"You mean Joe was his sweetheart? Gigi, I decline to be shocked. Even though I'm ninety-five, I try to think modern."

"Joan, I never can believe that's your age; it isn't real, like that million dollars. I said ‘oyster' not ‘homo.' The artist was married, or shacked, with his number-one model. Possible she got Joe's cherry. Either way, she taught him plenty and mothered him and was good to him, and it was a happy Troy.

"But the artist—Mr. Tony, as Joe speaks of him—while he gave Joe the use of his studio and table and bed and wife—was nevertheless a strict master. He wouldn't let Joe paint with a palette knife or a wide broom or do distortions or abstracts or psychedelics—he made him learn to draw. Anatomy. Composition. Brush techniques. Color values. The whole endless drill of academic art, and wash brushes and sweep out the studio. Joe says that if it hadn't been for Mr. Tony, he would still be sketching sausage skins. Joe found out what he could do, what he wanted to do, and learned to do it. But, so he told me, not what his master did—but in both cases founded on old-fashioned academic training. The hard way. Oh, Joe's learned short cuts. But he can paint directly on canvas—he's been doing it since our last break—and make it as close to a photograph as he cares to. Or as different."

"—never said that poor is better than rich, Gigi; it is not. But both ‘rich' and ‘poor' have shortcomings—somewhere between is probably best, if you could get off the treadmill at that point. But— Look, does Joe guard you when you go grocery-shopping?"

"Huh? Of course not. Oh, sometimes he comes along and helps carry—but not to guard. Well, he does ride down the lift with me if it's a time of day when it might be empty—I mean, he's no fool and neither am I and I don't go looking for a mugging. Same coming back up and if I'm later than I said I would be, he's always there waiting. But I move around by myself, always have; I'm just not foolish about where and when."

"Gigi, I'm sure you're not foolish, I doubt if you ever go into a park—"

"Not even at high noon! I've been raped once and didn't like it. I'm not looking for a gang bang where they take turns holding you down. They ought to bulldoze every park in the city."

"Bulldozing the whole city might be better. But, Gigi, you move around rather freely. I can't. I don't dare appear even with guards around me without being veiled, I can't risk being recognized. I have to be wary all the time. Sure, you bolt your door—but my house has to be strong enough to take a bomb tossed against it—that's happened several times since I built it. I have to watch for everything from kidnappers and assassins to mere nuisances who want to touch me.

"I'm talking both about the way I am now and the man ‘Johann' I used to be—too much money attracts crackpots and criminals and there is nothing I can do about it but keep guards around me day and night, and live in a house that's a fort, and try to avoid being recognized at any time, and never, never try to live what is called a ‘normal life.' Besides that—Gigi, can you imagine what a treat it is to me to be allowed to wash dishes?"

Gigi looked startled. "Huh? Joan, you've lost me. Oh, I know how complicated it is to be rich; I've watched video. But washing dishes isn't a treat; it's a horrid bore. Too often I've left them in the sink, then had to face them before breakfast. By the time breakfast is ready, I don't want any."

"Let me give you a tip, Gigi. I did know something about Joe's mother; Eunice was my secretary for years." (I never mentioned her, Boss!) (Will you let me tell this lie my own way?) "She was—and is—a pig and lives like one. This place isn't big; if you'll keep it spotless, Joe won't care when you get wrinkles—and we all do, someday. But a dirty toilet bowl or dishes in the sink reminds him of his mother."

Gigi said, "Joan, I try. But I can't clean house and pose at the same time."

"Do your best, hon. If necessary, lose sleep. Joe is a man worth making extra effort to keep. But I was talking about doing dishes—it's a nuisance to you but a luxury to me. Washing dishes means ‘freedom' to me. Look, here we are, three of us, no servants—and presently I'll be gone and you'll be alone with your husband and the world shut out. I can't shut it out. Uh... let me think— Four mobile guards, a security chief, twelve in-house watchmen under him, three always on duty and the others on call, which means the married ones—which is most of them—have their families under my roof—a personal maid, a valet who used to tend me and now takes care of guests—couldn't fire him; I never fire anyone without cause—a butler, a head chef, three—oh, I don't remember; there were about sixty adults in my house the last time I asked."

"My God, Joan!"

"Yes, ‘My God!' To take care of one person. Yet not one could I let go without replacing him. I planned that house and kept tabs on the design, intending to keep staff down to a minimum. So it's loaded with gadgets. Things like robofootmen, and a trick bed that was designed to let me get along without a nurse a few more years as I got older. Do you know what that means? I lost. I have to have a building superintendent and maintenance mechanics—or the gadgets don't work. All this complication—and never any real privacy—just to take care of one person who doesn't want it that way."

"Joan, why don't you get rid of it? Move—and start over."

"Move where, dear? Oh, I've thought about it, believe me. But it's not actually to take care of one-person—it's to take care of too much money, money that is fastened to me so that I can't risk kidnappers or anything else. I can't even cash itand flush it down the pot; that's not the way big money works. And even if I could and did—nobody would believe I had. I would just have taken off my armor and probably would not stay alive two days. Besides— Do you like cats?"

"Love ‘em! Got a kitten promised now."

"Good. Now tell inc—how do you get rid of a cat you've raised?"

"Huh? Why, you don't. Not if you're decent."

"I agree, Gigi. I've lived with many cats. You keep them. If you are forced to it, you have a cat humanely destroyed—or if you have the guts, you kill it yourself so that it won't be bungled. But you don't give away a grown cat; it is almost impossible. But, Gigi, you can't kill people."

"I don't understand, Joan."

"What would I do with Hugo? He's been with me many years; he's doing the only thing he knows how to do—except preach, which doesn't really pay; Gigi, loyal servants are ‘Chinese obligations' just like acat. Sure, they can get other jobs. But what would you do if Joe told you, ‘Get lost. We're finished.'"

"Cry."

"I don't think my servants would cry—but I would."

"But I'd get along!"

Joan sighed. "And that platoon I have around me would get along, I think; they're able or I wouldn't have them—and I've got money enough to make sure that ones like Hugo are taken care of; that's one of the good things about being rich—if money is all it takes to remedy something, you can. Gigi, there is some solution to this silly fix I'm in and I'm going to find it—I was just trying to show you that it isn't as simple as it looks on video. The solution may be something as easy as changing my name again and changing my face with plastic surgery and going somewhere else."

"Oh, no, you mustn't change your face."

"No, you're right; I must not change this face. It's Eunice's; I'm only its custodian. If I changed it, Joe would not like it—nor several other people. (Starting with me, Boss.) (I won't change your lovely face, sweetheart. I'll cherish it.) "I'll keep it as it is—but I have to keep it veiled. It's been on video too much, photographed and printed too many million times. But there's some way to tackle it."