Out Where the Sun Always Shines

by Danielle Williams

  “I think so.”

  The doctor hmmed, looking at the Frenchman. He understood. A member transferring in before a mission wasn’t much of an affair. If word got out, what would the rest of the League think.

  Cat looked at him, as though asking for help.

  “It…would be an hour out of the office,” said the Frenchman.

  Cat spoke again to the doctor. “I’ll make cookies.” She wriggled when she said this.

  The doctor sat up. “What kind?”

  * * *

  “‘Good old-fashioned chocolate chip,’” the Frenchman murmured to himself. He could remember the exact way she said it, the tone, the lilt, the proud lift in her chin.

  In the last town, he had picked up a sandwich for lunch. He took it out of his pack, unwrapped it, and bit into it.

  * * *

  The entire cell, including Cat and the Australian, met outside the office on the sidewalk. Winter was sneaking into the fall, making the afternoon cloudy and damp, but bright. So far, no rain.

  The Australian wore a cold-weather sheepskin coat and yellow aviator sunglasses. He was one of the Frenchman’s preferred collaborators, a big-game hunter who’d turned to hunting men when the League offered him better pay—and more time to go on safari.

  “Always be prepared, right, love?” The Australian said this to Cat on their way to the café. He walked on Cat’s other side, shortening his long-legged stride to match pace with her. Cat, of course, trotted next to the doctor. Scott and the Frenchman brought up the rear.

  There was a moment when the Frenchman met Scott’s eye—and realized there would be competition for the seat next to Cat. The boy narrowed his eyes in a stare that must have intimidated the lesser hoodlums back home. The Frenchman squared his shoulders and looked straight ahead.

  They made a strange group as they walked the city streets together. The doctor and the Frenchman looked intimidating in their dark overcoats, the Australian tall and dashing in his sheepskin. The boy looked…American, wearing short pants with his windbreaker. (He would be wearing those shorts until spring, if he was going to win the Russian’s money.) None of the men could match the splendor of little Cat in her black knit coat, the collar lined in soft fur.

  While they waited at the café to be seated, the Frenchman stared at her coat, wondering how she would take it if he removed his leather glove and touched the fur of her collar. But while he ruminated on this, the Australian did it. One moment, the Australian was announcing in his ear-bending accent that he’d just get “his usual”; the next, he had leaned down to her level and was taking the fur-lined collar between his fingers. Cat watched his hand without alarm or ire.

  “Let me guess. Not rabbit…not mink…But of course it’s real, you can tell just from lookin’…good ol’ fox?” He grinned when she nodded, and withdrew his hand.

  The Frenchman couldn’t remember being seated, or what he ordered. He found he couldn’t focus on anything anyone was saying. There was only the rushing of blood between his ears. His deep-breathing training kicked just in time for him to catch the last of the Australian’s anecdote.

  “…and so the cheetah mum got back to her little one just fine.”

  Cat cooed at this happy ending, but Scott jumped in.

  “You kidding me, hotshot? You saw—what, like, five cheetahs? In real life? No way. You can hardly see ‘em at the zoo, and they’re in cages there!”

  “Oddly enough, a man sees a lot of things in a blind.” The Australian winked at Cat. She chuckled at his little pun.

  The Frenchman felt the tension in his shoulders ratchet up another notch. But before he could calm down, he caught the examining look the Australian was giving him.

  The Australian looked away. The Frenchman took another deep breath and forced himself to relax.

  Water was put down on the table.

  * * *

  Water.

  He retrieved his canteen from the pack and took a small sip. It wouldn’t do to drink it all before he reached the city.

  * * *

  The Australian leaned back in his chair and took a long pull of water. He set it down with a sigh.

  “So, fellas, any adventures while I’ve been away?”

  The team exchanged a brief look. Then their eyes slid to Cat, then to the Australian. The hunter nodded, just. With the League’s enemies about, the less she knew, the better.

  The Australian covered up the pause. “For cryin’ out loud! No stories from any of you blokes? Miserable. Pathetic. I’m sure the little one here could put you all to shame, couldn’t she?&rdquo.

  The Australian looked over his yellow glasses at her. “What about it, love? What have you seen since you’ve been here?”

  “Well,” she said. She leaned back, staring up into the sky. The Frenchman looked up—right, they were seated outdoors, he hadn’t noticed—and saw the gray clouds swimming overhead. Did the clouds do this often over the city? He had never noticed before.

  “I got a museum pass, so I’ve been using it on my time off,” she said. “I liked all the animals at the Naturhistorisches. . .”

  “Some fine taxidermy there,” said the Australian. She nodded.

  “And the Venus of Willendorf was neat, but I didn’t know she was so small! She’s only doll-sized. Not huge like I thought.

  “But the best thing I’ve seen so far was this painting of Mercury in the underworld.”

  “The underworld? Cat, that’s creepy!” said the boy. The Frenchman shot him a look.

  “It’s mythology, Scott,” said the doctor. “Go on, my dear.”

  “I really can’t describe it right…it just glows.”

  The Frenchman watched the way her eyes went soft, imagining the painting again. “It’s a whole wall, Scott, and the souls of the dead are barely there, it’s so dark, but around Mercury, he’s all light.” She shook her head. The Frenchman craved that little smile.

  “I might have to hunt that one down,” said the Australian.

  * * *

  He had seen the painting—afterward. The Souls of Acheron. It hung in the museum with the sphinxes in the courtyard. And now here he was, he thought as the train clattered its way forward. On his own river Acheron. Could she see him now? Would she see him “all light”?

  * * *

  After work, when the Frenchman was halfway to his flat, the Australian revealed himself.

  “I thought I was being followed,” said the Frenchman. The chill air made his cigarette smoke white.

  “Bullocks,” said the Australian. “You haven’t been lookin’ at anything straight. ‘Cept her.”

  The Frenchman sunk in his coat. “Is it that obvious?&rdquo.

  “It’s hella odd, coming from you.”

  The Frenchman replayed the afternoon in his head…The doctor ordering for her, the way she batted her eyelashes at him back at the office when praised for the cookies. The Frenchman scowled.

  The men fell into step together.

  “Sorry if I stepped on your toes there, mate. Didn’t know you had your sights on her. Cute little sheila, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, and she has eyes only for the doctor.”

  “Serious!”

  The Frenchman nodded and sunk further into his coat.

  “And you leave…And he’s stayin’! He told me.”

  “Is he?” The Frenchman’s gut twisted.

  “Does he have his sights set on her?&rdquo.

  “I don’t know. You certainly did!”

  The Australian waved it aside. “You gotta go for it, mate. I mean, if it’s something—”

  The Frenchman stopped. “She. She’s not an ‘it’, she’s not an—”

  “Easy there, easy! You know what I meant.”

  The Frenchman turned away.

  “Listen, if you think you’ve got a chance, I’ll try to get us back early.”

  The Frenchman groaned. “Merde. Do I have a chance?”

  “You might if you get on it. Foundation and all.” The A
ustralian adjusted his slouch hat. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out. Don Juan never died, did he?”

  “No,” said the Frenchman. “He went to hell.”

  “Well.” The Australian considered this. “Good thing you’re not him, then.”

  * * *

  The Frenchman watched out the window. The rhythm of the train drained the energy from him. Had he dozed off? He blinked hard. He couldn’t remember much, and the landscape was all the same: dusty, dry, with ragged scrub. Lifeless. So unlike her. Maybe he’d heard wrong. He took a sip of water.

  * * *

  He and the Australian had up until the exit date to plan the mission’s details, memorize their cover stories, and change their appearances. They met mornings at the office. The Australian only stayed for half-days, preferring to spend the afternoons at the firing range. The doctor now spent the mornings in Operating, to give them privacy.

  The Australian began every session with one question: “You asked her yet?”

  When the Frenchman failed to answer “yes” by the second week, the Australian added a groan of disgust after his partner’s reply.

  It wasn’t that the Frenchman was afraid to approach her. Rather, every approach he could think of sounded atrocious, like something the boy would say. Will you…Would you want to…You should come along…His inner Don Juan had been replaced with a teenaged boy.

  When Cat was around (and she was around daily, dropping off the mail and asking questions about the doctor), she proved a formidable distraction. When she turned to leave, the Frenchman couldn’t help but toss questions into the air—”Was it in Africa or Russia where you saw that leopard cub trying to sneak into your backpack?”—that made Cat do an about-face in the doorway, eager for the rest of the anecdote.

  The Australian soon abandoned any hopes of preparing the mission when Cat was in the room. Instead, he began maneuvering the conversation so that the Frenchman could join in. But the Frenchman couldn’t bring himself to make a move.

  The week of their departure, the Australian did not begin their morning with the question, as the Frenchman was coming to think of it. The Australian sat down, took off his hat to run his hand through his hair, and said, “Scott’s asked her out.”

  He gave the Frenchman some time to process this, which was wise, because these words made the bottom fall out of the Frenchman’s stomach.

  “Did—did she say yes?”

  The Australian snorted. “He’s probably on top the opera house right now, crowin’ about it. Little jackal. But if he can do it and get a yes…” The Australian ended by pointing a finger in the Frenchman’s face. When he was sure his meaning had gotten across, the Australian relaxed and pulled out a map. He leaned over it. “So by 18:00 on December twelfth, you’ll have the wife positioned over in this area of the building…”

  * * *

  More dust. More heat. More nothingness. What was he doing here? The wasteland went by, unchanging.

  * * *

  It was Wednesday evening. The next day was a holiday, and the day after that, the Frenchman would leave for Prague.

  It was closing time. The doctor had been called out to an emergency surgery and hadn’t come back. The Frenchman was staying late in order to review his papers. He had failed to devise the perfect way to approach the girl, and now the mission was two days away. He probably knew everything he needed to know, but he didn’t know it cold. Now he was scrambling to catch up, something he hadn’t done in years.

  He was drilling himself on his cover when he heard her on the stair. He looked up, then stood when she entered the room. Only his lamp was on. Her gaze searched the doctor’s side of the office.

  “Is Herr Doktor gone already?” She asked this in English.

  The Frenchman took her in. She was wearing the fox coat, but hadn’t buttoned it up yet, so he could see her red blouse beneath.

  “Yes, Cat. He left early tonight.”

  She frowned. “He usually says goodbye before he leaves.&rdquo.

  The Frenchman slipped his papers inside his attaché case and went to her. “He might have been called to a surgery. You shouldn’t worry over him.”

  “Oh—I’m not worried,” she said. She ran her fingers through her hair. “It’s just…there’s a little fair on the Donau tomorrow and I hoped he’d come with me. Do you know where I could reach him?” She tilted her head up at him in her Cat-ish manner.

  He looked into her dark eyes and decided to lie, decided, to hell with the doctor.

  “But of course,” he said. He watched as the beginning of an eager smile rose to the surface of her face.

  Now came the lie. “But tomorrow morning, he will be taking the train to Salzburg. He mentioned something about spending the day there.”

  “Oh,” she said. She looked past him, out at the dark night. The disappointment on her face filled the Frenchman with an alarm he couldn’t name.

  “I will take you to the fair, Cat.”

  She looked up. The severe expression had disappeared, but now her eyes were skimming over him like he was a new book she might like to read…or put back.

  He tried to invoke Don Juan again, but nothing came. He fumbled and rearranged words in his head, wishing he could make them say what he really meant. The Frenchman swallowed. “And I will take you anywhere else you want to go. The whole day.” Then, feeling bold, thinking of foundations, he stepped close. “Your collar, chérie.” He pretended to adjust the fur, enjoying the trusting way she exposed her neck to him. He ended by smoothing his hands over her shoulders. He kept them there.

  “A beautiful girl shouldn’t be alone on a holiday.” He smiled at her and waited to see what she would do.

  * * *

  In the window’s faint reflection, the Frenchman caught himself smiling at the memory. She had given him one of those wide, pleased smiles that made the corners of her eyes crinkle and had said yes. He remembered that he couldn’t remember walking home—only that he had reached his flat, almost shaking. The possibility of winning her over in that moment had felt real.

  * * *

  The next morning, the Frenchman stood in front of Cat’s door. The flowers he had bought that morning seemed romantic one minute, desperate the next. At least he’d had the sense not to bring red roses!

  He pulled his breath in for a long count, out for the same count, then knocked. He stood there a few moments, feeling his guts churn until she opened the door.

  Cat appeared. She blinked, then leaned forward, peering at him. Then her eyes went wide in realization.

  “You shaved!” She stepped forward, bobbing left and right to examine his jawline. “Can I?” She lifted her hand. He leaned down and closed his eyes, enjoying the tickling feeling as her fingers brushed his chin.

  He half-opened his eyes. “Do you—like it?&rdquo.

  “Um.” She pulled her hand away, suddenly bashful. When she looked down, she saw the flowers.

  “Are these…?”

  “For you, Cat.” He had decided on an autumn bouquet. He didn’t know if it said what he wanted it to say, but it was orange and yellow and cheerful-looking and it reminded him of her. When she reached out to stroke one of the petals, he let out a soundless sigh of relief.

  “They’re beautiful.” She took the bouquet from him and twirled it in her hands. “Thank you. I’d better get them in some water, huh?” She stepped back. “Come in.”

  She turned left, into a kitchen nook. On instinct, the Frenchman scanned the apartment. He couldn’t believe it. There was no place to hide…no place to execute a kill shot unseen…nothing to barricade the door with. There was only a faded green armchair and a table. Even the walls were bare.

  His shock turned into annoyance. He should have drawn this conclusion earlier, much earlier. To the League, she was a mere secretary—no, not even that, but a front, a façade. Why invest in window dressing.

  He wondered what she would have made of his spacious flat, furnished in wood and Moroccan artifacts and so
ft rugs.

  “Ha! I knew this would come in handy someday.”

  He watched her pull something like an oversized pickle jar out from under a cabinet. She filled it with water from the tap, then arranged her bouquet inside.

  He studied the back of her fox coat. He’d always assumed she wore it because it was her favorite. But now that he thought about it, she wore the same few things over and over again, didn’t she? Well—if he got his way, she would be the best-dressed girl in the city.

  She closed her eyes and inhaled the flowers. Then she turned to him.

  “This is the first time I’ve ever gotten flowers. Outside of piano recitals, I mean.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded. “I think so.” She shook herself. “Sorry—” she put a new smile on her face. “I didn’t really greet you, did I? Good morning.”

  “Good morning.” His Don Juan instincts urged him to kiss her cheek, as though she were another mark. He rejected the urge with a flash of anger. He wouldn’t fall back on old tricks. Somehow, he was going to tell her the truth about how he felt—even if only in small pieces.

  “You look lovely,” he said. The skirt and the coat were the same, but he’d never seen this jewel-toned blouse on her before. She must save it for special occasions, he thought. Then it hit him: Heconstituted a special occasion.

  “Are you ready to go?” he asked.

  Outside, Cat locked her flat behind them and put away her keys. The moment her hand left her purse, he swooped her hand up in his. She looked up at him, uncertain.

  “It’s the custom in my country,” he said. He tried to read her face, but her expression hadn’t changed. Maybe she had a better lie detector than he’d thought. “Unless you are uncomfortable?”

  Her brow creased.

  “No, I’m not uncomfortable,” she said. But she looked back at the door.

  “What is it?” Alarm made his voice sharp; he regretted it at once.

  “Should I get my gloves? I don’t want my hands to freeze.”

  Was that all?

  He dropped the hand he was holding and took the other one between his palms. He rubbed vigorously until it was warm. She beamed with delight the whole time, even laughing a little. When he stopped, she did not pull away.