by Jamie Knight
The room was beginning to grow light as I put the last stroke on the signature. A habit I’d gotten into without really meaning to. It would have been so nice. A series of paintings with no signature. No way of knowing, let alone proving who had created them. The only thing to go by being the work itself. That hack Warhol never thought of that, did he
Hefting the canvas from the easel I set it down on the window sill to dry. Things would move much better and faster with the help of the sun, which had made a near miraculous appearance already, betraying February’s usual modus operandi.
The iron clouds had parted for a blessed moment of illumination. It was still cooler than I liked, but much more tolerable. Either way, it was preferable to most other places in the country, where the potential for snow still lingered.
My project abandoned, I moved to the kitchen in search of a different kind of fulfillment.
The incision was clean. Running from tip to tip, opening the flaky pastry just so. That was the easy part. Far more taxing to hand and mind was the application of a pair of milk chocolate peanut butter cups, nestled within the two halves. Not exactly a ‘breakfast of champions’ but very enjoyable nonetheless. Usually the chocolate would have been already in the croissant when it was baked, but I like to do things my own way.
The lid held down with a strategically placed toothpick, I place the chocolate croissant sandwich into the microwave
As the microwave hummed and worked its magic, I set about other endeavors. A copper kettle was one of the primary tools in my arsenal. Time was it would have been coffee, but I’d been off it for the last few years. Even the smell of it had started putting me slightly on edge. I still liked a hot drink in the morning and switched over to tea.
As the kettle boiled and the croissant turned, I took a surreptitious pull from my
e-cigarette. The beep joined the chorus of noises in the small kitchen. I couldn’t help but wonder if the little device was an absurdity.
Rather than outright quitting my life-threatening habit, I’d surrendered to another form of technology, supposedly to take care of my health. Even in a situation of something that might well kill me. How trusting we were of untested devices. Just as long as our pleasures could continue.
Properly chemically roused, by both chocolate and caffeine, not to mention the little hit of nicotine, it was time to commence with the paid work of the day. Boucher Books was still a going concern, despite my absence. We were even taking on new staff. Something I’d never really considered, but there it was.
The movements of the office weren’t exactly the top of my mind that day. It was getting to be close to Valentine’s Day and I had to get cracking. The candidates were never known for sure. Though, if previous years were anything to go by, there were always rumors. And usually a Slack group or two.
Usually they got it pretty close. My type wasn’t exactly a secret and there were a few female workers who fit the bill. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to do it that year, with the lockdown and all, but it wasn’t like they were stopping cars.
Not yet anyway, and certainly not stretched limos with tinted windows. Too much risk of it being used by a politician or mafioso. Neither of them the type you’d want to get on the wrong side of. It would be a simple matter of sending a doctor to the winner to do a test. Then, if they were clean, having them brought straight to my place. Even the government couldn’t outright stop travel to private homes. Not as things stood
The list of candidates was clear in my head. I could see them clearly. As well as having a good idea of what they looked like out of their work clothes. At first glance, the women, all employees at the publishing house for at least three years, didn’t seem to have much in common. One a buxom redhead. Another a cute, skinny brunette. Others curvy blonds, and at least one petite pixie who wore bubblegum-pink ringlets. Quite different indeed.
At least on the obvious, physical level. I’d been looking for something more subtle. Clearly there if you were looking for it. Though, easily missed if you were not. A certain consistency of line, at least in the physical sense.
It didn’t matter exactly what size or shape it took. I was attracted to symmetry. More than that, though, I required anyone who might to be considered to have something else. Something much harder to define, let alone spot. A quality best described by the phrase ‘gentleness of spirit.’
Despite the difficulty, particularly of identification, I had my candidates. Six in all. All of them likely to serve well during the project. It was just a matter of shortening the list. First to three and then to two. One winner as well as a runner-up, in case the winner wanted to back out or doesn’t clear the test.
As though the fates had been listening, my phone let out its happy chime. Alerting me to the arrival of a new message in my email. A child of the Digital Age as much as younger folk, possibly more so considering I remembered when the internet first went public, I went right to my account.
“That was quick,” I mused, sort of recognizing the name.
I had only a vague memory of hiring a Vega Alejo. Though it did ring a bell in the deepest part of my subconscious. It was bound to, not being the sort of name one saw every day. My spelling was almost embarrassing and the structure underlying my sentences even more ESL than usual. I really couldn’t explain it.
My father was French, but one of the few who could speak English well. My mother was from Louisiana and completely bilingual, at least in their version of French. I’d grown up with both and couldn’t quite accord for the distinct French dominance in my speech and writing. It likely had something to do with me spending the first 25 years of my life in France. Environment having even more of an effect than family. I understood English well enough. It was the practice when things tended to fall apart.
I looked back over my letter and her response. She was certainly eager. At my count she had applied for fifteen different projects in the space of five minutes. Taking the shotgun approach, no doubt. Still, it was impressive, and I was pleased with her initiative. The reply I’d sent connected back to her application.
Out of sheer curiosity, I tapped it for a look. Despite her apparent youth, 25 if I had my math correct, Ms. Alejo had a very impressive resume. Not to mention references. No wonder Emmi had suggested I hire her.
The company was being run day-to-day by the assistants. Though all major decisions still came down to me. Under serious advisement, of course. There were times I thought I would have made quite a good politician. I would just need the right people around me to tell me what my opinion was.
The more I read, the more interested I became. There was something about her, even though it was only being communicated through text on a screen, the resonated with me. Peaks of experience as well as gaps. All speaking of a history that was at least interesting, if not tragic.
It was the picture that did it. The photograph that Vega had opted to send with her application.
We couldn’t request it anymore because of the law. Though applicants could do so if they chose. I preferred it when they did. Not for any prurient purpose. I just found it easier to connect with someone when I could see their eyes. Even if they were at a distance. Especially then.
It was a selfie. Done on a phone. An older model going by the slight blurring effect I doubted was intentional. She didn’t have much money. Few people did in those days of sickness and strife. Remote work was an option, but that only went so far. I was even more sure I’d done the right thing.
She needed to be working. Not just for the sake of the economy or her health, but her soul. The need in dark eyes, the desire, going beyond immediate subsistence. She looked like a caged animal. One that had never forgotten the jungle.
Chapter Three - Vega
The tyranny of the blank page was never an issue for me. Others had always filled them in long before I got there. My job as an editor, not a proofreader or a copy editor mind you, was to enter that forest of prose. Trimming and pruning
the thickets of text with my honed tools. Shaping the branches to the guidelines and preference of the publishing company. All while keeping the original form intact.
At least as intact as possible. It was not for me to editorialize, despite the name attached to the job. I was an aid to the story, meant to polish what was there, not add my own narratives. Through there seemed to be many who forgot this. Like the jumped-up little toads who re-wrote Bukowski posthumously. An act that surely would have led to him breaking their nose were he still above ground at the time.
My eyes were doing that thing again. Locked on the screen, unable to move by themselves. It was my head that was moving. Running along the lines, before bouncing back, for the beginning of the next. Like an electric typewriter. I’d been told it was creepy, but it had always worked for me.
Not least as a sign that I might have been at it too long and wasn’t balancing properly. Still, no one could blame me for being sucked in. The book I was working on, the one that Hugo had assigned me himself, was one of the most thrilling literary experiences of my life
Considering I’d worked in publishing nearly my entire adult life to that point, that was really saying something.
The prose was lean and visceral, putting me in mind of Hemingway. Yet, with a restrained poetic flourish. The semi-true tale of an umpteenth generation collector and guardian of arcane books. It was left mostly open whether those who come after him, as well as his inventory are rival dealers, occult posers, or something more sinister.
It was an impossible choice. The number of variables numbering in the millions. Rhys could almost hear the gears turning in his brain-porium. Given a choice he would have taken it all, it there ere limits even to what pocket dimensions could bear. On the upside, they were also easy enough to allow even a mortal like him to pull one up like a new finder window.
“Bigger on the inside,” he said with a smirk.
His choices made, Rhys secured the most dangerous of artifacts in the depths of his most secure case. The protection sigils carved into the front of the pure silver latches. The better to keep the magic in.
Like thunder across a prairie sky, my stomach rumbled, tugging me out of the story. ‘Better than food’ might work in hyperbole, but not so much in practice, and despite my reluctance to pause in my reading, I knew it was time to take a break.
I’d always heard the kitchen was the most social room in any house. It seemed to me like it should have been the bedroom, that was likely a different kind of ‘social.’ Still, when it came to togetherness, I couldn’t really argue. I’d mostly grown up in the kitchen. Learning how to cook at my grandmother’s knee.
“This will come in handy when you’re married,” she would say.
I would agree, not really understanding the implications. Very few of the women in my family worked. Those who did were regarded as a little bit weird. To be fair it was the mid-1990s and we lived in a rural part of rural Spain where television was considered a radical new technology. I was 22 before I saw an episode of Seinfeld
The skillet was heavy and familiar in my hand. The very same one I’d used to learn on, Grandma leaving me her entire cooking set in her will. I didn’t know if she meant it that way, but I could hardly fry an egg without thinking of her.
Things were getting serious with the book, and I knew something a bit more substantial than an egg would be required, however. Fortunately, fast fry was one of grandma’s specialties. Something she was more than happy to teach me. On the off chance my future husband wanted something quick. At least in the food department.
Plate loaded up with greasy goodness, I returned to my home office ready to multitask. Filling my mind and my belly at the same time. If I accidentally stabbed my self in the gums with the fork on occasion, so be it.
It was an angle to make Pythagoras dizzy. It didn’t seem right for a hill to be so steep, but it was still only the fifth strangest thing Rhys had seen that morning. His primary concern at that moment was for the Emperor, the old Bentley’s suspension not what it had once been. Despite being technically street-legal.
“Watch me soar,” Rhys whispered.
The Bentley wafted into a spot in the long term parking. His foot nowhere near the gas.
It was a pleasant scent, familiar. Like cookies cooling on a counter. Rhys hadn’t been expecting to detect magic on the ferry. The rules were clear that it was for mortals, paras arriving by portal. Not that he was one to freak out over the unexpected.
Following his nose, the smell, similar to cooking mushrooms, getting stronger with each step, he spotted the source.
She was beautiful. Dark and exotic, dressed modestly in a peasant dress and sandals. Her eyes closed as she seemed to draw. Most would wonder how that was possible. Rhys recognized her instantly as an Oracle. One of the subtler para subsets, connected to mind witches, it was usually very easy for them to pass as mortal. Particularly if they were raised has human. He had no intention of outing her.
The submarine sounds pulled me back to the real world. Very much against my will. My attitude to the interruption softened, however, when I saw the name on the alert.
“Hey, rebel girl.”
“Maya! I thought you were in Rome.”
“Oh, I was. Turned out to be a bore. I skipped to Amsterdam for a couple of weeks and decided I might as well come back.”
Maya Domingo was my best friend by default. We never officially decreed each other as such. Not even when we were younger, but we didn’t really have to.
We’d grown up together, her house next to mine in our old neighborhood in Catalonia. A key point of overlap, and the basis of our relationship, was a shared sense of wanderlust. One that entailed an interest interest in English.
We could certainly be hardheaded in some ways. Despite my lack of computer, let alone the internet, Maya’s parents never denied her anything. No matter how strange it might sound to them.
So, when their little princess said she wanted to learn English, they got her the best, non-digital system they could find. Internet connection not a problem for the Domingos. Many where the hours we would spend in her room, deciphering the strange looking symbols and sounds until they made sense to us. There were many advantages to being two of the few English speakers in town.
One of the greatest advantages to the alien tongues was that it served as a sort of code. Keeping our secrets from our parents as well as our classmates. More than once we embarrassed a teacher who intercepted a note we’d passed with the intention of reading it out to the class. Most of them stopped trying after a while.
“How’s the job search going, working girl?
“You could make me sound less like a prostitute,” I giggled.
“Right, sorry.
“It’s stopped actually. I’m still a bit dumbfounded, but I got a post at Boucher Books.
“Boucher, as in Hugo Boucher?
“The same. He even sent me the acceptance himself.
If there was one word to describe Maya Domingo, it would be unaffected. She never put up any sort of front, what you saw was what you got. I also had no memory of her getting flustered. Yet, in that moment, she gasped.
“It’s not that strange,” I said, her reaction confusing me.
“You know he’s been in hiding, right?”
“Like from the police?
“Oh, no, nothing like that.”
“Oh, thank goodness. Thought maybe he pulled a Polanski or something.
“Not that I know of. No one really knows for sure, what happened. He just disappeared one day, about five years ago. The rumor is he’s living at his vineyard upstate. Runs the publishing house over email.
Just when I though Hugo Boucher couldn’t get any more mysterious and fascinating, Maya goes and tells me that.
“Interesting,” I stammered hoarsely, trying to hide my surprise.
“Kinda sexy though, yes? Makes him even more mysterious.
I couldn’t
admit it right then. My trained shyness getting in the way of my natural curiosity. If I was honest, even only with myself, Maya was absolutely correct. It wasn’t much of a surprise to me that he disappeared.
He’d always been media shy, even at the best of times. I always thought it was to maintain his mystique. Maybe he just genuinely disliked the attention. He would hardly be the first. Plenty of creatives withdrew from public life.
As much as a contradiction as it might sound, building fame only to hide from it.
“Do you think you’ll get to meet him?”
“I doubt it,” I said, my hopes deflating a little, “I mean, I’m just a lowly newbie.”
“I dunno. You’re pretty sexy, hon. He might want to whisk you away.”
“That’s crazy talk,” I denied, a distinct heat raising in my cheeks as I laughed, “I work remote, he’ll never even see me.
“You sent in your picture with your application, didn’t you?
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean anything.”
“Just saying, don’t count anything out. I never do.
Wasn’t that the truth. Still, I couldn’t really criticize, Maya always seemed to land on her feet.
“I’ll take it under consideration.”
“See that you do.
A note alert came up out of nowhere. The little alert popping up in the lower corner of the phone screen.
“Duty calls?” Maya asked.
“So it would seem.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she said with a giggle before hanging up
Sound advice indeed. Switching gears to a more professional setting, I joined in the Slack group chat. Even though I didn’t actually remember joining it. It was all something of a giddy blur. Everything I did after receiving the acceptance was kind of lost to me, except by way of evidence after the fact.
The Slack group was all women. Not the oddest thing, but something I took notice of. Another similarity I’d picked up on was that they had all been there for at least two years. I was a bit surprised I was accepted into the group, being the new girl and all.
