Dragonfly Girl

by Marti Leimbach

  “Okay,” he announces, “just to show you how this all works, we are going to play a game I call ‘When Exactly Did They Die?’”

  The idea of a game causes a stir of excitement in the audience, who are not used to games during the presentation of serious scientific papers. Carlos quickly hands out cards on which he has written some data. On each card is a person’s photograph as well. “Everybody has to play,” he says.

  Our row’s card shows a sepia photograph of a man with neatly oiled hair and a bushy beard. I know who he is even without his name written beneath the photo. However, the data given is a total mystery. Tons of numbers, symbols, and chemical equations.

  Carlos takes the stage once again and says, “You may notice that each of your subjects was, in fact, a famous scientist.”

  “Alexander Bogdanov,” Will reads. “Soviet-Russian physician.”

  “What did he do?” whispers Helmi.

  “Wasn’t he a hematologist?” asks Will.

  Helmi shrugs.

  I don’t want to sound like a know-it-all, but I say, “He thought the secret to long life was having young blood in your body. So he transfused himself with blood from students in his pursuit of endless life. But he didn’t screen the blood and caught malaria. He also used to evade the tsar’s police by using fake names. Riadavoy, Werner, Maximov. Bogdanov wasn’t his real name.”

  Will turns to me, his mouth open in surprise. “And you know this how?”

  “Because his real name was Malinovsky.”

  He scowls. “That’s rubbish! He was Bogdanov.”

  Will’s pronouncement that my information is rubbish seems to make it so. I keep quiet and am relieved when Carlos’s voice finally booms across the room again.

  “I’m going to give you some instructions and you’re going to use the data on the cards to figure out when the person on your card died. Of course, I’ve invented the information that gives the exact time of death, but the day and year are historically accurate, and I think we can all agree it is more fun when we are dealing with historic scientists rather than the mouse victims of my mother’s cat.”

  He gives us the instructions and tells us we have ten minutes to work it out using the data on each of the individual cards. The silence in the auditorium gives way to a cacophony of voices as groups begin discussing how to answer Carlos’s questions. Finally, Carlos holds his phone next to his lapel microphone and a ringtone from a horror movie chase scene signals that time is up. Now he asks each group for the time of death. A member of each row is chosen to give the answer, standing briefly to announce the name, date, and time of death for the subject on the card.

  “Michael Faraday, twenty-fifth of August, 1867, at 9:52 p.m.,” says one of the judges in a back row, then gives a little laugh. “Oh, sorry,” she says. “It isn’t really funny, is it? Didn’t he die of chronic chemical poisoning?”

  “Yes, he did,” says Carlos with gusto. “But not before making important discoveries in the field of electromagnetics.”

  Then Rik stands up, speaking for his row. Since our meeting at the spa, I’ve been aware of where he is in every room of this hotel. I keep thinking about how he passed by me in his swimming trunks, how he put his finger to his lips.

  “Elizabeth Fleischman,” he announces loudly. “August 3, 1905, at 3:01 a.m.”

  “That’s right! And very sad, too,” says Carlos. “She was a pioneer in radiography. We didn’t know what endless exposure to X-rays did to a person back then, and Elizabeth died of radiation poisoning.”

  When finally Carlos arrives at our row, Will takes the lead. He stands straight, his shoulders back, and pushes the hair off his forehead. “Alexander Bogdanov, April 7, 1928, at 5:02 a.m.,” he announces.

  “Correct!” says Carlos. “By now, you’ve all gleaned that the scientists on your cards died as a result of their own experiments. So, Will, do you know anything about Bogdanov?”

  “Hematologist,” begins Will. He scratches his head as if to recall a fact. “I think he was pursuing his dream of eternal youth, receiving blood transfusions from young men in hopes that they would keep him alive forever?”

  “Absolutely right,” says Carlos, intrigued.

  “He didn’t actually screen the blood, however, did he?”

  “No, he didn’t,” says Carlos, and clucks his tongue. “And that was his downfall. He died from the infected blood of one of his students.”

  “Yes, I seem to recall as much,” says Will, still standing. He glances at me now. He’s wicked and playful, and utterly unstoppable. “Didn’t he evade the tsar’s men for years?” he says.

  “He did, indeed,” says Carlos. It’s clear he’s impressed by Will’s knowledge. In fact, the whole room is impressed. I wait for Will to mention that it had been me who had told him these facts about Bogdanov, but he only clears his throat, rests his chin in his hand as though trying to call to mind some great thought, and says, “I believe I am correct that he used a number of pseudonyms to avoid capture. His real name, of course, was Malinovsky.”

  Like he knew.

  The audience applauds him, and Will gives a little bow as though reluctantly acknowledging their appreciation. Then, as casual as ever, he takes his seat.

  “Your information appears to be accurate,” he says, in a voice so low that only I can hear. “If you have a doctorate at all, I assume it is in the history of medicine.”

  6

  I’M STANDING IN my underwear staring at the gown with the beaded dragonflies sewn into the fabric, one of many beautiful things Lauren packed carefully into the pink suitcase. I want to slip between the folds of silk and zip myself into the dress, pin my hair up away from my face, and parade down the softly lit corridors to join the others gathering downstairs in preparation for tonight’s cruise.

  But Will is downstairs.

  It would only take a change in his mood for him to get me disqualified. Anyway, I feel a creeping anxiety, as though I’m straying further and further into a trap that I’ll never be free of. It’s not only the lack of credentials that unnerves me. It’s that ever since arriving at the Science for Our Future awards I’ve been playacting, pretending to be older than I am, educated, accomplished. I wear Lauren’s clothes, designer numbers that make me appear rich and sophisticated, with an eye for fashion. Meanwhile, my real self is folded into the suitcase along with my jeans and red sneakers.

  The ball gown is a step too far. Who will believe that I could own such a dress? The trouble is that everyone will believe it. Just as they believe so many things about me that I’ve planted in their minds or allowed them to assume. I’ve met many new and wonderful people over the past couple of days, but they haven’t met me, the real me.

  I reach out, touching the dress. I think of Rik, who is already downstairs. I want him to see me in this dress, but what would he think if he knew it was all pretend? I bet he wouldn’t like me so much if he knew my regular outfit is jeans and sneakers, with a school bag over my shoulder.

  I know exactly what Lauren would say if she were here. She’d say, Shut up and put on the damned dress.

  So I do.

  I arrive downstairs, stepping carefully in Lauren’s high heels. My dress attracts the attention of a man with red hair who hands me a glass of champagne and tries to engage me in conversation. But I melt away into the crowd of people in dinner jackets and evening gowns. A bell rings and we gather around a guide in a bright uniform carrying a lantern the size of a hatbox. We follow him through the doors of the hotel and out into the night, the snow around us like feathers. I’m freezing even under the velvet cape that Lauren chose for the dress, but I’m also enchanted by everything around me as we make our way out to the jetty that stretches into the inky water, not quite a lake, much less a sea, that filters through all of Stockholm. Some draw out umbrellas as shields against the snow. Others laugh and flick wet flakes from their hair. I look over the lapping darkness of the water, marveling at our ship lit with hundreds of white bulbs.

/>   And then the red-haired man appears again. He finds me by the waterfront and makes a beeline for me. Close up, I see that his cheeks are pockmarked and that he has a withered quality to him so that he seems too small in his overcoat. He buries his hands in his pockets and leans toward me, his hair studded with snow.

  “Where do you teach?” he asks, his accent thick and familiar. Maybe it’s the intoxication of a wintry night or maybe it’s the champagne, but I say something true about myself for the first time since arriving in Sweden. “I don’t teach,” I say, then stick out my tongue to catch a snowflake on its tip.

  “Because you are only in secondary school,” he says. A flat statement spoken so heavily I can almost hear a thud. “Don’t be concerned,” he continues. “I have no interest in harming you. In fact, quite the opposite. I’d like to offer you a position.”

  “A position?” I say.

  “You have unusual talents. I can introduce you to people elsewhere, people who will recognize your abilities and compensate you well for them.”

  I’m a little freaked out. Perhaps he realizes this, because he offers a reassuring smile, then shrinks away into the crowd while I recover. How does he know anything about me? What kind of “position” is he talking about? Questions spin through my mind as I climb aboard the ship, entering a large, glass-walled room that smells of mulled wine and spices. There’s a jazz band playing. One of the musicians checks his trumpet before returning the mouthpiece to his lips. I’m glad for the distraction, the noise, anything to fill my head and push out the fear that has lodged itself there.

  Suddenly, a succession of pops explode into the air and now there’s more champagne. The glasses are stacked beside an ice sculpture in the shape of an angel. I don’t even need to put out my hand before one is offered. In the regal dress, in heels that make me as tall as the men, I have discovered what it feels like to be beautiful. People make way for you as you walk. You don’t have to ask for anything.

  The second glass makes me feel less troubled, but now my head is swimming. I think I should find Helmi and Carlos when I feel a touch on my shoulder. I imagine with dread that it is the redheaded man, but when I turn, I see Rik, holding a camera. A flash erupts in my vision and he apologizes for startling me.

  “You dazzled me!” I say, blinking.

  “That was my intention.” He steps forward, shows me the photograph on his camera’s screen, and says, “I’m supposed to be filling up the Instagram and Twitter feeds for SFOF. Can I add this to the pile?”

  The photo is flattering, but the last thing I want is my face connected to this prize on social media.

  Rik must sense my hesitation. “I don’t have to,” he says. “I’ll do what you want.”

  Out of the corner of my vision I see the redheaded man again, watching me as I speak to Rik. He’d said he had no interest in harming me, but making such a statement is, in itself, threatening. If he walks over to us now and announces I’m a high school student, everything will change in an instant.

  “Dance with me,” I say to Rik. I’d never normally have the courage, but I’m more scared of the red-haired man than I am of embarrassing myself with Rik. Anyway, Rik seems pleased. He smiles, then plucks my champagne glass from my hand and leads me to the dance floor. He looks at me with the same warmth as he did in the spa, and a feeling erupts inside me that is both peculiar and thrilling.

  “I shouldn’t have asked you to dance, really,” I say.

  “Why not?” says Rik.

  “’Cause I don’t know how to dance,” I admit, which is hilarious and tragic at the same time.

  But Rik only smiles and pulls me closer. “Sure you do,” he says.

  At first, he kind of drags me around, but eventually I can manage without literally falling over. At some point I realize nothing awful is going to happen. I’m not going to fall down or step on Rik’s toes. We sway to the music amid other couples, dancing in silence. The red-haired man has disappeared, and now I begin to relax, even to enjoy myself. I look into Rik’s eyes and feel again that connection we had in the spa. I wonder if he will say anything about the spa, the sauna with its furnace of fiery bricks, the dark chill of the stone pool. I can think of no natural way to bring up what happened there. It’s as though it’s so private that it cannot be discussed at all, even between us.

  “I’m looking forward to hearing your talk tomorrow,” he says.

  “Hmm, I don’t want to think about that,” I say. I want to focus on where I am right now, dancing in a room full of ice sculptures and frosty wreaths and winter flowers, feeling Rik’s hand in my hand, the cloth of his jacket against my skin. I’ve seen posters for dances at school. I’ve certainly witnessed the spectacle of the “promposals” that occur in spring, when senior guys make a great display of inviting the girls they like to the prom. But I’ve never actually been to a school dance. I wonder if they are as good as what I’m experiencing now.

  He says, “Munn and I have breakfast together in the hotel library in the mornings to go over the day’s schedule. You should join us sometime. You two have a lot in common,” he says.

  “Like what?” I murmur.

  “Zebrafish, for example. You mention them in your paper.”

  That makes me smile. “Hmmm,” I say, “they can repair their own hearts.”

  “I think Munn would like you.”

  “That man with the red hair and the accent likes me. But I don’t like him.”

  “Which man? Everyone has an accent.”

  I realize suddenly that nothing I’m saying makes any sense to Rik. Also, that I’m feeling a little light-headed.

  “You sound like you’ve had some champagne,” he says.

  “Maybe, yes.” I’ve had two glasses of champagne in a row, which is more alcohol than I’ve had in my entire life.

  “I like your dress,” Rik says.

  “All her dresses are amazing,” I say, then realize that I’ve said “her dresses,” meaning Lauren’s. I quickly correct myself. “I mean the designer. All of this designer’s dresses are amazing.”

  “Ah,” says Rik.

  Maybe it would have gone like this all evening. Maybe we’d have danced and talked and stood together with cocktail plates and canapés. I like to think so. But as the music ends Helmi arrives at my side, explaining that I am needed upstairs for a group photo, all the prizewinners together.

  “Sorry,” she says, glancing at Rik.

  He makes a little sad face, then says, “Does this mean I have to get back to work, too?”

  I follow Helmi reluctantly, the thrill of dancing now replaced by anxiety, knowing that Will is upstairs. I try to remember that the award isn’t about what Will thinks of me but about my paper, the one I’ll deliver tomorrow. The paper is about how dragonflies track their prey, calculating distance, direction, and speed, a talent usually reserved for creatures with complex nervous systems.

  I say, “Did you know, Helmi, that dragonflies track prey so efficiently that they catch ninety-five percent of what they hunt?”

  “No,” says Helmi, calling back over her shoulder. “Nobody knows that.”

  “They have one of the highest predation efficiencies in nature.”

  “Have you had a glass too many, or do you always talk like this?”

  “I think I always talk like this.”

  I hear Helmi’s laugh as she pushes her way through the crowd, calling “excuse me” and “pardon me” and “hello, can you please move?” It’s a little embarrassing, but I’m in my own world right now, floating on champagne as the ship inches its way through the icy water, thinking about how I just danced with a guy.

  But at the top of the steps it all evaporates. I see Will poised like a movie star between huge lights on black stands, electrical cables coiled at his feet. In the glow of the spotlights, he looks more commanding, his hair more golden. He speaks to a television crew, then turns to his date, the lovely Swedish journalist Elsa. Toward Elsa he seems a wholly different man, someone c
apable of smiling sweetly and pushing a strand of beautiful white-blond hair away from her cheek.

  He switches back to the usual Will when he sees Helmi and me, his face tightening into a frown. He marches toward us as though we are a couple of schoolgirls late for assembly. “There you are,” he says impatiently.

  He motions for us to move forward into the light for the photographer. Suddenly, Carlos emerges, finishing a last bite of gravlax and licking his fingers before positioning himself next to Helmi. I’d like to tuck myself between him and Helmi, but the photographer gestures for me to stand next to Will, who gives a jerk of his head, as if to say that I need to move a little faster.

  I feel so awkward beside him, like a lamb sidling up to a lion. He’s certainly not thrilled with me, either. He looks down at my dress, as though at a specimen jar. “Don’t you look grown up,” he says, smiling. I look daggers at him as he says, “Very put together.”

  I want to tell him I don’t care what he thinks of my appearance. That I know what he’s up to. But even if I could get up the nerve, I don’t dare speak. Will instructs everyone to stand close, but then, just as the photo is being taken, he moves toward the camera so that he is front and forward of the rest of us. It’s as though Carlos, Helmi, and I are there only to reflect his glory. I wouldn’t mind if he were pleasant. But as the flashes pop, I feel Will’s dark mood all around me. Not even the champagne helps. The gloom of the past forty-eight hours descends at once. If anything, the alcohol makes it worse.

  “Have you met my brother, Aiden?” he asks pointedly. In front of me suddenly is a man very much like Will in appearance, but thinner and taller, as though someone has taken Will and stretched him. “You already know his work. After all, you make reference to some of his research in your own paper.”

  Will’s bitter tone rings out, noticed not only by me but also by his brother, who I realize now is older than Will, something I hadn’t expected. Aiden gives me an embarrassed smile. “I’m honored to be a runner-up to your excellent work,” he says.