Atlantis and Other Places (10 page)

Authors: Harry Turtledove

BOOK: Atlantis and Other Places

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“How did you meet?” a reporter calls to the two of them.

They both smile. O’s eyes twinkle. If that’s not mascara, he has the longest eyelashes in the world. Their hands squeeze—W’s right, O’s left. “Oh, we’ve been chasing each other for years,” W says coyly. Joy fills his drawl.

“It is so.
Inshallah
, we shall be together forever,” O says. “Truly God is great, to let us find such happiness.”

News vans clog Beacon Street. Cops need to clear a path through the reporters so W and O can cross. A TV guy looking for an angle asks one of Boston’s finest, “What do you think of all this?”

“Me?” The policeman shrugs. “I don’t see how it’s my business one way or the other. The court says they’ve got the right to do it, so that’s what the law is. Long as they stay inside the law, nothing else matters.”

“Uh, thank you.” The TV guy sounds disappointed. He wants controversy, fireworks. That’s what TV news is all about. Acceptance? One word—boring.

The State House. Good visuals. Gilded dome. Corinthian colonnade. The happy couple going up the stairs and inside.

More reporters in there. More camerapersons, too. O raises a hand against the bright television lights. More flashes go off, one after another. “Boy, you’d think we’re in the middle of a nucular war or something,” W says. He always pronounces it
nucular
.

“Nuclear,” O says gently. “It’s
nuclear
.” You can tell he’s been trying to get W to do it right for a long time. Every couple needs a little something to squabble about. It takes the strain off, it really does.

“Can we get a picture of you two in front of the Sacred Cod?” a photographer asks.

“I don’t mind.” W is as genial as they come.

But O frowns. “Sacred Cod? It sounds like a graven image. No, I think not.” He shakes his head. “It would not play well in Riyadh or Kandahar.”

“Aw, c’mon, Sam, be a sport.” W has a nickname for everybody, even his nearest and dearest. And he really does like to oblige.

But O digs in his heels. “I do not care to do this. It is not why we came here. I know why we came here.” He bends down and whispers in W’s ear. W laughs—giggles, almost. Of course, maybe O’s beard tickles, trimmed or not.

W gives the reporters kind of a sheepish smile. “Sorry, friends. That’s one photo op you’re not gonna get. Now which way to the judge’s office?”

“Chambers. The judge’s chambers,” O says. You wonder which one was brought up speaking English.

“Whatever.” W doesn’t care how he talks. “Which way?” There’s a big old sign with an arrow——> showing the way. He doesn’t notice till one of the reporters points to it.

He and O start down the hall. A reporter calls after them: “What do you see in each other?”

They stop. They turn so they’re face-to-face. They gaze into each other’s eyes. Now they have both hands clasped together. Anyone can tell it’s love. “We need each other,” W says. Even if he doesn’t talk real well, he gets the message across.

“My infidel,” O says fondly.

“My little terrorist.” W’s eyes glow.

You’ve seen couples who say the same thing at the same time? They do it here. “Without him,” they both say, each pointing to the other, “I’m nothing.” O strokes W’s cheek. W swats O on the butt. They’re grinning when they go into the judge’s chambers.

The justice of the peace looks at the two of them over the top of her glasses. How many times has she done that, with how many couples? “You have your license. I can’t stop you. But I do want to ask you if you’re sure about what you’re doing,” she says. “Marriage is a big step. You shouldn’t enter into it lightly.”

“We’re sure, ma’am,” W says.

“Oh, yes,” O says. “
Oh
, yes.”

“Well, you sound like you mean it. That’s good,” she says. “You’re making a commitment to each other for the rest of your lives. You’re promising to be there for each other in sickness and in health, in good times and in bad.”

“We understand,” O says.

“I should say we do.” W nods like a bobblehead, up and down, up and down. “We already look out for each other. Why, if it wasn’t for Sam here, my poll numbers would be underwater.”

O beams down at him. “My friends need infidels to hate, and W makes hating them so easy. Take Abu Ghraib, for instance. You’d think he did it just for me.”

“Nope. Wasn’t like that at all.” Now W’s head goes side to side, side to side, as if it’s on a spring. “We both had fun there. We share lots of things.” He grins at O. “See? I told you I’d bring you to justice.”

O laughs. “All right.” The corners of the justice of the peace’s mouth twitch up in spite of themselves. She doesn’t meet devotion like this every day. “Let’s proceed to the ceremony, then.” She reads the carefully nondenominational words. At last, she gets to the nitty-gritty. “Do you take each other to have and to hold, to love and to cherish, as long as you both shall live?”

“I do.” W and O answer together. Proudly.

“Then by the authority vested in me by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, I now pronounce you man and, uh, man.” Even though they’re legal, the judge is still new at same-sex marriages. Who isn’t? But she recovers well: “You may kiss each other.”

They do. In here, it’s nothing but a little peck on the lips. They wink at each other. They know what the cameras outside are waiting for.

An explosion, a fusillade of flashes when they come out into the hallway. You can see W’s mouth shaping
nucular
again, but you can’t hear him—too many people yelling questions at once. You can see O tolerantly nodding, too. He knows W’s not about to change.

A guy with a great big voice makes himself heard through the din: “Is it official?”

“It sure is,” W says.

“Have you kissed each other yet?” somebody else asks—a woman.

“Well, yeah,” W answers. The reporters make disappointed noises. W and O wink at each other again. Sometimes they’re like a couple of little kids—they seem to think they’ve invented what they share. “We could do it again, if you want us to,” W says.

The roar of approval startles even him and O. O grabs him, bends him back movie-style, and plants a big kiss right on his mouth. W’s arms tighten around O’s neck. The kiss goes on and on. Another zillion flashes freeze it in thin slices so the whole world can see.

Everything has to end. At last, the kiss does. “Wow!” a reporter says. “Is that hotter than Madonna and Britney or what?”

“Than who?” O doesn’t get out much.

W does. “You betcha,” he says. If his grin gets any wider, the top of his head will fall off. Is that a bulge in those conservative gray pants? Sure looks like one.

“Where will you honeymoon?” another reporter calls.

“In the mountains,” O says.

“At the ranch,” W says at the same time.

Not quite in synch there. They look at each other. They pantomime comic shrugs. They’ll work it out.

Still hand in hand, they leave the State House. “Massachusetts is a very nice place,” O says. “Very . . . tolerant.”

“Well, if they put up with me here, they’ll put up with anybody,” W says, and gets a laugh.

“Gotta take you to meet the folks,” W says as they start back toward the limo.

O raises an eyebrow. “That should be . . . interesting.”

“Well, yeah.” W sounds kind of sheepish. His folks are very, very straight. Then out of nowhere he grins all over his face. “We can do it like that movie, that waddayacallit I showed you.” He snaps his fingers. “
La Cage aux Folles
, that’s it.” You think W has trouble with English, you should hear him try French. Or maybe you shouldn’t. It’s pretty bad.

“You
are
joking?” There’s an ominous ring in O’s voice.

“No, no!” W’s practically jumping up and down. He’s got it all figured out. He may not be right, but by God he’s sure. “We’ll put you in a bertha, that’s what we’ll do!”

“A what?” O says.

“Come on, Sam.
You
know. You ought to. You’ve seen ’em close up, right? One of those robe things that doesn’t show anything but your eyes.”

“A
burka
?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” W thinks it is, anyway.

“The
burka
is for women,” O says in icy tones. Then he smiles thinly—very thinly. “Oh, I see.” He draws himself up to his full height, straight as a rocket-propelled grenade launcher. A cat couldn’t show more affronted dignity, or even as much. “No.”

And W laughs fit to bust. He howls. He slaps his knee. “Gotcha! I gotcha, Sam! Can’t tell me I didn’t, not this time. I had you going good.” He pokes O in the ribs with a pointy elbow.

“You were joking?” O looks at him. “You
were
joking,” he admits. He laughs, too, ruefully. “Yes, you got me. This time you got me.”

W gives him a hug. You can’t stay mad at W, no matter how much you want to. He just won’t let you. “I’m glad I’ve got you, too,” he says.

And O melts. He can’t help it. “I’m glad I’ve got you, too—you troublemaker,” he says. They both laugh. O goes on, “But maybe we could meet your parents another time?”

“After the honeymoon?” W says.

“Wherever it is,” O says.

“I love you,” says W. “You made me what I am today.”

“And you me.” O kisses W, and they walk off across the Common with their arms around each other’s waists.

NEWS FROM THE FRONT

As Larry Niven says, there is a technical term for those who judge writers’ politics by what they turn out. That term is
idiot
. If you doubt it, remember that I wrote “Bedfellows” and I wrote this one. It wonders how World War II might have gone were the American media in those days as, mm, unconstrained as they are now. I like writing pastiche. This piece let me impersonate both Edward R. Murrow and Ernie Pyle. Can’t ask for more than that.