Discretion

by David Balzarini

  “Fine, so we’re both liars. I still can’t accept that Jamal is…gone. You were supposed to help him.”

  “You’ll believe what you want to, as is your way. Convenience is what you accept as truth—like it’s honorable to accept the cultural norm. Jamal was going to die, like it or not, as all people do.”

  I ponder this a moment and look around the cafe. The couple at the window are talking to themselves, paying no attention to us. Several patrons come and go without taking notice of me and Mila, while we sit in silence.

  “I get what you mean, but that doesn’t answer the question. Why was it his time? He has a baby at home. A young wife. Why did you ask me to kill him if you knew it’s his time? And if you’re on my side, why not warn me?”

  “Your obsession with irrelevant information is going to be your downfall.” She sighs. “Knowing would have caused far more harm than good.”

  “Sly remarks are not helping me trust you.”

  “I don’t need your trust, Wyle. You can’t live without me, and I know that. What you don’t remember is the pact you made, which you think is breakable like an apartment lease of sort. I don’t take the commitment you made lightly and that is what we need to discuss.”

  “What color ink did I sign that contract in?”

  “Ah, very formal, yes? No ink went on this deal between you and me. It’s one of those that the Securities Exchange Commission would love to find, if you catch my meaning. And your…FBI is looking into a certain matter that could carry criminal charges.”

  “So I’m here to be told what to do? Is that it?”

  She shakes her head gently, like a parent to a child. “Let me show you. I’m not interested in slaves, Colin. I desire to give you what you want. I’m on your side.”

  I ponder this a moment, watching her expression for a reaction, distinctly human, that would give me a lead, but she makes no such gesture. She leaves me little doubt; she is not of this world. Solid like a rock. No emotion. Compassion? Perhaps.

  “Instead of trying to read me, I will show you,” Mila says and offers her right hand to me, ladylike: palm down, fingers tight together like we are going to dance the waltz.

  “Where are we going?”

  “It’s a surprise. You’ll love it.”

  My hand is slow at her request, the contemplation of how much I am surrendering myself crosses my mind. But then, am I at her will anyway? Does she hold control over my life now, as she bears such great influence?

  My fingers wrap around hers and we are transported; the world around us dissolves and we emerge at the dining table in my backyard, near the swimming pool. She extends her arm and sways, presenting the view of the mountains, the valley below, from the back of my home. The surroundings are lush, pristine. The sun position is at eleven o’clock in the sky.

  “This…is what I’ve given to you. Do you see what I’ve provided?”

  “Yes,” I say, though I know what I have, hardly needing a reminder she made this possible.

  She smiles at me with fond affection, a too good to be true romance between her and me. Her eyes entice, the way her hair moves in the wind. Whimsical. She takes my hand again and we are whisked away to the office, where Marisa is working, bare feet propped up on the desk, her toes making a slow circular motion in the air. She has her tablet computer on her lap and she’s scrawling on a report.

  “She loves you, Colin,” Mila says, emphatically. “As I do.”

  Marisa looks ravishing at her desk, hard at work. It’s hard to miss why I love her, why people fight for her affection.

  “I know,” I say, as doubt crosses my mind. Does Marisa love me for me? Or does Christel affect her, too? “What do you have to do with that?”

  “I serve you in many ways, Colin. More than you could understand. Marisa loves security, like anyone else. She loves you, for you. She loves what you do and who she gets to be.”

  “Who she gets to be?”

  “When she’s with you, she’s…well, fun. She gets to be free. No worries. All her needs are met.”

  She takes me by the hand again and we are suddenly at my office, standing in the middle of it. But a young man is there, seated at my desk, pictures and certificates framed around him enshrining his name, Lane Whitt.

  “What is this?” I say, looking at Mila. She doesn’t look at me, but stares at the man at my desk, with a grieved expression.

  “It’s your office, six months from now.”

  The office is the same, except all my things are missing. Pictures of a family that isn’t mine. Certificates. Licenses. All belonging to this man, Lane Whitt. Is this an unknown future? It’s like seeing your home with someone else’s things in it. A surreal experience—out of body.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  She sighs, bows her head and then her eyes meet mine, wanting to believe, longing for hope. A sign.

  “What is this? I thought you were in control?” I ask.

  “Like I said before, I can only control so much, Colin. I couldn’t save Jamal because he didn’t belong to me. He wasn’t my own.”

  I walk around the office. My shoes clack on the stone floor, as they should, but Lane takes no notice from the desk. He works, oblivious of our presence.

  “Why is he here? Where am I?”

  She turns solemn and holds out her hand for mine. Taking a gentle grip, we are back in the cafe as before, sitting at the table as if we never left.

  “So…what are you telling me?” I ask, feeling uneasy about job security for the first time in years. “I lose my job? I’m dead? What is it?”

  She pauses a moment, as though collecting her thoughts. She smiles to herself, as if reminiscing.

  She smiles like a politician. “I don’t know. But I can protect you.”

  Though she is evil, I feel drawn to her. She holds the keys to my life. She can unlock knowledge, the insight I need. With her, anything I want is mine. Without her, my life is to chance. Without her, I’m like everyone else.

  I ponder this and sip the coffee repeatedly. I need a cigarette. A break. A month to lie on a beach and mull this over. And even then, I may be more confused and distraught than now. Fuck. I’m running out of time.

  “What must I do?” I ask, looking at the table, hoping she gives no answer at all. That she will just disappear and never come back. Her absence would make my life incomplete, but perhaps I need to be on my own. At least then, I would know that my work is my own, my wife wants me for me, and my home is what I’ve earned on my own merit.

  “Simple,” Mila says.

  FIFTY-TWO

  Christel wants me to skip meeting with Jackson’s source, the man behind the curtain. He must have answers she doesn’t want me to know. But then, what could be worse than listening to a demon? Can I knowingly live by her guidance, knowing what she is without a doubt? Christel may not have planned the abduction of Natalie years ago, but she played a part, meaning she’s responsible. She’s not trustworthy, by her own admission. It begs the question: why do I long for what I know is bad for me?

  Perhaps it’s better to live in ignorance and remain blind to the evil around us. To know it’s everywhere, in all things, removes some of life’s beauty. It’s as if the enjoyment of the grand and the simple pleasures is tainted by what is unseen, just by knowing it exists.

  Mila parts my company with a nod and returns to her post behind the counter. The door to the coffee house swings open and a dozen people walk in and stand in line. She helps customers as if all is normal.

  I try not to stare, but I can’t help watching her work for a while, making short task of the patrons in line with efficiency.

  “Could I trouble you for a refill?” I ask, handing her my empty cup. She takes it from me without thought, and then stops in her tracks, looking back at me, stopping to admire the cup. “This is strange, but I don’t remember you. Have you been here awhile?”

  I shrug because I’ve lost track of time. At least an hour by my guess, but could be lon
ger. I smile back and hope she doesn’t press.

  She looks again at the ceramic cup I handed her. “Oh…shit. You’re one of those. There’s not many of these out there, you know.” She waves my cup like it’s a trophy and then fills it up, with an inch left for cream. “That’s some deal you legacy customers got. You must have been a real sweetheart in your past life.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She laughs a little, embarrassed. “That’s a legacy cup,” she says, handing it back to me. “Means you can get any drink on the menu for free. Old owner issued them to the best customers, the ones he swore kept him in business and made the new owner honor the deal. You must’ve been coming here for years.”

  I look at the cup in disbelief and feel guilty at the free coffee, though I’m entitled to it. The girl is watching me, apparently amused at my reaction. Christel is giving me free coffee for life, to sweeten the deal—with Christel, the cup is never empty.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  She’s surprised. “The guys in suits that come in here don’t want to talk to me.” She eyes me a moment. “Mila. And I’m a student. Nursing. My favorite color is black, I prefer women, and I’m vegan. Did you want something to eat with that coffee?”

  “No, thanks.” I walk out, my phone buzzing with a text from Marisa: where are you? I see the time is 10:55.

  How can that be? I’ve been here at least an hour, plus the drive.

  Another text from Marisa: Staff meeting in ten minutes. I respond so she doesn’t worry. My arrival in the west conference room is several minutes after the scheduled start, and my entry goes noticed by everyone in attendance. As if on cue, the presentation begins and Christel, though she is not here, nestles in my mind and I can’t stop thinking about her. What can I do? No answer comes to mind. The cost is considerable either way. And I can’t help wonder about Mila—is she really a person that Christel…borrowed? Or is that her and she’s simply acting for my sake?

  Ironic. All my life I’ve spent shying away from any form of religious belief and here I am, stuck in a dilemma with a demon—a being I was certain didn’t exist just days ago. Should she order me to kill again, would such a horrible act justify what she gives me? All that this life has to offer is mine if I obey.

  She says she would stop me from harming Jamal…but what could she have done to stop me before the act? She didn’t stop the doctor…so the needle contained nothing lethal, but what Jamal needed. It was a test. This much is true.

  The meeting covers new compliance issues and a market update, but the presenter could speak a different language today—I’m not hearing a damn thing. The sooner this ends, the better. If I could leave unnoticed, my office is a fine place to hide, under the desk.

  At last, the lights brighten and the screen displays the spinning SCG logo. The staff stands, light conversation on the way out, as deadlines are pressing.

  I don’t hear the worries, thoughts of my colleagues. Christel is silent.

  I used to listen to colleagues rant with amusement, contempt, or pity. Their worrying was often trivial and outside of control, like fretting about the weather or what gold will trade at in two weeks. On occasion, I felt sorry for those who lived in a self-made prison, the ramblings of the unsettled mind. I would be careful in trying to help—as I felt compelled to. It did little good. I accepted that people chose their own brand of poison, like picking out a cereal or home decor. With the passing of time, I learned of the dependency—people wouldn’t know what to do if they didn’t think or worry. Constantly.

  Now is different. Christel is reserved. This is her testing, letting me feel what it’s like to be without her.

  Fifteen years ago, she did this to my weak, teenage mind when Natalie went missing, to ensure I would learn to listen. It’s hardly more bearable now.

  With an hour left to the trading day, I feel like lying on needles. Like my colleagues, analyst reports and intuition is all I have, with millions in the balance—but I know better than to think it’s all about money. It’s about lives. Medicine and clothes. Education. A better society.

  I return to my desk and stare at the quotes screen a moment. What I must do is documented, put down days ago. I work, referencing my notes as a guide and find a groove. I refill my coffee. After the email is cleared, I stretch my legs outside my office. I run into Brin and John, managers, who are surprised to see me out of the cave. Questions come and I make a point of quick answers.

  My phone vibrates, but I resolve to ignore it. My phone vibrates again. Then again.

  I push through working on the last two accounts for the day. The Dow is down two hundred points. Volume is steady. Options activity is higher than normal.

  None of this used to be uncomfortable. Not a bit.

  One P.M. arrives and it’s over for today.

  Christel is silent, still. She’s giving me space and time to make up my mind about meeting Jackson’s source. After all, it’s my choice.

  FIFTY-THREE

  With time to kill, instead of wallowing, I leave the office for a short escape. The gym is a place of solace, to clear my head. The formidable cinder block walled weight room brings out stress, sweat, and loud heavy metal. Music, that is. Men and women alike, obsessed with fitness, spend considerable minutes of the day to release, to exert, and to build.

  A considerable share of infidelity happens here and in well-lit places. Stories drift in the locker rooms, the racket ball court, of who did who. But what is fact or fiction?

  After a short lifting session to get blood flowing, I find three guys I’m familiar with on the basketball court, who work together at Lockheed Martin about two miles from here. They blow off steam, playing a physical game as if it’s the finals. Grunts, dripping sweat from all glands, and cursing one another. It’s how they compensate for working together; they can’t express quite how they feel while at work. In this place, all those rules turn upside down. In these halls, dickhead is a term of endearment.

  Mike Larison is normally here and that reminds me, today is different—life changes so fast.

  The guys greet me with the usual homage to Allan Wyle, and I join in the game, two on two. We play hard for forty minutes, drenched as if we played under the garden hose. My arms hurt, and my shoulder. Maybe my knee also, but I can’t be positive about that until later on tonight.

  With basketball euphoria behind me, my mind returns to the complications of my own life, which I’d rather avoid—as if by sweeping them under a beautiful handmade Persian rug, the choice that radically changes my life will disappear.

  The shower is hot and distinctly alone—the only place anymore that I shower solo and I miss my partner. I appreciate her, while I stand here in the scalding water, and fear washes over me, that she may disappear from my life without Christel, like steam. The thought, the question—what if Marisa were to leave? Haunting. What if my work, the security it provides, is that important to her?

  My job I can do without. Millions are stowed away in savings and hedge funds call every week. But would I retain such a position without the insight that’s made me famous? Having always worked with Christel, the idea of going alone is terrifying.

  What would my life look like tomorrow and can I accept that murky picture? But then, can I continue on with her in good conscience?

  Christel is comfortable. She completes me. She gives me what I want. But is it right to want that?

  I fear her power, and I crave it more so. Where could she take me in the future? To what heights will she bring me?

  It’s time to leave. It takes determination to grab my shorts and shirt, dress and walk out of the locker room.

  Jamal is gone. He comes back to my mind like a flash; the thoughts of him and memories of him are as live wires to my nerves. Like the announcement of your own death, it’s sinking in. Someday I’ll die, but to see another pass, while I live on, is entirely different. It’s not a mere topic, but a reality. Emotions are a hard fight now, thinking I will never see him
again. Not now. Not ever. I could have gone this morning—cut out of work and seen him again.

  Jamal and I used to lift on occasion. In high school, it was nearly a daily activity. Jamal was obsessed with sports for a few years, thinking he had the talent to make a career at fullback. He was quick, athletic. Jamal kept me out of trouble and I kept him out of trouble, too. On our own, we were just boys—but together, we were so much more. We held each other to a higher standard. Jamal had fear in God. I had fear in my father. And it worked: dysfunctional brothers—not the same mother, but the same kin.

  He can’t be gone. Not Jamal. And now…Christel? Can I live without both?

  In a short while, I’ll be meeting the nameless source. A man claiming to have the answers. I wonder whether he can walk on water. To get me out of this mess, he may have to.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  The drive to the church at Forty-Fourth and Oak feels long. Even with music on, it’s hardly enough to distract me from the impending meeting. It’s like a funeral procession. My attention is laser sharp, as my life comes to one point. One source. Does he have the key? Is this silly to think that one man will fill in the holes, knowing I will alienate Christel? Why take such risk? Shouldn’t I just go home, have a night of the wildest sex of my life with my fiancée and open a bottle of ridiculously expensive champagne? That’s what a normal person would do.

  He has nothing to tell you.

  She returns to make a case. Nothing, you say? How do I know you’re helping me?

  I always have.

  I want to believe Christel, I do. But I know I can’t live without answers. I must know. If she can’t get past this meeting, then I know what a friend she wasn’t.

  I arrive at the park, get out and saunter, an overzealous effort to seem casual, in hindsight. The instructions are open-ended, as if he’s uncommitted to being here.

  There is no one here; this is only a test.

  Then why, Christel, are you telling me? If this is a test, why not let me fail, just like before?