Panoptic

Panoptic - Chapter 07

 "Contest," he said. "Your contest."

His confusion must have shown on his face, because she patted his arm with her large, damp hand, and gave him a mothering look. "You poor lost little boy," she said.

Irritation warred with nausea, making his lips and nose wrinkle. There was something cloying about the woman; just as the office stank of sugar and sweet things, she smelled of condescension.

He shrugged off her hand. "Look," he said. "Thanks for helping me before, I guess, but I didn't come here to get your views on art and culture. I've got plenty to do; I'm busy enough without entering some mysterious contest, and I don't need whatever prize you might care to offer. Thank you, really, and goodbye."

He walked away, wound past the big mahogany desk and the model building that sat on it, seeming both minute and massive, like a castle built by pixies.

Belle called from beside the window. "It's very prestigious, my contest."

"Thank you again," he said over his shoulder, going on his way.

"You could play hob the nob with a good many famous people, lots of beautiful girls...and boys."

He shook his head, almost at the door.

"Of course," she added, her voice rising and desperate, "there's the prize money...a million dollars isn't much these days, but..."

He opened the door, and walked out through it.

"I see. If I can't offer anything else then salut!"

The door swung shut behind him, but he halted as her last word sank into his mind. "Salut," he muttered. "Salut?" He shook his head. "No way. No, no... But on the phone, she called me Song."

He bent his head forward, squeezed his eyes shut, and massaged his brow with one hand. She hadn't said it by accident. She was American, they were in New York, and nobody he'd ever met there used colloquial French to say farewell.

Damn! He'd thought he was free of her.

He turned around in her outer office, and the secretary, a slim, attractive woman, shook her head. "Don't go back in there," she whispered.

He gave her a half smile, and shrugged. He pushed the door open, and strolled back in, doing his best to look nonchalant. Maybe he was caught, but he didn't have to show it.

She batted her eyes and beamed at him. "I'm so pleased that you changed your mind."

"I haven't," he said. "About your contest, anyway. But you called me Song, so you know..."

"That your brother's name isn't Sam," she finished for him.

He walked halfway into the room, and leaned against her model. She flinched, then gave him a hurt expression, but he remained in place. When it became evident that he wasn't going to move or speak, she sniffed, brushed a few crumbs from her lapel, and simpered. It was as pleasant as a pug dripping with maple syrup.

"Beautification," she said. "The Beautification." She managed to pronounce the capital letters.

"Hrm."

"That's the name. Of my contest. You have to-"

"I wasn't interested before, and I'm not interested now. You know something about my brother."

She carried on, unperturbed. "You have seven days, in seven cities, picked at random from the entire world. In that time, you and the other contestants will photograph the most beautiful scenes of modern life. We've spent so long being ashamed of progress, embarrassed by modernity. It's time to change that. It's time to be proud of who we are, all of us, even the little and the small, to stand up and say-"