The New World

Crazy Horse

The train ride from Archangel to Bay took less than an hour. At 8:30 p.m. Mens entered the Crazy Horse café and sat down on one of the stylish sofas that were part of the place's magnificent multicolored decor. A waiter told him that Clara would be back soon. He ordered an assortment of tapas washed down with a cactus beer.

As he nibbled on the spicy tapas, he looked around the interior of the café he'd heard was a fashionable place, within the limits tolerated by official morality. It was a fairly large room with a wide staircase in the middle leading up to a mezzanine. In front of the staircase sat a statue in dark red wood of a figure with the body of a man, dressed only in a loincloth, with the head of a horse, wearing Indian-style feathers. Crazy Horse, Mens thought. The walls were red ochre with light green cornices. Varnished Indian motifs adorned the beams and panelling. Music filled the space, a slow, Indian rhythm accompanied by stretched phrases of synthetic saxophones.

The Crazy Horse was an island of tolerance, a good argument from Power to all those who found its grip on daily life too stifling. People could talk freely, listen to the old decadent music and even, it was rumored, illegal drugs were circulated there.

In another sign of non-conformity, portraits of ancient Indians who had disappeared since time immemorial were plastered on the walls. Mens daydreamed about the tragic fate of these primitive and indomitable peoples, almost completely wiped off the face of the Earth. At the time of the Great Holocaust, they had refused the implant and its Spirit refuge, preferring to remain empty-headed, which had made them easy prey for the mind devourers sweeping the world. The name of the place must have been a reference to one of those poor stubborn leaders, Mens thought. He couldn't understand how anyone could advocate such irredentism, and his natural indulgence failed to remove a certain distrust of the place and its regulars.

Suddenly, he saw Clara. No doubt about it, it was her: the blonde girl seen in Pugachev's mind. Not dressed as in his fantasy, but in the fashion of the moment, in a satin tunic and short, tight black pants. Her hair was gathered in a waving ponytail, giving her a dynamic air as she walked quickly to the bar to fetch an order. Her waist was cinched by a belt bearing the payment device. Apparently warned by her fellow waiter that she was wanted, she approached Mens. He saw that her eyes were ochre, almost golden yellow, enhanced by mauve make-up.

"Good evening, Sister", he began in his kindest tone, showing her his card. I'm the one who sent you the message: Mens Ridge, inductor at Wamash. I'd like to ask you a few questions, since you're Zoe Klein's daughter. I'm sorry to bother you while you're working. Can you spare a few minutes to chat with me?

After notifying the bar, Clara returned to Mens.

"Ok, a few minutes", she said, sitting down on a footstool opposite Mens. "I'm here to work, not to answer an interrogation."

She was aggressive, but understandably so in the face of a police officer holding her mother.

"Sister, I'm sorry about your mother, but we're obliged to hold her because she's under serious suspicion. In the current situation, we couldn't risk letting her resume contact with the rebel fringe."

Clara's eyes froze at the word rebel.

"Indeed, it was in her home that a terrorist named Jan Pugachev was recently captured", continued Mens.

"Jan Pugachev, terrorist, that's impossible", said Clara, looking away.

"And besides, you're one of Jan Pugachev's souvenirs."

"So what?"

Mens handed her the picture in which she was strangely wearing a hat and holding a lion.

"But that's me", she laughed, looking around awkwardly to see if anyone had seen the image. "Where did you find this?"

"I told you, in Jan Pugachev's memory."

She blushed a little.

"In his memory? I didn't know I was so important to him. So, we're interested in divination at the Wamash, Brother Inspector", she said, looking at him with a look that was half amused and half contemptuous.

"What do you mean?" (The Wamash information base had already given Mens the information, but he wanted to know what the girl was getting at).

"It's what was called Tarot before the Holocaust."

"The card game?"

"This deck of cards could also be used for divination. This card is called Force. By the way, it means the onset of a passionate relationship, but fortunately, you Wamash psycops aren't concerned with passion!"

"Your irony doesn't impress me. Yes, thank God, I've gone beyond a certain stage of emotional dependence that you call passion and which is merely a remnant of the wanderings of the old world. Do you mean to say that such a passionate relationship existed between you and Jan Pugachev?"

"Not at all".

She chuckled awkwardly, then frowned.

"Listen, Brother Wamash agent, am I obliged to answer your questions?"

"You don't have to. We have no reason to suspect you, do we? Sister Clara (he emphasized the Sister), your mother is in a very bad way. And you should advise her to cooperate with us."

The girl resumed her indifferent air, despite Mens' insistent gaze.

"Sorry, I'll have to go", she said coldly, rising to her feet.

"Here are my contact details", said Mens, sending her a card. If you remember anything, anyone, please don't hesitate to contact me, even tonight at my hotel. The smallest piece of information can help your mother.

The waiter from the beginning stared menacingly at their table. The girl looked Mens straight in the eye this time, and said, weighing her words: "Listen to me carefully, either you arrest me on some charge and maybe I'll talk, or don't count on me to help you with your investigation. I'm no informer."

"As you wish", said Mens, "but don't forget that you could be helping your mother, and that it's urgent for her. Didn't I tell you that Pugachev almost died at the Wamash..."

"What do you mean, Jan almost died?", exclaimed the girl, sitting back down.

"Yes", Mens continued. "Right now, he's a sort of living vegetable, with his brains almost gone."

He paused for a moment. Clara had blushed.

"What did you do to him?", she articulated with difficulty.

"I didn't do anything. Pugachev was the victim of mind-eating or elimination by the Rebellion, or perhaps he committed suicide. I felt the moment it happened because I was introspecting him. A technical term meaning that I was in close mental communication with him. And I can tell you I'm experienced. I wouldn't wish that experience on anyone. It was awful. Just before it happened, I saw you in his thoughts. You seemed... very important to him."

He paused, then continued.

"That's why I wanted to see you. I hope the people who did this to him won't try anything against your mother. If she's holding compromising secrets, you know, even the Wamash isn't totally safe to stop someone motivated enough to go to extremes to protect vital secrets."

Mens' sincere accent seemed to touch the young girl, who was hypnotized by his words. When he finished, she shivered and clutched her head in her hands.

Mens was reminded of the drowning scene stolen from Pugachev's memory. He blamed himself for distressing the poor girl.

The waiter, perhaps her boyfriend, Mens thought, approached Clara and patted her on the shoulder.

"Clara, are you all right?", he said affectionately.

Clara sniffed and returned to her earlier indifferent look, now somewhat haughty. She stood up and walked away from the table without a word.

Mens stood up and left, while Clara joined the bar. She was wiping glasses and talking quietly to fellow waiters.

He left The Crazy Horse. The fresh air risingfrom the bay relaxed him. He turned on his vaporizer and took a few steps, thencaught a cab back to his hotel.