She replaced the headset and fast-forwarded it.

She was nineteen, sitting in a theater, watching her friend Tanya play Anna in The King and I. "/ want to play Anna, too, one day," she told the Herr Direktor

of Tanya's Company later, when her friend introduced her to him.

"You're not the type," he said.

"You will be Nellie Forbush in South Pacific, perhaps, but not Anna.

Never Anna." She buried the dream deep down in her soul. Every once in a while she disinterred it and looked at it, letting it grow, deciding that she not only wanted to play Anna, she wanted to do so in the grand ballroom of the Schloss Charlottenburg, the castle across the street from the Reichstag. The fact that the castle was in West Berlin only added to the grandiose quality of her fantasy. No one she knew had ever danced in the West, let alone at the Schloss. She'd only heard about the castle and the ballroom from people who'd seen it in the days when the old people were given pa.s.ses once a year to cross the border.

Pia was enchanted. She, too, adored Anna and wanted to play her; she, too, had been told that Nellie Forbush was more her style. Returning to the tape, she experienced her grandmother's escape to West Berlin.

She saw the luxury and the decadence and smelled the dog droppings in the less-than-pristine streets. Then, frightened, she heard the announcement that the Wall had tumbled.

"They" had taken over the West and it was now without light and heat.

The shops on the Kurfurstendam stood empty and the streets were clean.

Then the parties began, the farewell bashes for the forty-somethings, the ones who were being sent away. Somewhere.

Pia removed the headset and took something to help her sleep- She awoke in the middle of the night and returned to her grandmother's life. She escaped with her from Berlin, arrived with her in New York, journeyed with her to San Francisco and a new life, in the Haight. The going-away parties hadn't yet started in America. The streets were filled with musicians and clowns and mimes, people openly smoked all manner of things, including cigarettes, and everyone talked of flower children and behaved like it was still the Age of Aquarius. She experienced her grandmother's joyous reunion with her friend Tanya, a grown woman now and performing in Jesus Christ, Superstar. Pia had never seen the show before, though she'd heard of it in the coffee shops, before the Juicers took over. Heard that it was banned at the turn of the century, when she was just a little girl and the Clinton fiasco allowed the Moral Majority to take hold of the country.

Pia loved the show. She loved her grandmother for their shared pa.s.sions for old musicals and old movies.

Were her grandmother alive, she'd have embraced her and taken care of her, the way they used to take care of elderly people in the olden days.

Discarding the headset, she was beset by a deep sense of longing. There had to be something out there for her, something better than what she had now. This thing she had--this excuse for a life--was hardly worth clinging to.

Throwing on a coat to shield herself from San Francisco's wind, Pia headed for Sacramento. She notified the courts that she would be there first thing in the morning, spent the evening walking around the ruins of the old city, and was at the courthouse when it opened. At nine o'clock sharp, she was called before the judge.

Leaning against his desk to steady herself, she took the doc.u.ment that had been prepared for her and began to read.

"Just sign on the bottom line." The judge's voice was rasping, metallic, his eyes expressionless.

"That's it?" she said.

"What did you expect? A song and dance routine?

You know the regulations."

Yes, she knew the regulations, Pia thought. Ending her marriage was simply a matter of sending in an application and coming here to take care of the mechanics. She wanted the divorce, but there was something obscene about the lack of intricacy. Ten years with one person deserved more than that. Even Max, with his impa.s.sioned highs and suicidal lows, deserved more than that.

"On the bottom line," the judge repeated. He held out a pen.

"Your full name."

If you only had a heart. Tin Woodsman, you'd understand, Pia thought.

But she wasn't Dorothy, and Sacramento circa 2031 was hardly Oz.

Pushing back the strand of hair that had loosened itself from her neat chignon, she took the pen and signed her name. Olympia Hoffman.

Carefully. As if neatness counted. Feeling nothing. A mandatory year of lectures, counseling, red tape, before they'd granted a marriage license. Now this inglorious sixty-second procedure. It was like instant surgery--tidy and efficient while it was happening, to fool you into forgetting that the pain would come later, during recovery.

"Next."

Pia moved out of the way. She knew she should leave; she was providing no function being there. But she stood and watched the next person in line, a man with the trim body and controlled movements of an athlete.

She timed him through the process. Thirty seconds for the judge to check the list on the monitor to his right; a fifteen-second paper-shuffling pause; another fifteen seconds and it was over.

"Next."

"And to whom do you belong?" The athlete, smiling, had stopped at her side.

Pia glanced at the judge. He was staring right at her.

"To Them," she said, wondering as she gave the requisite answer why she didn't feel uncomfortable under his scrutiny. It was like that with all of Their messengers. They were enforcers, yet they carried with them a sense of familiarity that made their actions palatable.

"Next."

She was leaving the building now, moving across the square and heading toward the bus station. The athlete was still with her, making an effort to tone down his long stride to match her slower pace.

"Name's Jim," he said.

"You headed to San Francisco?"

he asked.

She didn't answer. Jim, John, Joe, she thought.

Who cares?

"Me, too. I mean, I also live in San Francisco," he said. Taking her silence for a.s.sent, he helped her board the bus.

"Isn't it wonderful how They make everything simple for us?"

"Yes. They're wonderful," Pia said. Out of earshot of the judge, she felt relatively safe in allowing a touch of sarcasm to filter into her words. They. The rule makers she thought. Hidden away, attending to the greater design of the world and insisting that she and everyone else fit into Their pattern.

"Let's celebrate when we get back," the athlete said.

Pia shook her head. He looked puzzled. Hurt. As if his daily ration of protein had been arbitrarily denied him. They trained his body but not his instincts, Pia thought. A modic.u.m of sensitivity would have told him she was in no mood for what he had in mind.

"You're not supposed to be alone this afternoon or tonight- You know the rules."

"I won't be alone," Pia said, wishing he would scout the bus for another candidate.

He had taken the seat next to hers. Now he removed his hand from her arm where it had rested possessively.

"We have the rest of the day off," he said, making one last-ditch attempt to change her mind.

"Sorry."

"Too bad. You have a good body. Another time, huh?"

"Yes. Another time."

Pia was consciously sidestepping the rules again. By Their tights, she was committing a crime and could be punished--whatever that meant.

It was all very well for Them to sit around like fat cats, doing what They wanted and issuing directives to everyone else, she thought.

Handing out lollipops for obedience to Their rules without ever denning the punishments for what They denned as crimes. By her lights, this directive was pure insanity. The idea of forcing herself to spend her few hours before Liz's going-away-party with this stranger was intolerable. Nor was she lying, when she said she wouldn't be alone, at least not entirely. Rick was waiting for her at home. She'd be spending the time in Paris and in his cafe in Casablanca. Thinking about him made her heart beat faster. For a few sweet hours she would be lisa.

Apparently accepting defeat, the athlete mumbled and took a seat next to a more likely candidate. Pia watched him go, in some small way envious of his easy acceptance of the system, he and the others who felt at home with Their mandates. Then she thought about the sweet hours of solitude she had just bought herself and smiled. Her defiances were small ones, to be sure, but they pleased her. She thought briefly about not showing up at the party. That would be a larger defiance, and one that might provide her with a great deal of satisfaction, if she got away with it. If not, the worst that could happen was .. . what? She had never been caught, so she didn't know the answer.

The idea of staying at home alone all evening was almost sensually tempting, but Pia dismissed it- If she was going to try it, she would have to choose another night, another party. Tonight she would surely be missed; she was the entertainment. At least, she thought, she was dancing Coppelia. Though she preferred musical comedies, she had an affinity for Delibes' music and Offenbach's doll. Besides, she wanted to see Liz, to wish her , .. what?

Deliberately, Pia ceased to think about the party.

She left the bus a few stops early, resisted the temptation to see if Jim was watching her through the bus window or, worse yet, had followed her out of the bus. She had the creepy feeling that he was trailing her as she walked the rest of the way to her apartment, but she did not look back.

Nearing the building, Pia gave thanks to Max for having agreed to move out until she could find somewhere else to live, and to Them for lifting the ban on an increasing number of musical comedies. She adored Swan Lake, of course, and Giselle and Coppelia, but she'd been pa.s.sionately in love with musical comedy ever since she'd seen her first one. She let herself into her apartment. In one fluid movement, she kicked the door shut behind her, pushed the b.u.t.ton to start the video ca.s.sette, and removed her coat. As she settled into her favorite chair, she remembered the way her husband--ex-husband--complained about its being out of sync with the decor of the room. She still didn't know whether it had become her favorite before or after his comment, she thought.

Deliberately emptying her mind of everything except what was happening on the screen in front of her, she commanded Rick to divert her. Within seconds, she was captivated by a world that never failed her. Paddle fans. Rick's cafe. North African intrigue.

That was her reality. Not performing Coppelia or living with Max Hoffman .. .

A blinking light on Pia's wall demanded her attention.