Bay were each a single pane of flawless glass. Almost everything in the room was white, except for the sofa and chairs, which were a vivid crimson.
The room was crowded with guests and heavy with smoke. Young couples in tuxedos and evening gowns and older men with waxed mustaches mixed easily with artists in clothes that were no better than Largo’s. However, he noted that the artists were comfortable and wore their garb stylishly. Seeing the shabby artists made Largo feel better and more determined to relax and at least appear at home in his rags.
Remy waved to a group of about eight people across the room. She tugged Largo to an oversize chaise longue where Lucie, another performer from the Grand Dark, had fallen asleep on her side holding a full flute of champagne that, miraculously, hadn’t spilled. Remy sat down next to Lucie and pulled Largo down beside her. She reached across the sleeping woman and gently plucked the champagne from her hand. “Lucie won’t mind,” Remy said, and downed the whole glass.
Her artist friends, reclining on the floor atop pillows and draped on the sofa, laughed. Largo recognized Enki Helm, the blind painter who worked in the absurdist Xuxu style more, Largo suspected, out of luck than talent. There was Bianca, an aspiring opera singer whom Largo liked and who—famously—was discovered while singing for pennies in the streets. Baumann was there too. Of course he’s here. He was a young up-and-coming film actor so handsome that Largo wanted to slap him. Instead, he smiled at them all and they raised glasses or nodded in response.
“Where have you been, Remy?” said Baumann, not even acknowledging Largo sitting beside her. “The evening couldn’t properly start without you.”
Remy said, “I could say that I was working, but really I was waiting until you were done with your boring stories about which society ladies you’re sleeping with.”
Baumann sat up in feigned indignation. “My affairs are never boring, and my stories even less so.”
“That depends on how many times you’ve heard them,” said Bianca. “Really, you must bed either more of these old fraus or fewer more-interesting ones.”
“Does anyone else have love advice for me?” said Baumann. “How about you, Largo? You’ve charmed lovely Remy here. What’s your secret?”
Largo froze. He couldn’t think of a thing to say to the bright and witty group. Luckily, before his silence became awkward, he was saved by a Mara that approached the group with more champagne. During the minute or so it took for everyone to get a glass, Largo had time to think. “I’m just the right size,” he said.
“What does that mean?” said Enki.
“For her to dress.”
Remy laughed, spilling champagne onto her lap. She took a napkin lodged under Lucie’s arm and wiped herself off, saying, “It’s true. He is the absolutely perfect size. Do you like his shirt? It belongs to Blixa Konstantin, the tragic victim in our second show.”
Bianca gave a snorting laugh and fell against Enki. Hanna, a biological artist who designed custom chimeras for Lower Proszawa’s richest families, tugged open Largo’s jacket and ran her fingers teasingly over the shirt.
“It’s lovely material,” she said. “If you were to die tonight you’d make a gorgeous cadaver.”
Remy took Hanna’s hand away from Largo’s chest and placed it on her own. “And what about me? Would you sneak a feel of my corpse?”
Hanna placed another hand on Remy’s breasts. She said, “Alive or dead, you always look good enough to eat.” Remy gave her a dainty kiss on the cheek.
“Already on to necrophilia, are we?” said Strum, the poet. “Or is it cannibalism? And barely eleven o’clock.”
Hanna sat down on a pillow at Remy’s feet. She looped an arm around one of Remy’s legs and one around one of Largo’s. He looked at Remy and she clinked her champagne flute against his. He didn’t know what that meant, but he smiled as if he did, wishing they could sneak off together and take more cocaine.
Lucie said, “Strum was telling us about his new epic poem. What was it called again?”
“The Sailor’s Call. It’s all empire and blood and sacred duty. Complete garbage.”
“Then why did you write it?” said Bianca.
“Because it paid more than my last two books combined,” he said in an attempt at a joking tone. “There’s art and there’s keeping a roof over one’s head. Sadly, in those moments, the roof always wins.”
“How sad for you,” said Hanna.
“If only you enjoyed the rain more,” said Baumann. “Then you could look at a roof as a luxury.”
“True,” said Strum. “It’s my fault for being born a poet and not a duck.”
A few of them laughed, but most smiled politely. Largo felt a pang of pity for the man. Seeing a respected artist forced to betray his gifts made him happy that he had no such ambitions. Before he could dwell on it, a shout cut into his thoughts.
“It’s Frida!” Bianca said, pointing across the room to where an elegant woman in furs and a salmon-colored gown looked this way and that. “She must have married that Baron she’s been after. Frida!” yelled Bianca. The woman waved her over. Bianca and several other members of the group got up and went to her.
The only ones left around the chaise were sleeping Lucie, Remy, Largo, Hanna, and Enki.
“A Baron,” Enki said contemptuously. “The very class that’s ruining this country. They’ll drag us into another war before any enemy does.”
“Please don’t start a tedious screed, Enki,” said Hanna. “Can’t you see I’m trying to seduce these young innocents? You’ll put them right to sleep.”
“They’re already asleep,” said Enki. “So are you. So is everyone in this room. I’m telling you, we’re heading for a catastrophe.”
Largo had never heard anyone speak with such passion about politics before. Well, he had, but only for a few seconds. He sounds like one of those cranks standing on a chair in the Triumphal Square, condemning both the upper classes and the bourgeoisie. If he hates everyone, though, who is he speaking to?
“We must organize and resist the ruling class’s bloodlust,” said Enki. “Take up arms, if necessary.”
“Arms?” said Remy. “I used to think your speeches were scandalous fun. But if you insist on being arrested for treason you’ll have to do that alone.”
“I thought you were smarter than the others, Remy,” he said. “But you’re just another dullard artiste.”
Largo stared at Enki, angry but torn, wondering if it was his place to speak up to someone so prominent in Remy’s artists’ circle. Finally, he couldn’t stand it. “Don’t talk about her like that. She’s right. You are a bore. And I’ve never liked your paintings. They’re as pretentious as your politics.”
Remy laid a hand on Largo’s back and Hanna gave his leg a squeeze. “Good boy,” she said. Slowly, Largo settled back onto the chaise. It felt good to speak up, but it left him confused. Had
