by Arvin Ahmadi
“Ahem,” he said. “Bonjour.”
“Ah, one second,” Fiora immediately replied with the faintest French accent. Then she nudged me. “Mon cher, I believe I dropped an earring on the driveway.”
Fiora gently squeezed my nonexistent bicep and guided me—leisurely, then hastily—around the corner of the house.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“He’s here.”
“Renault Cohen? Good, I would hope so.”
“No,” Fiora hissed. “Benji. He just posted a picture on Instagram. He’s inside.”
“Shit. Okay. What’s the backup plan?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I don’t know.”
“I thought you had a backup plan?”
“Of course not! It’s me!” Fiora sounded agitated.
“Then what are we going to do?”
I was waiting for Fiora to reveal the joke—that there was a hard-but-not-impossible-to-access doggy door in the backyard, and we were going to crawl through it. That moment never came. She actually, truly looked defeated.
No plan. Nothing to lose. I closed my eyes and channeled my inner Fiora.
Bingo.
“I think I have a plan,” I said. “No promises.”
We walked back to the front door. Fiora cracked her knuckles as I marched with an involuntary air of self-importance. Inside, my heart was pounding, but I tightened my chest and willed my nerves to stay calm.
“Bonjour,” the doorman said again. He was a tall, suited Middle Eastern man, in his forties or early fifties, with dark features and bushy brows.
“Bonjour,” I said, nodding once. I took Fiora’s hand, and we swung forward like pendulums, waltzing through the front door.
“Excuse me, sir.”
My pulse froze as I turned my head very slowly.
“Yes?”
“Did mademoiselle find her earring?”
“Ah, yes. She found exactly what she was looking for.”
I gulped dry air, gripped Fiora’s hand, and walked inside. Once we were a few steps past the foyer, I turned to her and whispered: “Holyshitthatworked.”
“Holy shit is right,” she said.
We stood motionless before an extravagant chamber. A crystal chandelier hung from the sky-high ceiling, balancing what seemed like thousands of glowing candles. The room was painted a perfect shade of red that would have rivaled Rudolph’s nose, and its edges were lined with intricate crown molding. I gasped, but the sound was swallowed by the hum of high-society chatter. The partygoers were predominantly old, important-looking. White. Waiters floated around the room offering hors d’oeuvres. Fiora picked a crab cake off one of their trays. I went for the mini hot dogs. Our snacks felt out of place at such a lavish event. Like us.
“How did you know he wouldn’t check our names?” Fiora asked.
“I didn’t,” I said. “Blind faith.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah.” I reached for another mini hot dog. “There’s no opportunity cost when you’re taking a risk like that. We had nothing to lose.”
“Sounds like confidence to me.”
I smiled. “Not to mention we look dapper as hell.”
Fiora raised her eyebrows and laughed. It was a careful laugh, like she was reacting to a joke about François Hollande or the politics of French cheese.
“Okay, okay. Let’s not get cocky,” she said.
We stood around idly, scanning the room for signs of Renault Cohen. I was growing uneasy. Not so deep down, I had this feeling that Fiora and I were going to get caught. We were obviously the youngest people in the room. Our hair was the most unkempt, our postures the slouchiest, and my tuxedo by far the worst-fitting. If we intended to track down this senator before our shaky cover was blown, Fiora and I had to strategize. Stat.
I noticed a familiar face across the room. It was a woman’s, and when her eyes caught sight of me, her expression changed. She dipped out from her group and hovered toward us, smiling as she turned her full attention to my partner.
“This must be Fiora,” she said.
Fiora looked at me suspiciously. She must have thought we were getting busted.
“Professor Mallard,” I explained. I wanted to hug her, but I went for a more appropriate hand-hug. Firm grip. “What are you doing here?”
“MacArthur Grant perk,” Professor Mallard said. “The award is effectively an all-access pass to DC’s most elite soirees. Every intellectual in town invites me out now. I figure I’ll play along for a year, enjoy the free crab cake, and fade out of the scene before I resort to stabbing my ears out from all the small talk.”
Fiora giggled like a five-year-old girl; I had a feeling they would get along. Professor Mallard shifted to professional mode—not in an intimidating way, but out of genuine concern. “The better question is, what are you doing here? I thought you had left town.”
Fiora began: “We have this friend, Trent—”
“And we’re trying to get him his dream job,” I said, skipping straight to the point.
“With Renault Cohen,” Fiora said. “The senator.”
Professor Mallard raised an eyebrow.
“Because Trent’s a good guy,” I added.
Professor Mallard’s raised eyebrow rolled right into a smirk.
“A good guy in politics?” She pitted the words against each other like church and sin. “Well, if he insists . . . How can I help?”
Fiora and I looked at each other, smiling. I leaned closer to Professor Mallard.
“Who do we need to meet to find Senator Cohen?”
Professor Mallard gave us the lowdown on every dignitary, ambassador, CEO, and deputy secretary of Fine Wine and Cheese in attendance. She pointed out each target to us in the sea of tuxedos and cocktail dresses. Senator Cohen wasn’t in the room, but someone who knew him certainly was. Networking 101.
Even before this crash course, I was experiencing massive sensory overload. Too many people, heirlooms, French paintings, silk tablecloths, velvet sofas, and those itty-bitty gold cups holding the candles in the chandelier. It was the kind of party Cinderella would have crashed, except there was no pumpkin carriage awaiting our escape.
We split up for maximum networking. I started with the chief of staff to the deputy ambassador of Monaco. I remembered his description because I found it funny that such a small country needed a deputy ambassador with his own chief of staff. Plus, he had a big nose—which just seemed kind of un-French.
“Mr. Coruzzi,” I said. I caught him as he was bidding adieu to a pretty African American woman, or perhaps African French.
“Allo!” he said, joyfully tipsy. “How eez it go-weeng?”
“Wonderful,” I said nervously. “Um, how are you?”
“Ah, my son. It eez only zee beginning. I must sustain myself,” he said, swaying from side to side and sustaining his boozy smile.
“I know what you mean. Mr. Coruzzi, I was actually looking for . . .”
“Oh, Charles!”
Bad things have a tendency to pile up like raindrops in a puddle. And when it rained in DC, it poured.
“Bah, Benjameen! Comment allez-vous?” Mr. Coruzzi snapped out of his giddy inebriation into something more serious. Or maybe he was asking, “Are you as sloshed as I am?” in French.
“Eh, c’était une semaine difficile,” Benji said. “I’m single again, Charles.”
Mr. Coruzzi gasped. “Comme c’est tragique,” he said. His reaction was overly dramatic, like a soap opera character. I almost chuckled. Benji turned his attention to me.
“Benjamin. Pleasure to meet you.” He sized me up and added: “Sharp tux.”
“Scott,” I said, shaking his hand with terror. If Fiora had mentioned my name to her ex before, surely it would have been as Saaket.
Coruzzi was obviously clueless, becaus
e he kept going with the breakup: “Zees eez zee” (this is the . . . moment when his accent peaked) “girlfriend who made zee crossword, no?”
“Indeed,” Benji groaned. “The cruciverbalist. Not quite as productive as our trades—academia, government—but those fields aren’t for everyone. Am I not right, my friend?”
“What does she actually do, though?” I interrupted.
“She’s a student,” Benji said. “If she hasn’t dropped out yet . . .”
“So she still has time to figure things out,” I said. “You know, there’s so much research linking puzzles with other aspects of cognition. Memory search, facial recognition, intuitiveness . . .”
“Anything connecting crosswords and crazy? Because that’s Fiora,” Benji said. He looked noticeably irritated—like he was swatting a bumblebee that wouldn’t leave him alone. Professor Mallard passed by us and winked. Coruzzi took note.
“It appears you know See-see-lee Mallard,” he nudged. “Brilliant lady, no?”
“She’s an absolute genius!” Benji said, sounding snootier than a Mozart symphony. “Literally. They just awarded her a MacArthur. How are you connected, Scott?”
“Research,” I blurted out. “I do research for her at Georgetown.”
Benji eyed me hawkishly. “A fellow academic, eh? Well done.” He paused. “Actually, you did look somewhat familiar . . .”
Coruzzi smiled. “Zee world eez small!”
“Very. Very small,” I said. I needed to get away. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I have to go find the professor now. Nicetomeetyouboth!”
I weaved through clumps of socialites—schmoozing and boozing—to find Fiora and Professor Mallard standing together, engaged in a heated debate.
“These people are the dickheads my GW classmates are being pruned into,” Fiora said, her voice growing increasingly tense.
“That’s an unfortunately narrow-minded perspective,” Professor Mallard said. “The men and women in this room are the movers and shakers—”
I interrupted. “Hey, guys. I just ran into Benji talking to Charles Coruzzi.”
Fiora gagged like she’d swallowed escargot.
“You know Benjamin Decot?” Professor Mallard asked.
“You know Benji?”
Professor Mallard nodded. “The academic world is regrettably small and connected in this town . . .”
“So is the dating pool,” Fiora added.
“Ahem,” I said. “How are we doing on Renault Cohen?”
I was itching to finish up and leave. I didn’t think Professor Mallard or Fiora felt the same urgency I did. One of them had been legitimately invited to the soiree and the other thrived off these sorts of situations.
Professor Mallard and Fiora exchanged thin, eager smiles.
“Well . . .” Fiora said. “We may have a location.”
“The Danish ambassador tipped us off,” Professor Mallard said.
Fiora looked left and right. “Balcony,” she whispered proudly.
I leaned in and nodded, trying to contain my excitement. We were so close. Not quite finished, but close.
“You guys,” I said softly. “It sounds like we’re plotting a murder.”
The three of us burst out laughing. Suddenly I noticed Benji, sitting by himself on the opposite side of the room, watching our little powwow: the ex-girlfriend, the genius professor, and the suspiciously familiar face. We must have all noticed him, because without realizing it, our group turned stone-cold sober—like actual murderers.
“Let’s move fast,” I said.
The French ambassador’s balcony curved like a parabola. It was a shallow curve, with Renault Cohen standing at the vertex. He was alone, facing the zoo-size backyard. His hands were clasped firmly on the rail, and his eyes gazed out at nothing in particular.
“Now what do we do?” I asked.
Professor Mallard turned to Fiora and me. “Follow my lead, kids.”
We took small footsteps behind Professor Mallard as she marched confidently up to Renault Cohen.
“Senator!” Professor Mallard exclaimed, her voice sounding less like hers and more like Benji’s. “A pleasure to meet you. Cecily Mallard, Georgetown.”
Renault Cohen looked flustered, but he perked up and feigned interest. “Ah, yes. Professor Mallard. I’ve heard great things.”
“Likewise,” Professor Mallard said. She took a small step back. “I’d like to introduce you to two of my students.”
“Pleasure,” Renault Cohen said weakly.
Fiora perked up. “It’s an honor to meet you, Senator. I am so inspired by your policies. The way you juxtapose laissez-faire values with fundamental human rights . . . I speak for many people my age when I say I consider you a role model.” I pressed my lips shut to resist smiling. When Fiora picked up a persona, she couldn’t be stopped. “Do you have any advice for my future career?”
A freaking force to be reckoned with.
“Go make money,” Renault Cohen muttered.
We stood there in awe. Senator Renault Cohen, a man whose job was to bullshit the general public about the country’s “optimistic prospects” and “tradition of integrity,” to inspire us towards public service . . . told Fiora to make some goddamn dough.
Before anyone could save the conversation, Fiora nudged me.
“Shit,” I whispered under my breath. Benji and the doorman were standing by the balcony entrance, eyeing us like hawks.
“Excuse me,” I said, shaking hands quickly with the two adults, “I just remembered Fiora and I have somewhere to be. I’ll see you in class, Professor!”
We shuffled over to the far corner of the balcony.
“That jealous, whistle-blowing son of a bitch . . .” Fiora began.
“Where do we go?” I said, glancing over the ledge. I imagined our adventure reaching a new high—er, low. “Do we jump?”
“Hell no!” Fiora said, shooting down my crazy with a sour look. “We leave through the balcony entrance. There are at least six doors.”
Fiora offered me her hand. I took it, clenched it, nerves shooting through our arms and bunching up in our sweaty palms. We moved slowly toward the farthest door from Benji. He and the doorman started creeping in our direction.
“Run,” Fiora whispered.
We bolted through the door—narrowly missing Benji and his henchman. Fiora took the lead, pulling me past partygoers and keeping me from ricocheting off the walls as we raced down the never-ending hallway. I didn’t catch a single expression, but the other guests had to be at least a little pissed off at the two kids causing a ruckus and the men chasing—hold on, were they still chasing us? Didn’t matter; we kept running anyway. The amount of collision and crashing—whack! thud!—all that cacophony led me to believe that the string quartet must have been replaced by a percussion ensemble. Or maybe it was really us making all that noise, because then we stumbled down the spiral stairs, and I slipped on the marble floor in the foyer like a doofus and his banana peel. “Saaket!” Fiora yelled my name with so much life that I froze and smiled at her for a split second—I really froze!—before getting up.
We ran for two blocks until the mansion was out of sight. Fiora looked back, panting, and she nodded at me. We made a full stop at the corner of Kalorama and Connecticut.
I hunched over my knees; Fiora leaned on my back. I could practically hear her heart beating out of her chest, a million beats per second. I wondered if she could feel the sweat on my back, even with two layers of tux in between.
I pushed back to signal that I was ready to get up. Fiora and I stood face-to-face, breathless, until somehow our huffing and puffing turned into pure, insane, unruly laughter. It had gotten dark outside, and Fiora’s dress was kind of messed up, but her smile lit up the entire street corner.
We walked down Connecticut to Fiora’s apartment, where I ha
d left my bag. I changed out of the tuxedo and put on a ratty T-shirt and corduroys. Fiora took a shower. When she stepped out in her towel, I was flooded with hormones. Make a move, I told myself. Make a move, make a move, make a move. But then I remembered our fight in the rain. How we had come so far with tonight’s adventure. I didn’t want to ruin that.
I spent the night on Fiora’s couch and dozed off thinking about the universe. How it’s indefinitely incomplete—like us. How the best ideas, events, people, and lives don’t need to wrap up nicely to mean something.
I WOKE UP the next morning feeling equal parts displaced and refreshed. Fiora wasn’t up yet, so I left her a note. I’ll be at Kramerbooks if you want to say goodbye. I grabbed my things and took off. It was time to go home.
I found a pay phone just off Dupont Circle. I dropped three quarters into the coin slot and dialed a familiar number.
“Hello?” he answered. I could hear him smacking his lips through the phone, probably from an extra snack he had pocketed from the airplane.
“Hey, Dad.”
Silence. The static from the phone grew louder, like it would electrify my ear. You only ever notice phone static when you’re desperately waiting for a reply. When both sides are holding their breath.
“Are you angry?” I asked. My voice cracked. The pay phone smelled deceptively sterile, like it had been cleaned by . . .
“I’m not angry,” he said. “Are you all right?”
I closed my eyes. I didn’t shut them. Voluntary, passive closure.
“Can you pick me up?” I asked.
This silence was more bearable. It sounded like a nod.
“Of course. Where are you?”
I twisted the phone cord around my pointer finger—three loops. It felt cold and scaly, constricting against my skin, so I unraveled it all at once.
“DC,” I said. “Dupont Circle.”
“I’ll be there in a few hours,” he said hurriedly. “Where will you be?”
“There’s a bookstore called Kramerbooks, on Connecticut and—”
“Wait for me there.”
“Okay,” I said.
