On the left of A.A. Catto sat Nancy, who was the only other natural human in the room. On her right sat a reproduction of a poet and playwright called Oscar Wilde. She had dug him out from some extremely ancient records. His constant chatter was amusing, and he could be relied on to fill any lapses in the flow of conversation with witty, if archaic, anecdotes.
A.A. Catto found he had a few minor drawbacks. For one thing, he was grossly overweight, a failing that A.A. Catto did not forgive easily. He tended to talk with his mouth full and drop food on the front of his silk dinner jacket. He was also rabidly homosexual, which ordinarily wouldn’t have bothered A.A. Catto at all, except that he kept switching his attention from her and casting covert glances at the guest opposite him.
This was a replica of a character called Presley. The original for him came from much the same period as Wilde. He was reputed to have been an entertainer and local sex symbol. A.A. Catto had picked him for his sullen good looks. He was not proving very entertaining, although A.A. Catto did have plans for him later. Through the first courses he sat slumped in his chair, the fringes from his white spangled suit falling across the table, becoming more sullen each time Wilde turned the stream of his wit in Presley’s direction.
Further down the table was Jeremy Atreides, a splendid figure in pale blue robes and festoons of jewellery. The Atreides copy was thin and good looking in a rather sick, epicene way, and had the scintillating kind of vicious, decadent humour that can only be found in the last of very long and inbred lines of late period god-emperors. A.A. Catto considered Atreides an overwhelming success, particularly as he seemed constantly able to top Wilde’s somewhat set-piece epigrams.
Beside him, laughing without fail at all his jokes and occasionally placing a tentative hand under the robes, was a reproduction of Patty Maison, a notably obscene dancer from the Age of Decline.
At the far end of the table were a clutch of big league courtesans whom A.A. Catto had picked for their reputed adaptability. She had also included the notorious Fila Fern-flower, a few particularly bestial tyrants, and Job Yok, a necromancer whose private life had so disgusted his swarm of faithful disciples that in the end they had felt compelled to eat him.
The only real failure was a Yaqui Indian shaman called Paha-Sapa who, before the dinner had even started, had smeared himself with datura paste and gone into immediate trance. A.A. Catto was aware that she would shortly have to deal with him.
With the exception of the shaman, the guests were on their best and most energetic behaviour. It was understandable, in view of the fact that A.A. Catto had informed them, during the hors d’oeuvres, that anyone who failed to please would be shot. They may have all been custom built reproductions with impressed personalities, but they were also mortal, with a mortal’s inbuilt aversion to violent death. To reinforce A.A. Catto’s warning, two armed guards stood silently behind her chair. At first the warning had cast a shadow over the festivities, but by the time the larks’ wings in aspic arrived, the party was in full, if desperate, swing.
A.A. Catto had, if anything, underplayed her own part in the proceedings. She was there to be amused. She didn’t feel obliged to contribute unless she wanted to. She wore a kind of black djellabah, slit on one side up to the thigh. One leg, encased in a black leather boot, dangled across the arm of her chair. A small cherub stood beside her chair stroking the inside of her thigh with a peacock feather. The cherub was less than a metre tall, pink and chubby with small gold wings grafted on his back.
The table in front of A.A. Catto sparkled with cut glass and fine silver. It was spread with spotless damask and white linen. Teams of young men and women, uniformly blue eyed and blond haired, continually replaced the dishes and decanters. They wore white tunics and were garlanded with vine leaves and flowers.
A.A. Catto sat silently in her chair and watched the entire circus with a half smile that revealed nothing of what she was thinking. Her exquisitely made-up eyes moved from one man to the other as Wilde started on Presley again.
‘Why so sullen, sweet boy, it hardly becomes you?’
Atreides raised his head from nuzzling Patty Maison and glanced at Presley.
‘I would have thought it became him admirably. Why, at times he positively smoulders.’
Presley remained silent. He glared from beneath his eyelids, and his upper lip curled into a sneer. Wilde clapped his hands in delight.
‘He surely becomes more beautiful by the moment. He is delightful when he’s angry.’
Presley slammed his glass down on the table.
‘Why don’t you faggots get the hell off my back?’
Atreides laughed.
‘He must be talking about you, Oscar. I’m sure Miss Maison will confirm that I can’t be categorized by such a narrow definition.’
His hand seemed to have vanished inside her dress. Patty Maison giggled shrilly and nodded. Wilde pursed his lips.
‘A combination of the arrogant and the omnivorous in one individual seems positively vulgar.’
He beamed at Presley.
‘Wouldn’t you agree, dear boy?’
Presley looked up sharply.
‘Ah don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.’
Atreides smiled sardonically.
‘He doesn’t have your experience, Wilde.’
Wilde slowly turned to look at the replica of the god-emperor.
‘Experience is the name that everyone gives to their mistakes.’
He glanced back at Presley.
‘It’s said that anyone who can dominate a dinner table can dominate the world.’
Presley half rose from his seat. He held up a tense, semi-threatening hand.
‘Ah’m warning you, brother, Ah’ve had about enough of your mouth.’
The conversation round the long table stopped dead. The servants halted, and even the harp player in the filthy coat, battered top hat and red wig on the small platform in the corner of the room ceased to play. Then Wilde broke the silence with a brittle giggle.
‘Come now, sweet boy, no one as pretty as you should behave quite so dreadfully.’
Everyone’s eyes turned to Presley. A.A. Catto leaned forward in her chair. Presley sat hunched up looking down at his hands. Wilde spoke again.
‘Nothing to say, dear boy?’
Presley suddenly snapped to his feet and flashed around the table before anyone else could move. He swung two wide, vicious punches at Wilde’s head, and then followed them up with a savage jab into the fat man’s stomach. A.A. Catto’s guards started to move towards Presley but, at a signal from her, remained still.
Wilde fell to his knees, sobbing and trying to protect his face with his hands. Presley leaned forward, grabbed him by the lapels of his dinner jacket and hauled him to his feet.
‘Ah warned you, faggot.’
He slammed Wilde hard against the wall three times. Then he let go of him. Wilde’s head sagged on to his chest. He slid slowly to the floor. Presley turned to face A.A. Catto. He stood awkwardly, brushing his hair back out of his eyes.
‘Ah’m sorry to mess up your party, ma’am. Maybe it’d be better if Ah was to leave?’
A.A. Catto smiled.
‘On the contrary, it was very entertaining. You must come and sit by me.’
Presley sat down beside her. She motioned to her guards, and they dragged the unconscious figure of Wilde out of the room. Paha-Sapa the shaman chose that moment to fall off his chair, and he too was dragged away. The servants began to circulate with brandy, mints, small porcelain bowls of cocaine and opium pipes.
The conversation started again. Atreides began groping Patty Maison in a more serious manner. The courtesans and the tyrants also began to get acquainted. Job Yok, the necromancer, tried to catch A.A. Catto’s eye. He had a plan for the reorganization of her armies according to a cabbalistic system of numerology. A.A. Catto wasn’t buying. She was more interested in the Presley reproduction.