The interior of the Broadway theater shifts and blurs in Lydia’s vision as the curtain falls for the interval, but she keeps her mental focus long enough to finish translating the last few lines of the first act for the cultural attaché. He calls himself Fitzwilliam and sits to her immediate right in the VIP balcony. (Lydia calls him Fitz, and either he doesn’t mind or doesn’t register the difference.) Translating while listening to the dialogue is tricky but Lydia can hardly ask the actors to stop for a moment and let her catch up, and she is keen for her employer to have a seamless experience. She is proud of her ability to translate and listen simultaneously—a lot of her old classmates struggled with this aspect of the job, and tonight’s play is a perfect chance to show it off—but it’s been ninety minutes and there’s more to come (Who knew plays were so long?), and she’s dizzy and needs a break. The cultural attaché thanks Lydia for her work, she tells him it’s no problem, then she stands up, trips over her bag and falls backwards over the railing.
By this stage Lydia feels so drunk that, as she plummets towards the stalls, she barely registers that what’s happening is bad. She feels little more than sluggish surprise—Oh, I’m falling off the balcony. Oh dear—as she hears the cries of alarm from other audience members, some of whom she is about to land on.
And then she stops. Not because she has landed on anything, or anyone. She just stops.
She is upside down. She looks up at her feet.
Fitz has reached out one of his long, slender arms and caught Lydia by her ankle, his flexible fingers clamped tight around the limb. She’s heard his people are stronger than they look but until now Lydia has seen little evidence of this because the job of cultural attaché is so genteel. She always wondered if the rumors of their strength were just used by certain groups of humans to justify their own fearmongering but no, apparently not. He’s holding Lydia by one hand without straining and she knows she is not the lightest of people.
Lydia stares foolishly down at the crowd of theatergoers staring up at her and feels relieved she didn’t wear a dress tonight.
Fitz hauls Lydia back onto the balcony. He doesn’t quite lift her high enough and her head glances off the railing on the way. She hears his voice inside her mind: Sorry.
No no, you’re fine, Lydia replies. Thanks for catching me.
She’s safely inside the balcony and he indicates for her to sit back down. He seems concerned, although she always finds it hard to read his face, especially behind that translucent wrap he wears over it (the Logi can breathe without these, but find it very difficult). Because his people don’t use their mouths to speak, they don’t seem to use them for any form of expression, any more than humans communicate their emotional state with their noses. She instinctively interprets his eyes as “surprised” or “curious”—but she knows that’s just because they’re large and dark.
The audience members still looking up at them from the stalls probably assume Lydia and Fitz are conversing right now. When you have the ability to communicate with someone telepathically, people tend to assume you’re talking to them all the time, especially if you’re not visibly doing anything else. But Fitz isn’t talking to Lydia: anyone who knows him would know that if he’s not making expansive hand gestures, he’s probably not talking. He knows her brain needs a rest. Lydia should have known it too: taken more care, and not stood up so quickly. Now everyone will think she can’t cope with the demands of her job, just because she fell off a balcony.
Eventually Fitz does speak. He says: We can skip the rest of the play if you’re too tired. He always says “tired,” never “drunk,” because he’s polite like that.
Part of Lydia would very much like to duck out of this. But it’s the closing event on the last night of the seventeenth annual Plugout NY Festival, a very busy week in the cultural attaché’s calendar, and this is the first time she’s done it, and she doesn’t want to wimp out so close to the end. There’s also the reception afterwards, which is kind of a big deal.
Can we get some air? she says.
They walk down to the lobby, his hand discreetly but firmly placed on her shoulder to make sure she doesn’t fall down the stairs.
When Lydia was a kid, of course she’d heard that communicating with the Logi made you drunk—everyone heard that—but she honestly wasn’t sure if it was just a stupid urban myth. On her first day at the London School of Thought Language (LSTL) they told her that processing the language in your brain didn’t make you drunk but it did make you feel drunk, a distinction Lydia found hard to grasp: drunkenness is a feeling, so what’s the difference between feeling drunk and being drunk? They explained that from a biological perspective it was very different because your body wasn’t dealing with toxins, and the process didn’t damage your body in the same way alcohol did. So it was like getting drunk with no downside? Awesome.
At least, that was what she thought at the time.
As part of their education, pupils at LSTL were given weekly sessions where they had to complete tasks while “drunk.” These were not nearly as much fun as everyone imagined they’d be. They weren’t allowed to have real alcohol (they did ask, of course), and were instead given a nasal spray which (apparently) more accurately reflected the type of intoxication they would feel while working. They were then given basic comprehension and memory tests, or they’d be told to prepare a meal from a recipe or issue a complex set of instructions to a service terminal, that sort of thing. Lydia had plenty of practice at doing things drunk from when she lived in Halifax (the one in Yorkshire, not Nova Scotia, as she explains to New Yorkers on a regular basis). But it was different when you were being watched by humorless tutors assessing your performance, rather than sitting on the floor of a kebab shop at 3:00 A.M. with chili sauce in your hair while your mates laughed at you.
Towards the end of Lydia’s time at LSTL this training progressed past basic competence while intoxicated and focused on the trickier skill of appearing sober. Lydia asked why this was necessary since everyone would know they weren’t, what with drunkenness being an inevitable consequence of the job. But the tutors just told her it was important for those in service to maintain a “professional” manner at all times. The problem with being intensively trained to act like you’re not drunk is it leads you to do things you shouldn’t do when you’re drunk, such as standing up too quickly on a balcony.
Lydia stands on the sidewalk outside the Shubert Theatre sipping from a bottle of Coke Lo! she bought from the machine on the way down. The evening air is like a warm bath. A security drone hovers at her left shoulder, Fitz stands at her right. She looks up at the drone to see which one it is: When she started in this job she dubbed them Arthur and Martha (they are not coded male or female—Lydia chose the names arbitrarily). The one with them right now is Martha, a slightly newer model than Arthur, the most obvious difference being her Taser is top-mounted rather than side-mounted, and her spherical surface has more of a matte finish. Arthur must be guarding their seats.
Lydia doffs her jacket and hangs it on one of Martha’s coat-hooks, then rolls up her shirtsleeves.
Like all the Logi stationed on Earth, Fitz chose a name for himself that humans can actually speak. Their names simply don’t translate: they are effectively a separate language, unconnected to the words they attach to objects, concepts, actions, etc., and while Lydia could describe what she thinks of when she hears his name (pale violet; ice slowly cracking over the surface of a pond; the scent of lemon; and then just a bunch of numbers), that’s not actually his name, and also it would take ages to say.
Fitz is still saying nothing, leaving her to recover. His huge hands are plunged into the pockets of his dark blue coat as he stares across the street. He always wears stuff like that—very tailored and plush, with a distinct Earth influence. Most of the other Logi she’s met don’t dress like him, they wear clothing with a more meshy look to it—but they all cover up, all the time, regardless of the heat. And hats, they all wear hats: Fitz has a wool cap that matches his coat. The small, narrow spikes that cover the top of his head poke out through the weave.
The Logi’s bodies are long and slim, evidently not built to retain warmth because their natural habitats don’t require it, and even in weather like this they’re capable of feeling cold. Lydia has rarely seen Fitz—or any Logi—without their face wrap, but she’s seen pictures, obviously, because at LSTL they did modules on being able to tell them apart, to avoid causing offense. Lydia always enjoyed that, it was like a puzzle game. She latches on to certain elements of appearance—for instance Fitz has a more pronounced nose than most Logi (which still means it’s barely there at all) and a slimmer, whiter face. Many Logi have more rounded, cream-colored faces which put Lydia in mind of a cartoon she used to watch about a guy with a skull for a head who worked in an office. She used to love that show, but it’s a good thing Fitz doesn’t remind her of it, it’s quite distracting.
Of course, Lydia knows him well enough now that she doesn’t need to make an effort to recognize him. She knows his mind, and can tell when he’s there even if her eyes are closed.
The theater district is one of Lydia’s favorite parts of the city. She’s seen old photos and it’s not much changed from how it was a hundred years ago, though that’s true of most of Manhattan. Mrs. Kloves, their neighbor at the cultural attaché’s residence on the Upper West Side, has many, many opinions on how the area has changed. She told Lydia that when they put up the sea barriers the mayor’s office started slapping protection orders on everything and turned Manhattan into a theme-park version of itself: no life, no change, no danger, just heritage. When Lydia heard this she felt a little bad for liking it here, as if this meant she had really basic taste, but she can’t get on board with the idea it’s such a terrible thing if a place stops being dangerous. Were any of your childhood friends stabbed to death, Mrs. Kloves? Because that gives you a different perspective on the appeal of dangerous places.
Even so, Lydia often finds herself in quiet moments like this searching the city for evidence of this decline, that a once great and vital place is now hollowed out and trying too hard to be itself, like a rock star who’s done too much coke for too many years.
The streets are lively tonight, filled with pop-ups and stalls and corporate sponsor zones. It’s been like this throughout the festival, which was devised to bring physical tourism to the city and boost the flagging arts scene during the often unbearably hot summer months. Fitz is attracting more curious glances from passersby than usual—maybe they’re coming from the tourists? New Yorkers are usually cooler and more relaxed about Logi walking around, unlike people in Halifax. Even though her hometown’s industry is entirely based around the Logi these days, none of them ever go there, so most people have never seen one in the flesh.
“Ambassador!” says a voice from behind them, and Lydia turns to see a young man emerging from the theater and heading their way. Fitz doesn’t react, because he doesn’t register the noise as being aimed at him, so Lydia gets his attention and points to the approaching figure. The young man has a light beard and wild, dark, curly hair and wears a shapeless pair of overalls with a dress shirt underneath. His attention is fixed only on Fitz: he doesn’t seem to see Lydia at all.
“He’s not the ambassador,” Lydia tells the young man.
“What?” the young man asks, seeming surprised she’s speaking directly to him as herself, rather than translating for Fitz. Or maybe he’s just surprised by her accent.
“He’s the cultural attaché.” Lydia over-enunciates this and is aware her words are coming out with a leery, aggressive edge. She really needs to use this interval to sober up and wishes this guy would go away, but she needs to be pro about this.
“OK,” the young man says with a tone to his voice that says: same difference. “I want to ask him about—” He stops addressing Lydia and turns to Fitz instead. “My name’s Anders Lewton—hi—and I’d really like to talk to you about—” He seems to realize he needs more pleasantries and chitchat before launching into his sales pitch and pulls back, saying, “How’re you enjoying the play so far?”
Wearily, Lydia translates what Anders has just said for Fitz. He listens, then replies.
“The play is excellent,” Lydia conveys to Anders. “I find the intricacies of the character dynamics fascinating.” She knows a large part of the credit here belongs to Henrik Ibsen for writing the play, and to the theater company for staging it so well, but she also feels there’s a compliment in this for her. She prepared for this extensively by reading Hedda Gabler twice and watching two (very old) TV adaptations and a film, so she wouldn’t be thrown by anything on the night. She didn’t want to be desperately looking up references on her glasses in the middle of the play: multitasking has its limits.
“Great,” says Anders. “Listen, I need to talk to you about a live cross-portal event I’m raising funding for—my background’s in devised theater, I don’t know if you know what that is but it’s an ideal medium for intercultural collaboration, and I really want—”
Before Lydia has even started to translate this for Fitz, she hears his voice in her head. She suppresses a smirk as she tells Anders what Fitz has just told her: “Could you make an appointment to come to my office later in the week? My translator has been working hard interpreting the play for me, and she needs rest so we can enjoy the second half.”
Anders stares at Lydia for a moment. He doesn’t fully trust what she’s just told him, and suspects she has modified Fitz’s words to suit herself. This is all written clearly on his face. He opens his mouth to speak to her; then he closes it; then he smiles at Fitz, says, “Thank you, I will,” and walks back into the theater.
Prior to retaking her seat in the VIP balcony, Lydia goes into the bathroom, powers her glasses down for a moment (the agency doesn’t like their employees doing this, but reluctantly accepts they must have some privacy) and takes a small bump of &. Lydia usually prefers not to use drugs while working, partly because it contravenes the terms of her contract, but mostly because she worries it will make her say things she shouldn’t. But if she’s just translating the play for Fitz it (hopefully) shouldn’t be a problem.
To an extent it works and she feels sharp throughout, but the problem is that & is not a drug you take to watch a play about repressed emotions and thwarted lives set in a drawing room. It’s a considerable effort for Lydia just to sit still and pay attention to what’s happening onstage: she keeps up with translating the play, but grows impatient that the actors won’t speak faster, and any poignant silences, which before the interval she regarded as a welcome opportunity to rest, have become unbearable to her now. She chews gum furiously, jiggles her leg and fiddles with the buttons on her jacket until one of them comes clean off. Fitz notices this and Lydia tries to keep it in check. Never mind falling from the balcony, now she’s having to fight the urge to leap off.
When the play is over and Lydia has faithfully related every word of it to Fitz, she jumps to her feet and applauds wildly and maybe whoops a bit, not that loudly, though a few people look up to the balcony to see who’s making all the noise, but most of them are focused on the stage, it’s fine. No one ever really notices her: they’re always looking at Fitz.
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
