In Paris, so many lies flew through the pneumatic tubes. False intelligence sucked up and spat out. Rumors of uprisings and resistance.
One must be lucky to mingle with the rich and powerful and avoid their snares. I was not so lucky.
I made my first entrance to their circle as just a Shark Girl. The agency fitted me with fins and a set of false teeth. I stood by the pool with an arrangement of Black Sea sashimi and smiled politely at the party guests, most of whom kept their distance with a wary glance.
Rich man, poor soldier, spy and killer, they all wept like infants on my chest. Not bad for a girl who had 34As ‘til college. I want to tell my mother that, but she’s dead.
I’d become accustom to being the only naked person in the room. After all, they had yet to invent invisible clothes, and throwing on a sweater would have right ruined the whole effect. They would have called me the Walking Cardigan, instead of something more dignified—like Disappearo, which I’ve been angling for.
On the steamer, I felt the fever of reinvention coming on. The passengers were assembling below deck, the first fibers of the first cocoon just beginning to spin.
“…and the syphilis was just icing on the cake!”
Carmen licked the inside of Beryl’s ankle. Beryl had heard this story before, the last time she’d been in Miami. She’d also heard the story back in New York, from the other side.