INCEPTIO (Roma Nova)

by Alison Morton

  I blinked when a reply hit my inbox within forty minutes.

  From the desk of the Director

  Madam,

  In reference to your recent communication, the Director finds the contents unacceptable and untrue. All allegations or claims against the Autonomous City of New York and all permissions and privileges are hereby rejected. Your record of attendance has been deleted.

  The consequences of harassing municipal and public employees are severe and constitute a Class E Non-Violent Felony (CNY Penal Code S180).

  You are advised that, on advice from the Department of Internal Security, your name has been placed on a national security watch list because of your antisocial behaviour and foreign parentage.

  I stared at the screen. I felt like I’d been struck in the face. This couldn’t be happening. I wasn’t a terrorist or criminal. Sure, my mother had been born abroad, but she’d been dead for twenty-one years. My father was born in England but had been a naturalised American for nearly two-thirds of his life. He’d even been decorated for war service in North Africa. That kid being pissed at me couldn’t have gone this far, could it?

  I started shaking.

  God. What else could these people do to me?

  The next morning, at my regular job, I drooped over my desk and shuffled papers in folders, but I didn’t know what I was doing. I worked Monday to Friday at Bornes & Black, a Connaught Avenue advertising agency handling niche inventor accounts. Pretty mundane in the two years I’d been here, but it was a job that nearly paid the bills and gave me – no – had given me precious free weekends in the park.

  Damn.

  ‘Hey, Karen.’ A paper ball landed on my right hand. I looked up. Across from me, Amanda, the other assistant account executive in our team, grinned and tipped her chin up at me.

  ‘What’s up? Eat a lemon, or did you get a tax bill?’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  She rolled her large brown eyes, but before she could open her mouth to start an interrogation, the boss’s assistant materialised in front of me. This god-like being had never before looked at me, let alone smiled at me. Maybe calling it a smile was stretching it. I was to report to the boss ‘at my earliest convenience’ to talk about a special project. The immaculate figure turned about in a swirl of dark blue, the tail of a green and yellow silk scarf dripping down her curved, swaying back.

  Amanda and I both stared.

  I pushed my hair behind my ears, brushed the front of my skirt to ease the creases out, grabbed my notebook and scuttled after her. What could the boss want from me? I was nobody. With no college degree, I had watched with second-hand pleasure, but a twinge of envy, as others overtook me. But it hadn’t seemed so important; I had lived for the park. Maybe I needed to change that now.

  I stumbled out of the boss’s office an hour later, head whirling. After nearly two years, they’d pulled me out of the herd and given me my chance. I was to make the pitch presentation to new, and important, foreign clients. Back at my desk, I stared at my notes, terrified at the responsibility, but thrilled to be chosen.

  I slogged away researching, drafting and reworking my material over the following four days. I practised in front of the mirror to get it word-perfect. I worked on it over the weekend; I had nothing else to do.

  Now the day of the meeting had arrived. I glanced again at my watch, checked my face again, happy that my hair was still in the elegant chignon I had persuaded it into this morning. I knew my new blue linen suit was right – the vendor in Nicholson’s had said so.

  Unable to bear waiting any longer, I got up from my desk. Amanda squeezed my hand and said, ‘Go, girl.’

  I had made the long walk into the conference room but my hands wouldn’t stop trying to rearrange the neat stack of paper in front of me. I gulped some water to relieve my parched throat. Hayden, the boss, glanced over at me, one eyebrow raised. He was English. Proper English, not one of the 1860s left-behinds. His old-fashioned sports jacket and pants made him look like a crusty old guy from a black and white movie, but he gave me a human-enough smile.

  The new clients came from Roma Nova, in Europe, where my mother had been born. I couldn’t remember much from the Saturday Latin class my dad had insisted on, so I was curious about what they’d be like. Checking off ‘Latin (elementary)’ in the language ability section on my application had seemed so irrelevant two years ago. Now it was my springboard.

  A buzz on the intercom, and the door of the glass-walled conference room opened. Hayden and I rose to meet them. A short, brown-haired man walked past Hayden and held his thin hand out to me. Hayden nodded at me, nursing a half-smile, and made the introductions. This was our inventor.

  ‘Salve, Sextilius Gavro,’ which was about as much Latin as I could muster at that precise moment.

  ‘My interpreter, Conradus Tellus,’ he said in a sing-song tone.

  His colleague was more than striking – blond hair long enough to slick back behind his ears. And tall. Several inches taller than me, even. Above a smiling mouth and a straight nose marred by a scar, his eyes were tilted slightly upwards, red-brown near the iris, green at the edges. He fixed his gaze on me like he was measuring me up, assessing me. I refused to break, but felt warmth creeping up my neck into my face as he widened his smile. A little flustered, I eventually looked down at his outstretched hand but hesitated. I gave myself a mental shake, threw myself into businesswoman mode and took it.

  Over the next two hours, the interpreter’s gaze tracked me as I moved to the screen on the back wall and around the table, giving out mock-ups and sales projections. He asked me to pause now and again so he could interpret, but each time he finished, he flashed me a half-smile. Sextilius Gavro scribbled notes ceaselessly, his fingers twitching with nervous energy. He kept looking up from his papers and fixing me with a stare. Although I described market segmentation, platforms and the importance of usability in full detail, they still asked so many questions. I was a prisoner under interrogation.

  I only realised hours had passed when my stomach bubbled; it was running on empty. I stopped talking. I had nothing else to say.

  After they’d left, I sank back into my seat and shut my eyes for a few moments. My pulse was still pushing adrenalin around my body.

  ‘Your research was excellent, Karen,’ Hayden said, his face serious. ‘More importantly, the Roma Novans were impressed by your ideas.’

  I flushed. ‘I was just concentrating on getting my pitch right.’

  I sipped my dose of coffee. I glanced over at the papers strewn over the large, gleaming table like so much ticker tape left after a parade. That was all it came down to after days of solid work.

  I rode along more familiar ground that afternoon, briefing the art director and marketing team. I needed to have the draft campaign plan ready for approval for the next client encounter in two weeks, so I settled down and attacked my keyboard.

  A while later, my stomach growled. It would be home-time soon. Amanda had gone a while ago. I glanced at the clock. How could it be past seven? I was alone in the open-plan office – except for the IT engineer in the corner, and he was a geek. I had gotten lost in my so-called boring job. I smiled and admitted it felt good.

  I treated myself to a gnocchi marinara and a glass of red at Frankie’s on my way home. I didn’t run into anybody I knew. I didn’t really expect to: New York was a city of isolated strangers, smiling outwardly but all intent on their individual universes. I was savouring the fruit-laden tang of the wine when the interpreter invaded my head. Sure, his English was excellent, British-sounding, but just a little too perfect. He wasn’t an interpreter; that was way too ordinary. Self-assured, nonchalant even, he had watched everything and missed nothing.

  Next morning, I was immersed in developing the implementation outline when the harsh ring from my desk phone broke through.I grabbed the handset and struggled with untwisting the cord.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me calling you at work, but I wondered if you’d like t
o meet for a drink or some dinner on Saturday.’

  The interpreter.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t date clients on principle.’

  ‘I didn’t mean a date; simply as colleagues.’

  I heard an undertone of laughter in his voice.

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ I said.

  ‘Out of your comfort zone?’

  I gasped. What the hell was that supposed to mean?

  ‘Sorry,’ he said before I could slam the handset down. ‘That was rude of me. But will you still come?’

  I hadn’t been asked out to dinner for six months. Why the hell not?

  III

  Renschman was more used to the dull thud of a silencer than the ping announcing a new message. Yawning, he detached his hand from under his chin, stretched out and tapped the screen to open the message. From External Affairs. He began skimming the words of the cover sheet, his eyes half-closed with boredom.

  Opening the attachment, he saw the name ‘Karen Brown, father William Brown’ on the first page. He jerked his head forward, breathing suspended. He read the message and the file through again. Twice. He didn’t notice his other hand snap his pen, the red ink spreading over the desk.

  Anger flushed through him at the memory of his last meeting with William Brown. The man was gone, but his daughter would do.

  He reached for his frameless glasses. The father’s blond smugness was as Renschman remembered, but the mother’s immigration photo showed red-brown hair and a soft face, with light eyes like a frightened rabbit.

  His task was to watch the girl and report back; she was flagged up as a Category 3 risk. What the hell had she done? She was a weekend volunteer park attendant. But it came direct from Hartenwyck’s office. The stills showed her coming out of the advertising agency where she worked during the week: a tall strawberry blonde, chin jutting out, her body caught in a long stride.

  She must have pissed somebody off really badly. He started scrolling through his resource file, selecting the four grunts he’d need to cover her.

  But they had to know her connections, didn’t they? He smiled. If they hadn’t realised who she was, he’d be happy to spell it out for them.

  Very happy.

  IV

  That Saturday evening, I’d hesitated as I put my hand in the closet to pull out my usual pants and silk shirt. Damn it. I’d wear the new dress I’d been saving for the park awards ceremony next month.

  By seven, I’d been date-perfect for an hour. Not that this was a date. On the fourth look in the bathroom mirror, I told myself to stop checking. There was no room to pace about my apartment; I was lucky to have a two-window living room. I perched on my love seat, wriggling my toes to ease the stiffness of my new shoes and flicking through a magazine to pass the time.

  A story about a celebrity who’d married a European but come back home, divorced, a year later caught my attention: a pouting face on a perfect body arranged on a leather couch. She complained that if she’d known how different and foreign it was in Prussia, she would never have left the Eastern United States of America. What had she expected? I threw the magazine on the table.

  But did I know any more about Roma Nova? Dad made sure I knew where it was – squashed in between Italy and New Austria – but that was about it. Maybe I’d find out more tonight. A beep from my calendar clock sounded. Crap! It was twenty-five after seven. I grabbed my coat and purse and ran for the elevator.

  Through the lobby door, I could see Conradus Tellus leaning against the cab, arms crossed, one knee bent with his foot behind his other leg, toe on the sidewalk. Totally relaxed, but he scanned the street like he was a cop. He was wearing a light blue-grey casual suit and open-neck blue shirt. A deep breath to steady myself; then I stepped out of my building. He held the cab door open for me. His smile should have been listed as forbidden under the Vienna Conventions. But it didn’t spread up his face to his eyes.

  The taxi stopped outside a double-fronted restaurant with a dark green awning curving over like a protective hood. Soft yellow lights shone through tinted glass. Inside, it was subdued, intimate and rich. Light music played and couples danced. I’d never been in such a place before.

  He helped me off with my coat, his hand lightly brushing my shoulder as he did so. He waved the server back, held my chair and made sure I was seated comfortably before sitting down opposite me. The hard-eyed observer at the client meeting had been replaced by a polite socialite out of a 1950s film.

  ‘So how long are you in New York, Conradus?’ I asked.

  ‘Please call me Conrad, if it’s easier.’ He smiled almost to himself. ‘It depends. Now that Sextilius has got his project started, he’ll need a few days to see a lawyer about patents and permits then he’ll want to go home. He’ll send one of the English-speaking legation commercial people along to your next meeting and only come back when the prototypes have been developed in two to three months’ time.’

  ‘Oh.’

  His long fingers, tapering from square knuckles, played with a heavy gold signet ring on his right hand. ‘I might stay on and look around a bit now I’m here. I’ve never been to New York before and I’ve got some leave to use up.’

  I grinned at him. ‘If you have about a year and a half, you might see around a tenth of what’s on offer.’

  ‘Could you give me a few pointers?’

  ‘If you want to be a real tourist, you could take a trip around the harbour,’ I said. ‘You know, Fort Amsterdam, Hudson statue, Franklin Island. Or a comedy club or a show. Maybe Jonas Bronck’s zoo or a walk around the old Dutch Quarter in Manhattan, or the Georgian lanes.’ I didn’t mention the park.

  We ordered and I continued my tourist guide presentation as we ate. I felt mildly foolish as I chattered on, compelled to keep up a stream of conversation. I so wanted him to find me interesting. He seemed content to watch and listen. After the waiter had cleared the dessert dishes, I caught my breath and looked away as I lifted my glass to finish my wine. I glanced back and saw his irises contract, light brown fighting it out with green. Tiny tight lines appeared at the far edges of his lips. What was he thinking?

  In an abrupt switch, he smiled at me and stretched out his hand. ‘Dance?’

  He held me firmly, but didn’t attempt to pull me in. He talked lightly, making semi-cynical, jokey remarks. Glancing over his shoulder at the room and the other guests in between his banter, I saw a man with wavy black hair sitting at the bar, studying us. Not in that half-amused, half-superior way other diners do as part of their evening’s entertainment, but purposefully. It was creepy the way he stared at us as we moved around the floor.

  The music stopped moments later, and Conrad led me back to my seat. As the waiter brought our drinks over, I noticed the man at the bar had disappeared, his full glass abandoned on the counter. A few minutes later, I looked over and somebody else was sitting there, drinking the same blue-coloured cocktail out of the same twisted-stem glass. That was beyond odd, like they’d changed shifts.

  When I finished my drink, I glanced at my wristwatch. I thought I’d been discreet, but Conrad gave me a half-smile. He called for the check and we made our way out onto the sidewalk to find a cab. At my building, Conrad made sure I was safely inside. He raised my hand to his lips, kissed the back and said goodnight. I was too surprised to say anything – it was such a foreign gesture, like in an old movie. I caught a smile on his face as he turned and left. From behind the glass entrance door, I watched until the rear lights of his cab merged into the pattern of the night.

  V

  Next morning, I went jogging in the park. I refused to stop going there on principle. They’d watched me at first but hadn’t bothered in a while. Tubs waved to me once, but dropped his hand and hurried off like he’d remembered he shouldn’t. But, this morning, two joggers I hadn’t seen before in our Sunday morning group seemed to be playing tag with me. When one wasn’t close behind me, the other was. When three others of my group split off to go up the hill rather
than round it, I struggled after them. My legs were on empty, but I got there. And so did my two followers. I headed home, uncomfortable at being stalked.

  Opening my apartment door and desperate for a cooling shower, I almost missed the card lying on the mat: Conrad had invited me to meet at South Street Seaport and take a harbour cruise with him that day. As I showered, I debated whether I should ignore the invitation; I had plenty of chores to do. But despite, or maybe because of, his detachment, he was an immensely attractive man. As common in my life as a blue moon.

  It was sunny and warm, typical May weather, perfect for being outdoors. I waved as I spotted his figure by the pier. I gave him my hand, but he laughed, bent down and kissed my cheek.

  Jesus.

  As we sailed back past Hudson’s Statue, enjoying the breeze and sunshine, his left arm settled against my right. His polo shirt sleeve revealed a muscled arm, covered in fine golden hair. I glanced sideways at him, but he carried on talking as casually as before.

  After the boat docked at South Street, we grabbed some lunch nearby. We talked and walked. Sitting on a bench by the old Fort Amsterdam rampart, looking toward Upper Bay, we were still talking two hours later. His face warmed with enthusiasm for the mountains, grapes, olives, even the cold weather perfect for skiing, as he described his home in Roma Nova. He’d been raised on a small farm by his uncle after his mother had died, but visited now and then with his cousin Sextilius who’d always made models and invented things, even as a kid. Sextilius’s mother was a professor of control mechanics, and an old university friend as well as cousin of Conrad’s mother, Constantia. A shadow crossed his face at her name, but I learned why he had a distinctly un-Latin name.