, but first we'll eat."
****
The gala proved to be a sparkly but confusing affair in the ballroom and lobby of a large downtown hotel. Amanda had walked from the bus stop down the street and have expected to be refused entry but the doorman waved her through hardly even bothering to eye her invitation. In the end she had chosen to wear her old knee-length (for her height) black skirt, paired with her best shoes and a new top, oversized but satin; and upon looking around, she felt reassured that she'd made the right choice. Artists and writers are often striking in their sense of style, and sometimes beautiful in their person, but they seldom have the conventional glamour of the movie star or the socialite, and Amanda was at least as presentable as anyone else there.
Striking up conversation was another story - she meandered through the crowd, most of the time looking down at people who were not looking up. After a while she judged she had been there enough minutes to take a canape without looking greedy; and she let a young woman from the catering staff, in a black bow tie, pour her a glass of wine. She threaded her way around the place one more time, then retreated to sit on, or in, a large irregular object in the lobby, more architecture than furniture, whose wine-coloured velvet upholstery promised respite. From this enclave, the party could be enjoyed as spectacle. Amanda held her wineglass like a talisman and people-watched with abandon. There were decidedly more tattoos in evidence than were visible at the high-society events the hotel usually played host to, and she felt a strange pleasure at this. Much of the crowd appeared to be in the same straits as herself, that is, they had been working in isolation and didn't know anyone else there. Others appeared to recognize their colleagues from the art or literary world, and to resent them. A man, wearing a jacket that didn't look as stylish on him as he thought, actually bristled visibly at the approach of a young woman with silver hoops in her ears. His smoothed-down hair became unsmoothed, and Amanda almost expected him to hiss or hop sideways like an angry cat. Instead, he half-whined, half-crowed over her:
"Silver earrings, Imogen? I thought you were all about the gold these days?"
"My art is about life, not the other way around," shrugged Imogen. She raised her eyes and Amanda saw her brace herself as a group approached her, crying her name with their arms flung wide. The man in the jacket sniffed, muttered "enjoy your fifteen minutes," and walked away. Amanda continued to watch Imogen's expression; the venom had touched her, though she didn't let on. Amanda drew herself further into the friendly upholstered monstrosity, and pretended to be fascinated by the reflections in her wineglass.
"I'm parched, if you don't mind," Imogen finally told her admirers, and hurried away towards the bar. With the nucleus departed, the group broke up, some of drifting away, some gravitating with cheers and waves towards another star artist.
"Mind if I join you," a voice whispered, a minute later. Imogen had doubled around and chosen the same refuge as Amanda, who smiled shyly.
"Room enough. I think this bench was originally intended to be the whole hotel." In reply the artist clinked glasses with her, very softly.
"I'm sorry about all that...stuff you had to overhear. I've got a big controversial show on right now and," she sighed, "Tom's right. I'm just the flavour of the month.'
"I think he's just jealous that he isn't."
"True, but that doesn't make him wrong."
"Well, I'm just here for being in a poetry magazine and I don't know anything," said Amanda, hoping to distract her companion from her gloom. "Tell me about your show."
Imogen described her artwork.
"It sounds...beautiful," said Amanda, hoping the artist wouldn't take offense at the adjective. She did not. "It must have been...hard to assemble."
"You mean, how much did it cost for the materials? A lot. I had a scholarship, and found some sponsors and borrowed from relatives. But it's not as crazy as it sounds - the piece is meant to be ephemeral. When the exhibit's over, I'm going to melt the gold down and pay everybody back." A woman with blue hair came up to them.
"There you are. They want to take a photo, Im."
"This is Natalie, the gallery owner who let me use her boiler room. This is...oh damn, I've been so rude."
"Amanda . It's alright, I didn't ask your name either." She stood and shook hands with the two women. Natalie gave her a business card.
"Come see it before the show closes." Amanda agreed she would.
"This came to my mailbox." It was an invitation to a gala for 'Rising Stars of Gradient Arts and Literature.' "I thought you were winding down the poetry cover?"
"This wasn't us. Apparently you really are quite good. They'll want to interview you."
"But I don't know anything about poetry, for heaven's sake. I just wrote it."
"Don't worry, it says gala. That means they invited too many people for them to each get up and talk, and if they were going to single you out for a speech you'd know by now. "You should go," added the Witness.
"I guess it's part of my cover."
"Yes, and you should go. You earned it, after all."
****
Victor's arm pained him. The graze had closed up, but straightening the arm tugged on the skin and it seared like hell. Lifting the arm hurt almost as bad; he'd taken to folding it inside his jacket a la Napoleon, and he was aware he couldn't gesture, couldn't glam things as he was wont. He'd practiced all Saturday night after Amanda had fallen asleep - the pain had been keeping him up anyway - and on Sunday after he returned to his current apartment. He could skim his hands over things, but his control wasn't perfect, and the objects would turn inconspicuous rather than completely invisible. He would have to get over this before El Hazard noticed.
This meeting, by way of contrast with the previous one, was in a meat locker; or rather a labyrinthine cold-storage warehouse abandoned some fifty years. El Hazard was in his professional garb with the heat dialed down to toast; all the same, there were some sparks coming off the pale orange tongues of flame. Victor was unpleasantly aware of the century-old cork insulation dry and rotting behind the walls. He suspected he was being tested, but didn't know if it was his intelligence or his nerve that El Hazard was uncertain of. Perhaps the boss just liked living dangerously; or perhaps he liked having a building few could find their way in or out of and that could be torched to a crispy shell at the drop of a flame-thrower helmet. He tried not to shudder, because he wasn't sure if it was the right response, but he scuffed his boot in the sawdust that lay half-an-inch thick upon the floor.
"I can incorporate your talent in my plan," began the older supervillain. "I suppose it would not be too difficult for you to conceal a couple of tunnel entrances?"
"I could conceal flats that would block the view of the tunnel entrances, as long as they didn't have to move." El Hazard furrowed his brow:
"They'll be made to work that way."
"Much also depends," Victor added carefully, "on where the tunnels are." El Hazard looked up with an expression Victor guessed was wry humour.
"Show him the map." One of the more skilled thugs unrolled a diagram on a butcher's block.
Thunk thunk thunk thunk!! With the grin of a man who never got tired of this particular trick, El Hazard rapidly hurled a stilletto into each corner. It was Victor's turn to wear the wry expression, but he didn't move a muscle otherwise. He did, however, wait for his host to approach the block before drawing any nearer himself.
The map, he saw, was of a block in Gradient's downtown core, showing the sewers - no, the old brick storm drains - and the small, exclusive contemporary art gallery that lay in the middle of the block. The Wet Sheepdog Gallery was currently showing Imogen Velez's high-profile installation piece, The Twelve Dancing Princesses. Visitors to the gallery found its usual display space full of large antique mirrors. Those who searched carefully enough (the staff would usually whisper "hot" or "cold" to those who had difficulty) would locate the cellar door behind one of the larger mirrors and descend to the building's boiler room, the floor of which was completely covered in women's old shoes, or rather castings of shoes, in solid gold. The artist had collected shoes from her friends and family, purchased anonymous ones from thrift stores and famous ones from ebay memorabilia auctions. One pair had belonged to a notorious murderess, another to Velez's kindergarten teacher. Yet another, small pair had belonged to her sister who had died before completing puberty. The casts were quite detailed - every wrinkle or scuff that had been in the leather was visible in the gold.
Some critics and visitors called the piece morbid, some a garish display of materialism. Some called it profoundly touching. A few visitors, for various private reasons, burst into tears at the foot of the stairs.
"This crazy artist chick," began El Hazard, "made a sculpture out of solid gold, and get this -- it's of a bunch of shoes. So it's all in pieces, makes it easier for us to to carry it away -- and it's on display down in the art gallery boiler room. So what's happening is, I've had a city-inspector buddy of mine order some repair work done to the basement of the business next door. It's a bookshop, but it doesn't do much business - it's one of those by-appointment-only places, and lucky for us the owner is an old man and deaf as a goddamn post. With you covering the work, we break though the wall into the storm drain, then tunnel into the boiler room on the other side. We carry out the shoes, after the gallery closes for the night, then screw down the safety valves on the boiler. It'll blow up during the night, and the mess'll cover the disappearance of the shoes till we've smuggled the gold over the border." He threw a muscular, flame-proofed arm around Victor. "You'll come with me to look at the book store tonight, but first we'll eat."
****
The gala proved to be a sparkly but confusing affair in the ballroom and lobby of a large downtown hotel. Amanda had walked from the bus stop down the street and have expected to be refused entry but the doorman waved her through hardly even bothering to eye her invitation. In the end she had chosen to wear her old knee-length (for her height) black skirt, paired with her best shoes and a new top, oversized but satin; and upon looking around, she felt reassured that she'd made the right choice. Artists and writers are often striking in their sense of style, and sometimes beautiful in their person, but they seldom have the conventional glamour of the movie star or the socialite, and Amanda was at least as presentable as anyone else there.
Striking up conversation was another story - she meandered through the crowd, most of the time looking down at people who were not looking up. After a while she judged she had been there enough minutes to take a canape without looking greedy; and she let a young woman from the catering staff, in a black bow tie, pour her a glass of wine. She threaded her way around the place one more time, then retreated to sit on, or in, a large irregular object in the lobby, more architecture than furniture, whose wine-coloured velvet upholstery promised respite. From this enclave, the party could be enjoyed as spectacle. Amanda held her wineglass like a talisman and people-watched with abandon. There were decidedly more tattoos in evidence than were visible at the high-society events the hotel usually played host to, and she felt a strange pleasure at this. Much of the crowd appeared to be in the same straits as herself, that is, they had been working in isolation and didn't know anyone else there. Others appeared to recognize their colleagues from the art or literary world, and to resent them. A man, wearing a jacket that didn't look as stylish on him as he thought, actually bristled visibly at the approach of a young woman with silver hoops in her ears. His smoothed-down hair became unsmoothed, and Amanda almost expected him to hiss or hop sideways like an angry cat. Instead, he half-whined, half-crowed over her:
"Silver earrings, Imogen? I thought you were all about the gold these days?"
"My art is about life, not the other way around," shrugged Imogen. She raised her eyes and Amanda saw her brace herself as a group approached her, crying her name with their arms flung wide. The man in the jacket sniffed, muttered "enjoy your fifteen minutes," and walked away. Amanda continued to watch Imogen's expression; the venom had touched her, though she didn't let on. Amanda drew herself further into the friendly upholstered monstrosity, and pretended to be fascinated by the reflections in her wineglass.
"I'm parched, if you don't mind," Imogen finally told her admirers, and hurried away towards the bar. With the nucleus departed, the group broke up, some of drifting away, some gravitating with cheers and waves towards another star artist.
"Mind if I join you," a voice whispered, a minute later. Imogen had doubled around and chosen the same refuge as Amanda, who smiled shyly.
"Room enough. I think this bench was originally intended to be the whole hotel." In reply the artist clinked glasses with her, very softly.
"I'm sorry about all that...stuff you had to overhear. I've got a big controversial show on right now and," she sighed, "Tom's right. I'm just the flavour of the month.'
"I think he's just jealous that he isn't."
"True, but that doesn't make him wrong."
"Well, I'm just here for being in a poetry magazine and I don't know anything," said Amanda, hoping to distract her companion from her gloom. "Tell me about your show."
Imogen described her artwork.
"It sounds...beautiful," said Amanda, hoping the artist wouldn't take offense at the adjective. She did not. "It must have been...hard to assemble."
"You mean, how much did it cost for the materials? A lot. I had a scholarship, and found some sponsors and borrowed from relatives. But it's not as crazy as it sounds - the piece is meant to be ephemeral. When the exhibit's over, I'm going to melt the gold down and pay everybody back." A woman with blue hair came up to them.
"There you are. They want to take a photo, Im."
"This is Natalie, the gallery owner who let me use her boiler room. This is...oh damn, I've been so rude."
"Amanda . It's alright, I didn't ask your name either." She stood and shook hands with the two women. Natalie gave her a business card.
"Come see it before the show closes." Amanda agreed she would.
