or you can just read it here -- Name That Story

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Date Posted: 16:00:53 06/05/08 Thu
Author: sk
Author Host/IP: dsl-216-162-217-46.drizzle.com / 216.162.217.46
Subject: or you can just read it here
In reply to: del 's message, "Re: Huffhurr..." on 20:10:32 06/03/08 Tue

I heard through the grapevine you were looking for this. I haven't got round to archiving my stuff, though it is on the "to do" list

In the Gallery

The museum is closed on Mondays, but for me they will make an exception. I try not to ask favors like this very often -- it can put you in a difficult situation, and I know it makes trouble for the actual people who work there, but occasionally I�ll use a little influence. My last meeting will be finished by lunchtime, and we aren�t scheduled to fly out until early evening, so I should be able to spend most of the afternoon in the galleries. Normally I would wait until Tuesday, and visit during regular hours with regular people, but I have to be back in Switzerland by then, so phone calls will be made, courtesies will be extended to the important official they believe I am, and I will be escorted through locked gates Monday afternoon. It�s unfair, but it�s expedient, and sometimes I just get tired of arguing with my personal detail. Crowds make them unhappy, and I know they don�t enjoy following me along from picture to picture. This way they can monitor from the van, indulging what they think is a ridiculous interest, and I can spend some time alone, looking and thinking.

It wasn�t until I�d been in the Perch for a couple years that I realized I needed something to think about beyond the job. It had been a miserable spring, with missions piling up like a dirty snowbank, when Walter finally dragged me out of Section, taking me to an outdoor cafe for an hour. With the inevitable bodyguards hovering at surrounding tables, he lectured me while he stuffed me full of pastries and coffee.

�If you�re really going to stick it out, you need something in your life besides Section or it will make you crazy.�

�Too late, Walter, I�m crazy already.�

�Well, that makes two of us sugar, but I�m serious. You need some kind of interest, something to keep you sane.�

�And what do you suggest -- am I supposed to raise goldfish? Collect stamps? Or maybe I should just grow orchids?�

We both cringed at that idea, but he wouldn�t let it go.

�I don�t care what it is, Sugar, but find something to do, some place to put your mind when you can�t take it anymore, or I�m not going to be responsible for what happens.�

At the beginning it was so deliberate it was almost artificial. One of my last missions as an operative had been a surveillance job at the Louvre. I spent a week posing as an art student, drawing and redrawing the same Madonna, pretending to work on my technique but really waiting for a courier from a Basque splinter group. He thought he was closing an arms deal, but in the end we used him to run a scam on both sides. Our intel on his timing was soft, though, so I set up an easel at the contact point and just waited. After a day I thought I�d go crazy, looking for something different to do with the drawing, but then I noticed, down in the corner, a section that looked painted over, as if the artist had changed his mind. The folds of the Virgin�s gown didn�t line up, like someone had cut out part of the picture and pasted it back together in the wrong place. I was fascinated by that corner -- I spent ages looking at it, trying to figure out what the artist did originally. I had ultra-violet lenses in my comm glasses and tried using those to see if there were any differences, but it didn�t help. One day I brought in a special magnifying viewer, later on I tried a hand-held xray-scanner that Walter had in the back of the armory, but in the end I found what I was looking for in an old masters� thesis. The artist had been flat broke, and sold the painting to a collector who insisted he paint her dog into the picture. He was disgusted, but did what she said, although he got back at her in the end. He put some kind of solvent in the paint, and in a few months it started to dissolve the canvas. The lady was desperate to fix the problem, but the best anyone could do was cut off the damaged part and add a patch.

It took most of a week to track all this down, but by the time I had closure on the mission I was deep into reading about this painting. I�d always liked looking at art before, liked the rush of emotions you�d get when you would see something special, but I never thought twice about where it came from -- the people who made it and the times they lived. But now I really started looking at things, and trying to learn more about them. By the time I became Operations, I�d figured out how to lose myself in a picture, and there have been times since then when that was all that kept me from losing myself altogether.

It�s been a long time, though, since those first, awful years in the Perch. At the beginning, I used the art almost like a drug, to keep from thinking, and especially to keep from remembering. There were so many chances to make mistakes, so many things to regret that if I let myself go I would actually get nauseous from vibrating. I�d look at paintings back then and just follow the brushstrokes -- see how the artists made their choices and laid down their colors -- and try to see the world they saw, rather than the one I lived in. And just like using a drug, I thought I had to keep this secret, that I had to hide my interest or someone would try and exploit it.

Much later I realized I was wrong. The higher you go, the fewer secrets you need to keep. Or perhaps you realize that there�s no use in trying to hide something. At any rate, at this level, as long as you continue to serve, you�re left alone.

It�s so different than it was before. The rules and the limitations, the intrigue that governed so much of what I could do and what I could be back then, are almost non-existent today. Now that I have almost no use for freedom, I�m the freest I�ve ever been. Or at least free enough to spend the afternoon at the Museum of Modern Art, looking at Monet�s Water Lilies.

I remember when I first saw them, all those years ago. We�d finished a mission outside New York City, and like today, we had an afternoon free until our transport was scheduled. I�d been to New York a few times, but the only parts I�d seen had been what the job had shown me, so I didn�t really know what to do. As usual, though, Michael had something planned, and as usual, he wouldn�t give me any clues. �There�s something here you should see� was all I got as the cab pulled up to the building. He even made me close my eyes as we walked into the gallery, stopping me in the middle of the room and turning me to just the place he thought I should see first. �Now� he said, and I opened my eyes to a riot of blues and greens. When I realized what they actually were I was stunned. These weren�t the same fuzzy pictures that decorated washed out tote bags and cheap postcards. These were alive, liquid and mysterious, making my eyes water with their glow. �I had no idea,� I whispered as I turned slowly around, overwhelmed. �The real thing,� he said, �is always different.�

And they are still different, and mysterious, as I sit in front of them now.

The usual murmuring of the art-watching crowd is missing today, so I hear the footsteps quite clearly. Old habits die hard, and I�ve already decided that it�s either a small female or a child by the time the little girl comes running into the gallery. She�s surprised to see me, which is unusual. She must be familiar enough with the museum to realize that normally I wouldn�t be here. But then normally she wouldn�t either, so this is an anomaly.

�I�m Lena -- I�m here to see my paintings. Who are you?�

�These are your paintings? I thought they belonged to the museum.�

�Well, they stay here, because they wouldn�t fit in my bedroom. My papa worked on them, but he�s finished now.�

She�s very self-possessed, and quite lovely, with straight dark hair and dark eyes.

�Your papa did a very good job.�

�He�s working downstairs now, but I like it better in here.�

�I like it in here, too.�

A second set of footsteps, slower and heavier, and then a voice.

�Lena, are you up here again? Lena?�

I think she must be Lena�s mother, though there isn�t much resemblance. I can see why her daughter was able to outpace her, she looks to be close to the end of her pregnancy, walking with that slight backwards tilt like a portrait of a Renaissance noblewoman.

�Lena, I told you to stay with me.�

�I just came to see my paintings, mama.�

�Yes, my love, but you shouldn�t run off without saying where you�re going. Your grandpapa and I were both looking for you, but I thought you might be here.�

�I�m sorry mama.�

�Give me a kiss, then, and promise not to do it again.�

�I promise, mama.�

Lena rubs her cheek on her mother�s belly and they both giggle. Her mother looks at me with a shrug and gives her daughter a squeeze.

�Now run downstairs to the second floor and let your grandpapa know where you are. I�ll be there in just a few minutes.�

Lena runs off and her mother turns towards me.

�I hope she wasn�t any trouble.�

�Not at all -- she was telling me about her paintings.�

�Oh dear -- my husband works as an art restorer here, and Lena thinks that they all belong to us. We used to work on things at home when we ran a workshop, so she gets very confused when we tell her that the art has to stay here.�

�That makes sense to me ... I like to imagine that I own things sometimes.�

�Yes, but I don�t imagine you tell everyone at the museum that when you grow up you�re going to build a big room at home, and keep all your paintings there.�

We smile at each other as she shifts a bit, like she�s trying to find a comfortable place to sit.

�So you and your husband work together?�

�That�s how we met, filling up cracks in Italian frescoes. They�re very beautiful, and very fragile -- there�s lots of work for the places that can afford to have it done. I had to take a break when I was pregnant with Lena -- the dyes aren�t so good for babies, but I�ll go back again after this one is born.�

�How long have you been here?�

�About a year -- we used to travel around from job to job, but Lena was ready to go to school, so when this position opened up it seemed like a good choice.�

�Travelling with a small child must have been difficult.�

�Not so much, really. My father-in-law lives with us, and he�s a big help. When we settled down and Lena started school I thought maybe he�d want to do something else, but he said that we all still needed each other, and now that I�m pregnant again it seems like a gift to have him with us.�

I�m listening to what she�s saying, but I can hear more voices down the hall, a high pitched one that I�m sure is Lena, alternating with a lower tone that echoes in my head.

�Mama, Grandpapa and I came to see if you need us. I told him you were talking to a lady, but he said we should see.�

The only surprising thing is that I�m not really surprised. Once I see him, everything about the day feels like a set of clues all pointing to one thing -- pointing to Michael.

I can�t look at him --I just acknowledge the introduction and switch my subcutaneous comm link to receive as they sort themselves out. He wants them all to leave, seeing me here he probably thinks they�ve stumbled into the middle of a mission.

�No, you�ve had her ever since this morning, so Adam and I could have lunch together -- you need a break. You said you wanted to come look at the Monets today, so take your time. We�ll go to the market on the way home and meet you there.�

�Very well.� He�s decided to get them out of the way, and deal with me himself. I don�t know if I�m glad or disappointed that he still thinks tactically. After all these years, I guess I hoped that skill would have died from lack of use.

There are hugs and kisses all around, including one for me from Lena.

�You can keep Grandpapa company, and he can tell you about the pictures.�

�That�s very kind, but he might like to be by himself.�

�Oh no, he likes company.�

He sees them to the door of the room, and then turns to face me.

I haven�t really looked at him till now. For a moment I see the differences, the gray in his hair and the lines on his face, and wonder briefly what changes he sees in me, but my eyes adjust, like putting on a new pair of glasses, and all I see is Michael.

I gesture to the bench, with the hand signal we worked out back then to communicate the level of surveillance. We�re seen, but we�re not heard. It was odd to be using the signs again, like putting on a old pair of shoes. They still fit, but they remind you that you don�t stand that way anymore. He blinks at me, and waits for me to sit down.

�So you�re a grandfather -- Michael, she�s beautiful. I think she looks a bit like her grandmother, Elena would have been so pleased... And Adam works here now? You must be very proud.� I haven�t babbled like this in ages, but then, I haven�t had a reason to.

�Are you here to take me back?�

The question makes me sad, but it doesn�t surprise me. Even after all this time, neither one of us can really accept coincidence.

�No. I�m just here to look at the pictures.�

�Alone?�

�In a matter of speaking. There�s no one inside. My detail is in the van. They won�t come after me unless I signal -- they�re afraid I�ll get angry.�

He looks at me and I smile back.

�I usually don�t, really, but they think I might, which comes in handy.�

He smiles at that, just a bit, and I take a breath.

�She is beautiful, Michael, and very sweet.�

�Very sweet, and very willful. She reminds me of you sometimes.�

�Oh...�

�I�ve been glad of the reminder.�

It�s been years since I discontinued surveillance on Michael and Adam. I knew, no matter how careful I was, that kind of monitoring would leave a trace in the system and I didn�t want to take the chance it might lead someone back to them. I�ve wondered, all that time, where they might have gone and what they might have done, but now, with Michael sitting right in front of me, I can�t think of a question that�s worth asking. We sit silent for a while, and for once, Michael is the one to break it.

�I know I said I�d be back, but it never seemed like the right time. I just...�

�Don�t -- it wasn�t too long till I realized that there�s never a time that a son doesn�t need his father.� And that a father doesn�t need his son.

�Thank you. Are you still working inside?�

My eyebrows quirk at the allusion. �After Walter died I realized that there was no one else left in Section who was willing to call me by my name. They knew it, but they were more comfortable answering to a title than a person. It was time to go.� I began to realize how seductive that was, to understand how Paul made his decisions when no one thought of him as a person, and I knew I had to leave. �I spent some time at Oversight, but I knew eventually I would wind up at Center. It�s been several years now.�

�Have you done what you thought you wanted to do?�

�I don�t know. A little, perhaps. It�s hard to make something more humane when its inhumanity is what makes it so effective.�

�I�m sorry.�

How many times had I heard that from him? And how many times did I really understand what he was saying? That he wasn�t just accepting blame -- he was admitting there was something wrong, something out of sync with normal expectations. It was closer to empathy than apology -- in a world of lies, he was offering to be a witness to truth.

�Me too.�

We talk a bit, a strange kind of catching up filled with bits of cities visited and people avoided. We�re both of us anonymous, staying below the radar of the outside world, finding a niche that doesn�t attract any attention. We talk about the past we shared, but I don�t say much about more recent times, careful not to draw him into a net he managed to escape.

Mostly we just sit, looking at the shimmer on the wall and thinking our own thoughts. After an hour, I know it�s time for me to leave.

He offers me his arm, and I remember another couple, a few years older than we are now. I saw them when I was here the last time, walking slowly through the galleries. Although he used a cane, she still took his arm as they moved from painting to painting, their connection to each other much older than any recent infirmity. They didn�t speak often, but as they stopped in front of each canvas their eyes met, and their opinions of the paintings showed in the expressions on their faces. She leaned towards him once or twice, and murmured something too soft to hear, but he�s obviously amused, and smiled back at her comment before they moved on. They looked like they�d done this for many years, and I envied them that longevity. I still do, especially now, as Michael and I walk in their footsteps through the galleries.

At the front door he turns to face me as we wait for the guard to unlock the gate.

�Will you be back soon?�

�I don�t think so. My meetings are over, and I have other things to do.�

�We�re here now -- I�ll be here.�

I don�t know what to do with this piece of information, except to nod, so I do.

I step forward to thank the director of the museum. He has straightened his tie and come out of his office since I am such an important person, but I know he�d rather be back at work so I apologize for the inconvenience and say that I am just leaving. We shake hands, so it seems logical that I reach toward Michael as well when I turn back to him. He bends over my hand slightly, not really kissing my knuckles, but I feel the warmth of his breath and for a moment I think about turning around and walking out another exit, finding another life. But habits are hard to break, and when he straightens up and looks over my shoulder, I echo his �goodbye.� The door opens and the afternoon light lays in a path on the floor.

My car pulls up as I step out of the gate -- they�re very good at this kind of timing. Akane rides point, and he gets out before the car has actually stopped to open my door.

�Afternoon, ma�am.�

I get in with a �thank you� and look over the PDA that Reynolds hands me. I can tell without looking that she�s got questions about Michael -- she�s really too impulsive for her position, but I want to help her with that before she rotates off this assignment, so I just wait for her to speak up.

�Is there a change in your schedule, ma�am?�

�No, Reynolds, no change.�

�I just wondered...�

�I�m sure you did. He�s an old contact, from when I was in the field. He�s been out of the life for years now.�

Since most of my detail wasn�t even born when Michael left Section, this is all so much ancient history to them. Still, Reynolds has to speak again.

�He must have looked great when he was younger�

�Oh, he did.� My tone is dry, appropriate for the person I�m supposed to be, but I smile inside at her comment.

�Sorry, ma�am.�

�Let�s get to the airport.�

�Yes, ma�am.�

We pull into the street and start the tedious weave in and out of traffic. There�s plenty to keep my guards busy, monitoring security bands and confirming my ETA with the pilot standing by. The chatter in my ear and the data scrolling across my laptop are a familiar hum. We head east toward the bridge, towards the airport, toward the life I�m still living. We head away from the museum.

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Replies:

Re: or you can just read it here -- signme1, 09:01:47 06/06/08 Fri
- Re: or you can just read it here -- del, 14:00:38 06/06/08 Fri