"Where are all the wonderful new art forms? So far I have heard mainly of cockroaches and signatures.”
“Just so. It was early realized that every possible permutation of pigment, light, texture, form, sound and whatever is left had been achieved, and that to strain for novelty was wasted effort. The single ever-fresh ever-renewing resource was human thought itself, and the gorgeous patterns of its interplay between or among individuals.”
Wayness frowned in puzzlement. “Are you referring to ‘talk'?”
“I suppose that 'talk' is an appropriate word.”
“At least it is inexpensive.”
"Exactly! Which makes it the most egalitarian of all creative disciplines!”
“I am happy that you explained this to me,“ said Wayness. “We are on our way to Lena's Bistro, then?"
“Yes. The cabbage rolls are the best, and it is there that we will receive the information you require, although I am not sure when it will arrive." Lefaun glanced down at Wayness. “Why are you looking at me like that?’
"How am I looking?"
“When I was little, my grandmother found that I had dressed our fat pug dog in her best lace cap. I cannot quite describe the expression: a kind of helpless fatalistic wonder as to what other mischief I might have in mind. So, why do you look at me like that?”
"Perhaps I will explain by and by.”
“Bah!" Lefaun reached up with both hands to pull his hat down as far as possible across his face. “I cannot understand your conundrums. Do you have the money?"
“All that I shall need.”
"Very well. It is not too far now, just under the Varanji Arch and a few paces up the hill.”
The two continued across the square, Lefaun marching on long bent-kneed strides, Wayness half-running to keep up: to the side of the Spice Merchants Quarter under a squat stone arch and off up the hill by a set of crooked streets, overhung by the second stories of structures to either side, almost to blot out the sky. The way twisted and narrowed, to become a flight of steps, which gave upon a small plaza. Lefaun pointed. “Yonder is Lena's bistro. Just around the corner is Mopo's, with the Nym just up Pyadogorsk Alley. Here is what has been voted ‘the creative node of the Gaean Reach' by the membership of the Prodromes. What do you think of that?”
“It is certainly an odd little square.”
Lefaun studied her somberly. “Sometimes I feel that you are laughing at me.”
'"Tonight I might laugh at anything,” said Wayness. “If you think of it as hysteria, you might not be wrong. Do you wonder why? It is because this afternoon I have had an appalling experience. “
Lefaun considered her with sardonically raised eyebrows. "You spent half a sol by mistake.”
“Worse. If I think about it, I start to quiver.”
“Too bad,” said Lefaun. "But let us go before the crowd arrives. You can tell me all about it over a flask of beer."
Lefaun pushed open a tall narrow door bound in arabesques of black iron; the two entered a room of moderate size, furnished with heavy wooden tables, wooden benches and chairs. Tongues of yellow flame from wall sconces, six to each side of the room, provided a soft yellow light, and Wayness reflected that if the building had not caught on fire before, it was not likely to do so tonight. “
Lefaun gave Wayness instructions: “Buy tickets from the cashier yonder, then go to the wall and look at the pictures. When you see something you fancy, drop tickets into the proper slot and out will come a tray, metered to the tickets you have paid over. It is simple, and you may dine with great flexibility, grandly, upon pig’s feet with sour cabbage and herrings or modestly, on bread and cheese.”
“I shall certainly try the cabbage rolls,” said Wayness.
“In that case, follow me, and I will show you how it is done."
The two brought their trays to a table, each with cabbage rolls, fried groats and beer. Lefaun said in a grumbling voice: “The time is early no one of consequence is here and so we must eat alone, as if by stealth.”
“I don t feel stealthy,“ said Wayness. “Are you frightened by solitude?"
"Of course not! I frequently eat alone! Also, I am one of a group known as the Running Wolves. Every year we go out to run across the steppe, ranging far into the wilds and the folk are surprised to see us coursing past. At sunset we sup on bread and bacon which is toasted robber-style from a tripod; then we lie down to sleep. I always look up at the stars and wonder how it is going up yonder in the far places.”
“Why not go to see for yourself?" suggested Wayness. "Instead of coming every night to Lena’s.”
“I do not come here every night,” said Lefaun with dignity. “I often go to the Spasm, or to Mopo’s or the Convolvulus. In any case, why go elsewhere, since here is the focus of human intelligence?”
"So it may be," said Wayness. She ate the cabbage rolls, which she found tolerable, and drank a pint of beer.
Patrons of the cafe began to arrive in force. Some were Lefaun s acquaintances and joined him at the table. Wayness was introduced to more folk than she could Remember: Fedor, who hypnotized birds; the sisters Euphrosyne and Eodoxia; Big Wuf and Little Wuf; Hortense who cast bells; Dagleg who spoke only what he called ‘Immanences’ and Marya, a sexual therapist who, according to Lefaun, had many interesting stories to tell. “If you need advice along these lines, I will call her over and you can ask whatever you like."
"Not just now, “said Wayness. “What I don’t know are things I don’t want to know.”
“Hmf. I see.”
The bistro became full; all the tables were occupied. Wayness presently told Lefaun: “I have been listening carefully, but so far I have heard no conversion except that of people commenting upon their food."
“The hour is early,” said Lefaun. “In due course there will be talk enough.” He nudged Wayness with his elbow. “For instance, take note of Alexei who stands yonder.” Wayness, turning her head, saw a portly young man with a round face, yellow hair cut short to a bristle and a short pointed beard.
“Alexei is unique,” said Lefaun. “He lives poetry, and thinks poetry, and dreams poetry, and presently he will recite poetry. But you will not understand him, since poetry, or so he claims, is such an intimate revelation that he uses terms intelligible only to himself."
“I discovered that,” said Wayness. “I heard him speak a moment ago and could understand not a word.”
"Of course not. Alexei has created a language of a hundred and twelve thousand words controlled by an elaborate syntax. This tongue, so he claims, is sensitive and flexible, superbly adapted to the expression of metaphors and allusions. It is a pity that no one can enjoy it along with Alexei, but he refuses to translate a single word."
Wayness said: "It may be all for the best, especially if his poetry is bad.”
"Possibly so. He has been accused of both narcissism and ostentation, but he is never offended. It is the typical artist, so he declares, who is mad for acclaim and whose self-esteem depends upon adulation. Alexei sees himself as a lonely man, indifferent to both praise and censure."
Wayness craned her neck. "He is now playing the concertina and dancing a jig, all at the same time. What do you make of that?"
“It is just Alexei in one of his moods; it means nothing." He called across the room. "Hoy there, Lefaun! Where Have you been?”
"I am fresh down from Suzdal, and glad to be back."
“Naturally! At Suzdal the intellectual climate is as stiff as the weather.”