Zeitgeist by Bruce Sterling Page A

eighties, remember? A handsome, charming Russian guy! White silk ascot and a cool battle jacket full of medals!”
    “I never think back.” Tamara’s voice was wintry. “Those days are dead. I never think about that place anymore.”
    “But he’s here, Tamara. Khoklov is here in Cyprus.”
    Now Tamara was nearing panic. “There’s a Russian here? There’s a Russian in this casino? Someone who knew me? Someone who could talk about me?” She stared at Starlitz, unable to conceal her terror. “Did you tell him about me?”
    Starlitz lowered his voice. This wasn’t working out the way he’d hoped. “No, Tamara. I didn’t get around to telling Khoklov about you. Khoklov doesn’t know.”
    “You’re lying,” she concluded in anguish. “Of course you told the Russian about me. Now some Russian is here to chase me, with his big Russian tongue hanging out. Oh, my God!” She put her hand to her forehead. “Men are so stupid!”
    The extent of his misstep was now clear to Starlitz. The scattered, decentered entity that was Tamara Dinsmore simply couldn’t assemble a cogent narrative. There was no continuity in Tamara’s late-twentieth-century filmscript. No rewind button in there.
    “The Russian doesn’t know about you,” Starlitz promised quietly. “I don’t have to tell him a thing.”
    “Khoklov is here in the casino, yes? Where is he?” She began to gaze around in agitation. “
What
is he? He must be Russian Maphiya by now.…”
    “Look, Tamara, I can handle all that, okay? Relax. You’re a Yankee businesswoman now, you’re Mrs. Dinsmorefrom Los Angeles. Pulat Khoklov is this washed-up gun from Petersburg who’s running around on one lung. Pay no attention to him. He’s not even in your universe. This thing you once had with Khoklov, it’s gone, it’s not even of this world anymore. It’s yesterday. No one cares, no one’s counting.”
    Tamara wasn’t mollified. “Why do
you
still remember?” she demanded shrilly. Her doelike eyes beneath their eyelid tucks were full of obscure pain. “Why do you remember all of that old time and that old world? Why do you lick your lips like that, why do you roll your eyes, why do you laugh at me? I hate you.”
    Starlitz sighed. “Tamara, try and understand. You’re a pro and a trouper, a major asset to my operation. But if you wanna stay on my payroll, you just gotta come to terms with me being me. Okay? Being me has got its downside, I admit that. But I’m me right here and right now, I was me back then and back there, and I’m
always
me, and I plan to
stay
me.”
    Starlitz held up his hand modestly. “I got sentimental about the Russian. That was lame. I was totally out of line there. We won’t discuss it anymore; it’s completely off the agenda. In the meantime, girl, mellow out! It’s cool, because you’re from L.A.! Take a couple of Halcion.”
    At this sermon’s conclusion Tamara rallied herself. “Do you
have
some Halcion? I’m all out of Halcion.”
    “Yeah, okay.” Starlitz quietly pressed two pills into Tamara’s taloned hand. “I was kinda saving ’em for the Italian One, but yours is the greater need, babe.”
    Tamara signaled a bow-tied waiter and selected a double brandy sour. “No more surprises in personnel. All right? I
hate
surprises.”
    “Right.”
    Tamara drank and looked up wetly, her upper lip grainy with sugar. “Surprises never make me happy, Leggy. I had too, too many surprises in my life.”
    “No problem, Tamara. I’m cool with that.”
    “And fire the American One! Fire her tonight, while we still have a chance to hire a new one.” Tamara tossedback the pills and drank. Then she stalked away, clacking.
    Spotting her own opportunity, the French One sidled up to confront Starlitz. The French One was the group’s sophisticate. She had a good line in press repartee, and unlike her G-7 colleagues she fully understood how to sing and dance. The French One wore a ribbed designer bustier, a tricolor