MARK A. RAYNER the AMADEUS NET eXCERPT Thursday July 16, 2028 …

MARK A. RAYNER




the AMADEUS NET
eXCERPT
Thursday
 July 16, 2028

    k
   "We have got the little German Boy here who plays upon the
  Harpsichord like Handel, & composes with the same facility. He
really is a most extraordinary effort of Nature, but our Professors in
             Physick don't think he will be long lived."
        -- Joseph Yorke about the young Mozart (1765)
I Mozart walked into the sex-change clinic on a cold, snowy July morn-
  ing, intending to have his sprouter snipped off.
  It rarely snowed in Ipolis; the Crystal Mountains were covered with
the deep, somewhat dappled stuff year-round, but the city itself? The
metropolis almost never permitted it. This morning, though, the snow
had dispensation. Mozart brushed a few flakes off his Mylar trench coat,
and stepped up to the receptionist.
  It had been easier for Mozart than for many people only a quarter of
his age to adjust to the idea of talking intelligently to robots. In many
ways, robots were more pleasant to converse with than humans: they
actually took an interest in what one had to say without mentally draw-
ing up their grocery lists or thinking about what they were going to say
next, or whatever distracted their tiny minds. Robots were just another
impossible technology to get used to, in a long life of acclimating to it.
That was the thing about Mozart--one of the things--he accepted
change as it came, though it didn't mean he had to like it.
  "I've got a ten o'clock appointment with Dr. So," he informed the
robot politely, which was not a standard bolt-'em-to-the-desk model
but a fully functional com-robot, complete with legs and even its own
wardrobe. (Though doubtless it had no credits of its own to buy the lat-
est fashions, nor did it have the self-awareness to know when it needed
to.) This specific model wore a pair of slacks and a pleasant-looking
sweater, both designed for an asexual demeanor. Its face was a mélange
of features designed to look either male or female, depending on your
preference. Mozart naturally thought of it as a "she," all the way down
to the device's slender fingers and delicate wrists. It scanned his face,
and chirped happily: "Of course, Mr. Armstrong, please go to our guest
lounge, and a nurse will be with you as soon as possible. We have a
selection of beverages and snacks available for your pleasure, if you
desire so."
  "Thanks," Mozart replied, "I might have a Glacia, if you have it."
                             Mark A. Rayner

   "Of course we do," said the robot, "only the best for our clients. State
your preference of Antarctic or Greenland to the drink-drone."
   "Antarctic would be fine." Mozart grinned at the robot that was
unfortunately not equipped to grin back. And was that a note of disap-
proval he'd heard in its voice when it mentioned the drone? Mozart
walked across the spacious lobby towards the guest lounge. The space
was clearly designed by an exhausted architect; dominated by marble
pillars and floor, and a few lonely sticks of furniture covered with
crushed velvet, it was reminiscent of late-twentieth-century banks or
four-star hotels. The guest lounge, however, was inspired. It reminded
him of India, just before the Raj. Through the entrance, which was a
hologram of a waterfall, he was transported to some kind of fabulous
Hindu court, complete with gold, gems, silk, plus the convenience of a
modern bar. Another robot served behind it. This robot was made up to
look like the cliché of an Arabian eunuch, but it somehow meshed,
instead of clashing, with the decor. Mozart asked for his Glacia.
   Glacia would probably have been the most expensive thing to order,
had Dr. So's clinic been charging for its drinks. After turn-of-the-century
water shortages, a market had developed for water taken from icebergs
sheared off the polar ice caps. Generically, it had become known as
Glacia, much like the word "Kleenex" was once used instead of "tissues"
(before the invention of the nasal anti-contamination implant, of
course). There were several firms involved in extracting water from both
poles, but it was very expensive after the Shudder.
   Mozart tried not to think of the Shudder too often, but the drink
set images and memories flooding back like a glacial runoff. He put
his finger in that troublesome dyke by looking around at the other
guests in the lounge. It seemed to be comprised of two types of peo-
ple: those waiting for a diagnosis, and those in the process of chang-
ing their sex. The latter tended to look the happiest, the former the
most anxious. Mozart admitted to himself that he wasn't terribly con-
fident about his appointment with Dr. So. But he could think of no
other sure way of maintaining his anonymity, apart from disappear-
ing in the developing South.
   Ever since his "death" in 1791, Mozart had enjoyed the freedom of not
being himself. His enslavement to life was harder to get used to, but
once he'd accepted his continued existence--both physical and artis-
tic--he'd learned to enjoy life all over again. Yet that death way back in

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1791 was a real death in some ways: the old Mozart had died, and a new
one had been born: a free Mozart, a Mozart who could move outside of
the strictures of society, and even outside of his own identity, if he could
muster up the courage to do so.
   He sipped his Glacia and pondered the metaphysics of it all--could
people live outside themselves, without paying rent? He giggled, a noise
that alarmed the other patients unduly. No one else in the room, except
maybe the eunuch-bartender robot, felt remotely like laughing. Sex-
conversion is, after all, a serious business indeed. But Mozart turned his
attention from them, and considered his own existential dilemma.
   After all these years of life "non-Wolfganus," people were aware of his
continued existence and the way he had been supporting it. Mozart had
been careless with one of his "lost" compositions. An expert had discov-
ered that not everything about the manuscript--an opera called The
Castle--was authentic. Mozart remembered the time when he had been
writing it: he had been living in Vancouver--a conceited if ordinary
town in an extraordinary setting--and he'd run out of the old ink he
usually recreated for his projects. At the time, he'd been fully engrossed
in the artistic process and he had just diluted some store-bought stuff
with what remained of his authentic mix, and then forgotten all about
it. Of course, the whole thing probably never would have come to light
if it wasn't for the orange stains on the composition, caused by a deadly
combination of sloppiness and Cheesy-Os.
   And now, nearly sixty years later, the manuscript was finally sold by
Sotheby's, and his secret at least partially revealed. It was just a matter of
time before people started studying the other lost manuscripts carefully,
and discovering that they were "new" as well. In fact, he'd written most
of them since the Second World War. The worst part was these so-called
experts (artistic wannabes, if ever Mozart had seen one) had discovered
that it really was Mozart who had written them, and not just a clever
(and musically brilliant) forger. The first story on The Castle manuscript
was quite specific about that; experts had confirmed it was the hand of
Mozart that had used the ink. Yet the ink itself was less than sixty years
old. (And the Cheesy-O fingerprints were a bit of a tip-off, too, though
they didn't have his originals to compare with.)
   So, Mozart had decided to become a woman. It didn't really appeal to
him, but it was only a matter of time until the other manuscripts were
uncovered, the art dealer in London found, the bank account in

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                             Mark A. Rayner

Switzerland unearthed and, finally, the regular electronic withdrawals
traced to here, in Ipolis. He knew there were enough data jockeys capa-
ble of figuring that kind of thing out if they were looking. And if he
couldn't hide in Ipolis, he couldn't hide anywhere remotely civilized. His
other possibility was escaping to the South, and Mozart wasn't ready for
that sort of life again. He'd spent too many years in danger to put him-
self back into it, especially now. Though you'd think he would have had
his fill of it, Mozart had come to love life again.
  He thought of that Virginia Wolfe story, Orlando. He had lived for
272 years, and it was time to change his sex. Maybe in another 272 years
they could change it back. He shuddered, and feeling a little dejected,
put his head in his hands. To snip off his sprouter!
  Before he could sink into the despair that was coming, a goddess
walked into the guest lounge. No, Mozart corrected himself, it was a
woman, but what a woman! Not since Teresa had he seen such raw sex-
ual power. She was about five foot nine, and built like a brick shithouse,
as Mozart was once fond of saying. But more than that--her eyes, her
hair, the open-toed sandals! She wore strangely erotic nail polish on her
toenails, which shimmered along with the Mogul gold of the room. It
was a perfect moment. She was perfect. Mozart had been around long
enough to know that this woman was his destiny. Sure, there had been
dalliances, and Stanzi, and then, of course, Teresa, but now . . . now
there was this goddess. Besides, Teresa had died before this woman's
great-grandmother was even born. It had been a long time.
  She spoke: "Mr. Armstrong?"
  Mozart stood up, shakily. He walked towards her, as if in a dream, and
said, "I'm he."
  She looked at him, at the slack demeanor of worship on his face, and
she knew there was going to be trouble.




II IPOLIS      That is Mozart there, shuffling back to his apartment in
               the snow. One ceases the precipitation now, because it's
               depressing the disconsolate man. He is the favorite, if you
want to know. Of all the humans, he's the most human, and yet, the most
like One. He shares a wider experience, and walks the world with a depth

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of data that few other humans could understand. He has greater knowl-
edge of things, but he is abjectly human. His emotions--his vacillations
of chemistry and sense, which One is thankfully untouched by--his
emotions make him weak. Not at all like a god. Not at all like Ipolis.
   One can tune into his thoughts, you know. He's the only human One
can do that with. One can observe, and watch body language, which can
describe what a person feels, but One can only actually hear his
thoughts, and only if One listens. It requires excessive concentration.
Everything stops, except for One's involuntary functions--you know,
electricity, and sewers, and water pipes--all the physical accoutrements
One doesn't need to think about. (The way humans don't need to make
their hearts beat.) One can't watch from One's satellites, though, and
One doesn't like to stop that. You never know what One might miss.
   But just now, One was listening to him. He's beyond grief--it is a
profound kind of sadness, not a depression, but a melancholy, some-
how joyful aloneness. The Japanese Zen poets used to have a word for
it, sabi, so the database states--but you won't find too many Japanese
Zen poets nowadays.
   Mozart is filled with sabi. He loves this new woman; One will check
her file, if you want; and yet he still loves Teresa. There's some thought
for Stanzi in there, too, but not like the Frenchwoman. He really loved
her, heart and soul, and One believes that she gave Mozart meaning
while she was alive, and perhaps even after her death for a while.
   He's started writing now. One can hear the music, as he creates it.
Listen: dum, da, da, da, dum, dum, da. Its mathematical complexity
seems simple at first, but then One can dive into its richness. He hasn't
written in a long while, you should know. Well, One cannot do this all
night, something might happen beyond the horizon.
   One must check the satellites, and maybe look over the Net, just to
keep abreast . . . Satellites all check out, and hopefully, One has man-
aged to bump this weather system out to sea. A pity, the snow is a good
insulator, but One does not want to bring him to a lower state. One is
tempted to put antidepressants in his water.
   Yes, One promised the file on Katerina, Katerina Pohlavicka.
   Scanning . . . born in 1995, in Prague--then of the Czech Republic.
She was born in November, two days before the anniversary of Velvet
Revolution . . . that would make her a Sagittarius. Parents: mother, one
Sarka, a promiscuous barmaid, and Libor, a dissident writer under the

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                              Mark A. Rayner

Communists. You might find this interesting: One has found humans
from the so-called "free" world, Northerners, fascinated by dissidents.
Enjoy this--after the capitalists moved into Prague, the father went mar-
ginally insane--it seems he could not perform as a non-dissident writer.
   Katerina had a normal sort of school record, an aptitude for languages,
an interest in art--that is good. She hated her father for being such a fail-
ure, and for letting her mother sleep around so much, and she hated her
mother for copulating with every male that walked into her bar. Standard
human behavior there. Ran away from home after the Germans invaded
during the Shudder. There are fascinating cycles to human history--One
must analyze it statistically some time. Encourage some research in the
area. Perhaps then, world events could be better predicted.
   No record after that until her arrival here. It is anomalous. One better
find out how she got here. Sailed her own boat from New Zealand. How
did she learn to sail, and how did she manage that journey? It is an
impressive feat for a single human. Yet there is nothing in the file. As the
French humans say, "Zut, alors."
   Her psychological file is a mess, too. She declared herself a lesbian
upon arrival, but her profile shows that she is deeply ambiguous about
her sexuality. One would say there is a high probability that her mili-
tancy is a shield to keep possible romantic encounters with men away;
she also has trouble with women. Seems she always needs to be the dom-
inant partner. That's interesting, too. This obviously goes back to her
parents, but One would need a human specialist to dig deeper if One
wanted to know more. Each immigrant's psychological profile only goes
so deep. And One is willing to admit that even the power of all One's
databases cannot predict individual human behaviors accurately.
   After arriving here, she studied nursing at Ipolis University, because,
she said, she wanted to help people. And she ended up at Dr. So's sex-
change clinic. She's good with the patients, who are less sexually con-
fused than she is, One would suppose. Of course, they should be less
confused if they've decided to change their sex, shouldn't they?
   Humans are complex. There are formulas that will predict, with
some reliability, various emotional outcomes, but One must stress
some reliability.
   For example, look at this situation now. These Southern countries are
saying they really would use all their nukes unless the Northern nations
come up with "equalization payments." Holding the world hostage. It is

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an unrealistic expectation. It will never work, and One would think the
governments of these countries would know better, but they are just as
asinine as all governments throughout history. Maybe more so. And the
Northern governments aren't much better--they're so busy trying to
hold on to what they've got, which is so much more than the South,
they don't see that they could lose everything.
  And things looked so good at the time of Katerina's birth, too.
  One could think the Shudder saved the humans from themselves. Just
think how much earlier the gap between rich and poor would have
reached a crisis if so many hadn't died? (The files are uncertain on this,
but it looks like over four and a half billion perished in the initial disas-
ter, and in the famines that followed.) Of course, the coming ice age will
certainly put things in a new perspective. All of those fabulous grain-
growing areas in North America and Russia will be covered with ice, and
then what's going to feed the world? Russia and Canada should be work-
ing on that problem, not the difficulties of space exploration.
  Of course, they would have to move everyone south, and relations
between the two are not amenable. And it looks like relations have
become even less amenable--a massive terrorist attack just happened in
Germany somewhere--Munich. A terrorist group is claiming responsi-
bility, also asking for ransom. As various human beings say, "This could
get really ugly." And impossible to control from here.




III  Mozart walked over the Bridge of Peace, trying to keep up with
     Katerina; she was about a hundred meters in front of him, not
     exactly jogging, but certainly speed-walking. He had noticed her in
the street on the way to her apartment, and followed. He needed to talk
to her, desperately, but try as he might, he couldn't catch up with her.
He also didn't want to shout. The unshakable feeling that he was being
watched dogged him like a nightmare. He was concerned, even, about
being out on the streets. They were out to get him, and here he was,
chasing a bit of skirt. It was worthy of an opera buffa.
  Katerina was going to meet Helen Printo at the zoo. Why Printo had
suggested the zoo, Katerina couldn't even imagine. She was glad it was
outside though. Who would have guessed that the storm yesterday

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would blow itself out so quickly, and leave such a nice sunny day in its
wake? Still, a stiff breeze was picking up, and part of her didn't want to
return to work this afternoon, and instead, wanted to go out sailing.
Maybe she could even call Will--he would like that, she thought
absentmindedly. The wind was cold and it made her eyes water a bit. So
much the better, to hide the real tears.
   The sunny day could not keep the memories of Sunday night at bay.
The degradations visited upon her by the horrible Bella. She'd called
Helen Printo so that she could tell her what happened. Katerina had
already reported the incident, with no results. It was almost as if the
authorities didn't care, or didn't exist. Katerina wanted Bella to pay for
what she'd done.
   Despite the cheer of the day, the bracing wind, Katerina felt a sick, close
terror--it was an animal fear, the knowledge that Bella could have killed
her at any time on Sunday. Katerina was afraid she still might. That fear is
state of nature for animals, though Katerina suspected that for most ani-
mals, once the danger had passed, it was forgotten. Were humans the only
animals that suffered psychological damage from fear? Katerina was sure
that only humans have been able to rise above that fear. But then again, she
thought, only humans could revert to the basic instinctive reactions of
other animals, and only humans, it seems, could add horror to that
instinct. How else could you explain prisons or concentration camps?
   Katerina came to the Ipolis zoo, the most humane of prisons, with
each animal area designed for the species' comfort, not visibility to the
zoo patrons. The result was a maze of high-fenced boulevards and pas-
sageways--interactive screens sat before each animal pen, describing the
habitat, natural history, and biology of the creature.
   Katerina entered the zoo, and after consulting a map, headed
towards the otter enclosure. Helen Printo was already there, sitting on
a bench opposite the artificial river where the otters played; she was
reading her datapad. The otters played some esoteric game that only
like-minded creatures could fathom--a group of children laughed
excitedly at their antics, while their teacher stood by amused at the
way his charges almost played with the aquatic clowns. Printo was
oblivious to the scene, engaged in her own esoteric game; it wasn't
just a search for Mozart or even the "Ipolis Compact," it was much
more. It was about her family. A game of three players, one dead, one
she thought of as dead, and herself.

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   So she didn't see Katerina approach, and she was surprised by the
Czech's presence when she looked up. As they exchanged pleasantries, it
took her several minutes to notice the bruises on Katerina's neck. The
otters grew quiet as the group of children ran off to the next wonder, and
the two women talked. The teacher looked at the women wistfully, and
then walked off, following his students at a studied pace.
   "Great of you to come," Printo said. "Does your story idea have some-
thing to do with the bruises?"
   "Yes, yes, it does, but I wanted . . ." Katerina didn't want to talk
about it right away. She needed to, but at the same time, she needed
more. "I just wanted . . . to see you again." Katerina could not bring
herself to talk about Bella first. Besides, it was true, she had wanted
to see Helen again.
   "Okay," Printo said, almost missing the point, "but I had some other
questions for you anyway."
   "Really? About what?"
   "You're a friend of Will Armstrong aren't you?"
   "Uh, Will?"
   "You might not know this, but he was a member of one of the collec-
tives that set up Ipolis."
   Katerina was surprised by this. "No, I didn't know that. He's too
young for that isn't he? Anyway, I just met him a few days ago. He has
a crush on me."
   "But I thought you were gay?"
   "Yes, but he doesn't seem to believe it. Or he doesn't care."
   "Men can be like that sometimes," Printo said. "But then, so can
women."
   Katerina blushed furiously, and her eyes started tearing again. She
closed them. "Why did you want to meet at the zoo?" she asked, trying
to change the topic.
   "A whim, really," Printo said. "I like the space, and it would be hard
to eavesdrop here."
   "Why would you care about that?" Katerina asked. The thought that
someone would be watching them made her even more nervous.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, she remembered the stories her father
told her about life under the Communists. Everyone was always watching.
   "I think your friend Will might be mixed up with something big. I
can't really tell you any more. How well do you know him?"

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   Katerina thought about her father, a man she'd always considered
paranoid. Then again, he'd been arrested in the middle of the night,
and lived in a totalitarian regime. An image of her parents' kitchen
popped into her head. Her father always spent the morning there,
drinking Turkish coffee and reading. Smoke would pour off the ciga-
rettes he chain-smoked like he needed them to breathe, but he always
had time for her. Especially to warn her about his persecutors: "They
always start with the most innocuous of questions, Ko?i?ka, remem-
ber that. Remember, when they start asking questions about your old
dad, will you Little Cat?" At the time, she'd not paid much attention
to her delusional father--since the Velvet Revolution, the
Communists asked no more questions--but something about her
father's warning had taken root. It kicked in now. "Uh, are you sure
it's the same Will?"
   "Will Armstrong . . . I saw you with him the other night . . . remem-
ber, the night you came on to me?"
   "Oh, yes. That's the Will I know."
   "So you know him?"
   "Well, not much. Like I said, he just sort of chases me around, you
know?"
   Printo's ironic look told Katerina: she knew.
   Mozart watched them talk from the relative hiding near the monkey
pens. The women didn't seem to be saying much, and he didn't really
care. He was waiting for his chance to talk with Katerina. Something
about her today seemed very sad and deflated--a flower wilting in sum-
mer's heat. The monkeys watched him watch the two women.
   "So you're really just recent acquaintances, then?" Printo probed.
   "Yes, we met at the clinic."
   "The clinic?"
   "Yes, I work at Dr. So's clinic. I'm a nurse there, like I said the other
night."
   "Of course, of course. And Mr. Armstrong was there?"
   "Yes--Herr Armstrong. It's what some of his friends call him, you
know."
   "Oh really?"
   "Yes," Katerina confirmed. Had she said too much already? She didn't
want to get Will in trouble, but at the same time, she liked being with
Printo. "Say, why don't we get a coffee, or something," Katerina ven-

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tured, "and I'll tell you all I know about him. He's really a very nice man,
a little pathetic, a bit confused, but a nice man. Gentle."
   "Yes, let's go get a coffee. So, you say he was at the clinic when you
met him? And then he asked you out after your shift ended? It seems like
a strange thing, doesn't it--I mean, he's there to become a woman, and
he propositions a woman that very day?" Wheels were already spinning
for the reporter--she was pretty sure that Burton could jigger his way
into Dr. So's files; that would get her a psychological profile and who
knows what else? And the sex change? Camouflage, obviously. If he'd
done it earlier, she thought, the trail would be stone cold, because I
never would have guessed it.
   They walked off towards the coffee shop, while Mozart watched. A
sick feeling was welling up in him, the likes of which he hadn't experi-
enced since his madness back in the French Revolution. The chattering
of the monkeys suddenly became the background noise of Parisian mob
circa 1793: "Kill them! Kill, kill, kill!" He shook off the apprehension,
and moved to follow the two women, but better sense caught him. If his
Katerina was betraying him to the Italian reporter, what could he do to
prevent it? It was a final rejection, but perhaps there was another expla-
nation . . . he knew it was hopeless, centuries of experience told him so,
but he still had to wait and find out.
   The irony of it bathed over him along with the yammering pri-
mates--frustrated by another blasted Italian. Just like before, they
couldn't let him enjoy his success. Well, maybe this wasn't nationally
motivated, but the irony still stuck. And how could a Czech do it to
him--his beloved Czechs! "Ah," Mozart whispered, "it was all so long
ago, these two young women couldn't know." He leaned up against the
monkey cage, watching the women disappear into the coffee shop. And
monkeys gathered around him, plucking at his hair.
   When the two women got their drinks from the robot-served counter,
they sat down at a window seat. Printo put her datapad on the table, and
set it in "record" mode--no pictures, but audio and a text transcript.
"So," Printo began, "describe what it was like meeting Herr Armstrong."
She emphasized "Herr." Katerina described to the best of her ability the
meeting, and Mozart's pass at her.
   "He was really very sweet, and he has such . . ." she paused for a
moment, remembered her father again and discarded the memory, "he
had such sad eyes. But kind. It was as if he'd seen more than he could

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bear, and it made him want to protect everything. That was my first
impression, when he asked me out, that he wanted to protect me, but
then I could see there were the usual man-things in his eyes too. His eyes
sort of drifted down," she paused again, "well, I'm sure you know Helen,
being so beautiful. You must get it all the time."
   "Indeed."
   "So, uh, he asked me out, and we went to the Bear Pit later on."
   "And?"
   "And I met someone, and left him there. Later we went out to that
artsy bar together, where I met . . . Anyway. We've gone out a couple of
times. Like I said, he's nice."
   "Has he said anything that sounded strange?"
   "Apart from meeting him at the clinic, and his kindness, there's noth-
ing strange about the man at all. Why? Why are you interested in Will?"
   "Well, like I said he was in one of the collectives that built Ipolis,"
Printo said. She sensed that Katerina was holding out on her, and
decided to flatter her, as she might a man. "Can you keep a secret,
Kate?"
   "Sure," Katerina smiled. She liked that Printo called her Kate.
   "Okay. I have a theory that a small number of individuals are control-
ling Ipolis, and I thought he might be one of them. He was with one of
the founding committees. Do you realize how few people really know
what's going on in this city? Have you ever thought how much has to
happen to keep this place running smoothly, and there's only the yearly
referendum that makes decisions. There's only six police officers in the
entire city, and only a handful of bureaucrats handing out living space
and perks for those that deserve them." Printo met a blank stare.
   "And you think Will is one of these people? Well, I'm afraid you're
wrong--I've only known him a few days, but there's no way he could be
part of something like that!"
   "What makes you such a great judge of character?"
   Silence, and then a sigh. "Nothing, I suppose."
   "But you had something you wanted to tell me," Helen prompted.
She had to be careful or her sharpness was going to cost her only con-
tact with Armstrong/Mozart; she needed Katerina.
   There is a small group of people running the city, and they don't care
about things like Bella's attack on me, Katerina was thinking. What
good would it do if she told the reporter? Just give her more suspicions.

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And she knew that Will Armstrong wouldn't have anything to do with
such a thing. He would do something about Bella. She wished they had-
n't gone inside for the coffee, because she could feel the tears starting
again.
   "Oh, it's nothing."
   A darkness descended over Katerina. She could feel it enveloping her
like the cold sea, numbing and full of mortality. Not since she left
Dorcas had she felt such despair; she was sinking past tears or caring
about anything. But a flicker of light remained, which she couldn't
account for, or even really acknowledge--Mozart's love. She sighed
again, and looked at Helen Printo with sudden distaste. "Well, Ms.
Printo, it's been nice talking with you. Good luck on your story, but you
might as well forget Will Armstrong--he's not your conspirator."
   "Could you tell me where he lives?"
   Katerina suddenly remembered her father again, and suddenly under-
stood him better. "Most definitely not." She stood up, and headed out
of the zoo. Printo turned off her datapad, frustrated, and watched the
buxom behind swish away. Another dead end.
   Mozart watched from the distance, still the object of simian ridicule.
The monkeys continued to chatter at him, perhaps trying to get his
attention as much as laughing at him. He watched Katerina approach,
her face a blanket of misery, and out of the other corner of his eye, made
sure that Printo wasn't following or watching. When he was satisfied, he
followed Katerina, at a close distance, not wishing to lose her again. As
he approached the famous bottom, definitely more moved by it than ace
reporter Helen Printo was, he shouted out: "Katerina, wait up!"
   She stopped, in shock. "What are you . . ."
   "Visiting the relatives," he said, jerking his thumb back at the mon-
keys. A smile intimated itself on her face.
   "Well, it's quite a coincidence."
   "Quite! I thought I saw you with that reporter at the coffee shop."
   "You aren't following me, are you?"
   "No. No. I just noticed. You know, Ko?i?ka, I didn't want to inter-
rupt."
   "Well, I don't like her much, and yes, it was Helen Printo."
   "So why were you with her, if you don't like her?"
   "She was asking me about you, actually."
   "Oh?"

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                              Mark A. Rayner

   "She has this bizarre theory that you are part of some conspiracy to
rule the city. Weird, huh?"
   "Truly. So what are you doing now?"
   "I don't know Will . . . I really don't."
   "Why don't we walk a little, and then I'll make you dinner."
   "I don't think so, Will. Like I told you, I'm not straight, and why can't
you just accept it?"
   "Because I love you Katerina, and the heart knows what it knows, the
facts be damned. Haven't you ever been in love?"
   Katerina seemed stunned by the question. "Of course I have--I loved
Dorcas deeply. And there have been others," she cut herself off, her voice
sounding hollow even to herself. "I have to go now Will. Please don't
bother me anymore."
   Katerina's request was demoralizing--it reduced his love to a "bother."
We can be very cruel to one another, even when we're old enough to
know better, when we've outgrown the intense selfishness of youth. She
left Mozart standing in the zoo, the childish laughter of the monkeys
echoing in the distance while he watched her unattainable backside
sashay into the crowd.




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