Variant Exchange

by Fox J Wilde

  “Everyone’s a liar.” he had told her, plaintively, “Even if they don’t yet know it. You have to realize that people don’t say what they mean; they say what they want you to hear. When someone asks you how your day is going, what do you say?”

  “Fine. How are you?”

  “For someone who spent almost a month locked in a black cell, are you really fine?”

  “No. But it’s...”

  “...precisely what you are supposed to say.” Patrick interrupted her.

  “But that’s not lying! It’s just...” she argued.

  “...lying, Lena. It is not telling the truth. But who really tells the truth? No one actually wants to hear about your day. They merely want to establish rapport. They want to walk away feeling like they had a good interaction. So, when someone tells you something, consider that perhaps the words that they use aren’t the truth, but are instead devised to illicit emotions or impart subtext.

  “If someone simply says, ‘fine’, maybe they aren’t fine. But maybe they also don’t want to talk. That is worth knowing, because everyone is dying to talk to someone. We’re a social species, Lena. If someone is blowing you off with a typical social interaction, it’s either because they don’t want to talk—which is a lie, because everyone wants to talk to someone—or because they don’t want to talk to you.

  “Now, if someone does talk about their day, maybe they are desperately lonely. If someone talks about their new boat, they could be trying to impress you. But they might also be picturing themselves sailing away from all of this. The conversation is a lie. They don’t care about you; they don’t even care about the boat. All they care about is what the boat symbolizes: freedom. And if the boat symbolizes freedom, then what—and this is the only question to ask—is so terrible in their lives that they fantasize about escaping it?”

  Reflecting on that conversation, she looked back at the man talking to the woman about his stupid boat. Her torso had elongated even further, and now her hands were crossed, blocking him off, symbolizing how little she was enjoying his story. He had reached over to place a hand over hers, and she allowed it, but his stifled body language now told a clear story about both him and his stupid boat—he knew what she was after, and he was going to let her have it. As much as he might want to keep his job or stay in good standings with his country, he wanted more still to escape from his world for a night, and he was hoping she would be the means of travel. No doubt, some rough waters were ahead for him.

  A sudden hush came over the room then. Lena turned her attention back to Lord Piggy, who had spilled even more wine on his suit. One of the serving staff, a very pretty young man with fine hair and perfect posture, had leaned over to wipe some of the wine off of Lord Piggy’s tie. Lena studied this interaction closely. The male server had been awkwardly laughing at the drunken jokes that the idiot was telling, but it was a particular type of awkward. It wasn’t the ‘I don’t want to be here’ type; but an almost caring, ‘feeling-genuinely-sorry-for-this’-type of laugh.

  When the idiot had spilled his wine, the server had reacted immediately, without thought. A startled, “Oh, your tie!” had prefaced the immediate reaction to wipe it off for him, and the quick pats with a washcloth had briefly turned into long, protracted downward strokes. The server was showing such interest and care in Lord Piggy’s tie, that he had obviously forgotten his place.

  The server had made a mistake, of course. It was likely not allowed for a server to invade a guest’s space by touching him. He realized this and pulled away almost immediately, yet the damage was done. The idiot’s entourage had grown silent, awkwardly watching the interaction unfold. Even the great idiot seemed at a loss for words. Silence reigned for awkward moments in the room before the flustered server decided to excuse himself. He promptly sought to exit the room, walking quickly towards a doorway near Lena with an embarrassed haste.

  “Boy!” Lord Piggy yelled after him as the room began speaking in a hushed, yet fevered pitch, “Boy! Boy, now see here!”

  Yet as the embarrassed server walked past Lena—no doubt to receive a prompt firing from his boss—she was overtaken with a surprise that she dared not show. Although he hazarded a look her way, a sorrowful face choked with repression and dishonor, she caught a sly wink, “Oh my gosh,” Lena realized, as she looked at his primped and perfect face, with just the hint of eye-popping mascara and eyeliner, “Patrick?!?”

  Lena moved quickly. Makeup-lady had nodded at her just moments after the ‘tie’ incident, and she had precious few moments to get in position.

  After the belligerent young ‘server’ had taken it upon himself to invade the personal space of Lord Piggy, the scandal began to echo throughout the lobby and adjoined lounges. All eyes had turned to him. Yet after a round of drunken swearing and awkward attempts to gracefully arise from his chair, the eyes in the room averted back to their former conversations. She could overhear what they said under their breath, however. They made comments that tended to move between awkward laughter at his expense and derogatory comments about the impropriety of the server.

  “You would think the Metropol would know better than to hire his ilk!” the idiot shouted to his entourage, “Disgraceful! Immoral! This is what I get for taking my business to East Germany! Attempts at buggery, and assaults on my person! This land has gone to the dogs, it has! To the dogs!”

  Several serving staff stood in front of him, arms crossed in front in a display of immense contrition, as a manager stood beside him apologizing profusely.

  “I apologize for his behavior, Sir.” the manager said, “He will be swiftly fired. His behavior will not be tolerated.”

  “But it was tolerated! It was!”

  “Yes, Sir, it was. The Metropol made a grievous error that we hope we can somehow make up for. Your stay and all future stays will be...”

  “Future stays?! What future stays? Buggery! To think that I would take such a slight against my esteemed character...”

  “Yes, Sir. We understand. We would be most happy to book you a room at one of the other hotels in town, at our expense.”

  “One of the other hotels? Ramshackle shanties with cots and haircloth blankets, no doubt! This poor little country doesn’t...”

  He droned on and on and on, and as it was time for the next move, Lena was actually glad to be rid of him and this large room, despite its gilded opulence. Besides, what was coming next would be far more interesting than watching the mind games everyone was playing with each other. No doubt, it was the same for the ruling classes no matter what country they were in—mind games, double-talk, scantily-clad women strapped with hidden recorders, intrigue and…oh, whatever other horrors that bureaucratic tastes could be exploited. This she only suspected of course; but she promised herself that, should she ever have the chance to experience it again, she would find a way to be somewhere else.

  Up a few staircases, down a few hallways, down a staircase, over through another hallway, and up another staircase, she made sure to take a winding, convoluted path so as to confuse any tails. Not that she suspected any here—this was Stasi turf, and she was on their side tonight—she just knew that Makeup-lady might be following her, and any lack of effort might translate into other assumptions. For good measure, she doubled back a few times, and then became promptly lost. “Dammit!” she yelled at herself.

  After setting herself back on the right path (no small task in such a gigantic installation), she finally completed her evasive route just outside room #05: a Diplomatic Suite, and one of the very best in the GDR, “Good god”, she mumbled as she stared at the door, “Even the front door of this place is incredible.” And it truly was. It was black—just black—and yet, the quality of the black was visible even to a boorish philistine like her.

  Reaching into her purse, she fumbled around for a key. Finding it, she slipped it into the door and turned the lock—even doing this was a pleasant
experience, she realized—good German locks with every edge tight, smooth and silky to the twist. Heck, even the sound it made was lovely.

  Yet stepping inside, she was assailed with a sight she was hardly expecting. The entire place was only half-finished. On one side of the room, stacked carelessly, was some of the finest furniture she had ever seen in her life. The chairs were made of expensive wood with expensive lacquer, and contained finely-buttoned cushions that both begged to be sat in, and threatened at the cost of doing so. Immediately, Lena felt incredibly unimportant. These seats were meant to pamper the bottoms of important people…not riff-raff like her.

  Yet despite the lavish furnishings casually tossed about, the rest of the room was mostly bare. The kitchen-area looked to have had its countertops removed (or not yet placed), and little plastic cups kept company with sticks of deodorant, bottles of cheap vodka and half-eaten sandwiches. Half the carpet was ripped-up to expose the soiled concrete underneath. Various cheap folding desks were strewn about, or gathered haphazardly against a far wall. She noticed a rough metal folding chair with arms leaning against a wall painted black with glopped-on strokes. A few blocky pink computers and light-blue typewriters sat on a desk in the corner, along with a large, complicated machine with paper and wires coming out of it, “That’s a poly-something!” Lena exclaimed in her head, recognizing it from a movie she saw once.

  Despite the deconstructed appearance, the room was so huge that the four occupants only served to make the room seem even lonelier. Two of these occupants were unnervingly beautiful yet trashily-primped women. Their clothing seemed to be falling off of them to reveal underclothing that was far lacier and see-through than anything Lena had seen before. Yet these women sat smoking cigarettes and talking in apathetic tones about “Filing more damn reports” and the “KGB asshole that lost the pen.” At this, Lena checked her purse to make sure that she hadn’t made the same mistake.

  The third occupant, however, was none other than the disgraced server, Patrick, who was busying himself with his makeup while looking in a grubby mirror. His eyes were even more gilded now, and his skin had a touchable sheen to it that made him seem younger than she knew him to be. As a matter of fact, Patrick appeared to be…well, scandalously young for how primped up he was.

  “Finally, you’re here!” he shouted in her direction with a hurried, inconvenienced tone.

  “I got here as soon as...”

  Patrick interrupted her by walking briskly over, reaching into his pocket and dropping a small room key into her hand. He then fumed out the door of the suite with an exasperated slam.

  “There’s absolutely no time for idle chatting, Lena.” a woman’s voice said. As Lena turned to face the voice, she was rewarded with the perturbed face of Makeup-lady, “You know what you have to do?”

  “Yes, I do. I mean, I think so.”

  “Know so.” she replied simply, “Remember: you can skip any point, and we can conduct remedial training later. But if you are going to go for it, then do it right. We can’t afford mistakes tonight.”

  “I understand. When do I move?”

  “Just give it a few moments.”

  Just then, Lena heard a drunken commotion outside of the suite—a raucous laughter from just down the hall. Picking up on this, Makeup-lady began speaking to the trashy-looking women in the corner.

  “Alright, you two. Time to get to work.”

  The two women stood up with the most irritated looks they could possibly manage, swearing under their breath before walking out the front door. Before the door slammed, however, Lena noted their walk and postures changing from ‘everything-must-die’ into ‘first come, first serve’.

  “Give it about three minutes.” Makeup-lady said flatly.

  “What are they doing?”

  “Oh, you know…” Makeup-lady responded with a smirk, “Gathering intelligence.”

  After a few minutes, the soundscape outside of the room changed to a much different, err, hue, inside of a nearby broom closet. What had begun as muffled introductions became coy conversation, before finally turning to the throes of adults doing the things that adults did when they were supposed to be doing something else. Lena turned slightly green.

  “Just imagine how pleased he’ll be once he finds out.” Makeup-lady smirked.

  “Finds out what?” Lena scowled.

  “That we bugged the broom closet.”

  “Oh.”

  “The aide should be taken care of, Lena.” Makeup-lady said, grinning ear-to-ear, “No doubt, he is busy with other…duties. Are you ready?”

  “Yes.” she responded, hoping that she truly was.

  “Well, get to work, then. Room six, right next door. Be quick about it.”

  Immediately, Lena stepped out of the suite. As she turned down the hallway, she tried to ignore the wet, sloppy sounds coming from the nearby broom-closet of a man in the throes of passion, and women in the throes of pretending. Thanking the good Lord that she hadn’t been tasked with that duty, Lena awkwardly placed the key into the doorknob, and gently turned it in the lock.

  Once the key snapped the pins into their rightful place, Lena quietly opened the door. Upon entering, she exhaled with surprise at the sheer majesty of it all: the room was just incredible. The same gilded chairs as room five, but now properly placed around desks carved out of rare, fragrant woods. The kitchen area had fine marbled counter-tops, and instead of cheap plastic cups, fine crystal glassware kept company with flower arrangements that just smelled amazing.

  This room had windows too; wide portals that framed a big chunk of Berlin in gold and ebony. It even had these pointless frosted glass panels separating the guest ‘rooms’. These rooms contained large, fluffy beds with huge, tasseled, sapphire pillows dressed in gold. Yet where the black wall would have been in room five stood a grand piano; a Boesendorfer, which she recognized by the extra black keys near the far end. That piano cost half a million dollars—she knew this from memory—and it took every ounce of her strength to resist playing a few bars. Everything about this room was just magical.

  Taking a final indulgent look around, Lena searched for her prize. After some careful steps, so as not to disturb anything that ought not to be, she finally saw it on a nearby desk: the briefcase that the aid had just brought up. Snatching it quickly (and taking time to remember the codes to the locks), she walked briskly out of the suite, quietly closing the door behind her. Before re-entering room five, however, she took a brief second to listen to the broom closet where she heard gross slurping sounds, along with a few French words being struggled through by a man that really should have known better. Stifling her immense disapproval, she walked back into room five.

  “Well, we may make an asset out of you, yet.” Makeup-lady beamed.

  “I really...” Lena responded, before being quickly cut off.

  “Shut up, dear girl.” she responded, her tone immediately sharp, “Your mission is not nearly complete. Remember, time is of the essence! This is the most crucial part, by far!”

  “I’m ready.” Lena responded.

  “Well, then…you know where the spot is?”

  “I do.”

  Lena awaited a reply from Makeup-lady, who was simply staring awkwardly at her. ...and staring…and staring. She looked to be waiting some unknown reply from Lena, who stood awaiting further instructions. After a few moments, Lena felt profoundly uncomfortable with this, “Oh god, what did I do wrong?” she berated herself, “I did something wrong. I know it!”

  “Lena?” Makeup-lady said after several more uncomfortable moments.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I…uh…I’m...” oh, what a bother this all was.

  “Why are you still here, stupid girl?”

  “Because…uh...”

  “Why are you still here, stupid girl?”
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  Lena practically ran out of the room, then. A red flash of embarrassment spread across her face. She still didn’t dare bring herself to hate the woman, but she really, really wanted to.

  Lena awkwardly shuffled out of the Metropol and into the night. As soon as she felt the brisk chill of winter, she released a loud and exasperated sigh. Quickly, she reached into her purse and pulled out a cigarette. This, she lit and proceeded to puff on profusely. She hadn’t realized just how stifling the Metropol had been until now. It was beautiful inside, sure. Every inch of the five-star was palatial in essence, and the very epitome of human design. The alcohol was pure finery, as were the lounges that served them. The people were just unnervingly beautiful, as were the rooms and the furniture that filled them. And yet, all that Lena could think about was how much she missed the banged-up old churches.

  She missed her old band. She missed the bare chests and fist fights, the blood and the puke and the raw, filthy smell of it all. It was the grit—the pure honesty of imperfect people doing far more imperfect things. She missed ducking around wherever she went, and she even missed being on the other side of the Stasi. Maybe not the prisons…no, that she would never miss. But she missed the days when the Stasi were nothing but shades in the night and rumors to be pondered, rather than an ever-present reality.

  Now that she knew them, she understood them. That made her like them even less. Here, at this overly-elegant testament to self-worship and futility in motion, she had realized the other side of it all. The Stasi had gone from a myth, to her tormentors, to her trainers, and now to a veritable orgy of…well, remembering the broom closet, ‘orgy’ was probably the best word to describe it, truly.

  After filling her head with the noxious cloud of her sweet sedative, it was time to get to work. Thus, she began making her way around the building, being careful to hug the shadows. Not an easy thing to do in a black cocktail dress, ever-punctuated with the awkward ‘clomp, clomp, clomp’ of her heeled boots. All in all, Lena didn’t know much about shoes, so she didn’t know what constituted high-heels or otherwise-heeled, she just knew that these weren’t very good for clandestine warfare.