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toomdashprobing the extremes of the Swiss systems. She was already talking to
hackers as far afield as Los Angeles, Moscow and Sakhalin, and feeling her way
around the shadow world of the infonets.
The boat tied itself automatically at the jetty. Mlle Fournier was waiting
there, with a party. Chantal pushed her musicshades up into her hair, which
she had persuaded Papa to let her have cropped, and waved to her mother. It
was time to go back to Milan.
"Chantal, whatever have you done to your hair?" asked Isabella Juillerat, the
former Isabella di Modrone, kissing the air three inches away from her
daughter's cheek. As usual, she was stunningly dressed, in a white sheath that
curved from her chest to mid-thigh, one elbow-length glove with red talons,
and a matching hat that circled her head like the rings of Saturn.
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Chantal was told that she would grow up to look like her mother. But, this
last year, she had gained about nine inches of height without developing any
noticeable secondary sexual characteristics. In Milano, Marcello referred to
her as "the scarecrow with no tits."
"Let me look at you," her mother said, arching a perfectly-plucked eyebrow.
Her tan was even, but recently she had been developing visible orange patches
on her neck and cleavage. That was, apparently, one of the side effects of the
treatment. Father Daguerre had advised her to wait until Dr Zarathustra
perfected his skincare system, but she had rushed into it as she rushed into
everything else. She understood that GenTech's wizard had given her a
rejuvenation on the house in the hope that she could exert some influence on
her husband with regards to some multinat scheme.
"You have been to mass? Every week?"
"Twice a week, mama."
"Good. Your soul is safe, then. But your clothes! Why don't you wear the
dresses I send you? You could wear only originals."
"I was boating, mama. It gets wet."
"Pah! You should always be fit to be seen, Chantal."
Father Daguerre, a wrestler in a cassock, stood a Little apart, with another
priest. "Hello, Chantal," the French priest said, a sly look creeping over his
face. '"Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things
not seen...'"
Chantal pouted a little, and put a hand on her bony hip. She was being
invited to perform again. "Easy. The Epistle of St Paul to the Hebrews,
Chapter 11, Verse 1."
Father Daguerre nodded, unsmiling. "And...?"
Chantal sighed, a Utile embarassed. '"For by it the elders obtained a good
report. Through faith we understand that the worlds were framed by the word of
God, so that things which are seen were not made of things which do appear.'"
"Excellent, excellent," said the priest. "Latin?"
Chantal switched languages. '"By faith Abel offered unto God a more excellent
sacrifice than Cain, by which..."'
"Hebrew?"
That was trickier. '"... by which he obtained witness that he was righteous,
God testifying of his gifts; and by it...'"
"Greek?"
"Ancient or modern?"
"Ancient, showoff."
'"... and by it he being dead yet speaketh. By faith Enoch was translated
that he should not see death; and was not found, because God had translated
him: for before...'"
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"BASIC?"
"Not verbally. I could type it out for you. It's quite easy."
"English?"
"Kid's stuff, Father.'... for before his translation he had this testimony
that he pleased God.'"
"And Russian?"
Chantal had to translate in her head. Greek to Russian was the easiest. '"...
But without faith it is impossible to please him: for he that cometh to God
must believe...'"
The other priest, whose black suit was edged with red, cut in, speaking
Russian like a native,'"... must believe that he is, and that he is a rewarder
of them that diligently seek him.'"
Chantal looked carefully at the new priest. He was pale, and had
shoulder-length hair and a high forehead. In a strange way, he reminded her of
Petya Tcherkassoff.
"This is Cardinal Grinko, Chantal," said her mother. "He's a friend of Father
Daguerre's. He's come from the Vatican to talk with your father. He is a
Special Envoy from Pope Mandela."
The Cardinal bowed. There was something about him that made him special,
Chantal knew. She was having one of her insights. His mouth went up on one
side, and their eyes met. The others didn't notice, and Chantal didn't really
understand what had passed between them, but she realized that she had formed
a bond with this stranger.
"Good afternoon, Cardinal," she said, doing her best to curtsey with only a
T-shirt to lift.
"Please, Chantal, call me Georgi."
III
GENEVA, SWITZERLAND. 1988.
"Chantal, stand up straight."
"Yes, mother."
Isabella Juillerat adjusted her veil, and smoothed her floorlength
glitterblack crinoline. When the news came through that she had been widowed,
three top Milan couturiers had stayed up overnight to design a selection of
mourning wear for her and made their competing presentations in rapid
succession the next morning. She had, as usual, picked the most expensive
range.
Chantal's heavy collar scratched. It didn't seem possible, but since the
fittings she seemed at lastmdashand at the worst imaginable timemdashto have
developed breasts. She had been standing up for three hours now, and
desperately needed to pee. She told her trained body to stand still and put up
with it all. It was the least it could do.
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The funeral cortege had slowly made its way to the cemetery. The streets were
thick with people. Mother called them gawkers, but Chantal suspected much of
their grief was genuine. Those not in black wore black armbands. Only the
immediate family and VTPsmdashand the media, of coursemdashwere actually
allowed into the cemetery. The Juillerat Monument, as it would now be called,
was drowned in wreaths.
Jean-Marie LePen was speaking now, straying from the subject to harp on
international unity or some such nebulous concept. In life, her father and
LePen had fought an undeclared war for the seven months of the latter's
presidency of the UEC, and Papa had referred to the President in private as "a
freaking mad dog sonofabitch who should be put down." LePen's speech basically
boiled down to an unconvincing declaration of "I didn't do it."
Maybe he didn't. Thomas Juillerat, without ever holding any elected or
appointed national office, had made devoted friends and equally devoted
enemies right and left. When the story was released, LePen wouldn't have been
the only individual to leap for joy. The Japanese, Korean and Californian
boardrooms of GenTech, the cabinet offices of Prime Minister Ian Paisley, the
White House of President Charlton Heston, the mosques of Teheran and Ferdy and
Imelda's Malacanang in Manila would be resounding with choruses of "Ding Dong,
the Witch is Dead."
Chantal had sworn not to cry. Her mother had delicately been leaking from her
tearducts all morning, especially when there was a camera aimed in her
direction. She had to be helped by Father Daguerre when it came to getting
into the car.
It had happened on the steps of the International Courts in Brussels, after
the ruling against organ-farming practices in the Third World had gone Papa's
way. He had been giving an interview to a Russian newsnet when person or
persons unknown had jostled him, slipping an electrostilletto into his neck.
The device discharged for five minutes, but it was likely that he had died
within seconds. He had had his first minor coronary three months earlier. The
Belgian police had made no arrests and extensive examination of all the films
of the event revealed only blurred, impossible-to-identify figures on the
steps. The assassin would probably be wearing a different facemdasha different
sex, evenmdashnow.
Isabella was fidgeting. Chantal supposed she was worrying over the seating
arrangements at the memorial reception mis evening, and then chided herself
for the uncharitable thought. She said a silent Hail Mary. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]