Perdido Street Station by China Miéville Read Free Book Online Page B

was very afraid. She could not
think of anything to say. Her hands were still.
    "So having decided
that I like your art I want to talk to you to discover whether you
would be right for a commission. Your work is unusual for a khepri.
Would you agree?"
    Yes.
    "Talk to me about
your statues, Ms. Lin, and don’t worry, were you about to, that
you might sound precious. I have no prejudices against taking art
seriously, and don’t forget that I started this conversation.
The key words to bear in mind when thinking how to answer my question
are ‘themes,’ ‘technique’ and ‘aesthetics.’
"
    Lin hesitated, but her
fear drove her on. She wanted to keep this man happy, and if that
meant talking about her work, then that was what she would do.
    I work alone, she signed, which is part of my...rebellion. I left Creekside and
then Kinken, left my moiety and my hive. People were miserable, so
communal art got stupidly heroic. Like Plaza of Statues. I wanted to
spit out something...nasty. Tried to make some of the grand figures
we all made together a little less perfect...Pissed off my sisters.
So turned to my own work. Nasty work. Creekside nasty.
    "That is exactly
as I had expected. It is even—forgive me—somewhat
hackneyed. However, that doesn’t detract from the power of the
work itself. Khepri spit is a wonderful substance. Its lustre is
quite unique, and its strength and lightness make it convenient,
which I know is not the sort of word one is supposed to think of in
connection with art, but I am pragmatic. Anyhow, to have such a
lovely substance used for the drab wish-fulfilment of depressed
khepri is a terrible waste. I was so very relieved to see someone
using the substance for interesting, unsettling ends. The angularity
you achieve is extraordinary, by the way."
    Thank you. I have
powerful gland technique. Lin was enjoying the licence to boast. Originally I was a member of the Outnow school which forbids
working on a piece after spat out. Gives you excellent control. Even
though I have...reneged. I now go hack while the spit is soft, work
it more. More freedom, can do overhangs and the like.
    "Do you use a
great deal of colour variation?" Lin nodded. "I saw only
the sepia of the heliotypes. That is good to know. That is technique
and aesthetics. I’m very interested to hear your thoughts on
themes, Ms. Lin."
    Lin was taken aback.
Suddenly she could not think what her themes were.
    "Let me put you in
an easier position. I’d like to tell you what themes I am
interested in. And then we can see if you’d be right for the
commission I have in mind."
    The voice waited until
Lin nodded ascent.
    "Please tilt your
head up, Ms. Lin." Startled, she did so. The motion made her
nervous, exposing as it did the soft underbelly of her beetle head,
inviting harm. She held her head still as eyes behind the mirror-fish
watched her.
    "You have the same
cords in your neck as a human woman. You share the hollow at the base
of your throat beloved by poets. Your skin is a shade of red that
would mark you out as unusual, that’s true, but it could still
pass as human. I follow that beautiful human neck up—I have no
doubt you won’t accept the description ‘human,’ but
indulge me a minute—and then there is...there is a
moment...there is a thin zone where that soft human skin merges with
the pale segmented cream underneath your head."
    For the first time
since Lin had entered the room, the speaker seemed to be searching
for words.
    "Have you ever
created a statue of a cactus?" Lin shook her head. "Nonetheless
you have seen them up close? My associate who led you here, for
example. Did you happen to notice his feet, or his fingers, or his
neck? There is a moment when the skin, the skin of the sentient
creature, becomes mindless plant. Cut the fat round base of a
cactus’s foot, he can’t feel a thing. Poke him in the
thigh