The Spy and Her Serpent, page 15
She sets down her silverware. “I want to give you the peace of mind. It will take a while to put all the pieces together; the trail will have gone cold after this many years, but not impossible to trace. Unless you don’t want me to, of course.”
Again she is giving me the choice. The option. Here is a door, open it or not; here is an array of doors, and I can choose which to swing wide and which to keep shut.
It is that, more than nearly anything else, that convinces me I’ve chosen correctly. That convinces me Yves is wrong about her.
“All right,” I tell Singapore’s uncrowned empress, “please do. Thank you.”
MERIDIAN
Dallas is sleeping. I have replaced the old bed with a slightly bigger one, such that this long and gangly woman might not immediately lose a foot over the side. It is a fool’s errand; she sleeps splayed out, ankle exposed and her arms still reaching for my side of the bed.
It is the hour before dawn. The studio windows I so adore are black ink, and a seabed of orange and gold lights lay below. The air has a chill to it. I sit at my little carving station and switch on the lamp, turn over my current project. It is a greyhound, curled and asleep; I have had them on my mind recently. But it is an inert thing, its chest still and its muzzle silent. I turn the lamp back off. In the darkness, I listen to my greyhound snore.
The sky begins to lighten, and the cityscape transmutes from black and gold to a cool gray. It is my least favorite version of the city, that interstice when the color of the night has leached away and the beauty of the day is held in abeyance. But the sky is so pretty in these moments, and the quiet comforts me: an escape from all worries and burdens, however fleeting.
Orange returns to the city like flame—the sun has crested the horizon. A moment later, the coffee pot begins to gurgle. I startle at this new noise; Dallas has programmed it without my knowledge.
It has been years since someone has brewed me coffee. The smell takes me back to mornings with my mother, those mornings when she was home. Viveca would still be asleep, but I was a very serious boy—I would come in to the kitchen wearing my button-up pajamas, and my mother would start the coffee pot. We would have a very important discussion about the coming day while it brewed in the background, and then I would get a little thimble of my own to sip alongside her. It was our secret, and the last thing anyone did for me.
And now this mess of a woman has stolen into my home and into my kitchen, and even if it is the machine doing her bidding while she rubs away the sleep and pulls on a shirt, I am still shocked that I can be touched so.
Perhaps she knows this. Impossible. Perhaps she intuits. Perhaps basing one’s character assessment on a filled coffee pot is a bad idea. Perhaps I should kill her, just to be safe.
She kisses me on the top of my head, as easily as though we have been living together forever, and I never deceived her about who I am. Then she ambles toward the kitchenette, hunts for and finds one clean coffee mug, finds a second and washes it. Her hands move carefully over the ceramic. She is precise in all things, I remind myself; I should not read into precision the presence of care.
Heavy sugar, light cream; I guess she has kept track of how I take mine. She makes hers the same. A final thoughtfulness when she cannot find a coaster and puts folded paper towels under each of our mugs.
I watch her face in the early morning light. It’s lined with sleep, the look of someone who is only slowly regaining consciousness after a long, hard rest. Her hair is unkempt—but then again, it usually is. She’s also wearing one of my shirts, and I don’t have the heart to tell her; it doesn’t matter, we are roughly the same height and build. Her bruises and cuts are still healing; Yves did not use what one might call a light hand. That woman is fortunate she is my sister-in-law. Anyone else I would have brutally punished for laying hands on one of my own.
My lacerations too are on the mend, but far from faded. Fewer than hers; it has been days, but still she looks ghastly in the morning light, the bruises from her fights and falls turning a sickly yellow.
It could have been worse. In all my life, I have only shielded another person with my body—Viveca—but I do not regret my instincts. And perhaps that means I don’t regret letting Dallas in, either.
“Is it true,” she asks me over coffee, “that you count all sorts of women among your collection—the historian, the linguist, the demolitions expert?”
“That part, I’m afraid, is correct.” My mouth crooks. “Is either the number or the variety a problem?”
Dallas spears a dumpling from the plate. Frozen and reheated in the airfryer; one day I’ll bring her to a restaurant that serves only dumplings, all sorts, so she can discover her favorite format and filling. “No, not really. It’s new to me, I have usually been with… jealous women. Monogamists.”
“I’m jealous in my own way, or haven’t you noticed?”
“It doesn’t seem to have come up yet. Unless,” she adds, her tone teasing, “you mean the inspector.”
I sip from my mug. I want her to know I appreciate the coffee. “I do mean that. I like loyalty, Dallas. At first I assumed she had secured yours.”
She chuckles, though it’s not entirely amused. “No fear of that. She nearly spat on me first thing, and I’m not a masochist.”
“We’ll introduce you to the rest of my women.” I am sure, now, that my greyhound will stay; that she has looked upon all I am, and has not flinched. “Some of them are each other’s lovers, as well.”
“I’m sure they’re all very beautiful and intriguing and talented. But for now—” Her fingers skim across mine. “For now, and maybe always, I’m only in this for you.”
Countless women, handsome and eloquent, have flattered me. She is the first to make me blush, the first to pry off all pretenses and lay me bare. Nor does she fail to notice it, to judge by the beginning of a smirk. Refinement is the watchword of my tastes, my girls all perfumed and pearled—until now. Dallas has surprised me in every way.
We finish the breakfast in companionable silence. My schedule is not rigid the way Viveca’s is—she is technically the CEO of her own company, arms-dealing being able to incorporate a clean front the way my business cannot. A thin line, with us on opposite sides. We used to have those debates on which of us damages the world more.
Dallas is not someone I can imagine being naturally inclined toward monstrosity. Yes, she kills easily. No doubt her body count is considerable, but it would be small in scale, individual. What I do is something else entirely. It is like comparing a gladiator’s tally to an army’s.
While she dresses, I stay in my oversized shirt, if only because I can tell it’s a distracting sight for her—more so than the designer dresses, the couture fresh from the catwalk, the wardrobe that “Meridian” could never have afforded. Dallas regards those things as artifice, I get the impression. But sometimes the fine satin is armor, and sometimes it is merely myself—and I think she is beginning to piece together the sum of who I am, this singular person she knows by two names.
“Dallas,” I say, perched on the bed as she emerges from the bathroom, “I’m giving you a choice.”
“Whether I get to stay in these or change into a nicer suit?” She gestures at the crumpled shirt and black off-the-rack pants.
“Whether you get involved.” I search for the words, the concise synopsis. “What I do is both incredibly ordinary and not. There are labs, warehouses, distribution centers. It’s a thing of logistics, the same as a corporation that owns factories processing and packaging sugar, syrup, condiments you’d find in any kitchen. If anything, I treat my employees better; they actually get toilet breaks and their compensation packages are comprehensive. But the products are dirty. There’s nothing virtuous about my trade. If you wish, you can stay with me as my…”
“Kept woman,” she supplies, deadpan.
I bite down on my lip, to keep from snorting or snapping alike. “I’m not in need of more security. You don’t have to work.”
“That’s a shame. Here I was doing my best at the auditions.” She sits on the bed beside me. “I have no feelings about your profession. In this matter, I am not even ambivalent, I am agnostic. And the same holds true for your power—you could be a fishmonger, or a cartel lord, or even a bohemian artist that somehow lives beyond her means. That’s not the important part. It’s just…”
She stops and licks her lip, trying to articulate not just a truth about us, but about herself. “My life has been a series of doors,” she finally concludes. “In prison, they’d let me out to maim or kill another inmate. In Singapore, Yuwada thrust me out into a much larger prison yard to do the same.” She nods at the door to the loft. “And then I crossed that threshold, and found you, and this.”
“Am I different from the others?” I word my question carefully, bleach it of any accusation; whatever the truth is to Dallas, she needs to find it—for both our sakes—without my thumb on the scales.
A shrug. “This may surprise you, but I have no particular malice toward Yuwada. In some other life, where she treated me with respect, where Yves Hua really did kill my friends—well, you and I wouldn’t be having this conversation. The difference between you and them, as I see it, is that you’ve—repeatedly—told me I can stay or leave. And that’s more than anyone has done for me in years.”
“And so?” I prompt, as softly as possible.
“It’s not about what I am, or will be, to you; what services I can render. It’s about me having chosen to stay with you, in any capacity. It’s about…” She pauses, quickly resumes. “When I ran with my gang back in San Francisco, I felt that I belonged. That they reciprocated my loyalty, that I had made a home with them. I like to think I’ve found that again.”
It is a statement of trust. It’s—more than I expected, or believed I deserved. “This relationship was started on a lie. But when we were on that yacht together, and you realized why we were there, I saw how your eyes flashed, how disappointed you looked. And in that moment I realized that I didn’t want to be the type of person who just used you, who… who unsheathed you like some knife, and then put you away when I was done.” I start speaking faster, to hide the depth of my feeling. “I want to be truthful with you, honest with you. So yes. I will be what you’ve been looking for. We can be that to each other.”
“Well. Okay.” Dallas looks away, then looks at me. Bashful, I think. “Okay. I can work with that. What do I call you now?”
That niggling point, that throughline since the airport; a question that contains a universe. “You can keep calling me Meridian, if that’s easier. They’re both my names, really. When I was a child,” I add, offered as a revelation, “I wanted to be some kind of spy, with a sleek codename. Tried a few out in my head; came up with Meridian and liked it best.” A moniker that sounded so much like a femme fatale’s, though I wouldn’t have hit on that realization until years later.
“I get that. But I did ask you who you are.”
It is about more than what she calls me. This is a question of who I wish to be, to her; of whether we can build on what we have. Between us, symbolism has such a hold. In this way we can reset the clock, present to each other a pristine slate. Restart on firmer ground, steering our shared ship away from the foundation of lies on which we met.
“Very well.” I hold out my hand. “I’m Olesya Hua. Pleased to meet you, Dallas.”
DALLAS
San Francisco. Four years ago.
I’m playing cards with Kentucky. We’re both outrageous cheats, so it’s fortunate that the only thing at stake is a question and a few cans of Coke. Why did we like it so much, this too-sweet drink? It’s not as if we could afford regular dentist visits, and the way we drink it—tepid temperature at best, not the crisp chill the advertisements call for—makes it stick in the mouth. There’s something self-destructive in our pursuit of the drink, something that makes you pick up the poison and pour it down your gullet and ask to do it all again.
But maybe I make too much of it, have too overactive an imagination. Maybe, these years later, I want the time I spent with Kentucky to mean something, anything.
Regardless, she wins. I’m better at charming people; she’s better at charming cards.
“Remember, kid,” she says, grin on her face and faux wisdom in her voice. “Victory goes to the daring, the wise, and the patient. Now, for my one question…”
I hold up my hands, acknowledging defeat. “Okay. You’re going to be disappointed if you’re looking for dark secrets.” The most awful things I’ve done were committed under her watch, so to speak, and by that point, have become mundane in any case—beating someone up, here and there, greasing a deal for the crew. Before this, my life prior was quite bland.
She rubs her chin in thought. “When was the happiest time of your life?”
That I don’t expect. I stare at her for several seconds. “Now?” I am self-actualized. I enjoy independence, freedom, and few bother me about who I am—Kentucky’s gang has enough cachet in these streets to pre-empt the predictable insults. Comfortable in my skin, empowered, pleased with myself. Yes, I am happier than I have ever been.
She makes a face. “Low bar, girl. Sure, it’s a good life, more comfortable than some. But there’s more, right, or could be? I have ambitions. We could be doing better one day. And you, you’ve got to think bigger.”
“Like what?” I shrug. “I can get most women I want. Got food to eat, a roof over my head, money to spend on books and cigarettes.”
Kentucky guffaws. “I mean security. I mean not having to worry or be afraid. Basing ourselves out of a nicer bar, procuring a better grade of alcohol, finer furniture. You know. But I’ll tell you—I can see that one day you’ll be happier than you are now.”
It’s my turn to snort. “Sure, fortuneteller. Want to read my palm too?”
“Don’t have to. You have that kind of face. Bound for great things. Maybe bound for a great love, too.” She punches me in the arm. “Our good luck charm.”
♦
Singapore. Now.
Through the open door to Olesya’s workstation, I’m watching her carve. A long, sleek dog with a coat of pale amber, curled up and at rest. She has been intensely focused, as if this shall be her masterpiece, the one that will take pride of place on any shelf.
Do I no longer have to worry or be afraid? Not exactly. In an ideal world, or the world Olesya wants to construct for me, yes. My new lover, this woman of unthinkable wealth, means to hold this city in her palm; to control its every facet, to pull on all its strings. This will become her puppet and her stronghold, the bastion in which she and those she cares for are untouchable. I have seen it in her eyes, the certainty that she will defend me from all harm, that she will break all challengers with fist and bullet and political might long before they can reach me, or us. She will fill a graveyard to show her enemies what it means to defy her.
But in the practicality of it—accounting for the vagaries of it all—absolute control, utter security, is impossible. I will think on that even as she plies me with extravagance, takes me to see the world, gives me every experience that is within reach of her money. The fine dining, trips to Sentosa or the distant Arctic, every article of cloth and weapon tailored to my specifications. I will not be able to stop thinking about it when we are together, entwined in bed; perhaps I will pause, temporary, as we lose ourselves in each other’s body.
Kentucky was both right and wrong. I’m happier than I have ever been, I have been led by fortune and seized with my hands a present and future where I will need fear much less—in that, correct. Yet happiness is not a total absence of peril; it does not mean being spared all concern. For one, I’ll worry about Olesya, because what she does is so dangerous. I will worry that the protections lent by her younger sister will not suffice, or that one day a terrible wedge might be driven between them, as Yves Hua’s brush with death could easily have.
What I have: a readiness to take on this life I will share with Singapore’s queen.
What I have: Olesya herself.
The world Olesya wants to create will ever be out of reach. Yet I trust her, and she trusts me. With everything accounted for, all the disparate factors of her background and mine, that’s the rarest treasure of all.
Sitting up in bed must’ve made a sound, the sheets rustling as I move. It draws her attention. She raises her head and pauses her work. The look she gives me is warm and luminous, her slight smile one of pleased acknowledgment. The intimacies we’ve built together, so quickly and comprehensively, culminate in these quiet moments. Where we communicate to each other silently and gently, through our eyes and gestures and bodies: I am sure of you and of us. I am glad you are here.
I leave the bed. I go to her, kneeling so we’d be level, and wrap my arms around her, chair and all. A loose embrace. She pecks me on the cheek. She smells of herself, and soap.
Outside, another day is about to dawn.
I like to think Kentucky would have been happy for me.
Bonus Story: A Rose for Her Hound
The summons came in the middle of the night.
The vibration nearly sent the phone tumbling off the nightstand. Fahriye grabbed it, checked the notification, and released a breath between her teeth. She looked down at Viveca, aware that this might be the final time she got to see her charge in this specific context—at peace, asleep in her arms; a portrait of tenderness. A faint hint of perfume exuded, the distillation of orris root, among other expensive components.
She eased herself off Viveca, then out of the bed. In a minute, she was dressed; military habits. No alerts on the house's security system, all patrols in place, all personnel nominal. Several bodyguards saluted her as she made her way down the corridor. Decorative ferns hung from the ceiling, their fronds fluttering gently in the ventilation.
It reminded her, a little, of the time she was called for her unceremonious discharge. A brusque conversation with her commanding officer, and out the door the next day. Social links were brittle; belonging was temporary. She'd learned that lesson before.
