So Much Fire and So Many Plans

by Aaron S Gallagher

  “I understand,” he whispered into her hair.

  “Do you?”

  “I… I love you,” he whispered helplessly.

  She nodded against his chest. “I know. And I do not love you.”

  “I know that, too. And I understand it.”

  “I can’t… I can’t stay without him, Brent,” she whispered brokenly. “I can’t be here anymore. It’s… it’s hell. Maybe it will get easier, but it’s still hell.”

  He held her. “Love is terrible,” he said.

  She looked up at him. She said, enunciating, “‘I carry my love for you/ around with me like teeth/ and I am starving.’”

  “Exactly,” he said. He thought about it. “Piercy?”

  “I am an inconvenient woman,” she agreed.

  “You are that.”

  She separated from him. “Now you know. Now you know everything.”

  He nodded. “Where was Toefler?”

  “He was in Germany, attending whatever functions he must preside over as the head of an aristocratic family. He sent flowers.”

  “Of course he did.”

  “He came to me later, to comfort me. It didn’t help.”

  “Of course it didn’t,” he said bitterly.

  “He’s a good man, Brent. He doesn’t deserve your anger.”

  “Oh,” he breathed, “I’m not angry at him.”

  The sun rose behind her, and she was lit in gold, a dark halo around her head. “I know.”

  “Do you?”

  “How dare you.” Her words carried heat. “I know better than you what love can-”

  She broke off as the tears spilled down his cheeks.

  Her voice was barely a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

  “Not enough to stop,” he said. “Not enough to stay.”

  “No.”

  He nodded. “Okay.”

  She eyed him. “Okay?”

  “I can’t stop you. I won’t plead or beg. You paid me fair, Carolyn. You gave me what I thought I wanted. The consequences are on my head. I…” he smiled faintly, and wiped the tears from his face with the back of one hand. “I got what I wished for.”

  She chuckled. “We can hope for anything but that.”

  “Yes.”

  They stood in silence as the new day broke around them. The room lit, and the steam from the green, green jungle rose higher into the new sky.

  “I’ll have Louise and Helen prep the plane,” she said. “You’ll be going home today.”

  Desperation gripped him like a hand, squeezing. “But… but you hate to sleep alone.”

  She stared at him.

  “Oh.”

  “Thank you for everything, Brent. Thank you for being here, thank you for being wonderful to me. Thank you for allowing me this… this reminiscence.”

  “But…” he trailed off. He shook his head violently. A fist thumped on the countertop. “No. No. I can’t… Carolyn, I lied. I will beg. Please.”

  She backed away, shaking her own head. “No, Brent. No. This is-”

  “Not that. I won’t ask that. But… give me some time. Two days. Maybe three.”

  “Why? To what end?”

  “You know what I’m going to ask.”

  Her eyes went wide. “No. No. I’ve already- no.”

  “Please. Give me this. You won’t let me stop you, and I accept that. But give me this. Give me just this.”

  She put a hand to her mouth. Tears spilled again, flowing like rain. “Why?”

  “Because you deserve something of him that is no one else’s. Something you have that nobody else ever will. Because I’d rather you have it than anyone else. Even me.”

  She turned her back on him. “I-I can’t, Brent.”

  The sound of him falling to his knees startled her. She whirled to see him on the floor of the kitchen, head bowed, hands between his knees. He should have looked ridiculous, naked and slumped, but he reminded her of something she couldn’t quite name. He stared at the floor and whispered in a voice so low as to be almost inaudible, “Please.”

  She flinched from his single broken, desolate word. She went to the phone, picked it up, and dialed. After a moment, she said, “Louise? It’s Carolyn. Would you please prep the jet?”

  Brent heard a moment of inaudible speech.

  “No. Germany.”

  She listened, then said, “Two. As soon as you can. I apologize for the early call and the short notice. See you soon.”

  She hung up the phone. She turned. He was still on the floor. She sighed.

  “Brent, get up.” She went to him and pulled him to his feet. “You win,” she said.

  “No. I don’t,” he said, but he smiled at her.

  That seemed to unsettle her, but she chose to say nothing. She led him to the bedroom where they showered and dressed together. They closed the house, got into the car, and drove down the mountain. Fourteen hours later they landed in Germany.

  They walked together up the long, winding path to the promontory with its single glass room. Two guards at the door gave her a nod. Inside, there were two guards on either side of an enormous stainless-steel slab of an enclosure overlooking the breathtaking view of the valley below.

  The final work of Christoph Ossirian. His masterpiece, the speculation agreed. The culmination of all his work and skill and inspiration. A gift, either to humanity or to Carolyn Delgado alone. Not both.

  The two men guarding the enormous slab watched, eyes bright, hands on rifles.

  Brent stood very still by the door while Carolyn went to the biometric pad. She looked at him questioningly, but he gave her an enormous smile. The guards glanced at one another.

  “Ms. Delgado, you’re going to activate the enclosure?” the head guard by the door asked in German-accented English.

  “Yes.”

  “Very well… gentlemen?”

  The three guards went to the door to stand alongside Brent. He glanced uneasily at their rifles. The head guard removed a small video camera from one of his pouches. He activated it.

  “Your name, please?”

  “Carolyn Delgado.”

  “I have some questions I need you to answer, please.”

  “Of course.”

  The guard cleared his throat. “Ms. Delgado, you understand that you and only you can open the enclosure early?”

  “I do.”

  “You understand that if you activate the enclosure what is inside is solely for your eyes?”

  “I do.”

  “You understand that you cannot remove the contents?”

  “I do.”

  “And you understand that one minute after the enclosure opens the contents will be destroyed, and that this is the purpose of the enclosure?”

  “I understand,” she said.

  He nodded. “Very well. Ms. Delgado, if you would place your hand upon the pad? The countdown will begin when the enclosure opens fully. You will have sixty seconds.”

  He deactivated the camera and put it away. He bowed to her and joined his men and Brent by the door. With a final veiled glance at Brent, she placed her hand upon the pad. The scanner activated and the pad beeped three times. On the third beep, the countdown timer cycled to 000.000.000.

  She walked around the slab to the front to stand with her back to the river and the valley, and the Toefler estate across from them. Brent watched with a held breath. He glanced at the glass behind her but it was frosted, or muted, and would not reflect. He smiled to himself. Ossirian had thought of everything.

  She waited, hands shaking, tears in her eyes. The enclosure unfolded like steel origami. She waited with closed eyes while the panels withdrew, and when they had ceased moving, she opened her eyes.

  Brent watched her fixedly, not daring to blink. He studied her face, so familiar to him even after such short acquaintance. A face he’d seen show anger, pity, aloofness, ecstasy, and a thousand shades of emotional color between each. But now he saw something new there, and his breath left him as her eyes widene
d, one shaking hand went to her mouth, and the tears coursed down her awestruck face.

  Joy.

  She stared in rapt attention, eyes flickering back and forth across the canvas. She drank in the details of what he had wrought. What he had bequeathed to her. She sobbed.

  Counting under his breath, Brent reach fifty when she reached out to touch the canvas in the enclosure. Her fingertips stroked the paint there, tracing something he couldn’t see. And she pulled her hand back as the enclosure beeped again. The sheets of metal began to slid back, to reverse. She watched as it occluded the canvas, the one work no one would ever see except for she and Ossirian. A rushing whoosh emanated from the enclosure, and sudden baking heat radiated from the steel. She backed away, flinching from the captive inferno. After a minute, the machines chirped. The bottom slid open and ashes piled into the tray at the bottom.

  Carolyn Delgado walked to Brent as if in a daze. He held out a hand and she took it.

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  She frowned, looked at him searchingly. She seemed half asleep, somehow dreamy. “You’re welcome.”

  “Shall we go?”

  She nodded, still dazed.

  They walked back down the path to the car, and the car took them back to the airport. Seventeen hours later they were in Brazil. She kissed him, hugged him, and whispered in his ear, “Thank you, Brent. I do love you, you know.”

  “I know.” He inhaled, smelled her hair, kissed the skin, lips against her neck. He squeezed her tightly, and she squeezed back. He struggled to remember the pressure. The weight. The feel of her that he knew he would never feel again.

  “Goodbye, Brent.”

  “Goodbye, Carolita.”

  She gave him a surprising, girlish smile, shy and bright-eyed, and then turned to leave. She went down the steps of the rollback ladder, and Louise closed the door to the plane. “Where to, sir?”

  He stared at her with a lost, almost broken expression. “Does it matter?”

  She shrugged. He realized she too had tears in her eyes. He smiled sadly. “Chicago, I suppose.”

  “Very good. Will you take some dinner?”

  He shook his head.

  She gave him an evaluating look. She smiled at him. “Trago de caña?”

  “Trago de caña,” he agreed.

  She returned with two bottles and Helen. He sat, they sat, and Louise opened one and sipped from it. She passed it to Helen, who also took a sip. Helen handed it to Brent. He gave them a speculative look. “Should you be doing that?”

  “Nope.”

  He held up the bottle. “Carolyn Delgado,” he murmured.

  “Carolyn Delgado,” they echoed.

  After a moment of contemplative silence, the pilot and copilot retreated to the cockpit, leaving him with the bottles and the memories. He was asleep when they landed in Chicago. A car, summoned by Louise, waited to take him home.

  He dropped his bag by the door and wandered through his small apartment. The place was exactly as he’d left it. These were his belongings. These were his things. Here he sat when he watched television, there when he worked. The bar separating the tiny kitchen is where he ate breakfast, often looking out of the window at the skyline.

  This is where he had resided. But it was not home. He prowled restlessly through his few rooms. He checked the thermostat. It’s not humid enough, he realized. It’s not crowded enough.

  Chicago. Imagine Chicago not being crowded enough. But it wasn’t. He looked out at the city.

  He paused. Something… there.

  Brent used to consider Chicago his city. It was where he was comfortable, he knew all the streets, knew the best places to eat, knew the shortcuts. But as he looked out over the skyline of Chicago, he’d felt something that he couldn’t deny.

  “The city,” he whispered.

  He thumped a fist on the glass door. “The city. Not my city.”

  The answering machine was blinking. He pressed play.

  Beep.

  Meredith. His editor at Objet. Her stern, gruff voice made him smile. “Brent? Brent? Where the hell are you? Call me back.”

  Click.

  Beep.

  “Brent? I’m getting worried. You better have a story for me. You were supposed to send your copy in two weeks ago. Send me your roughs.” She sounded angry now.

  Click.

  Beep.

  “Metierra, I’m actually worried about you. You’d better call me back.” Poor Meredith. She does sound concerned, he thought.

  Click.

  Beep.

  “Brent?” She sounded much less certain. Much more afraid.

  Click

  “End of messages,” the synthesized voice announced.

  He sighed.

  He picked up his phone and dialed her office.

  “Hello?”

  “Meredith, it’s me.”

  “Brent? Where the hell have you been? You were supposed to be back here-”

  “I landed in New York,” he said. “Spent a couple days at the museums.”

  “On my dime?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m not reimbursing you,” she said tartly.

  “Oh yes you are,” Brent said, and the playful lilt in his voice, the ghost of the old banter between them, made him smile. “I didn’t just go full tourist. I got word that Carolyn Delgado…”

  He paused. It surprised him how much it hurt to say her name. I wonder if she’s sleeping alone? It hurt to think about it, so he tried to forget it.

  “I got word that Carolyn Delgado was in town. I tracked her down.”

  Silence. Then: “You got a quote?” Meredith sounded awed. “She didn’t even release a public statement.”

  “I got more than a quote, Mer. That’s where I’ve been. I flew to Brazil with her.”

  He waited.

  “Mer?”

  Meredith gasped, “You what?”

  “I flew to Brazil. With Carolyn Delgado. Well,” he hedged, “Brasilia first. Then São Paulo.”

  “You’ve been in Brazil this whole time?”

  “Yeah.” Brent frowned. “Well, no. Not the whole time. Germany, too.”

  Meredith sounded puzzled. “Germany?”

  “Yeah. She…” Brent took a deep breath. “She opened it, Meredith. Ossirian’s case.”

  “What?” Meredith practically screamed.

  Brent held the receiver away from his ear.

  “Little quieter, please,” Brent said. “I said she opened the case.”

  “What’s inside?” Meredith asked, hushed.

  Brent snorted. “Ashes. It did exactly what Ossirian said it would. She got one uninterrupted minute with his masterpiece. And then it self-destructed.”

  “What… did Delgado tell you what she saw? Even a hint?” Meredith asked. “Anything at all?”

  Brent remembered the look of joy upon Carolyn Delgado’s face. He started to speak. But stopped.

  No. Damn it, no. Carolyn Delgado gave Ossirian something she wouldn’t give the world. He gave her something he wouldn’t give the world. But that look? Opening that case? She gave me that, and no one else in the world gets that. That’s mine. Just mine.

  Tears spilled down his cheeks as he thought of her face. He cleared his throat. “No. Nothing,” he lied. “Not a thing.”

  “It’s been weeks, Brent. What did she tell you? What did you learn about Ossirian?”

  Her attention on what he might have gleaned about Ossirian sparked that anger in him again, anger at Ossirian for not seeing what he’d been offered. Or seeing it and taking it for granted. His fist clenched. He calmed himself. He took a deep breath, let it out, and said, “Plenty.”

  “Get that article done and get me your roughs. The May issue’s gone to press already, but we can get it in August. I’ll bump the Rodin headline. I’ll find pix. We’ll put together a ten-page-”

  “Slow down, Mer,” Brent said. “Let me write it first before you redesign the issue, yeah?”

&
nbsp; “Get to work, Metierra. I want it yesterday,” Meredith barked.

  He grinned despite the tears. He loved it when she did her Lou Grant impression.

  “You got it, Chief,” he said smartly. “Soon’s I’m done.”

  “Glad you’re back, Brent,” Meredith said, her voice full of fondness.

  “Yeah,” Brent agreed. “Later.”

  Two days passed while he wrote and drank and wrote more. Thousands of words flowed from his fingertips onto the screen. A complete record of everything she had told him, everything she had taught him. He didn’t know what to keep in or leave out just yet. He wanted it all on the screen before he decided. Before he forgot.

  He was at his computer, writing, when he got the news. The phone rang. He answered. Listened to the words tumbling down the phone line. He mumbled his thanks and hung up. He glanced at the clock.

  It was eleven A.M.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  He wrote twelve drafts of his article, but in the end, he knew what he needed to know, and he knew what he wanted to say. His final submission to Objet, his final piece for Meredith Cross, was short, barely five hundred words. He revealed almost nothing. He had finally realized the gift Carolyn had given him. He was the one person in the world to whom she’d told everything. Ossirian had been there for most of it, Toefler for a lot of it, but she’d given him something no one else in the world, not even Ossirian himself, possessed. He had finally learned what she’d been trying to teach him. How precious it is, to find out what your soul most wants to say to another’s.

  The lesson he had taken from Carolyn Delgado, from Hans Toefler, from Christoph Ossirian himself, was that all the eyes in the world did not increase the value or meaning of something. It had to move you or it was nothing. The things he had learned about the trio of companions had moved him in ways he was still coming to terms with. The things he’d learned about Carolyn had moved him. And he realized that he had much to learn about himself.

  He finished the article with tears in his eyes, posted it to Meredith along with his resignation, and went out into the night in search of a bottle of trago de caña. He held little hope that his search would be successful, but he was diligent; he would not stop until he found what he was after.