In which Nadya and Dixie catch a movie.
Nadya hadn’t even known the Tower had a cinema. She trails after Dixie, bemused, as he rattles off so many facts about the film that she may as well not bother watching it—though she suspects the Dixie version is missing a few key elements. Such as the plot.
“—and even though it’s set in Italy—that’s old Terran Italy, the original one?—it’s really about the Russian mafia—that’s old Terran Russia, you know, the big one?”
“Да, Dixie, я знаю о России.” Dixie ducks his head, grins at her sideways. “And before you start, no, I am not part of some archaic cryogenics program. I just have a long ancestry.”
“I forgot you speak it.”
“Well, I do not have much cause to around you and the others.”
The theatre is tucked out of the way, as if whoever fitted it to Telecom Tower 512 didn’t want anyone to notice they’d done so. The strip lights in the tiny foyer are on the fritz; Dixie chews his lip, and Nadya pokes his shoulder.
“They are not your problem.”
“But all it would take is—”
“Do you want me to see this movie with you or not?”
Dixie stops eyeing the broken lights and fiddles with the wall console for a minute until it finally agrees to take enough credits out of his account for two tickets. They step into the velvet dark of the theatre, where the continual hum of the Tower fades out, replaced by the faint rustles of the handful of other movie-goers scattered about. Nadya suspects several of them are asleep, and also that the thicker shadows of the back right corner are home to activities better kept to one’s bunk. She steers Dixie to the middle rows.
“I think you’re really going to like Katya, she has some of the best lines, and when I was coming to get you, I was thinking that she’s a bit like you. Sort of. Well, not really, but some of the way she says things is a bit like you.”
“Is she a Magister?”
Dixie drops into his seat with a laugh. “No, Nadya, this is set way, way, way before all that. They didn’t even know about psychics then.”
“A scientist, then?”
“No, at least not that I remember. She’s very—”
There’s a whine and a whirr, and Dixie’s mouth snaps shut. The wall screen futzes and spasms static, then goes the blacker-than-black of an active display. Nadya tries in vain to relax in the sticky pleather seat, whilst next to her Dixie leans forwards, eyes huge and shining in the faint green light of an emergency exit marker. Somehow, the odd glow makes him look even younger than he is.
Nadya rubs her fingers back and forth over the scars on her jaw, old indented flesh, and is grateful when the screen goes bright. A sharp burst of strings vibrates through the speakers, the high end making them buzz. Beneath the accompanying piano, an ancient clock ticks along in a counterpoint rhythm.
Dixie’s already enraptured. He manages to keep quiet for the first twenty minutes, after which he can’t contain himself and keeps on leaning over to whisper obscure facts about the plot, the symbolism, the actors, the director. Quite where he got all this from, Nadya hasn’t the faintest idea, and usually she’d be annoyed at such interruption. Today, she’s finding it somehow endearing.
Katya, she thinks, has little in common with her but the sound of her name and the roll of her accent. But by the climax Dixie’s right—it’s not who she is but the way she says things. Something of her cadence matches Nadya’s, and she wonders at how perceptive her friend is at times. A mechanic’s eye for detail, she supposes.
Winter comes to Naples and it’s all very tragic, and Nadya blinks rapidly when the lights come up, struggling to re-orient her brain to reality. They make their way back up the Tower, sharing silence in the elevator. Dixie scuffs the toe of his boot back and forth on the scratched up floor, humming faintly under his breath.
“Damn, I’m starving,” he blurts out. He glances at her. “Are you hungry? Wait, no, you don’t eat, sorry, I forgot.”
In the moment she’s not sure why she says it. Later she does know, and can’t tell if the ache in her ribs is heartache or happiness.
“I am a little peckish.” Her hand twists at her side, faint shadow-threads smoking from her fingertips. She wills them back down. Dixie blinks at her, the elevator buzzes—she taps his shoulder and nudges him out. “Come on, I will buy you lunch at the Switchboard.”
And as she follows him out, for the first time in she’s forgotten how long, Nadya takes a breath.