Diary of One Who Disappeared

by Jason Erik Lundberg

  After sending off the messages, I remained wide awake, unable to fall back to sleep until we once again lifted off sometime around 10am. I slept for another seven hours, when I woke from one of the most vivid dreams I’ve ever had: I was spending the day with my “wife” (a woman who was not Ailene) and our five-year-old daughter. The wife was tall, taller than me, long-limbed and elegant, hair cropped short to the scalp; I remember her as very beautiful, although I can’t recall a single one of her features. Both of us held our daughter’s hands as we strolled through a vague New England-looking town, browsed some shops and ate lunch outdoors. I felt incredibly content.

  It was so real that after I awoke, it took several moments for the actual world to rush back around me. Such love, from a woman and a little girl I could never know. I’d felt something similar with Ailene only at the very beginning of our relationship, when I was still courting her; we had our own regular haunts: hole-in-the-wall restaurants and bars with live music and art galleries, none of which we’ve visited in years. It makes me wonder about the roads not taken, the lives not lived.

  It’s nearly dinnertime already, and my stomach is growling. Time to visit the officers’ mess.

  Supplemental

  I can’t fucking believe

  The God damned whore

  Want to kill

  Fuck fuck fuck fuck fu

  It’s taken me nearly an hour to find these words.

  Ailene was in the mess when I walked in, half-undressed and grappling with Captain Bergeron on top of one of the tables. I thought my eyes were playing tricks, but then I must have made some sound because she looked up with the guiltiest expression I’ve ever seen. Is this why she didn’t bother visiting me even once during my illness—because she was too busy fucking the captain in between his visits to my sickbed?

  God damn her to eternal torment!

  Supplemental

  A thought, which I have to get down before I lose my nerve. The DESD doesn’t look kindly on adulterers. One report from me to O’Brien, and her career would be over; she’d be blacklisted from any other government agency for the rest of her life.

  Could I ruin her? Do I have it in me?

  Thursday, October 11

  It’s now 4.17am local time, and we are somewhere over the South China Sea. My mind is racing. Despite missing lunch and dinner yesterday, I still have no appetite. I feel like I want to jump out of my skin.

  Ailene came to my cabin late last night, around five hours ago, no sign of the ’flu about her. My first instinct was to slam the door in her face, but she pleaded with me to hear her out, that I didn’t owe her anything, but she needed to explain. She begged again, and despite my hurt and anger, I let her inside.

  She sat on the edge of my bed, and collected her thoughts. I remained standing. When she looked up, there were tears in her eyes, and I softened for a moment, before remembering that she had used exactly this technique in the past for getting her way when outright bullying didn’t work.

  I’ll try to relay this as accurately as I can.

  “I wanted to talk with Captain Bergeron about more possible pirate attacks once we get closer to southern Siam and northern Malaya. The last one, when we left Alaska… Lucas, I’ve never been so scared in my life. I’ve been sheltered and privileged, I see that now. And even though we were very safe during the battle, it undid me for a bit. So we were talking—”

  Talking was for goddamn sure not what I saw.

  “I started crying. He held me and stroked my hair, and before I knew it, we were kissing. Please believe me, it was not something I planned.”

  I grunted. I couldn’t even look her in the eyes.

  “Really, Lucas. He was so kind and understanding, and you and I have been having so many problems lately, and it just happened. I’m so sorry.”

  She seemed sincere, but I had a hard time buying her story. A kiss was one thing, but she had been halfway to mounting him when I’d interrupted them. Just what the fuck was that about? She’s only known the man, what, a week? And her own husband, the man she vowed to be faithful to until the end—I could have been on my deathbed for all she knew. She didn’t answer when I doubted that this incident was their first time together. Anyway, once is plenty! Once is all it takes to destroy your marriage and your career!

  She stood up then, and all traces of vulnerability vanished. As I’d suspected, it was all, or at least mostly, an act. The bully was back. “You’re not going to tell anybody about this,” she said.

  Why the hell not?

  “Because it’s your word against mine, and I outrank you, little man. And Harry will take my side.”

  Who in the fuck is Harry?

  “The captain, you cretin. It doesn’t matter if I cheated on you once or fifty times; you have no proof and no one to corroborate your story. I was hoping to resolve this so that we could hang on to some semblance of our relationship, but as usual, you just had to fuck that all up. We’re done talking about this. We’ll accomplish our mission in Tinhau, then go home and get this wreckage of a marriage annulled. We’re through.”

  And with that, she shoved me aside and left.

  What has kept me awake for all these hours, tossing and turning and sweating, is that she’s right. She might have fucked Captain Bergeron in every room on the ship, but there is nothing at all I can do about it.

  ENCRYPTED DISPATCH

  #C3D4A3D94240428FB02A9BFF0A

  Sent: Sun, 14 Oct, 1.37pm

  Rick,

  I’m finally in Tinhau, checked in to the assigned hotel. This country is amazing; I wish you could see it. It’s not the stereotypical third-world slum that the Department of Education makes out this entire region to be; it’s advanced, much more advanced than the NAU, since the last forty years didn’t hit them nearly as hard as us. But there’s also a reverence for tradition, both from their colonial past and since independence.

  And what’s most amazing: swees walk around right out in the open! I couldn’t believe my eyes! We were offered a trishaw ride from the aerodrome, and I saw a number of people who clearly possessed abilities walking the sidewalks, riding bicycles and driving cars. Ailene and I both spotted at the same time a young woman with a head wreathed in flames walking hand-in-hand with a woman whose head was encased in ice; Ailene made a disgusted noise in her throat, but I couldn’t tell if it was because of the display of homosexuality or of superhuman powers.

  Our appointment with the Ministry of Stability is tomorrow morning, so I’ll spend the rest of today exploring the area. I know, I’m not on vacation, but this is also a good chance for some cultural observations.

  More from me after the meeting.

  Lucas

  PRIORITY COMMUNIQUÉ

  To DESD Director Richard O’Brien

  For Your Eyes Only

  Sunday, October 14

  Dear Director O’Brien,

  We have at last reached The Republic of Tinhau, thank the Lord! Our arrival was delayed merely one day, due to evasive action taken in response to the presence of air pirates from the Kingdom of Cambodia. Thanks go to Captain Bergeron for his quick thinking in the face of an overwhelming force; I would like to let it be officially known that the man is not a coward for fleeing, but indeed saved all our lives with his act of retreat, hiding us until it was safe to proceed.

  Tomorrow morning, we meet Executive Vice Chairman Aya Quek of Tinhau’s Ministry of Stability, Cultural Affairs Sector, and I look forward to seeing Agent Noonan’s masterful diplomatic abilities in action. She has shared that she feels the presence of the Almighty Himself, so filled with His love and confidence that the success of our mission is all but assured.

  With pride, I remain

  Your Obedient Servant and Emissary,

  DESD Agent Grade Three Lucas Lehrer

  FROM THE PAPER JOURNAL OF LL

  Sunday, October 14

  There was some excitement yesterday; according to the captain (liar, adulterer), the ship’s radar had picked up a flo
tilla of signals identified as Cambodian air pirates, still some distance off but closing quickly. We could have withstood an engagement with them, but the likelihood of sustaining damage was high, and as opposed to the attack at Anchorage, he decided to outrun them instead. The Zior made an emergency landing at the Dà Lat Aerodrome in Viet Nam, and stayed there for the majority of the day, before making way again in the early evening, after the skies had cleared of enemy traffic. The final leg of the voyage was without incident.

  We landed in Tinhau around noon today. A small group of immigration officers boarded the ship, going deck by deck to ensure that everyone’s paperwork was in order, as well as check for communicable diseases. When it was my turn, the officer swabbed the inside of my mouth and under my arm, then placed each cotton bud in a separate phial, which he then inserted into a sleek-looking hand-held reader the size of a pocket Bible.

  When I asked if this was all necessary, he nodded and said, “Of course. You Americans don’t vaccinate anymore lah. You could bring in typhoid, hepatitis, tuberculosis, gonorrhoea, anything! So foolish one.” Before I could object to being suspected of carrying gonorrhoea, his reader chirped twice quickly in succession and then in one long sustained note. “Okay, you are clear,” he said and stamped a thirty-day entry seal into my passport.

  “That was quick,” I said.

  “Yah lah,” he replied. “Even ten years ago, you have to go through two weeks’ quarantine. But now, got no need.”

  “Remarkable,” I said, and meant it. I have no idea what our own procedures for port entry might be, but I can guarantee that it’s not nearly so fast and efficient.

  He smiled. “Enjoy your visit to Tinhau.”

  Soon after, Ailene and I disembarked, and were escorted to our hotel by a Chinaman in a sharp-looking suit (some minor functionary from the Ministry of Stability, who didn’t appear to sweat one drop in the oppressive heat and humidity, despite his formal attire), named Wong Kee. He will be our go-to man during our stay.

  The hotel was only a twenty-minute pedal-trishaw ride from Chempaka Aerodrome; a second trishaw followed us with Wong Kee and our luggage, as solar-powered cars passed by within inches on our right (they drive on the other side of the road here). Ailene and I looked like tourists, but I would have rather shared my seat with the bags. As hot and miserable as we were, I felt even worse for our driver, who looked like he was in his fifties, his leg muscles bulging, and who had no protection from the sun like we did. He chatted to us while he pedalled, telling us that the old airport had been abandoned after peak oil and sea level rise, and so the new aerodrome was constructed farther inland. We would also have to take a longer route than the one he had known decades earlier, thanks to permanent flooding from the country’s main river artery.

  We arrived at the hotel, a remnant from centuries of British colonialism, and I was glad that Ailene had previously arranged for separate rooms, as on the Zior. I can’t imagine sharing a room with her ever again. Wong Kee handed us our room keys (having already checked us in earlier), and reminded us that he would fetch us tomorrow morning for our appointment with the Ministry of Stability. Ailene barely waited for him to finish talking before charging off to find her room. I thanked Wong Kee for his help, then set off for my own accommodations.

  The room is on the ground floor, and elegantly furnished: bed, dresser, writing desk, television, small refrigerator, electric safe. The usual, although the bathroom contains a claw-footed bathtub, the first I’ve ever seen in person. Also, oddly enough, instead of the expected Bible in the drawer of the bedside table, a small hardcover copy of Franz Kafka’s novel Amerika sits inside, its page edges foxed from the equatorial humidity. A literary prank? I can’t explain why, but I felt uneasy even glancing at it, and slammed the drawer closed.

  In addition, rather than the typical bland watercolour paintings that you see in any NAU hotel, the walls are decorated with poster-sized black-and-white photography in wooden frames; on either side of my bed are portraits of Albert Einstein: on the left, the scientist as a young man, standing in the patent office in which he had worked; and on the right, the man near the end of his life, seated in a leather chair before overstuffed bookshelves, with stacks of paper strewn on the table in front of him. In the bathroom is a recognisable print by Ansel Adams, taken at Yosemite, a full moon high in the sky. Above the desk, at which I’m currently writing this, is mounted another print, what appears to be a daredevil stunt: strung between two high-rise housing blocks is a wire cable, like the kind a tightrope-walker might use, hanging from which is a modified velocipede. The vehicle’s wheels have been removed, and instead a combination gear-and-pulley system has been installed so that the driver, a dark-skinned young woman with one arm and a fierce expression, can pedal herself across. I can just make out the business district skyline in the background.

  After sending both my encrypted and official updates to O’Brien from the hotel’s secure wireless node, I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening exploring the surrounding area. The hotel itself boasts an upscale bar, a handful of expensive restaurants and a shopping arcade selling items far out of my price range. I found a money changer and exchanged some ameros for Dioms, which I used to buy a cup of cubed mango and coconut milk at a small dessert shop; just what I needed to cool down. I don’t think I’ve seen a mango back home since I was a kid; Mom bought imported fruit only for special occasions, although I can’t remember anymore when she might have last done so.

  Farther down the road were other food stalls, selling dishes with names like laksa and roti prata and mee rebus. Souvenir shops as well, hawking T-shirts, postcards, mugs, flags and shot glasses, all emblazoned with a tiger’s head logo and the country’s recently revamped slogan: The Venice of Southeast Asia. An exuberant Indian tailor did his best to catch my attention, insisting that I needed a new suit; I almost laughed in his face, picturing the cloth completely soaked through with my sweat. A small used books stall with titles in both English and Chinese was next door; I recognised a few thrillers from NAU authors that were popular several years ago, but ultimately purchased a dog-eared paperback called Life in the Drowned City, published by a local press, detailing the toll that the rising sea levels had taken on the country, and the government’s response to the crisis.

  After a while, I returned to the hotel and ordered room service for dinner, a luxury I normally can’t indulge in, something called tom yam pasta, which was absolutely delicious, if a bit too spicy. The television picks up BBC Worldwide and a number of local channels: news stations in both English and Chinese, and entertainment channels in each of the country’s four official languages (English, Chinese, Malay and Tamil). I watched the BBC for a while, until the voices of the posh newsreaders started making me sleepy. I’ll go to bed just as soon as I finish this.

  PRIORITY COMMUNIQUÉ

  To DESD Director Richard O’Brien

  For Your Eyes Only

  Monday, October 15

  Dear Director O’Brien,

  Despite what Agent Noonan may have reported to you herself, it is probable that negotiations have stalled before they could even begin. It appears that she was full of the Lord’s wrath instead of His compassion, since she demanded obedience to Tinhau’s government in a righteous tirade that shocked even my pious self. I worry that her overzealous mindset may have damaged any potential relationships with the nation.

  Our contact, EVC Quek, politely informed us that she would pass the matter up to her superiors. We can now only wait and see if this holy voyage has not been a complete waste.

  I shall update once again after I have received additional information.

  I remain

  Your Obedient Servant and Emissary,

  DESD Agent Grade Three Lucas Lehrer

  FROM THE PAPER JOURNAL OF LL

  Monday, October 15

  Stupid, stupid Ailene. God damn her all over again.

  At nine o’clock this morning, we were escorted by Wong Kee downtown via air-cond
itioned taxi (why we hadn’t taken one of these to the hotel upon our arrival, instead of submitting to the suffering of the trishaw ride, I have no idea); the entrance to the Ministry of Stability was within a glass pyramid located between two skyscrapers, like the one I’ve seen pictures of at the Louvre, but even bigger, at least three storeys tall. The structure, Wong Kee told us, was a memorial to the Christmas Massacre a quarter-century ago, and a symbol of Tinhau’s resistance to terrorism. Two soldiers guarded the door with automatic weapons.

  We passed through three separate security gantries, then took a lift down thirty-some floors underground (I’m having trouble remembering exactly how many), and wound through a series of corridors until we ended up in the refrigerated office of our contact, a young woman named Aya Quek, who is an executive vice chairman in the Ministry’s Cultural Affairs Sector (which sounds far more impressive than it seems to be; it’s apparent that the bureaucracy of Tinhau is just as fond of handing out fancy titles as that of the NAU). Austere and functional, like any other civil servant’s office, this one contained only one item that indicated some actual personality: a framed theatre poster announcing a stage play called Looking Downward, with a silhouette of a creeping puppeteer emblazoned with a golden letter Z.

  Ms Quek sat down behind her desk; she wore her hair short, and I was immediately reminded of my vivid dream on the Zior, of my alternate wife and child, but shook the image from my head. She smiled, but it didn’t reach all the way to her eyes. Were I the one to talk with her, I would have kept this observation in mind, tried to draw her out a bit with casual conversation first, seen where we could relate, what we might have in common, all things that might lead to solid diplomatic ties.