Edith went into the bathroom and splashed water onto her face, then looked at herself in the mirror. “Holy shit,” she whispered. The iris of her injured eye was tinged with yellow. The skin around her eye was all blotchy and yellowish, and the yellowish-ness moved up in a thick line towards her hair line, where her jet black hair was streaked with light brown.
Her other eye was healthily green, the hair above it shining and black. The rest of her skin was fine. What stirred up in Edith was a mix of despair and anger. Despair that she might never look the same, or that she had gotten cancer or some disease from those freaking person suits. And anger at The Function for talking her into the stupid job and possibly ruining her face and her life.
She took a shower right away, scrubbing her face many times over, and then sat down in the bottom of the claw foot bathtub, the water flowing down her hair and over her face. She tried to clear her mind, tried to keep herself calm, but really she just wanted a glass of wine. A bottle of wine really, with a glass sitting next to it. But she knew there wasn't any wine left in the house, so she just sat there, letting the water pound against her head and shoulders.
In the last twenty-four hours she'd robbed a bank, been drugged by a person who was posing as a memory, seen a giant mosquito wearing a vest, shot at someone, and during all this she'd managed to completely lose all interest in what she'd previously been doing with her life. It seemed she could no longer hold onto the idea of Le Croissant Cité, and she no longer had any sort of direction at all. Edith felt utterly lost, and she still had this monster of a business in her lap which was based on the memories of people who were long dead – people who never even knew her. People who most likely wouldn't understand her if they were alive.
She closed her eyes, not letting herself think about her eye or hair. So much had happened in the last day, she just had to stop. She just had to do nothing.
Her breathing came in jerks and she did her best to relax and listen to the millions of drops tapping against the tub. Slowly her mind receded into a vast quietness and her breathing became slow and regular. After a while a knowledge came from the quietness, the knowledge that she should really go outside – like she should go for a walk. But she just let the knowledge float there like a flower in the dark. She didn't want to go outside – not yet. So she sat there for a while more. The water went cool, but the weather was warm enough to where it didn't matter so much.
Eventually Edith got up, turned off the shower and dried off. There in the mirror was her altered face – and she could swear that her skin was more yellowed, her eye more yellow, and that the brown streaks in her soaked hair were even lighter.
She put on a long black skirt and a green top and flip flops, then made a cup of tea. When the tea was done, she went down into the long side yard. It had been raining earlier and everything was damp. She sat on an old metal bench amidst the large oak trees in the yard.
Finally she let herself think, though it seemed that her thoughts were coming up with nothing of particular value. Part of her loathed the idea of seeing any of the other tenants, because they would surely say something about her skin and eye, but she was so emotionally exhausted that she couldn't make herself care.
Everything had been so worked out – she'd run the business for a while, then get a house, maybe meet someone special. They wouldn't have to know that she was a fake pastry chef. Or maybe she'd find someone who wouldn't care, who would be ok with her weirdness. Of course now with her face all screwed up, meeting someone was hardly something she could count on.
So now there was nothing. Two days ago her plan for life was all worked out, with plenty of energy inside to keep it all going. Now somehow it had all popped, and she was left sitting on a bench outside an apartment she could very well lose. There was no one to talk to – she'd spent so much time and energy on her business that she really didn't have any close friends.
Somewhere in the midst of all these thoughts and realizations she began to cry. She didn't realize it until her face was pretty well covered in tears. It was very rare that Edith cried, and she never did so where she could be seen, but there was simply nothing to hold onto anymore. The Edith that wouldn't let anyone in the world see her cry – she was so broken that she couldn't care.
She leaned forward and watched the tears slowly fall onto the back of her hand. Tiny sprinkles dotted the air and floated down to join them, misting down from the gray and white clouds and melding into her tea. One of her eyebrows arced up at a sound – it was the sound of a distant accordion. Someone was practicing in a nearby yard. It was not unusual to hear accordions or trumpets or trombones in any part of the city, but hearing the accordion while she sat there on the bench crying somehow brought the experience to a new level – a level that was so romanticized as to be right out of an old cheesy film. She suddenly pictured what she must look like, hunched over on a metal bench underneath a large oak tree, crying in a long grassy yard with a distant accordion playing in the background, and her sobs clumsily broke into messy little laughs. She wiped underneath her nose with the back of her hand, then shook her head at herself.
Then there was another sound – a fast cricking sound, like an old toy being wound up. She turned around, her face most likely an utter wreck (on top of already being a discolored mess), and sitting there crouched in the branches two trees away, not paying any attention to her, was a man. He was studiously entrenched in whatever was in his hands, which made another fast crick-crick-crick. He was a thin black man, bald with large triangular sideburns that curved like scimitars down the sides of his face. He had ripped and faded trousers and wore an open black vest. Again went the cricking and then he reached down and carefully placed something very small upon the branch he was on. He stood up rather nimbly on the large slanted branch, stretched his shoulders, and looked up, his eyes finding Edith.
“Oh,” he said.
Neither one of them said a word for a moment.
“I was going to say something,” he said. “Like, 'It's ok,' or, 'Is there anything I can do to help?' But I don't know you, you see. And I know there's nothing I can do to help.” Yet his eyes seemed to hold in them a deep sympathy. “I'm very much on the clock.”
Edith shook her head. “What are you doing?”
“I'm winding them up.” She stood and walked towards him, looking at him through the mist that fell between them, and could still hear the accordion somewhere far away, like hearing a dream. She could swear that the man's skin was brushed with golden dust.
“What are you winding up?”
“The chirpers. I would stay and chat, but I'm running extremely late. I'm never usually late. I do wish I could help you though.” He stepped onto another branch, then another, and she swore that he was going to fall or that a branch would just snap in half beneath him – but it was like he weighed nothing at all. Then she saw him reach down and pick up an insect from the trunk – it was a cicada – and in his hand he held some kind of metal object, which he screwed into the cicada's abdomen. Then he twisted it, making the fast cricking sound again, and after a few turns he set it back where it was. Then he made his way nimbly to the branches of a neighbor's tree and began winding up another cicada.
“Why are you doing that? Did somebody ask you to?”
He looked back at her, as if he'd forgotten she was there. “It's just what I do. What I've done for a long time.” He was about to walk onto another branch when she spoke out.
“My name's Edith.”
He stopped and pivoted on the branch he stood upon, then politely bowed. “I am Wole,” he said, pronouncing the 'e' with an 'eh' sound. “But I am afraid, Miss Edith, that I must keep moving, otherwise I will not get to all the chirpers before dusk.”
“You have to wind them all?”
“I have to try.” He nearly turned away, but hesitated. “What is it that you do?”
She shook her head. “I'm not so sure anymore.”
He smirked. “You don't have to be sure. You ca
n't stop doing what it is you do. It's what you're never not doing. Just stop doing anything, and whatever's still going on, that's what you do.” He nodded his head in another short bow. “But I must keep on, Miss Edith. Maybe we'll cross paths again.”
“Yeah.” She watched as he turned and disappeared among the branches and leaves and rooftops. “Maybe.” Then she remembered what she looked like. She bet that he couldn't even see her discolored face and eye through her matted, rained-on hair and pink, tear-stained face. “Oh hell.” She quickly walked back across the yard and up the stairs to her apartment.
File 15 :: [The Function]
The afternoon sun was peeking through the scattered marshmallow clouds above as The Function made his way through the neighborhood just downriver of The French Quarter known as The Marigny[10]. Walking past all the colorful shotgun houses[11] with their large front porches full of rocking chairs and strung-up lights and potted plants, he eventually made his way down to Who Dat Cafe, a cute little corner coffee shop and restaurant. Tables full of people spilled out onto the sidewalk underneath awnings and umbrellas and trees, the tables themselves covered in any combination of sandwiches, cocktails and lattes.
Sunlight splashed into the shop through large windows, dousing several shelves of knickknacks, sculptures, and photos of New Orleans cemeteries. Inside were just as many customers all sitting at tables by the large windows and dining. The Function could count on one hand the amount of times he'd actually sat down and enjoyed a meal in the last six months, and the food looked and smelled amazing. He usually only grabbed food from corner stores while traveling.
He walked up to the long wooden counter, which was lined with rows of glass-domed serving plates full of all manner of pastries and cakes. Old-timey jazz was playing from the speakers. Behind the counter were shelves full of flavored syrup bottles and glass jars of loose tea.
The barista on duty finished wiping off a table and walked behind the counter. “Hi, how's it going?” he said. He had an impressive amount of curly brown hair being held back with a bandanna covered in colorful owls.
“Travis, right? I'm Mars' friend.”
“Oh, I remember. It was Frank, wasn't it?”
The Function winced at being called Frank – Mars had gone through a month-long stint of introducing The Function as Frank (just because he asked her not to introduce him as F) and during that stint was when he happened to meet Travis.
“Yeah. It's Frank. Can I get the... uh... Mars drink?”
“One Martian coming up. Anything for you?”
“Just a small coffee.”
Travis poured him a small coffee, then turned around to the espresso machine and began making the Mars drink. Mars had told The Function it was basically a mocha – espresso and chocolate and hot milk – with the addition of Crystal Hot Sauce.
“One Martian and one coffee.” Travis set Mars' drink on the counter and rang the drinks up. “Tell Mars 'hi' for me. I usually work mornings, so I don't get so see her that often.”
“Will do.” The Function payed, tipped, and sipped his coffee as he walked outside, making his way towards Mars' apartment.
File 16 :: [Mars]
Dreams did not come to Mars that night – only emptiness.
When the streetcar had dropped her off in front of her house she had stumbled up the stairs to her apartment, flipped on her stereo (letting the melodic beats dance across her skin) and then fallen onto her bed. Then her eyes opened, and the low light seeping through her curtains told her that it was early morning. Her whole body felt refreshed, recharged. And then she sat up and nearly fell off her bed when her brain had a sudden and intense desire to bore a hole through the back of her head and make a dramatic exit. Mars half-crawled half-walked to the kitchen area of her little place and poured a glass of water. Her chest felt like one giant bruise, and she took her shirt off and looked in the mirror. She winced as she unsnapped her bra and dropped it to the floor. She really should have taken it off the night before. The center of her chest was a giant orb of varying purples, the darkest ones in the center with the lighter ones radiating out. It reminded Mars of the rings inside a tree (except really freaking ugly).
The radiating bruises covered half of her ram tattoo's face, which upset her more than the pain or the ugliness of the thing. There was a knock on her door and Mars pulled a loose shirt on, then held her head on with one hand and went to the door. She looked out the little window which was built into the door, then opened it.
“What the hell are you doing up at this hour?”
The Function raised an eyebrow. “It's four in the afternoon. I've been coming here every couple of hours, trying to see if I could catch you. I figured you were out in the city running errands or doing Mars-things.”
“Oh. Afternoon.” So she'd slept the whole day away. That was fine. She'd had the day off from the frame shop (at least she was pretty sure she did).
He handed her a cup from Who Dat Cafe. “I figured if I brought you coffee maybe I'd run into you. You know, like an offering.”
“Oh, god.” The smell of the Crystal Hot Sauce made her stomach do a couple of flips inside her and she covered her nose and mouth. “Leave it outside! Maybe it'll still be good later.”
“Or I'll drink it when I leave. I'm running kind of slow today, I could use the extra caffeine.”
She moved away from the door, away from the smell of the hot sauce, and The Function walked in with only his own cup of coffee that smelled wonderfully not like hot sauce. “I think there's beer in the fridge.”
“Coffee's good enough for now.”
She grabbed a beer for herself and they both sat down on a couple old sofas in her living room. She sipped slowly from the bottle, letting the alcohol move into her body and loosen it up a bit. “Mmm. Hair of the dog.”
The Function motioned to Mars' body with his coffee. “So is this the effect of the slimy person suit, or did you just get trashed last night?”
Mars squinted at him. “Both? I think?”
“You know you most likely had a concussion. You really shouldn't have gotten drunk.”
“Hm. You're right.” She slowly nursed her beer. “But maybe we shouldn't get into a conversation about what one another should or shouldn't have done in the last twenty-four hours, Mr. I'm-the-one-who-gave-you-your-concussion.”
“Fair enough. How are you feeling?”
“Like shit. I'm more hung over than I've been in at least a year. The back of my head is pounding like its having nails beaten into it, my chest looks like a black hole and hurts when I breath or move, or when I think. And the worst part of it all is that the bruise is covering part of my ram tattoo.”
“And besides all that? No weird effects from the photo-suit or the device we used to pull Dean out of Edith?”
“Not that I can tell. Though I'm not really in the position to answer such questions.”
The Function smiled. “Wait, did you get trashed with Edith?”
Mars nodded.
“So Edith got trashed last night? You, Mars, got poor, defenseless Edith totally drunk?”
“Yes, I took the pinnacle of innocence that is Edith and showed her the dark ways of my own tortured soul. It is the only way I can feel alive – to corrupt the innocent.”
The Function laughed and took a swig of his coffee. “That's what I always suspected. But now there's no doubt.”
“Ha. But really, thanks for coming to check on me, F. I'm sure you have some other reason for being here that you're going to get around to telling me, something related to your job or The Agents, but I know you really just wanted to check on me. So thank you.”
“Of course.”
“And sorry I look like shit.”
“Compared to yesterday afternoon you look like a diva.”
“Ass.”
The Function started cracking up, and almost coughed out his coffee.
Mars raised an eyebrow. “It wasn't that funny.”
“No, no – I just
remembered something. After I pulled you from the car, I really freaked out. I pulled Dean out and punched him.” The Function flexed his hand, grinning at it. “It still hurts. I can't remember the last time I punched someone.” He turned his hand around, still looking at it. “Oh, yes I can. It was... nine years ago. A long story involving a Cardinal, a runaway horse and a statue made of glass. A long and complicated story.”
“I'm not going anywhere.”
The Function shook his head. “Maybe another time. I'm about to launch into the not-real reason I came here. Do you know where Edith lives?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. You have a job interview tomorrow, one o'clock. Meet Roman at the fountain in Spanish Plaza.”
“I knew it! That's where their headquarters is, isn't it?”
“They have several different headquarters. Or is it headquarters-es? That doesn't sound right. What's the plural for headquarters? Headquarti? Anyway, Spanish Plaza is just a plaza with trees and a huge fountain. Wouldn't make a good headquarters at all.”
“Well I've seen Agents walking in and out of that place plenty of times and when I try to follow them they vanish.”
The Function shrugged. “It's their job to not be followed. They probably just shook you off. And the plaza is an entrance to the Riverwalk Mall. Maybe you just kept catching them as they were going clothes shopping.”
The Axeboy's Blues (The Agents Of Book 1) Page 11