by Brian Dae
The large cloth bag made carrying the food easier and kept it slightly warmer as he walked back toward the train station. Going off on a brief detour proved worthwhile but his lethargic stores of energy confined him to doing at most a single thing per day or he would sleep in until noon. Without motivation or goals he had adapted to a holiday schedule year round. Yet when he did leave his room and walk around it always filled him with a false burst of energy. Something about watching others move with purpose made him clearheaded. However there were few people now and plenty of time to swipe his ticket through the till with his bag dropped to the floor, even enough space to occupy a full row on the escalator down to the trains. Any other week those behind him would bay with frustration. In a daze he arrived outside his apartment and heard holiday music played in the lobby. Some people hung out in the hallways and looked cheerful, having returned from eating out or perhaps just chatting with neighbors. A seasonal mirth possessed Cassidy as he whistled along out of tune despite feeling tired from holding his bags. Heading to the elevator, a neighbor living on the same floor remarked at the delightful smell coming from his bags and he shrugged when asked what it is he bought, advertising the newfound location and suggesting they visit for themselves. When they reached their floor Cassidy waved goodbye to her and walked over to his room, setting down his bags to retrieve the door key. A second shadow appeared ahead of him and he looked over his shoulder reflexively, ambushed by the sudden intrusion.
“Are you Cass?”
“Yeah, I am. I’m guessing you’re Paul’s friend?”
The young man furrowed his brow. He was stone-faced and well-built, a long-haired dirty blond with light brown eyes and no facial hair, two inches taller than Cassidy who was of average height. Cassidy figured it best not to ask how he found his room despite never telling Paul which one he stayed in. In fact, it was the first time he would have a visitor and he intended to keep it a one-time event.
“My name is Edward, sorry to intrude.”
“Let’s go inside before finishing up the introductions. I brought dinner with me.”
They wore their coats while eating, serving themselves from the boxes he laid out on the counter. Cassidy ate on the sofa while Edward remained in the kitchen, distracting themselves from small talk by watching television. Uninspired programming multiplied the drowsiness from their full stomachs. Barely able to stomach more food, Cassidy laid himself across the couch and patted his bloated stomach, hoping to push out the air somehow. He turned on his side, head resting on the armrest.
“Ever have this type of food before?” Cassidy asked.
“Never. It’s good,” Edward responded.
Cassidy licked his front teeth. Talking about uncomfortable topics made his mouth feel dry. Maybe they could remain strangers throughout the entire week and pretend they were nothing more than a host and his guest. Such thinking would make things easier to process. He proceeded on anyway.
“So, Paul says you’re in some kind of trouble?”
Edward sat in the kitchen chair facing the door, feet crossed as he answered Cassidy.
“Not me directly no, but I’m sure you’ve heard of it by now and I don’t plan on keeping it a secret. The shooter was my brother. I was not involved in the shooting and I don’t share his beliefs.”
“And what are those beliefs?” Cassidy asked.
“It’s a complicated thing. But I guess you could call it revenge?” Edward said.
“Well at least he had a reason for doing it. The newspaper said it was done out of random.”
“You don’t seem concerned,” Edward said.
“It was one of those elites living in the Financial District. Might as well be another country compared to us living in the Twelfth and it’s not like I spend time crying about every single person killed in this world. Wouldn’t be a practical use of my time.”
“That’s a very cynical way of looking at things. Is that because you were a soldier?” Edward asked.
“Got nothing to do with it. I’m just a simple man. You’re here in my home so I’ll look out for you, Karkovian or whatever. Doesn’t really make a difference to me.”
Edward laughed and produced a flask of liquor from his jacket, offering some to Cassidy who declined by explaining how he had been drinking throughout the entire afternoon. The smell of alcohol made him nauseous now. Besides, Cassidy thought the young man looked barely old enough to drink and suggested he moderate himself before he became a drunk. Edward played it down and took a sip, visibly unaffected by what appeared to be hard liquor. Alcohol fumes drifted over to Cassidy and he laid his arm over his face.
“Too many people make it a point to care about things even when it has nothing to do with them, for good or bad. Just like how not caring about things is both good and bad. It’s asking too much for people to be on the right side all of the time,” Edward said
Cassidy wondered where Paul might have run into this young man when his whole life seemed confined to the Swinton factory. After the war ended, Paul had begun working there as an assembler on the shop floor, working his way into an administrative role over the following twenty years. The last time he had a chance to visit Paul at work, all the seniors were close to retirement and the rest looked their age, give or take five years; an improbable place to meet the next generation. Young people sought more fulfilling work, things they could relate to culturally if not emotionally. None of the gruff men working the assembly line cared about the company beyond their nine-hour shifts and they settled there out of chance and a reluctance to move about when they already made honest livings. Dull physical labor spared the mind of deep engagement and other things could preoccupy them, such as weekend grilling or sports. Perhaps this mental stupor fomented seditious thoughts in Paul. As a fellow veteran of that war, Cassidy thought the effects weighed differently on Paul. It seemed odd how he never spoke about Karkovians and Cassidy reciprocated his silence with silence. In retrospect, the fate of the Karkovians and his own had been tied together ever since they retreated from the grasslands, making him think of an old question that had chased him ever since—the unanswered question which he blamed all his failings on. Edward would have been too young to understand what people thought at the time but even children could feel the mood, and that feeling lived on while people died in the street. A malaise no one bothered to find a cure for. Even considering the dozens of veterans who sought Paul’s counsel and credited him with changing their lives, this contribution failed to satisfy deeper impulses. Cassidy looked back on their history together with newly gained hindsight, reassessing forlorn stares and half-smiles for hidden meaning.
Edward asked if he could change channels. Cassidy agreed and watched the young man stride over and freeze in front of the television set.
“It’s an older model. The switch is under the bottom cover,” Cassidy said.
Figuring it out, Edward switched the channel to late night news and took a seat, his face far too strained for someone his age.
“It’s the best time of year Pat, everyone’s either at a party or at home with their families, and we’re still stuck at the station,” the television host said.
Edward exhaled and returned to sit down at the kitchen table.
“Were you expecting some bad news?”
“There’s always bad news, especially now,” Edward said.
Cassidy sat up and turned to look outside at the streets covered in snow. The lack of people made it appear peaceful and uninhabited. An abandoned city. It never snowed in the south and this time of year they could smell meat grilling in the air, raising no mysteries as to their neighbor’s whereabouts. When they moved here, Elena delighted at seeing white wisps rise between her fingers when she cupped them around her mouth; her first experience with winter up north. He thought cities just looked lonelier.
“Your accent is very faint but it’s there,” Cassidy said.
“I’m not from Karkov,” Edward replied.
“Are you one of th
e exiles then? The ones who fled to Hon Hei after the war.”
“During the war.”
“Yes, that’s right. Of course,” Cassidy said.
Cassidy rubbed his hands together, remembering how cold he felt. He wanted to ask Edward questions concerning an entire nation when he could not even speak for his own. And although he blamed everything wrong in his life because of decisions made higher up, did he really deserve to hear the answer now after running away so long? Knowing the answer required seeing the issue through their eyes and he realized then how little introspection he did over the years, reconciling his desperation to understand things and not making an effort at trying. Shame allowed him to start.
“Can I ask you a personal question?” Cassidy said.
“I won’t stop you from asking.”
“Where do you begin to disagree with your brother?”
“At the point before violence, does that reassure you?”
“Not in the slightest,” Cassidy said.
Edward shook his head. “These people, they aren’t rational. They will never change the way things are. When my brother and I came to this country, we did not subscribe to their thoughts and now he has murdered a man.”
They looked at each other in silence. Edward’s eyes burned.
“He is your brother Ed. I won’t criticize you for what your brother has done,” Cassidy said.
“It’s easy to understand what a group of people believe but you can never know what a person really thinks. That’s what hurts me,” Edward said.
“Then it’s not your fault Ed, but it’s fine to feel hurt.”
Cold air filled the silence that followed. Cassidy found Edward an old blanket and gave him his seat on the sofa to sleep. Laying back on his own bed he felt the room to be much smaller than he imagined it to be with another person just a few meters away. Too exhausted to think much of anything, he fell asleep.
CHAPTER THREE
Edward scratched an insatiable itch below his chin and shook his legs like a piston, patting his jacket pocket where he stored a now empty liquor flask. Constant movement made him sweat underneath his winter layers, causing him to unbutton the top two notches of his jacket. Watching the media coverage over the past two days revealed plenty. Major news networks dropped the murder and local news stations withheld facts that could identify him—understanding full well that unidentified shootings became statistics and not stories. Ambitious journalists would have found little difficulty expanding the scope if given free reign. Their relationship as brothers existed as public record and the university’s student directory opened numerous leads—they made no effort to conceal themselves. His brother associated himself with numerous college clubs and organizations, often introducing Edward to club members and causes alike. Walking anywhere within five kilometers of their campus resulted in many impromptu get-togethers as a result. Easy days hanging around dimly lit cafes sipping cappuccinos. Being so recognizable, he escaped to the Seventh District where immigrant groups paid little attention to events outside their neighborhood. Edward pinched the bridge of his nose and wished he had seriously planned things in advance. Sloppiness seemed inexcusable when it became obvious things were starting to change.
Only the agency made calls. Edward heard the phone ring before taking an afternoon shower—shirtless and about to remove his trousers. Upon answering, Lhenkov demanded he destroy any documents and leave immediately, speaking in their native Karkovian. He took his journals and stuffed them inside a metal suitcase tucked beneath his bed, entering a specific combination on the tumblers before pressing the lock. Faintly, the sound of a mechanical switch clicked and smoke started to drift out the keyhole. While the papers smoldered, Edward dressed himself with whatever he could grab, pocketed his wallet, and sprinted outside underneath his largest jacket. Ten steps out the door he regretted not taking his heirloom watch sitting on his desk and cursed internally. Closing the door behind him meant it would never be opened by him again. This was the meaning behind the call.
Winter afternoons shone softly, exposing his face as he jogged off campus. Maintaining an even-keeled expression gave the image of a clear mind as he rounded the back gardens, creating distance between himself and the dorm room. Few people walked outside this time of year. Cars floated lazily about empty streets from which students departed for home until next year. Although nominally settled within the metropolitan area their college town functioned at a slower pace; there were no side streets or twisting alleyways to get lost in, only wide streets surrounded by brick buildings laid a century ago. Outside one of many student-frequented bars, he flagged a taxi and told the driver he wanted to see the first landmark he recalled from the other side of The City. Keeping his hands on the wheel the driver looked back at Edward asking him if he understood the fare such a journey would generate. Edward withdrew a fistful of notes from his wallet and insisted, explaining how he had promised to meet a lover and how he was running late. They drove on. Inside the car he began thinking about how to disappear.
As they approached Volktair Tower’s blinking lights, Edward instructed the driver to drop him off next to the Prislet Department Store. Paying the fare cost him half his cash on-hand, a devastating amount, and it hurt to hand the money over. Stepping onto livelier streets he wondered who he could lean on for help. The same city he lived in the past five years was now devoid of friends, very much the same as when they he first arrived. Back then everything about The City amazed him with how different it appeared compared to Hon Hei’s pleasant seaside views and tropical air, but eventually he learned to speak with the same slang and diction like the natives. Confident in handling things he convinced the Organization to sponsor his brother as well and they both attended the same university. Now everything they accomplished vanished without much to show for it. Such thoughts proved detrimental to operatives. Having survived the first hour mattered more than college friendships. Finding somewhere to sleep overnight became the next most important goal.
Off the main thoroughfare he watched the homeless sleeping on tattered rags and imagined joining their lot and fading from society in plain sight, just another dirtied face in an uncaring city. It might have been possible but he struggled to put himself in that situation; it felt too familiar. Unable to properly disappear, Edward walked five blocks wrapped in his hood while a heavy pressure squeezed his head beset by strong emotions. Thoughts about whether someone could become a refugee twice or if they were eternally refugees until returning home crossed his mind. Everything looked dim then. Surrounded in holiday mirth he saw others walking alongside him exhibiting similarly defeated faces confronting their own individual discomforts and disillusionments. A perverse feeling of comradery lay in their shared misery. At any point people could be miserable.
Looking back at Volktair Tower he felt guilty for having remembered someone’s name. Agencies recruited collaborators from the local population, and on a lower level, facilitated activism among empathizers or societal outsiders who held nonconformist views but who might otherwise be patriotic. The latter group existed in flux, often driven by temporary issues and inherently unreliable as assets. For Edward the person he recalled settled somewhere between the two groups as if losing direction in transition. Or so he might explain from a position of limited experience. He lacked enough training to handle assets. Any correspondence for official business came from serving his connection within the agency, Ambassador Lhenkov, who sought retirement this year after serving a ten year post; a seasoned diplomat who ran ground-level operations during the early years and the occasional mission late in his tenure. Lhenkov would proofread every statement Edward spoke, write down responses to questions he was permitted to answer, and give directions on how to proceed. As a young agent he served to mouth the agency’s words without much input—restricted to its delivery. Even then some people grew to trust these mannequins or at least considered them genuine enough to confide in. This flimsy relationship drew Edward to walk in their direction
as if there were nowhere else to go.
Foreign faces drew no stares in the Seventh District where the immigrant population outnumbered the native born—a multi-cultural assembly pieced together through familial ties and finances. Like most immigrants they maintained pride in becoming citizens and made an effort to assimilate, learning the language at night school, from working their jobs, or from their children. Those still waiting on naturalization kept their documents neatly arranged and could recite the steps from memory. For that reason the streets were adorned with decorations and civic cheer, mixing in their own disparate traditions with varied success. Living here alone struck Edward as odd because the energy they gave off almost forced you to bond with others without thinking. The sense of community reminded him of Hon Hei and made him feel safer. Standing before Paul’s townhouse he held second thoughts. Dragging a potential asset into his own predicament broke with standards and guidelines. Contradicting his instincts, Edward knocked on the door and waited. A long few minutes passed. Paul answered him and asked if he were alright.
“I don’t know how much danger I’m in,” Edward said.
“Don’t keep the door open,” Paul replied.
Edward stood around the living room while Paul sat back in his chair. The sudden visit failed to dissuade the veteran from finishing his cup of tea and offering a cup to his guest. For a moment Edward thought he might be exaggerating things straddled between antique knickknacks and sharing tea; that the danger he believed in might be imaginary. For an emergency there existed few signs of it. Considering how empty the streets were it would be easy to spot him running off campus and disappearing into an unmarked van or jet-black government car. They could just as easily set up a cordon on all the streets leading out of the sleepy college town or force their way into buildings with quickly signed warrants. It made him paranoid. Maybe the security forces followed him to expose collaborators and the network he belonged to.
