Cayce, Bibendum, and Dorotea Benedetti
From Pattern Recogition, William Gibson.
Pages 9-10: From Cayce's first meeting with Dorotea under the auspices of Blue Ant London and Bernard Stonestreet, in which Cayce shoots down the design submitted by Heinz & Pfaff, and in which Dorotea burns Cayce's prized Rickson jacket with a cigarette.
On his left sits Dorotea Benedetti, her hair scraped back from her forehead with a haute nerd intensity that Cayce suspects means business and trouble both. Dorotea, whom Cayce knows glancingly from previous and minor business in New York is something fairly high up in the graphics design partnership of Heinz & Pfaff. She has flown in this morning from Frankfurt to present H&P's intial shot at a new logo for one of the world's two largest manufacturers of athletic footware.
[...]
Dorotea may have attempted to out-minimalize her this morning, Cayce decides. if so, it hasn't worked. Dorotea's black dress, for all its apparent simplicity, is still trying to say several things at once, probably in at least three languages. Cayce has hung her Buzz Rickson's over the back of her chair, and now she catches Dorotea looking at it.
~
Pages 96-98: In which Dorotea gets her revenge on Cayce, and in which Cayce learns that Dorotea knows far too much about her; Cayce has already had reason to believe that Dorotea, or someone working for her, has broken into the flat where Cayce is staying.
"Erm," Stonestreet says, and seems relieved as Dorotea enters in serious Armani business drag, blackly deconstructed. This is, Cayce senses, for Dorotea, virtually an anti-fashion statement. A look that wouldn't be out of place at an upscale execution. "Good morning," she says. To Cauce: "You are feeling better, today?"
"Yes, thank you. And yourself?"
"I have been in Frankfurt with Heinzi, of course." And it's your fault. "But I think that Heinzi has worked his magic. He has nothing but good things to say about Blue Ant, Bernard. 'A breath of fresh' he calls it." She looks at Cayce. Blow me.
Cayce smiles back.
Dorotea takes her seat beside Stonestreet, producing another one of those expensive-looking envelopes. "I was in the studio with Heinzi when he did this. It's such a privilege, to see him work."
"Show it to me."
"Of course." Dorotea takes her time unfastening the envelope. She reaches inside. Pulls out a square of art board the size of the last one. On it is the Michelin Man, in one of his earliest, most stomach-churningly creepy manifestations, not the inflated-maggot de-shelled Ninja Turtle of the present daay, but that weird, jaded, cigar-smoking elder creature suggesting a mummy with elephantiasis. "Bibendum," says Dorotea, softly.
"The restaurant?" asks Stonestreet, puzzled. "In the Fulham Road?" He's sitting beside Dorotea and can't see what's on the square of board.
Cayce is about to scream.
"Oh," says Dorotea, "how stupid of me. Another project."
Bibendum, for Cayce knows that that is his name, goes back into the envelope.
[...]
Bibendum. That's his name. And also the name of a restaurant in the retrofitted Michelin House, where of course Cayce has never gone.
"Cayce? Are you feeling well? A glass of water?"
The first time she'd seen Bibendum had been in a magazine, a French magazine. She'd been six. She'd thrown up. "He took a duck in the face at two hundred and fifty knots."
"What?" An edge of alarm in Stonestreet's voice. He's starting to rise.
"It's fine, Bernard." She's clutching the edge of the table.
[...]
She gets up from her chair, feeling unsteady. "I'll need the car, please." She doesn't want to look at Dorotea. Dorotea's the one with the jack move, this morning. Dorotea's won. Cayce is spooked now, to the core, and this is nothing like the Asian Sluts flat-invasion feeling. This is way worse. Very few people have any idea of the extent of her most problematic trademark phobias, and fewer still of the specific triggers. Her parents, a number of doctors, therapists of various kinds, over the years a very few very close friends, no more than three of her former lovers.
But Dorotea knows.
Pages 9-10: From Cayce's first meeting with Dorotea under the auspices of Blue Ant London and Bernard Stonestreet, in which Cayce shoots down the design submitted by Heinz & Pfaff, and in which Dorotea burns Cayce's prized Rickson jacket with a cigarette.
On his left sits Dorotea Benedetti, her hair scraped back from her forehead with a haute nerd intensity that Cayce suspects means business and trouble both. Dorotea, whom Cayce knows glancingly from previous and minor business in New York is something fairly high up in the graphics design partnership of Heinz & Pfaff. She has flown in this morning from Frankfurt to present H&P's intial shot at a new logo for one of the world's two largest manufacturers of athletic footware.
[...]
Dorotea may have attempted to out-minimalize her this morning, Cayce decides. if so, it hasn't worked. Dorotea's black dress, for all its apparent simplicity, is still trying to say several things at once, probably in at least three languages. Cayce has hung her Buzz Rickson's over the back of her chair, and now she catches Dorotea looking at it.
~
Pages 96-98: In which Dorotea gets her revenge on Cayce, and in which Cayce learns that Dorotea knows far too much about her; Cayce has already had reason to believe that Dorotea, or someone working for her, has broken into the flat where Cayce is staying.
"Erm," Stonestreet says, and seems relieved as Dorotea enters in serious Armani business drag, blackly deconstructed. This is, Cayce senses, for Dorotea, virtually an anti-fashion statement. A look that wouldn't be out of place at an upscale execution. "Good morning," she says. To Cauce: "You are feeling better, today?"
"Yes, thank you. And yourself?"
"I have been in Frankfurt with Heinzi, of course." And it's your fault. "But I think that Heinzi has worked his magic. He has nothing but good things to say about Blue Ant, Bernard. 'A breath of fresh' he calls it." She looks at Cayce. Blow me.
Cayce smiles back.
Dorotea takes her seat beside Stonestreet, producing another one of those expensive-looking envelopes. "I was in the studio with Heinzi when he did this. It's such a privilege, to see him work."
"Show it to me."
"Of course." Dorotea takes her time unfastening the envelope. She reaches inside. Pulls out a square of art board the size of the last one. On it is the Michelin Man, in one of his earliest, most stomach-churningly creepy manifestations, not the inflated-maggot de-shelled Ninja Turtle of the present daay, but that weird, jaded, cigar-smoking elder creature suggesting a mummy with elephantiasis. "Bibendum," says Dorotea, softly.
"The restaurant?" asks Stonestreet, puzzled. "In the Fulham Road?" He's sitting beside Dorotea and can't see what's on the square of board.
Cayce is about to scream.
"Oh," says Dorotea, "how stupid of me. Another project."
Bibendum, for Cayce knows that that is his name, goes back into the envelope.
[...]
Bibendum. That's his name. And also the name of a restaurant in the retrofitted Michelin House, where of course Cayce has never gone.
"Cayce? Are you feeling well? A glass of water?"
The first time she'd seen Bibendum had been in a magazine, a French magazine. She'd been six. She'd thrown up. "He took a duck in the face at two hundred and fifty knots."
"What?" An edge of alarm in Stonestreet's voice. He's starting to rise.
"It's fine, Bernard." She's clutching the edge of the table.
[...]
She gets up from her chair, feeling unsteady. "I'll need the car, please." She doesn't want to look at Dorotea. Dorotea's the one with the jack move, this morning. Dorotea's won. Cayce is spooked now, to the core, and this is nothing like the Asian Sluts flat-invasion feeling. This is way worse. Very few people have any idea of the extent of her most problematic trademark phobias, and fewer still of the specific triggers. Her parents, a number of doctors, therapists of various kinds, over the years a very few very close friends, no more than three of her former lovers.
But Dorotea knows.