Cold Snap

by J. Clayton Rogers

  Ari's abruptly constricted world had its modest diversity. Outside his front door was the James River, sometimes rumbling, sometimes murmuring, but after so many months practically unheard and unnoticed by Ari except when he sat in the gazebo and opened his senses to its charms. Further up Beach Court Lane were Howie Nottoway (the archetypical anal neighbor) and, one house further, Rebecca Wareness and her daughter, Diane. Residing with Diane was Sphinx, the only pet Ari had ever possessed. The cat had been previously owned by the Riggins family, which had more or less self-destructed in the very house Ari now occupied. Sphinx had a poor sense of allegiance, splitting his indoor hours between Ari and Diane. But recent events had demanded that Ari chase both girl and cat away. An attempt to mollify Diane had resulted in a mortifying rebuff.

  Yet while he was now without a comforting pet, he was not friendless. He was preparing to visit the Mackenzies, who also enjoyed a riverfront view. Ari's first meeting with Matt and Tracy Mackenzie had begun xenophobically and ended with Mrs. Mackenzie giving him a Nelson Mandela-esque seal of approval. This suited Ari, who found her something of an architectural marvel worthy of sustained scrutiny. Disregarding Howie Nottoway's protests about loud parties (which were only valid when the weather permitted parties to spill outside), Ari had accepted every invitation from the Mackenzies—at least, until his recent indisposition. This Sunday's invite was slightly out of the ordinary. Instead of an evening soirée, the Mackenzies had scheduled a noon brunch. Rather than the usual frequently-refilled shot glasses, Ari would be served mimosas. Having nothing on his itinerary beyond reviewing the usual assortment of images of Iraqi corpses strewn haphazardly across his homeland (delivered to him by Karen, who acted as a courier for CENTCOM), Ari had gladly accepted the invitation.

  It was not the first time in history that Iraq had become a charnel house. The Hay al Jihad, Qahtaniya and Blackwater massacres combined could not hold a candle to the Mongol sack of Baghdad, which had ended the Golden Age of Islam. But modern weapons added a sordid randomness to the conflict. At least with the Mongolians you knew who was going to get it in the neck: everyone. Now potential victims and their collateral kin were at your elbow, crossing your path, in the mirror; they were people you nodded to on the sidewalks, the street vendors who handed you a steaming gauss; they were the boys whose heads you patted moments before their limbs were sheared off by a roadside bomb. It was terror democracy. Anyone could be a killer or victim.

  Ari should have thrived in such as atmosphere. Trained to kill, talented in a host of languages, he was the perfect infiltrator. But now, with the benevolent assistance of the Americans, he had infiltrated America. Having violated numerous laws and tacit agreements (including the murder of a corrupt policeman), it could not be said his presence was a great blessing. But his work of identifying terrorists and their targets had saved dozens, if not hundreds, of American lives, so that Ari felt he was due the balance—especially since his wife and remaining son were being kept as quasi-hostages in distant San Diego.

  He was looking forward to a sociable afternoon away from mayhem and misery. But even the lowest society took note of battered faces. Did you see So-and-So? He looks like he went through a giant garlic press. How did it happen? Did you ask? Do you think he's telling the truth?

  Once dressed, Ari studied his face again and decided he could get by with telling his hostess and her guests that he had had a bad night's sleep. Tracy Mackenzie had not seen him since the attack at the boat landing. She might accept the lie. Howie Nottoway and Rebecca Wareness had seen his facial cataclysm up close, but it was unlikely either of them would show up for the brunch, being embroiled as they were by personal turmoil or civic vendettas.

  A glance out the window told him a coat would be necessary even over the short distance to his neighbor's house. The Americans were keeping him on a tight budget, but certain shady dealings on the sly had proved highly lucrative. The weather had turned exceptionally cold, for Virginia or anywhere else, and Ari had invested in a Vittorio St. Angelo's full-length coat. It went well with his new suit. But this was to be a brunch. He understood such occasions to be casual. With some reluctance he put aside his pinstripe and donned a chenille winter sweater.

  One step out his front door told him the coat had been a good idea. A second step set him to wondering if it was enough. Being this close to the river had its disadvantages, not least of which was the wind blasting over the open water. There was a time when he could take such weather in stride. But thirty-seven years had somehow stripped him of an extra layer of protection. Or perhaps the insouciance of youth was bidding him a chilly farewell as he approached the diffident years of middle age. Or maybe it was just cock-ringing cold.

  He worked his way through the thin layer of trees that served as a natural privacy screen between the houses and hurried past nearly a dozen parked cars to the Mackenzie stoop. He knocked a little harder than he had intended to and brushed quickly past the stranger who opened the door.

  "A little brisk," the stranger chuckled.

  Ari responded with the traditional chatter of teeth.

  "Can I take your coat?"

  Doffing his coat and placing it in the man's extended arms, he smiled quizzically. "I had assumed this would be informal." His eyes widened when he heard the echoed shouts of children from the basement. The Mackenzies being childless, the voices could only be assigned to the children of guests. Ari had not expected this.

  "Yes, informal with kids," responded the man as he ascended the stairs with Ari's coat. "But I'm told this is kind of a business event. No one is wearing a tux, if that's what you're worried about."

  "But...who are you? I've been here several times, and there's never been..."

  "A majordomo?'' the man grinned, pausing. "I think Mr. and Mrs. Mackenzie want to make an impression. Also, I'm married to the cook. She needs me around to lend a hand, sometimes."

  "With the cooking?" Ari asked, alert to the wonderful aroma permeating the foyer.

  "I wouldn't dare presume," the man laughed pleasantly.

  "Do you mind if I visit the kitchen?"

  "Uh...I don't mind. And she wouldn't, either. As a general rule, the French are pretty sociable."

  "Elle est de France?"

  "Sorry, after all these years my French is still limited. But you asked if she's from France? Yes…that sounds right," the man nodded after a moment's thought. "I don't know if the doorman usually introduces himself, but this isn't Windsor Castle. My name's Bill Mumford." He came back down, switching the coat to his left arm to shake hands.

  "Ari Ciminon."

  "Ah, the man who works for the Cirque du Soleil! Mrs. Mackenzie was talking about you to her guests."

  An inward moan accompanied Ari's self-deprecating shrug of acknowledgement. Finding his anonymity tedious, he had offered up a host of false identities to his new neighbors. Bill took Ari's assumed career for granted. Really, there was no point in lying if one could not look sincere at the same time.

  "You're Italian, though, right?" Bill continued. ''That's what Mrs. Mackenzie said."

  "Syracuse," Ari responded, dolefully acquiescing to the single consistency of his cover story.

  "Being Italian can't be all that bad," Bill said. He had spotted the Italian label on the coat and hefted it in the air, as though saying such quality was reason enough to appreciate his homeland.

  "Don't forget Pantofola d'Oro," Ari added with a laugh. "Now, I must meet the chef."

  "Oui, bien sur, Monsieur."

  But before Ari could swerve towards the kitchen, Tracy Mackenzie surged into the foyer. A buxom 5'10" strawberry blonde married to a 6' moocher, she was one of those people who preceded themselves. By the time she approached you felt she had already arrived. She had the venturesome air of an explorer fresh from the Amazon, breathlessly impatient to relate her experiences in the jungle. That she was the last person in the world to actually enter strange, dark terrain, or to spend any extended period outside a well-managed enviro
nment, was beside the point. Encountering her and Matt Mackenzie as they were returning from the movies, Tracy had loudly complained about the inadequacy of the theater's heating system.

  "Don't they know it's winter?" she had said with the aggrieved air a diplomat might use when addressing an indifferent public: Don't you know there's a war on?

  On one of his first nights in Richmond, Ari had heard her arguing drunkenly with her husband and two drug dealers about her new dark-skinned neighbor. It had been a less-than-enchanting introduction to the Mackenzies, and Ari was certain he would dislike the woman when they finally met. Instead, he had been entranced. Having watched numerous old American movies when a child, Ari had picked up a fair mental scrapbook of Hollywood stars. He saw that, when not drunk or stoned, Tracy looked and carried herself like Lana Turner. The amorous Turner famously said her goal in life was to have one husband and seven children, but somehow the formula got switched. Ari did not know if Matt was Husband Number One, but the couple appeared to have an aversion to children. Which made the sound of young voices from the basement all the more cryptic—and unsettling.

  For Ari, children held no particular charm, an inclination reinforced during his American sojourn. Here, patting a child's head could land you in jail—apparently, even if it was your own. He had loved his own three boys, of course. But two had been killed in the American invasion. The third was with his mother in San Diego, where they had been transferred after spending half a year in Iceland. Ari had been provided the briefest of encounters with his beloved Rana and his surviving son in the midst of that transfer, at Richmond International Airport. Seeing his wife irreparably disfigured had broken his heart. It had also provided the cornerstone of his personal miracle. His sorrow had been softened into redemption, a vigorous sense that there was indeed a grand design. He had only to reach out to participate in it. But the grand design was a mystery. One had to step willingly into the dark.

  Welcome to the United States, the Dark Continent.

  Tracy flowed into his personal space like chia butter on warm skin. He slipped into her orbit and would have slipped into something else had not propriety, morality and the social landscape made the cost prohibitive. He forgot he wasn't sitting and tried to squirm in his seat.

  "Ari!" she announced, giving him a double peck on the cheeks that, under her soft lips, amounted to a French kiss. Her tight, black bandage dress proved that her back was as perfect as her face. This was the most bare skin Ari would be privy to until the coming of Summer, which on a day like this seemed distant indeed.

  Casting her eyes at the stairs, she gave Bill a qualified smile as he disappeared at the top with Ari's coat. She took Ari by the elbow and guided him down the hall. He had the impression she was retreating out of earshot.

  "I'm so sorry about this, Ari," she said aromatically.

  "I didn't expect children in abundance," he said, though with a smile that allayed any threat that he might storm out of the house.

  "Well, yes...that." Tracy gave a small shiver, as though confessing to allowing her home to become infested. "But I mean...well, you can't help but smell it."

  "The aliments?" he queried, amending this to "The cooking?" when Tracy frowned non-comprehendingly.

  "Matt's boss is nuts for French so-called cuisine. Rebecca told me about this French cook she'd heard about..."

  "Mrs. Wareness? Diane's mother? I didn't realize you knew her."

  "You and Howie Nottoway aren't the only neighbors I know."

  Her voice soured at the mention of Howie, whom she knew chiefly through his complaints about the Mackenzies and their parties.

  "Matt and Ethan Wareness used to work together before the big kerfuffle."

  "Is that a bird?"

  "Ethan was fired for...well, some kind of 'impropriety' is the word they used, according to Rebecca. Anyway, she happened to know about this..." Tracy's eyes wobbled in the direction of the kitchen. "...woman. Don't worry, I've also ordered in some finger food, too, plus a good roast. All I have to do is zap it in the microwave."

  "Doesn't the cook need the microwave?"

  Tracy released an unbecoming snort that flared her nostrils beautifully. "She doesn't even know how to use one!" She gave Ari a pinch on the arm, as though proving to him he was awake and really hearing what he thought he was hearing. "Can you imagine? And she brought some of her own pots and pans. Like mine aren't good enough!"

  Tracy's pots and pans were no doubt adequate, Ari thought. And since her culinary expertise was limited to microwave recipes, those pots and pans were probably pristine. He was growing more interested in this Frenchwoman by the moment.

  "Is she only making enough for your husband's boss?" he inquired tentatively.

  "You didn't ask 'enough what?'," Tracy said cagily, stopping at the edge of the guest-filled living room. "We shelled out a couple hundred just for her ingredients and whatnot. What was all that on her receipts? Uh…oie, chanterelle ou girolle, poireau…. Isn't that the Agatha Christie detective?"

  Goose, mushrooms, leeks….

  "Anyway, a lot of other stuff like that, most of it an arm and a leg. Matt's boss will be stuffing it down his employees' throats. Poor Matt!"

  Ari was suddenly distracted by a familiar childish shout from the basement. Diane Wareness was here. Which meant her mother was hereabouts.

  Ari had few qualms about confronting smugglers and killers, but going toe-to-toe against an irate mother was more than he could stomach. On the other hand, to suddenly announce a bout of dyspepsia and a need to rush home might ruin Tracy's plans. It was obvious she intended to use Ari as a prop to impress Matt's boss with her husband's cosmopolitan openness. Ari knew this because a quick glance into the living room revealed two men with complexions only slightly lighter than Ari's own. Indian, most likely. Ari doubted the Mackenzies would confuse Arabs with Indians—or so he hoped—but it was all-too likely that they presumed there was an affinity between races of color. After all, as a general rule, didn't most Whites flock together? The U.S. had yet to attain the multi-cultural or racial heights of, say, Jamaica. Or of France, for that matter.

  Damned if he left and damned if he stayed. He had not yet seen Rebecca Wareness, but there weren't so many people here that he would be able to avoid her for long.

  "Tracy, would it dismay you completely if I delayed your introductions? I want to look into the kitchen."

  "Want to see how bad it's going to be?" Tracy sighed. "It's your funeral."

  "I have attended many of my funerals," said Ari. Tracy was accustomed to Ari's nonsensical remarks and pared her response to a flick of her eyebrow as Ari backed down the hallway. Following the aromas and the clatter of pans, he entered the kitchen. A plump woman with short graying hair was banging a large saucepan on the burner. The stove seemed to croak under her grave demands, unaccustomed to the athleticism of old-world cooking. Ari wondered if the woman's husband was mistaken, if interrupting such concentrated fury might not result in a heavy load of superheated copper upside his head. Madame Mumford had not noticed his entry. Ari took the opportunity to silently observe. From the smell alone, he had determined she was a master.

  She lifted the pan and slammed it on the burner coils. Then she shifted her attention to a bouillabaisse pot, giving the contents a brisk swish with a wooden spoon. She then cracked open the oven for a moment before returning to her chief adversary, giving the stove another whack with the large—huge, actually—brass-handled pan. Tracy peeked in from the other kitchen entrance, gaping at the abuse her appliance was being subjected to. And well she might. Ari was familiar with the shock effect of metal on metal, and thought the electric burner a poor warrior, indeed. This woman must be thinking of an antique woodburner in a backroad Provencal bistro, a hardened veteran of a hundred years of rôttiseur.

  And yet the moment Tracy's frightened face disappeared into the dining room, Ari sensed a strange cheeriness about the kitchen, as though it was accepting that its mundane existence was being tran
sformed into something worthwhile. A temporary break in culinary stasis—if only it survived.

  Madame Mumford grunted in frustration as her wire-frame glasses steamed up and she was forced to pause and wipe them clear with her apron. It was then that she saw Ari.

  "C'est miraculeux!" he exclaimed.

  While her smile was diminutive, her face exploded with light.

  "Votre accent est impeccable, Monsieur."

  Telling a foreigner that his accent was impeccable was the highest accolade a Frenchman could bestow. Ari nodded in gratitude. The woman did not dwell on the moment, but turned again to the sauce pan. With no regard to the bubbling turmoil, she dipped a finger into the brew and lifted it to her mouth.

  "Ah," said Ari.

  She glanced at him. "Monsieur...?"

  "May I...?" He brought forth a tentative finger.

  "You have washed?"

  "My hand has touched neither doorknob nor chat this late morning," he asserted—a little sorrowfully, having been abandoned by filthy Sphinx, who had a propensity to beshat the house wherever he pleased when his kitty litter box was soiled.

  "Well..."

  Feeling invited, Ari tilted his finger into the sauce, wincing a little before withdrawing it and raising it to his lips. He coated the tip of his tongue and mused longingly.

  "Did I warn you it was hot?" said the woman, without apprehension of an injured guest, but also without smugness, as though she was admonishing an intelligent but impractical child. She grew alarmed, though, when a tear bubbled at the edge of his eye. "Are you injured?"

  "I weep with joy, Madame. This takes me home."

  "You're French?" she exclaimed, giving him a close look. "Marseilles?" she added guilelessly. It was the assumption of an older generation, when Arabs were most prominent in the southern provinces. Now one was just as likely to run into them in the streets of Paris or Cambrai. Realizing her misstep, she turned back to the pan and said, "French is a culture, not a people."