The Best of World SF by Lavie Tidhar (best romance novels of all time TXT) 📗

‘You’ve got that face again, Amelia.’

‘What face?’ Her fingers stilled on the napkin.

‘Like you don’t care I’m here.’

‘Of course I care.’

‘If you need the money, just ask. I can lend you the stuff. I know you’ll pay me back.’

‘It’s not the money.’

Well, it wasn’t only the money. Not that she was doing fine in terms of cash flow. It was Elías and she couldn’t discuss him with Pili. It was Mars and there was no point in discussing that with anybody.

‘I’m throwing a party Friday. You should come. It’ll do you good,’ Pili suggested.

‘I have to go to an art gallery. I’m trying to meet someone there about a gig,’ Amelia said.

‘What time is that?’

‘Eight.’

‘We’ll be up late. Just stop by after your meeting.’

‘I don’t know,’ Amelia said. She turned her head, staring at a neon pink flyer stuck on the wall that showed several politicians drawn in the shape of pigs, wearing ties and jackets. They were eating slops.

*

It was hard to believe that this metropolis, when viewed from Presidente Masaryk, was the place where Amelia lived, scrubbed clean, with a Ferrari dealership and luxurious shops. The city attempted to eliminate the grimy fingerprints that clung to the rest of the urban landscape. Private security kept a tight watch on beggars and indigents. There were trees here – not plastic ones either. Real bits of greenery, while elsewhere a sea of cement swallowed the soul.

She had ventured down Masaryk often when she was with Elías. His interest in photography led them there to inspect the art galleries that perched themselves near the wide avenue. The place where Anastasia had her opening was a new gallery. Amelia had never visited it with her ex-boyfriend.

She wore the nice gray dress which had caused her so many headaches. It was classic, elegant, and it paired perfectly with one of the few pairs of heels she owned. She’d slicked her hair back into a ponytail, put on eyeshadow, which she didn’t bother with most mornings.

The theme of the exhibit was indeed, obviously, crassly ‘meat’. There were hunks of beef hanging from the ceiling, cube-shaped meat that gently palpitated. Alive. Vat-meat, coerced into this shape. The head of a bull atop a pillar stared at Amelia. It smelled. Coppery, intense, the smell. It made Amelia wrinkle her nose. The other guests did not seem to mind the stench, long, glass flutes in their hands, laughter on their lips.

Amelia saw Anastasia Brito surrounded by a wide circle of admirers. She waited, trying to slip to her side, and found herself squeezed next to three people who were having an animated discussion about fish.

‘Soon, the only thing left to eat is going to be jellyfish. It’s the one animal thriving in the ocean,’ a man with a great, bald pate said.

‘The indigenous people in – fuck it, I don’t know where, some shit place in Asia – they are launching some sort of lawsuit,’ replied a young man.

‘It’s really sad,’ said a woman with cherry-red lips. ‘But what is anyone supposed to do about it?’

The young man stopped a waiter, grabbing a shrimp and popping it in his mouth. Amelia traced a vector toward Anastasia and correctly inserted herself at her elbow, catching her attention.

‘Hi, Anastasia, it’s good to see you again. This is all very interesting.’

Anastasia smiled at Amelia, but Amelia could tell she did not remember her, that for a few seconds, she simply threw her a canned, indifferent smile before her eyes focused on her and the smile turned into an O of surprise

‘Amelia. Why… it’s been ages. What are you doing here?’ she asked, and she looked like she’d discovered gum stuck under her shoe.

‘Fernanda told me about the show and I decided to give it a look,’ Amelia said. She’d assumed Fernanda would mention she would be showing up, that something would have been indicated. She should not have expected such attention to detail.

‘Well,’ Anastasia said. She said nothing else. The canned smile returned, brighter than before, but Anastasia’s eyes scanned the room, as if she were looking for someone, anyone, to pull her out of this unwanted reunion.

Amelia dug in. She’d made the trip to the stupid gallery, after all. Marta was always chiding her about her lack of initiative. So, Amelia smiled back and tried to move the conversation in the required direction.

‘Fernanda said you are putting together something new. Something about plants. She thought I might be able to help you with it.’

‘How?’ Anastasia asked.

‘I do have qualifications in botany, and I’ve gotten good at hacking genes. Here’s my card,’ Amelia said, handing Anastasia the little plastic square with her contact information. She’d spent money getting this new card, money she didn’t have, so she wouldn’t hand out a number scribbled on a crumpled napkin. Anastasia held it with the tips of her fingers. Her nails were painted a molten gold. The tips of her eyelashes had been inked in gold to match the nails.

‘No offense, Amelia, but what do you know about art?’

‘A few things. Elías and I spent a lot of time around galleries and museums.’

‘That’s great, but wasn’t that such a long time ago?’ she asked, and her words carried a hint of disgust.

The smile once more. The silence. Amelia remembered all the times Miguel had told her success was all about acquiring a positive attitude. She dearly wished to dial him and tell him he was an idiot. Instead, she bade Anastasia a quick goodbye and went in search of a car.

6

Pili lived in a rough area. It wasn’t La Joya or Barrio Norte, but Santa María la Ribera kept getting more fucked-up each year. There were benefits to this, mainly that when Pili threw a party – even if the whole floor joined in, blasting music from each apartment – the neighbors upstairs couldn’t do shit about it. If they called the cops, the cops were liable to show up, have a