She makes her eyes large and round, as though this is a delicious scandal.
“I heard that, too,” says Carlos.
“Oh,” I say, even more nervous now. “Does that happen often? That they remove someone’s prize, I mean?”
“It has been known,” Will says, “though I’m sure your data is perfect. Your math is certainly impressive. Where did you do your PhD?”
So there it is, the perfectly reasonable question I prayed nobody would ask. I’m not sure if I hear suspicion in Will’s voice or if I’m just paranoid.
Luckily, Lauren helped me prepare for this moment. According to her, I don’t answer the question that’s been asked. Instead, I answer a different question, as though he asked me what, not where, I studied.
“Biochemistry,” I say, with as much confidence as I can muster.
But Will’s not letting me off that easily.
“I meant,” he says slowly, “at what university?”
So, the strategy hasn’t worked. Or at least not yet. Lauren said that if I didn’t succeed in distracting him through conversational evasion to try staging a minor accident, like dropping my purse. But just as I have this thought, Will does what I hope he’ll do—in fact, exactly what Lauren had promised he would do if I avoided answering—and asks a second question, allowing me to dodge the first.
“I mean, you’re American, right?” he says. “Or are you Canadian?”
“I’m from California.” Experience tells me that he will now ask me about California. The image, popular among tourists, is that the whole of the coast, from San Diego to Crescent City, is one long beach vacation spot filled with movie stars.
Will bites the bait. “Where in California?” he says.
“Near San Francisco.” I’m about to launch into a description of the state parks, the wildlife, the beaches, as well as Los Angeles and the occasional movie star sighting, but Will isn’t interested. He turns fully toward me so that I feel pinned between the oak slats of my seat back and his serious, heavy face.
“Palo Alto? Don’t tell me you were a student of Dr. Munn. That wouldn’t have made for a fair contest, would it?”
By Palo Alto, he means Stanford and, of course, the Mellin Institute, where Dr. Munn has his laboratory. Munn is on the board of the Science for Our Future prize and, no doubt, holds great influence with the committee that chooses the prizewinners. He’s also tonight’s speaker. What Will is saying is that a student of Munn’s might have an unfair advantage. Maybe he thinks this is why my paper was chosen over his brother’s. I shake my head quickly.
“I’ve never even met Dr. Munn!” I say, sounding mildly hysterical even to myself.
“Then where exactly—” Will begins again.
“Rimowa University,” I blurt out. Rimowa? That’s the brand name of Lauren’s suitcase. What the heck made me say that?
Will looks as shocked as I am. “I’ve never heard of—”
I can’t let him continue. I feel the sudden jab of a headache, as though Will’s attack is physical, not verbal. I need a distraction like Lauren spoke of—an accident, that’s it! I feel myself shaking as I reach for my water glass, the one that Will just filled. It’s a shame to tip it onto the white linen, but I do so easily enough. In fact, I knock it too hard, sending the glass tumbling, colliding with a dessert fork so that there’s a sudden twang, then water all over the table. I gasp and push myself away from the table as icy water fills my lap. I manage to give an impression of utter surprise, as though it truly had been an accident, and am joined by Helmi, who squeaks an “Oh dear!”
A couple of waiters step forward. Will and I have to stand aside, out of the way, as they dry the floor. Suddenly there is someone else in front of me. He isn’t Will and he isn’t a waiter either.
“You okay?” he says, smiling. He’s holding a small box of recording equipment he’d been taking up to the stage, passing our table just at the moment the glass fell. He puts aside the box now and takes my hand. “I’m Rik Okada. I work for Munn.”
His accent is distinctly American. In a dinner jacket and bow tie, his blue-black hair casually tousled, he might also be the best-looking guy I’ve ever seen, with large dark eyes and a pronounced angle to his cheekbones. Young, too. He couldn’t be much older than I am. I’m suddenly aware of how awkward I look, standing in a puddle in Lauren’s dress, which has a giant wet spot down the front that I now try to shield with a dinner napkin.
I say, “I’m fine, I think. I didn’t get any water on you, did I?”
“Not at all,” he says. He seems to find it amusing that I would worry about spilling on him. Like he wouldn’t have cared if I had.
Meanwhile, Will is staring at me again. I get the sense he’s figured out that I staged the accident. This may make him more determined than ever to find out the truth.
“I’ll let you get back to your dinner,” Rik says, and I think, No! Don’t do that! He’s about to dissolve back into the other guests, leaving me with Will, when I say desperately, “Are you a scientist?” which is perhaps the dumbest thing to say in a place like this.
But if he thinks it’s a lame question he doesn’t show it. “I work around scientists, does that count? I’ve only just finished at Berkeley.”
Will interjects, saying, “Tell me, have you ever heard of a Rimowa Univ—”
“Berkeley!” I interrupt. “That’s so nice!” I say, sounding frantic and strange.
Rik smiles, then collects his box of equipment and looks toward Munn, seated at the other end of the room. “It seems so long ago now,” he says, then excuses himself, telling me he hopes I enjoy the conference and to come to him with any problems. “I keep things running,” he adds.
“Can you keep her from tipping things over?” says Will, clearly annoyed. He’s about to say something more when, as though by divine intervention, a spoon taps a glass and we are called upon to hear tonight’s talk.
Dr. Gregory Munn is a tall, spare man with white hair that flows over the collar of his jacket and an academic shabbiness that feels exotic to me. But then, I’ve never met a real-life professor.
He stands at the front of the room looking through papers, readying himself for his after-dinner talk. He then steps forward, welcoming the prizewinners, the judges, and all the distinguished guests, addressing them with the sort of ease that comes from years of public speaking and the confidence of someone who is never lost for words. Behind him, the screen fills with the academy’s logo. To one side is Rik, recording the event. I can see his dark hair, his handsome profile.
I really shouldn’t stare.
The room smells of coffee and chocolate, stringent whiskey and the ash from a fire that crackles and burns in the fireplace. Amid the tinkling of glasses and rustling of fabric, Munn rubs the lenses of his reading glasses, then settles into his talk. Across the screen arrive words written large against a background of space, studded with stars:
WE KNEW THE WORLD WOULD NOT BE THE SAME. A FEW PEOPLE LAUGHED, A FEW PEOPLE CRIED, MOST PEOPLE WERE SILENT.
Munn says, “Of course, we all recognize this quote. It’s Robert Oppenheimer reflecting on the awful spectacle of the atomic bomb exploding upon the unready city of Hiroshima, Japan. I read it every so often to remind myself that while advancements in science miraculously improve and extend our lives, they can also end them. With each passing decade, I become more concerned about the increased involvement of the military in all areas of scientific endeavor.”
A picture from Mellin flashes across the screen. It shows Munn in a lab coat standing among a group of people working at bench seats along a white table. All of them are pristinely attired, some with goggles hoisted upon their brows.
“As many of you may know,” Munn continues, “I began my career in regenerative medicine many decades ago in Cambridge, England. But these days, when I’m not working on my California suntan—” He waits now as a few chuckles drift through the room. If Munn has ever visited the beaches along the California coast, th
ere’s no evidence of it on his pale skin. “—I’m inside the laboratories at the Mellin Institute working alongside very talented men and women. We are under tremendous pressure to respond to advances in the area of bioterrorism and other forms of weaponry. The threat is very real.”
Mellin isn’t a place I associate with anything of this kind. It’s famous for stem cell research. You want to grow a heart? Ask Munn about it. You want to see a “mini-brain” in a petri dish? That’s also at Mellin. It’s most famous for the invention of a revolutionary kidney machine. These machines, used all over the world, save thousands of lives by making it possible to repair even very damaged donor kidneys so that the organs are serviceable as healthy transplants. I’ve never heard of Mellin’s involvement in countering biothreats. The lab certainly doesn’t tweet about it.
Perhaps that’s why the room is still, not a movement nor a sound. Everyone is captivated as Munn continues, describing the dilemmas scientists face in today’s world. “Funding comes with strings attached. And those with the money and power push us to apply our findings too early. We must be cautious with what we do, who we work for, and how we apply our talent and skills. Science for profit is a growing worry, and not every business or government is as scrupulous about ethical issues as we would have them be.”
It’s a sobering message. When at last he draws to a close, a silence falls, then a thunder of applause fills the air. Munn promises to answer questions, and a microphone is passed around in an orderly fashion. Ten minutes later people are on their feet again, this time making their way to the after-dinner celebration. Guests, judges, speakers, and committee members will stay up late into the night, lounging in empire chairs and on velvet chesterfields, sipping schnapps and talking.
I don’t join in. Instead, I slip away as soon as possible toward the back of the room, then out to the hotel’s wide corridor and into the ladies’ room, where I hide inside a stall. It’s the one place where Will can’t reach me. He seems determined to uncover the truth about my education, or lack thereof. He wants me disqualified. After all, his brother is the runner-up.
It shouldn’t be difficult to avoid him, at least tonight. But as I come out of the ladies’ room, he is standing right there as though he’s been waiting.
He smiles like a host receiving a guest. “I believe we were having a chat about your degree work,” he says. He holds up his phone. “Google has no record of a Rimowa University in California.”
“Who said it was in California?” I’m panicking now. It’s not the award that concerns me. It’s the money. If I’m disqualified, I can’t pay Biba. And the luxurious room with its magnificent view of the Royal Palace—a room that I can no more afford than I can swim the Baltic Sea—will also become my debt. The plane fare, too, I imagine.
“Kira,” he says, and makes a little gesture as though calling me toward him. There really isn’t much choice unless I want to push back through the bathroom door and spend the rest of the evening sitting on a toilet seat. But just then, something remarkable happens.
It’s Helmi. She’s been drawn to the ladies’ room for reasons other than escape, and she brings with her a journalist from the Swedish newspaper Dagens Nyheter. The journalist wants to interview the prizewinners. Most important, the grand prize winner. And that is Will.
“Hello!” the journalist says, extending her hand to him. “I am Elsa!” She has gleaming pale hair and a stylish faux-fur hat. In her long dark coat and leather boots that rise above her knees, she is urban and chic, and altogether more glamorous than the science crowd.
I watch with amusement as Will transforms like a flower. The menacing glare he’d fixed upon me evaporates. In its place, he affects an expression of humility and charm, almost managing a blush as he takes Elsa’s hand.
“So, you are the shining star of the competition, no?” Elsa says, thrusting the microphone in Will’s direction.
Time to escape. I move quietly away from Will, now powerless to follow me. He watches with dark disapproval before redirecting his attention to the beautiful Swedish journalist, who seems thrilled with him, as though he were royalty from another world, an alien prince.
4
I MAKE THE mistake of checking out the person who was disqualified last year. It turns out the researcher got some data wrong, that’s all. It was an error. But the committee ruled against him anyway as his conclusion was not considered to be “genuine.”
Apparently the committee is very strict.
And now I can’t sleep. I toss and turn all night in my giant bed. Nagging at my conscience is the fact that somewhere in the hotel is Will, waiting for morning so that he can hound me again. It feels like the night’s hours are carrying me toward a terrible end. I am sure I’ll be disqualified. It’s only a matter of time.
By dawn I give up and pull on some clothes, then wander through the wide, lit halls of the hotel until I arrive at the restaurant. It’s called the Veranda because in summer the glass walls fold back so that guests can dine in the open air. Through this glass I watch the winter snow glow with the sunrise.
It’s so beautiful I think it might be worth the insomnia.
Around me, waiters in waistcoats come and go, ignoring the drowsy girl folded in a chair. The buffet is filled first with a continental selection, baskets of bread smelling of pumpernickel, sourdough, and rye, pastries dusted with sugar on tiered plates. There are croissants and iced braids and fruited buns with colorful centers of cherry, apple, and peach.
But anxiety about Will has sapped my appetite and I sit miserably with a kaffe latte, wondering when he plans to launch his next assault. As always when nervous, I’m biting my nails, which seems even weirder than usual because I’m wearing Lauren’s clothes. I don’t think elegantly dressed people are supposed to be nail-biters.
Finally, I wander over to the buffet, selecting one of the cinnamon kanelbullar that arrive warm from the oven. It turns out that this palm-size delicacy is the most delicious cinnamon bun in the world. I eat eagerly, feeling the warm butter like a balm. The taste of sugar and cinnamon have a calming effect, reminding me of Sunday mornings when I used to wake to the scent of my mother’s special pancakes. Back then, when she was well, there were no loans. Thinking about those days, which are many years ago now, I’m at peace. As the waiters place bowls of fresh berries on a shallow shelf of ice behind where I am seated, I fall asleep.
I wake to the sound of cutlery, of china touching china, of eggs crackling in butter and the rustling of voices. The air is steamy with coffee. Hot breakfast warms in silver dishes with decorated lids. The tables nearby, once flawlessly laid with shining goblets and napkins folded into swans, are now filled with people. I think I hear Carlos among them. There’s no mistaking his Texan accent. When I open my eyes I realize he is sitting beside me, speaking to Helmi across the table.
“This is . . . what, exactly? This is fish?” he’s saying. His plate is full of the buffet’s many delicacies, including wedges of quiche, slices of cured ham, and Sweden’s famous creamed cod roe, which he stares at as though it might hatch.
“Yes, fish,” Helmi says matter-of-factly. She is dressed in a long woolen skirt and ankle boots, and a silk blouse buttoned high, above which she has tied a neck bow. The heavy frames of her glasses hide large, hazel eyes. With the dark clothes and her hair braided into a bun, she looks less like a biology teacher and more like a friendly pilgrim. She says to Carlos, “In Finland, we have fish. Fish is normal.”
“But fish isn’t a breakfast food.”
“What is breakfast food in America?”
“Something that says the word breakfast on the box or is an egg,” Carlos says. He notices I’ve woken now and looks down at me, curled like a pretzel inside the curved arms of the chair. “Oh, look, it’s sleepyhead,” he says, smiling.
With effort I sit up. Even the weak light makes me squint. “What time is it?”
“Don’t tell me you stayed here all night?” says Helmi. “Did you think you’d mis
s breakfast?”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“I have evidence to the contrary,” says Carlos. He picks up my phone and hands it to me. There, splashed across the screen, is a photograph of me asleep. He’d draped a napkin over my shoulders like a tiny blanket so that I look like a giant slumbering doll. “We thought you’d want it for a souvenir,” he says.
“How did you know my password?”
“Because it was pi,” says Helmi. “Which was obvious.”
Carlos rolls his eyes. “It was not obvious.”
“I got it first try!” Helmi says, looking slightly affronted.
They argue gently back and forth about who knows how many digits of pi, about cybersecurity and how these days any eight-year-old can hack a phone, so why have passwords anyway.
It occurs to me this must be what it feels like to have two parents.
Carlos pours a cup of coffee from a cafetière, hands it to me, and says, “Here, drink this before you fall asleep again.”
I’m grateful for the caffeine. With a more alert brain I realize, however, that here at the breakfast buffet I am a sitting duck for Will, who will undoubtedly be joining us at any moment.
“I’ve got to go,” I say, feeling suddenly panicked.
“Go where?” asks Helmi. “You haven’t eaten.”
The smell of hot food is difficult to resist, and I long for another of the cinnamon rolls I had earlier. If I can get out before Will arrives and pilfer a kanelbulle along the way, I’ll consider breakfast a success, even if I looked pretty foolish dozing in a chair like that.
“I need to prepare for my talk,” I say.
This isn’t the reason. I just want to avoid Will. But it is true that each of the winners must present his or her paper, followed by a Q&A session. I’ve worked out my speech, but only in my head. And given I’m the girl who can’t string two sentences together in a class of high school students, I’d better practice.
Dragonfly Girl Page 3