Luna: New Moon

On the train back from Twé he had thought his heart might explode. Heart, lungs, head, mind. Abena had walked away from him. He found his fingers straying to the metal spike in his ear. Abena had licked his blood at his party. At the Asamoah party she looked at him and stalked away. Five times he almost pulled the plug from his ear, to send back it back to Twé the moment the train arrived in Meridian. Five times no. When you have no other hope, Abena had said. When you’re alone and naked and exposed, like my brother; send the pierce. He wasn’t any of those things. To misuse the gift would make her hate him more.

‘I need someplace to stay.’

‘Obviously.’

‘And I have this question I can’t figure.’

‘There’s no guarantee I can figure it either. But go on.’

‘Okay. Madrinha, why do girls do things?’

‘He’s making that wrong.’

The bartender freezes. The bottle of blue Curacao waits over the cocktail glass. The woman turns with granite slowness to stare from the other end of the bar.

‘The lemon twist goes in first.’

Rafa Corta slides to the end of the bar beside the woman. Her clothes are immaculate, her Fendi bag on the stool beside her a classic. Her familiar is a rotating galaxy of golden stars. But she is a tourist. A dozen physical misco-ordinations and stiltednesses, mis-timings and maladaptations declare her terrestrial origins.

‘Excuse me.’

Rafa lifts the glass and sniffs.

‘At least that’s correct. The Vorontsovs insist on vodka, but a true Blue Moon must be made with gin. Seven botanicals minimum.’ He lifts the orb of curled lemon peel with tongs and drops it into the glass. He nods at the Curacao bottle. ‘Give me that.’ A click of the fingers. ‘Teaspoon.’ He inverts the teaspoon and holds it twenty centimetres above the glass. The bottle he holds another twenty centimetres above the spoon. ‘It’s about sculpting with gravity.’ He pours. A thin thread of blue liqueur falls slow as honey from the lip on to the back of the spoon. ‘And two steady hands.’ The Curacao coats the back of the spoon and drips from the rim in chaotic runnels and drops. Azure spirals like smoke into clear gin. The yellow marble of lemon peel is wreathed in ribbons of diffuse blue. ‘Fluid dynamics does the stirring. It’s the application of chaotic systems to cocktail theory.’

He slides the cocktail to the woman. She takes a sip.

‘It’s good.’

‘Only good?’

‘Very good. You make a sweet Blue Moon.’

‘I should. I invented it.’

A group of four middle-aged customers toast some family business success in a corner booth. Corta security haunt a table a discreet distance from the bar. Rafa and the Earth woman are the only other clients. Rafa has stumbled into this bar because it was the closest to the club but he likes it. Old-fashioned up-light turning each drink into a jewel, tightening chins, sharpening cheekbones, shading eyes with mystery. Rare wood and square club couches in tank-leather. Mirrors along the back bar, muttered music, a terrace high on the central hub of Aquarius Quadra. Galaxies of city lights in every direction. He was two caipis down when the tourist woman entered the bar. His mind is made up. No more drinking alone. Blue Moon all the way.

Her name is Sohni Sharma. She is a New York-Mumbai post-graduate researcher finishing a six-month placement with the Farside Planetary Observation Array. Tomorrow the moonloop snatches her up to the cycler and back to Earth. Tonight she drinks the moon out of her mind and blood. She either doesn’t recognise his name or her Mumbai hauteur is supreme. Rafa moves into the vacant social space.

‘Leave these,’ Rafa says, touching the cocktail paraphernalia. ‘A bucket of ice for the gin. I’ll let you know when we need glasses.’

She moves the Fendi. Rafa’s invitation to sit.

‘So did you invent these?’ she asks after the third.

‘Ask them at Sasserides Bar in Queen of the South. Do you know what the expensive part is?’

Sohni shakes her head. Rafa taps the lemon peel.

‘It’s the only bit we can’t print.’

‘Your hands are very steady,’ Sohni says as Rafa performs the spoon and Curacao trick. Then she gasps as Rafa snatches up a glass, slings the gin across the bar floor and slaps it upside down on the bar. Inside, under-lit, buzzing: a fly. Rafa turns to the guards quiet at their tables.

‘Do you know what is in this glass?’

His escoltas are on their feet.

‘Sit down. Sit down!’ Rafa bellows. ‘Tell my brother I know his little spy has been buzzing around since Ku Lua.’

‘Senhor Corta, we don’t—’ the woman starts but Rafa cuts her off.

‘Work for me. Doesn’t matter. You let it get close. You let it get close to me. You’re fired. Both of you.’

‘Senhor Corta—’ the woman guard starts again.

‘You think Lucas wouldn’t fire you for that? You stay with me until I get replacements from Boa Vista. Socrates. Get me Heitor Pereira. And my brother.’ He looks over at the family, sheepish at their table. ‘Where are you going?’