20

Gold eyes!

Marcia was shocked, stunned for a moment, then decided to be as cool as possible. She did a little quick psychological triage on what was happening, an odd ability but you don't get to be prime minister of Norway without some odd abilities.

She trusted J. Dust or no dust, he was a smart guy and that meant he was probably telling the truth about the danger. That whole thing with the saltine crackers, it was strange and confusing, but probably not unfounded. So she made a quick decision to just ignore J.'s gold eyes as best she could for now.

"I ... I ... I think I need to sit down and rest," she said, and it was partially feigned and partially true. In fact, as she approached the couch, she actually felt a wave of fatigue and despair, as though the fib was becoming truthful, by virtue of having told it. The room began to spin.

"Madame Brundtland, would you like a glass of water?"

She shook her head, reached into her purse, only there was no purse, so she stood up. The room was spinning - she walked across the room from the couch to the garish, goldplated wallpaper and stooped to reach inside the fireplace for another purse, because she had one stored there for emergencies. It was no wonder J. got so dusty, cleaning fireplaces. Up the flue, past a couple of bricks, was a purse. The reason why she kept a purse in the fireplace was yet another small story, which she considered, and as she spiraled to the ground in a heap, she remembered herself ten years earlier on a bench in a garden in the United States.

She had come to Sloan City for a television convention. She was trying to give Norway a higher profile.

She had yet to meet J. Her valet as Norwegian Prime Minister was a woman called H.

"All of these programs are so expensive, H., I don't see how we will be able to buy any."

"Maybe we can talk them into bartering, Madame Brundtland. Weren't you partially interested in licensing Wizard Star to the rest of the world?"

"Yes, yes I am. You know, H., I really feel Norway could be on the verge of a breakthrough here. I can feel it. Wizard Star is a brilliant piece of television. I'm serious. David Deet is a good director, H., and with Deet's help we will rescue victory from the jaws of defeat...."

Marcia looked up from a reverie and found H. had stopped listening and was several yards away buying a New York style pretzel from a roadside vendor.

"H.?"

She noticed H. talking animatedly to a tall handsome Sloanian.

Well, she's busy, and we both have our cel phones, so I'll let her be, Marcia thought. She went back through the revolving-door entrance to the Hyatt, and climbed a staircase to get back to her room. But? Why should H. have all the fun.

Sunday evening, Marcia thought, and I haven't had any fun all weekend.

The demands of a career were often so pervasive that fun and relaxation were crowded out. She wandered past an information desk which was full to the brim with valets, their heads cocked at 45-degree angles, their hands clasped officiously before them. She passed the valets and entered another realm, of hotel incidentals and stuff, the stuff that one hotel would have and another wouldn't, and there would be no way to tell without trying them one by one.

The funny thing was that split second when you knew they would have SOMETHING - close to the restrooms, for instance - but you wouldn't know what it was until you went through the revolving doors, or the swinging 2-way doors - and discovered what.

In Las Vegas, they might have the expensive, seemingly ridiculous gambling machines where you dumped in quarters seemingly by the pound, by the roll, and the idea was that the quarters would be resting on a tipped, rickety surface, piling, piling, until finally the whole thing became too top-heavy and spilled over and down a chute and into your pocket. Marcia had bought a plush stuffed lion with the proceeds from one of those, but had made a clean break from gambling when she went into politics.

Finally, in slow motion, the atoms of her hand pushed aside the atoms of the door and she swept into the hotel's extra stuff.

The first things she noticed were the pay phones. Next to the pay phones, a drinking fountain, next to the drinking fountain, a vending machine undoubtedly full of chocolate. Next to the chocolate was a color. Low, dark, red, red and black, like the red bowl candles on the tables at Italian restaurants, at least the ones in the United States. The red glass was on a porthole window on a two-way swinging door, and that meant something that instantly made Marcia have visions of a bad reputation and the dangers inherent in cutting loose when you were trying to be a politician - THE HOTEL LOUNGE.

In a crisp suit befitting the prime minister of Norway, she felt slightly nervous as she swept into the lounge and took a seat at the bar. The only person was a rotund man who smoked a cigar in spite of the fact that it was against the law here. His appearance fit the stereotype of his name: Al Alberts. Marcia got the bartender's attention and asked for Irish Coffee.

"Irish coffee, huh?" Al chirped unbidden. Marcia blinked at the situation. Al looked like a regular leisure suited Larry, what with the Danny DeVito head and body, the cigar and the tacky clothes.

"Yes," she said.

"I like Ireland," he said, momentarily turning straight ahead to look at his own reflection in the mirror behind the bartender, then shifting right again, to say, "Have you noticed all the coolest, most interesting countries in the world have names beginning with 'I?'" he asked.

Marcia pouted slightly, as an expression that she was thinking.

"Ireland," Al said. "Ireland, Iceland, Italy, India, Iran, Iraq, Israel."

"That's interesting," Marcia said. "But it only works if you are talking about the countries in English."

Al's eyes widened. "Ah! Good point!"

"And besides," Marcia said. "I think Norway is pretty interesting too."

"Norway, huh? Are you from Norway?"

"Yes," Marcia said. "I am."

"So what brings you to Sloan City?" Al asked. "My name's Al, by the way."

"My name is Gro Harlem Brundtland, but please - call me Marcia. I'm here for a conference."

"A television conference?"

"That's right - the syndication conference."

"What do you know, so am I! How funny!" He pulled a business card out of his wallet and handed it to her.

"Owl productions," she said, "What do you do, Al?"

"I handle the rights to several properties," Al said. "Right now, my big one is the rights to several cartoons and other children's programs. I don't think it's anything you would have heard of, though."

"Oh, go ahead and try me. I work in television too, you know."

"Well, my main attraction right now is an animated version of Steel Magnolias." Marcia blinked again.

"Steel Magnolias," she said, scouting around in her memory. "Wasn't that the American film about the ladies who-"

"Yeah," said Al, "But we punched it up real good and sent those ladies into space!" As he said the word 'space', he held out both his palms as though he was making the number ten. "Steel magnolias in outer space!"

"That is really weird," Marcia said before her diplomatic voice had time to sugar coat the message.

"Heh," Al said, "You're right. But the kids eat it up. Those kids today have some pretty weird tastes."

Marcia nodded. "So, what are you doing at this convention?" He interrupted himself to order a beer. "Can I get you another-"

She had downed an Irish Coffee and said yes to Al's offer to buy her a second one. "I'm here as a sort of Norwegian ambassador," she said. "I'm here to promote some of our Norwegian television programs and hopefully, get a better reputation for Norway in the process."

Al was nodding. "You in the, uh, diplomatic corps? I mean, you work for a production studio or something?"

"No," Marcia smiled, "I must be honest. I am the Prime Minister of Norway."

"The Prime Minister! No shit!" Al covered his mouth, putting on a phony formality. "I beg your pardon! No fooling! The Prime Minister! So you met lots of, um, heads of state, you probably even met Clinton or Bush, how long have you been in office?"

"Not very long," Marcia said, "Yes, I have met several leaders though they often treat Norway as an -" She rolled her hands searching for words, "an afterthought."

Al nodded. Their conversation settled down, as they both concentrated on their drinks and the strains of sweet bombast in the form of howling rock and roll, which came over the PA system.

"It isn't very crowded here in the little bar, I mean," Marcia said, "With the conference on, I would think - where is everybody? Sleeping? It's barely eight o'clock"

"That's a good question," said Al. The clock ticked, giving the room a harder awareness of its own emptiness. "So wait a minute," Al said, "You have some secret weapon for Norwegian TV or something? Up your sleeve?

"Mph," Marcia said, putting her pointer up in a yes-wait, as she gulped a mouthful of Irish Coffee. "Yes, as a matter of fact, we're very very excited about it. It's a new program called Wizard Star. You may have heard of our director, David Deet."

"David Deet?? Is he Norwegian?"

Marcia looked slightly unhappy. "Errr... no... no, he isn't."

Al smiled understandingly. Evidently he had encountered this issue with other productions - a country can't find the homegrown talent to put something together, so they go with an outsider and the result is sort of their own, but really just some kind of internationalist mush, a collaboration amongst many countries.

"Well hmm," said Al," that's the way of the future. Your cast, they're Norwegian?"

Marcia nodded.

"And it's a Norwegian language show?"

"Yes, Norwegian and English,"

"Norwegian and English," Al paused, nodded. "David Deet! Well the man does very interesting work. You should have no trouble finding-"

Al paused a moment. "You know," he laughed. "this is how deals are made, right? I'd like to have a look at this new Deet show of yours."

Marcia smiled.

"How did you manage to keep it so quiet?" Alberts asked. "Deet is a popular guy. What was it called, Parachutists?"

"Yes, he directed Parachutists and he produced Restaurant."

"Oh my god! I saw Restaurant! " he raised his eyebrows. "That was one disgusting picture! Did Deet make that?"

"Only as producer. Deet was the backer. You know, I actually have some episodes with me."

"Some Wizard Star episodes?"

"Uh huh."

"No kidding! What format?"

"It's on VHS tape."

"Well!" said Al. "I have a VCR in my r-in my room."

He looked away self-consciously. Neither of them said anything for thirty seconds.

"Well," Marcia said, "I'm very very excited about Deet. I'm practically a cheerleader for Deet at this point. So if you want to see some Wizard Star, I'd be happy to show it to you. You just have to promise not to tell the press until we premiere it on Tuesday."

"It's a deal!" Al said, looking deep into Marcia's eyes, extending his hand for a handshake and grinning excitedly.