He made an attractive woman in the blond wig that one of her more absurd miscalculations had bought for her, a spare pair of dark glasses, a close shave and makeup. Add to that a long brown skirt, a loose russet blouse, a wide soft black belt to match the soft black leather of his boots, black leather gloves of his own. She shuddered when she saw those. A black leather shoulderbag. Some basic instruction in sitting, standing and walking.
She followed him down, though he wanted her to keep well away in case he was stopped, afraid that she’d be connected with him and pulled into his danger. He didn’t stop arguing with her until he stepped into the hall, then he sighed and started away toward the stairs. He had a swimmer’s sleek body, a resurgent vitality powering the tiger-walk that looked female enough to pass. In many ways he was far more graceful than she’d ever been even when she had the energy and transient charm of youth. Watching him vanish into the stairwell, she felt an odd combination of chagrin, nostalgia and amusement as she started after him.
She went slowly down the steps, listening for the brisk clatter of his bootheels on the metal treads. The tape around her torso was beginning to itch. She was sweating too much. Below her, young women were talking, their words too distorted by the echoes to make sense. A burst of laughter. The hiss and clank of the exit door. The boots still clattering. She groaned. Catch up closer, Michael, closer so you’ll seem to be one of them, closer so he won’t look too hard at you. She turned the last corner and saw the flicker of the full brown skirt as he went out. She closed her eyes, held tight to the rail, then took one step down, another…
He was already out on the street and sauntering away when she came through the grill and passed onto the sidewalk. She glanced after him, making the look as casual as she could. He wasn’t hurrying and he’d forgotten what she’d told him about carrying his hips. Maybe I should have stuffed his feet into heels, she thought. She sighed and went the other way, heading for a breakfast she was really beginning to want.
She sat at her writing table, the typewriter pushed to one side, the credit cards and ident cards in neat lines before her. Five different idents, a scratched worn image that might be her likeness on each of them, three credit cards for each ident. She looked at them without moving; sighed. Once she started there was no turning back. Bash the Kite following with the van, Julia into the store because her face wasn’t known. It will be, after this, she thought. Can’t be helped. Hit the stores quick. Know what you want. Don’t hurry when you’re inside but don’t waste time either. Large stores, you can touch several departments. As long as you got good numbers and names no one’s going to question you. Quit before you think you should. That’s important. Bash’s rules. She smiled when she thought of the round-faced brown man who could vanish in a crowd of two. With a half-angry sweep of her hands, she collected the cards in a heap before her. “I hate this,” she said aloud; the words fell dead and meaningless into the silence.
That silence began to oppress her. She took the five leather folders from the wire basket and began fitting the idents and the credit cards into the slots inside the folders, working slowly and neatly though she wanted to throw them in anyhow and get them out of sight. She rose from the table, put her hand on the phone, took it away, swore softly, went into the bedroom, got her coat, some change for the public phone, bills for the cab, her teargas cylinder and the keys. It was foolish to the point of insanity to be going out now, but she couldn’t stay here any longer, not tonight.
She went down the stairs too fast, had to catch the siderail to keep from plunging headfirst, but didn’t modify her reckless flight until her hand touched the pressbar of the ground floor exitdoor, pausing to consider the situation before pressing the button for the outer-doors to be opened. “Ma’am,” the speaker said suddenly.
“What?” She turned, startled. The guard was looking at her oddly, she thought. She was frightened, but kept her face quiet.
“It’s after nine, Ma’am. Don’t leave much time. The curfew, remember. Or maybe you didn’t hear. You get back after twelve, I hafta report you.”
It was a minute before she could speak. “Thank you,” she said. “If I’m not back before then I will be staying with friends.”
“Just so you remember, Ma’am. Don’t want no fuss.”
“No,” she said. “Better no fuss.” She went, out the door a bit surprised that he’d bothered and cheered by the unexpected touch of caring.
She swung into the all-nite drugstore, saw the new sign, crudely lettered, CLOSE AT TWELVE, sighed and edged her way through the cluttered aisles to the public phone at the back of the store.
“Simon? Julia. Look, I need to talk. You free tonight?”
“Jule.” A hesitation, then a heartiness nothing like his usual dry tones. “Why not. Come over. But… um… be discreet, will you? Always a lot of attention on a bachelor professor.” He hung up before she could respond.
She wondered if it was worth the trouble. If she went now, she’d have to spend the night there. Irritated and miserable, but unable to stay alone this particular night, she dropped a coin in the phone and called a cab.
She left the cab at the edge of the faculty housing and walked briskly through the open gate, half expecting a guard to step out of the shadows and stop her. Not yet. But she could see the time coming. She walked along the curving street with its snug neat houses, neatly clipped lawns, strains of music drifting into the perfumed night air. Lilacs bloomed in some front yards, roses in others, a spindly jacaranda dropped purple petals that looked black in the sodium light and lay like drops of ink on grass and sidewalk. I’m too old to relish paranoia, she thought. Passwords and eavesdroppers, bugs in the phone, bugs in the mattress, censorship and thought police in the end, I suppose. She looked around. How absurd in this serenity, this remnant of a saner age.
There were cars dotted here and there along the streets as she wound her way deeper into the maze of curves, most with men sitting in them. One or two smoking cigarettes, all with small earphones and wires coiling away from them. Well, that’s it, she thought. The sickness is here too, my mistake. She recollected the phonecall and nodded. Nothing strange about the way he spoke, not now.
When she reached Simon’s house, she went round to the side door, and knocked there, hoping that this was what he meant, a gesture toward propriety meant more to mislead the watchers than any attempt to hide her presence from them. Watchers and listeners. He had to be at least a little frightened by the listeners like fleas infesting the streets.
The door opened before she had time to bring her hand down. Simon pulled her inside into a passionate embrace that made her grind her teeth as her not-quite-healed rib protested with a stabbing ache like cold air on a sore tooth. His hand went down her back, cupped a buttock, then reached out and pulled the door shut. “Hope the bastard got an eyeful,” he said with the dry burr more akin to his usual tones than the prissy caution over the phone. “What the hell, Jule, you look like something you find stretched out on a freeway.”