Boris liked to be fiddling with things on the floor of the gondola just about now because it let him fade back and just watch her. Her eyes were closed. Her face was keen and radiant. This was for her the grand moment, the true peak. She had hundreds of hot-air hours, more than lots of amateurs twice her age, but going up for her was still a singular thing, a wonderwork. The computer is almost all process. There are, for example, no "great computerers," as there are great writers, painters, or musicians. She could not talk about it. Boris, who could talk about having a tooth filled over the sound of the dentist's drill, knew enough not to try. To see her in this moment was enough. It's the torture scene in Reservoir Dogs. We're coming to the very worst part, where the poor doomed policeman loses his ear. "I can't watch this," Lorraine says, just as Tarantino preciously pans away. She has the sound down so you can't hear the screaming. You Are Terrified Of Your Own Children, Since They Are Natives In A World Where You Will Always Be Immigrants. Harry lays aside his paper and shifts to get a better view. His face falls into a thick scowl, but he watches without blinking. "Kids could see this," he mutters. "There's really nothing on." She lets the changer drop, leans to her bedside table and puts out the light. Harry takes the remote and stares at the screen for a minute or two in flat distraction. He's seen most of this movie two or three times, but he still doesn't get it. There is no appeal in the violence -- and yes, for all his civic concern, Because You Fear Them, You Entrust Your Bureaucracies With The Parental Responsibilities You Are Too Cowardly To Confront Yourselves. Harry enjoys the sweet mayhem of the shoot-em-ups just as much as the next guy. Or he used to. He begins to feel his age. After a while he flicks the switch. "And to all a good night." · · · Now this · · · "Excuse me," she half whispers, glancing around at the bursting, empty, overfilled, room, "Do you have anything more illicit?" Her voice is deep. He stands, looking up. She holds a circular piece of glass, a foot in diameter, superthin, entitled, "Prostitution in Avignon, 1200-1300." She raises an eyebrow. The title is apparent when the glass is held just so. It is an interesting medium, these lenses. Look at them (through them) long enough (and in the right way) and you see a different but well researched world. They are hard to clean. "Specifically? Uh... No." He hears his voice enter the cavernous shop, endlessly musty with a rumble. The gravel in it always startles him. The question of the subject seems vexed beyond measure. "Oh? Then what, more generally?" A smile. He punches a keyword into the terminal in front of him and sits back onto his wooden stool. His belly sits down after him. Saul reads from the displayed list. "AVIGNON, PROSTITUTION, a historic overview, le petite prostitute d'Avignon, by Jean something or another, subheading: PROVINCIAL FRENCH PERVERSITIES, a regional study, The Selling of Sex in the Middle Ages, How I Was Reincarnated As --" "Wait." "Hmm?" "I was told that if I asked you about Avignon, you would have, umm..." She shifts and a faint blush ruddies her cheek. Just the left one. "Yeah, Miss?" His gravel becomes gravelier.