Asturias by Brian Caswell Page B

it.
    I’ll say one thing for Max. He’s cool. He stood up and walked over until he was facing her.
    â€œYou want out?”
    But Chrissie is ice herself when she wants to be.
    â€œYou want me out?”
    For a moment they faced each other, then they both burst out laughing. He put a hand on each shoulder and looked straight into her eyes.
    â€œAs if!” Then he let go and took a step backwards. “Look, there may be a grain of truth in …” At the look on her face he paused. “Okay, you’ve got me. The UN you are. But maybe it’s not quite as cynical as it first appears.”
    He paused again, but Chrissie wasn’t going to make it easy for him.
    â€œYou were saying?”
    â€œI was saying … I’m not denying there’s a marketing aspect, but —”
    â€œA marketing aspect! So now we’re a frigging hula-hoop!” She was having fun, but the serious edge was still there.
    â€œIt is part of the image, Chriss. It’s an image industry. But that doesn’t mean there can’t be a positive side to it all.”
    â€œI’m listening.”
    â€œThe message. What does it say to kids who see you up there on stage? Tolerance, cooperation. It’s not ‘us and them’, it’s just a universal us. It’s got to be better than some Rap band preaching death, destruction and discrimination. Instead of representing what is, we can show them what could be.”
    Chrissie was softening, but she wasn’t quite ready to give up a good fight.
    â€œ ‘We are the world’. Very sweet! And we get to feel good all the way to the bank.”
    â€œAll the way to the bank. Look, Chriss, it’s my project. My deal. I want it to succeed. Of course I do. But I’m not a complete sell-out. Not yet, at least. Maybe we can do it without destroying too much along the way.”
    Finally Chrissie sat down.
    â€œOkay. Benefit of the doubt. But it really wasn’t about the race thing. Hell, we’re all in it for the money.” She looked at the two of us and winked. “And for the art, of course. I just wanted to clear the air. It’s about honesty, Max. Tell me the truth, and we can discuss just about anything. Screw with me, and I walk. I mean it.”
    â€œWhat, turn your back on ‘fame and fortune’?” Tim jumped in to lighten things.
    â€œJust watch me!”
    She answered Tim, but she was looking into Max’s eyes.
    Sitting where I was, I could see what he saw, and I knew she meant every word.
    Still, in the end it wasn’t Max who found our heartbeat anyway. It was me. And a large chunk of blind luck. Not that Max minded all that much. He couldn’t have made a more perfect choice, even if he’d sat down and worked it all out on a spreadsheet …
    MARCO
    Five o’clock.
    He assembles the thin metal tripod and curses silently to himself. Damned trackworks. Twenty minutes waiting between stations. Enough of a delay to lose the chance at any of the good spots.
    Tucked into the comer between the station entrance and the newsstand, he has barely enough room to move his arms. He looks at the sky. Rain coming. The rush-hour is on already, and he isn’t even set up.
    A fat man in a business suit pushes past and his brief-case catches the leg of the tripod that now holds a pair of old bongo-drums — the only real instrument among his whole collection of noise-makers. A reflex shoots out his right hand in time to catch them before they fall under the feet of the jostling crowd.
    Old Sam leans across the counter of the news-stand, and cranes his neck around the corner.
    â€œLate this afternoon, kid?”
    Sam is a master of the obvious. The boy nods.
    â€œTrain was delayed.”
    â€œLooks like you’re stuck with me, then.”
    â€œCould be worse.”
    He smiles. The old man likes him and he knows it. His performance slows down the rush at times, so that someone