“You’re not until tomorrow. It’s Helmi, then me this morning,” says Carlos.
“Even so,” I say. God, I need to get out of here.
But it’s too late. Suddenly, I hear Will’s voice behind me. “Don’t go just yet, Kira. You’ll miss those nice glazed fruits and all those sticky buns,” he says, sounding as though he’s talking to a child.
I try to get away, but he puts a hand on my shoulder and eases me back into my chair. “Let’s have breakfast together,” he says. “I have a proposition for you all.”
“I’m already on my second breakfast,” Carlos says, patting the folds of his stomach. “Are you suggesting I have a third?”
“If you wish!” says Will, laughing.
Something has changed about him. Rather than launching into an attack on me, which is what I expect, he seems jovial and friendly with all of us. He tells Helmi he came across a reference to her work in a journal he was reading before breakfast. He compliments Carlos on the quality of his thinking in the paper that won Carlos his prize. He’s happier, moving with more ease in his jacket, laughing loudly and almost genuinely at Carlos’s jokes. He even manages not to sneer at me.
“Enough of Mr. Nice, what is this proposition?” Helmi asks.
Will chuckles. “Hang on, I’m trying to charm you,” he says.
Helmi rolls her eyes, but I can see that Will has, indeed, charmed her. It’s only that Helmi will not allow herself to stray far from the point, and Will had, after all, begun the conversation by stating outright that he had a proposition.
“I’d like to rearrange the order of delivery of our papers,” he says, pausing to take in the astonished faces around the table. “That is, unless any of you object.”
He explains that it isn’t such an exciting proposition. It’s really just a favor. Traditionally, the competition’s grand prize winner delivers the final paper in the Hall of Mirrors. He wants to trade places and let me give the final talk.
“Me?” I say, poking myself in the chest. “Are you kidding?”
“And I’ll take your spot tomorrow morning,” he says, bowing his head as though to thank me.
Carlos makes a hmmm sound, then says to Will, “Why would you want to do that?”
“Yes, exactly! The grand prize winner doesn’t just give away his place at the final celebration!” says Helmi.
“I have my reasons,” Will says, leaning back in his chair. “Good reasons.”
“You must, buddy, because nobody would give away the chance to deliver their paper on a candlelit evening in the Hall of Mirrors unless he was half crazy or avoiding sniper attack,” Carlos says, then turns to me. “Go for it, Kira, before he comes to his senses.”
My brain is working like a slot machine, rifling through one combination of reasons and then another, trying to figure out what Will is up to. The evening presentation is followed by a banquet. Why wouldn’t he want to lead the show?
“Why?” I ask flatly.
Will gazes at me, unperturbed. “Why not? You’re the youngest among us. Surely this means you deserve all the attention.”
“How old are you, anyway?” asks Carlos.
I feel myself panicking but am saved, once again, by Helmi. She shoots Carlos a disapproving look and says, “Don’t ask a woman her age!”
“But you won the grand prize,” I say, addressing Will. I’m sure he has a reason he wants me to give the final talk, and it can’t be to put me in a good light.
Will waves away my remark with the back of his hand. “I’ve won many prizes. And I wonder, Kira, have you won many other prizes?”
He knows that I haven’t, at least none that I am able to name. All my prizes have the word “junior” or “high school” attached to them. The conversation is taking a dangerous turn. Soon it will focus on degrees. “Not any of significance,” I admit quietly.
“Then it’s settled! You’ll have the spotlight,” Will says. “You deserve it.”
“I really don’t want it,” I say.
“Is this a British chivalry thing?” asks Carlos.
“I suspect it has something to do with a certain young Swedish reporter,” says Helmi, narrowing her eyes, “and nothing to do with Kira.”
Perhaps it’s that simple. I recall how enamored the stunning reporter from Dagens Nyheter had been with Will. Also, how her black leather boots rose high on her legs, almost reaching her thighs. It’s easy to imagine that Will would go to great lengths to kindle the reporter’s interest.
“You got me,” Will admits, then winks. “Elsa really wants to be there when I give my talk. But as it happens, she is on assignment that evening, attending a gala being thrown at the Royal Palace, to which she has invited me. If I give my talk in the morning and Kira takes my place in the evening, Elsa can attend my presentation and I can visit the palace as her guest later. It seems a no-brainer.”
“I get it now,” says Carlos, nodding. “Elsa. That’s a nice name.”
“So there will be a second and very positive news story in Dagens Nyheter, this one about Dr. Will’s award-winning paper, followed by a magnificent party with the woman of his dreams,” concludes Helmi.
“I really can’t get anything by you, can I?” laughs Will. “And yes, she does work for Sweden’s biggest newspaper and my talk will feature largely.”
“But it really isn’t up to us, is it?” says Helmi. “We can’t decide the proceedings.”
“I’ll explain to the committee that I’m coming down with a spot of laryngitis,” Will says, and coughs as though to give the idea some shape. “And that’s the reason for scheduling my talk ahead of time.”
“You would lie?” says Helmi.
“Oh, not a real lie.” Will looks directly at me now. “Not a big lie, anyway. I’ll hardly get disqualified for giving an earlier presentation. And I really do have a little tickle in my throat.”
“I’m cool with it,” says Carlos.
Helmi takes a long breath. “I don’t care anyway,” she says, spearing a square of hard cheese on her plate. “I’m still going first.” She rolls her eyes as though lamenting this fact.
“So, how about it?” Will says to me. “Surely you understand? After all, not every secret needs to be disclosed.”
There it is, the real proposition: Trade places with me and I will keep it secret that you are not qualified to have entered this contest to begin with.
Maybe it is as simple as it sounds. Maybe in the glow of Elsa’s attention, he’s decided to discontinue his mission to have me stripped of my prize. But I don’t trust him, and it makes me uncomfortable to take his place. Terrified, in fact. The Hall of Mirrors is too grand, the last talk of the conference too weighty. But I have no choice, it seems, and mumble “Okay” into my coffee cup.
“Good girl.” Will beams, and holds up his juice glass for a toast.
5
WITHOUT THE THREAT of Will looming over me, the day brightens. The hotel feels more inviting, its stately rooms like stages for great things to come, its windows revealing a city I want to explore. Even the air tastes fresher. It’s time for me to stop obsessing about Will and have some fun. I march up to my room, pull a swimsuit from my suitcase, grab the terry cloth robe provided for my use, and make my way down the corridor, determined to enjoy my morning. I take the elevator to the very bottom of the hotel to experience firsthand the famous Nordic spa.
The idea is that you go from a steaming sauna to a cold plunge pool. It sounds totally uncomfortable, but apparently it boosts your immune system. There’s no way I’m returning to California without having tried it. So, in my bikini, with my towel tied around my waist like a long skirt, I step through the glass doors of the changing room and quietly enter the spa.
Strangely, it is empty. I pass under a stone arch to the summer pool with its temperature fixed precisely at 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit, in line with that of the human body. The long rectangle of warm water gives way to another arch, through which I enter the area that houses the cold pool, a smaller oval wi
th a pattern of decorated stones across its floor.
Beeswax candles bounce light against the walls. My lungs fill with their honey scent. Finally, I reach the sauna. Pushing through its heavy door, I step into the warm wooden interior as though into a cave of fire.
At once, a hot mist condenses over my skin. I fold my towel over the sauna’s wooden ledge and stretch out upon it. The room is thick with steam and the dark pine scent of the timber that lines its surfaces. Droplets of water settle over my skin. I feel my hair go wet. The brick fire steams in the center of the small room as I drift into the spell of its warmth. My body becomes heavy, my mind light.
I might have fallen asleep, which is not a good idea in a sauna, except that beyond the steamy clouds a body stirs, bringing me to attention. Squinting through the dark light, I see the sauna’s other visitor is Munn’s assistant, Rik. He wears a pair of trunks low upon his waist. He passes the corner ledge where I sit, then opens the door. A shelf of cool air wafts inside as the door shuts, leaving me to peer through its glass at Rik’s back as he makes his way out to the stone pool of chilly water.
There’s no reason for him to have recognized me. In the sauna’s dim light, I could be anyone. I sit quietly upon the warm surface of spruce, listening to the spit and sizzle of the brick hearth and wondering what to do. It feels altogether strange to be half naked near this guy, but he might think I’m avoiding him if I race off back to my room. The sauna is so hot, I’m going to faint if I don’t move, however. At last, I rise, open the door, and feel the relief of cool air as I step out toward the small stone staircase that descends into the cold pool.
Maybe if I’m lucky, Rik will be gone.
But when I come out of the sauna, there he is. One look from him and I know that he’s recognized me, both in the sauna and now as I stand at the top of the stone steps, my towel around my waist. He’s already deep in the water, his skin pricked with cold, his hair sleek and dark as a seal’s. He’s handsome and inviting, and every atom of my body wants to run away.
But also to stay right here.
I’m about to say something to him, but he presses his finger to his lips to signal that I shouldn’t speak.
I’m so nervous, I can barely stand. Somehow I step into the pool, feeling the chilly water grab at my ankles. Leaving my towel behind, I take another step down, the cold climbing my legs, my heart beating in my chest. At last my feet meet with the stone bottom.
Rik stays where he is as I lean my back against the pool’s edge, a crown of lit candles flickering near my skin. I’ve never before been in a spa, or a sauna, or a plunge pool. I’ve never locked eyes with a guy. It feels mildly intoxicating, allowing him to watch me as I sink into water so cold, the surface of my skin prickles with it. Rik’s flagrant staring might seem rude, but not to me. He doesn’t ogle me. He simply holds my gaze.
It’s like a game, one I’ve never heard of, but one that I wish to play. It requires me to watch him, to move in sync with him, to refrain from puncturing the noiseless air with speech. I understand that he will abandon the game if that is what I want. His invitation is simply to share the experience of the otherwise empty spa, the wet heat of the sauna, the unforgiving cold of the plunge pool. He doesn’t insist upon it, but when he steps across the water and up the stairs beside me, rising into the warm honey scent of the candles, I follow. I focus on the long muscles of his back, his broad calves, the dark bowl of his hair. We move from the cold into the sauna once more, not speaking, then take our places along the welcoming wood. It’s as though the sauna and plunge pool provide a gentle sedation. I watch his lean body grow rosy in the hazy light. I feel my own fold loosely around me.
We stay like that, together and silent, while the rocks in the fire hiss. So close, I can feel the small exchange of heat between us. We enter the plunge pool once more, this time with me leading, then farther, into the warm pool, before eventually parting wordlessly into our separate changing rooms. When finally I emerge from the spa room and into a corridor with glass walls through which I can see snow, a group of trees, and the weak Nordic sun with its fairy-tale light, he is gone.
It’s bad timing to have a crush. I try to shake Rik from my mind and concentrate on why I’m here. I need to stay alert, avoid Will, and collect the prize. Biba will be waiting for me back home. There is no Plan B.
I get dressed and rush to Helmi’s talk. It’s in a conference room with decorative paneling and big oak doors. Rows of chairs fill the space, arranged theater-style. Those for the prizewinners are positioned centrally in the first row and decorated differently from the rest, with carved arms painted in gold leaf and seat cushions upholstered in brushed velvet. Prizewinners are expected to sit together during the presentations, and I have no choice but to squeeze in next to Will. Carlos is on his other side. Helmi’s chair is empty except for her tablet and bag. She’s already onstage.
A technician clips a microphone to the lapel of Helmi’s jacket. A sound check ensures the audio is working properly. Across the big screen is Helmi’s first slide, a giant picture of colorfully stained neurons.
The room is filled with leaders in every avenue of scientific endeavor, but if Helmi is nervous she hides it well.
At last, the lights across the audience dim and a tall man with a graying goatee steps onto the stage. This is Dr. Biruk, a geneticist from Ethiopia who is also the chair of the committee. He takes his place at the podium, checks the microphone, and says a few words. His accent is beautiful, his English perfect. He introduces Helmi, leading a round of applause, and she jumps up as though on a spring and begins her presentation.
She addresses the audience confidently, explaining how she manipulated stem cells to form three-dimensional structures that contain the neural contents of a developing human forebrain. “We can see here how the cells have differentiated,” she says, flipping through her slides.
The reason the research is important is that it helps us understand how genetic mutations take place and may inform ways of tackling unwanted mutations. “We may be able to use this research in adult brains as well,” she says, then lists all the ways in which this could be helpful, especially for those suffering dementia.
I’m amazed by her; the audience is amazed by her. She finishes her talk with great style, bowing like a stage actor as applause erupts loudly across the room.
“She’s brilliant,” Carlos whispers.
“I agree,” I say, watching Helmi stack her notes neatly and prepare for the Q&A that follows. The first question is from a University of Sweden microbiologist. Helmi stands high on her heeled shoes, craning her neck to address his question about radial glial cells.
I whisper, “You know, I hadn’t realized how short she is.”
Carlos and Will look at me strangely. “What?” Carlos says, as though I’ve just said something crazy.
“I mean, she’s just not very tall. Not that it matters,” I say nervously.
“And you just noticed this?” says Carlos.
“I believe what Carlos means,” says Will, sounding uncomfortable, “is that Dr. Korhonen has hypochondroplasia.”
I haven’t heard the word before and have to figure this out. Hypo comes from the Greek word hupo, meaning “under.” In biological terms, the expression chondro normally has something to do with cartilage, while plasia refers to growth or formation.
Suddenly, I get it. While most of her is a normal size, Helmi’s legs are shorter, her hips wider, her arms truncated. She has underdeveloped cartilage. How could I not have noticed? But I suppose there’s so much else about Helmi—she’s so smart and astute, missing nothing—that it draws attention away from her being physically small. Anyway, I’m used to being taller than everyone. In Lauren’s winter boots with their fashionable heels, I’m up around six feet. Almost everyone looks short to me. “How do you guys know for sure?” I ask.
“She told me,” Carlos mutters, distracted. He’s totally focused on Helmi’s talk. “God, she’s awesome,” he says.
After lunch, Dr. Munn takes the floor and speaks briefly about his laboratory’s work with zebrafish, which first made scientists aware that genes can remain alive after death.
“We were able to prove that many genes remain active for hours, even days, after death. The young man to whom I now introduce you has applied these findings in a very interesting way.” He nods at Carlos, who is onstage exactly where Helmi had been seated. Unlike Helmi, he is nervously gripping the arms of the chair and running his tongue over his dry lips. “May I introduce Dr. Carlos Ruiz, who will explain how his work determining the exact time of death in cadavers has been of vital importance in helping police in murder investigations.”
He might be nervous, but Carlos is well prepared. He gets a big laugh by confessing that for the past few years he’s often thought of himself less as a scientist and more of a recycler of dead mice.
“So many mice,” he says, shaking his head in mock disbelief. “Eventually, my grant ran out and I couldn’t afford more lab mice, but luckily, there are sixty-four native rodents in Texas, so really I was well resourced. I needed only to take on a lab partner. My mother’s cat, Luna.”
I smile as a black-and-white cat fills the screen, its green eyes narrowed as though scrutinizing the audience with some distaste.
“It turns out that Luna kills between the hours of four a.m. and six a.m., which is reflected in my data,” continues Carlos. “The most dangerous time for mice in my neighborhood is 5:43 a.m.”
He then refers to Munn’s discovery of genes that stay active for up to four days after death in zebrafish, explaining how he built upon the discovery, developing a way to tell exactly when a person died. Not just which day, but the precise hour and minute. “That kind of precision makes it easier to narrow down a suspect in a murder case,” he says, “which is why I’m wanted by law enforcement across the country.”
Again, the audience laughs.
It is impossible not to love Carlos, who seems always to be smiling. With his floppy curls and soft cheeks, he is like an overgrown child who has been dressed up for an occasion, and his laugh is infectious.
Dragonfly Girl Page 4