by Mark Teppo
I'm working through it myself. It makes sense, but in doing so, it opens up an entirely different line of inquiry in our suppositions. I had made noises during my conversation with Belfast about getting him an Arcadian, and I hadn't thought through that promise. It had been something to dangle in front of him, but now, sitting in the Montoya family restaurant, I see that my brain was putting words in my mouth that it knew were true.
Amnesiacs know.
“We knew this,” she says finally. “Not in as many words, but we knew it had to be Arcadians.” I nod. “But that means you've got an internal problem. You've got one faction slicing up another.”
Callis's comments seem all too prescient now. How much of this did he know? Did he send me to Easter Island to stir up trouble? To flush out whoever was behind the incident out in the Southern Ocean?
“So who—?”
Our waiter arrives, bearing plates, and Mere shuts up, smiling at the young man. If he saw any body language that suggested anything was amiss, he does a fine job of appearing oblivious. He presents our plates, offers some praise for the food and a promise that we won't be disappointed, and then makes to disappear again.
“Actually,” Mere calls after him. “I could use a cocktail. We both could. Two Jack Roses, please.” She seems almost embarrassed when he nods and departs.
“A what?”
“Jack Rose. Two parts Calvados, one part lime juice, one part grenadine, I think.” She tugs an errant strand of hair behind an ear. “I was going to surprise you. I thought it would be the kind of thing you'd like to drink. Calvados is apple brandy.”
“I know what Calvados is,” I say gently. She seems to be on the verge of tears, and I reach over and rest my hand on hers. “Mere, thank you.”
She catches herself, holding back the emotional flood building inside her and manages a laugh instead. “I fucked up,” she says. “I really did it this time.” She pulls her hand out from under mine and touches the corner of her right eye, daubing at some tear that hadn't started. “I'm sitting on the biggest story of the decade—fuck! of the century—and part of me this afternoon was like, ‘Mere, get out of there. Run for the Consulate. Forget all of this. Just forget it and get out.' But I didn't. I stayed, and I… I… walked us right into the shit, didn't I? But what else was I supposed to do? This is all too incredible for me to write some fluff piece about ‘how vampires were real and they're not as bad as you think they are.' I mean, I'm not some washed up hack who sells creative fiction to the tabloids in order to keep paying my bar tab. I need to break this story, and break it big. And it's worked for me in the past. The brazen US reporter who is too tenacious, too dumb, to stay home. You either have to kill her or hide your shit because she won't stop coming after you. But the corporate bean counters always won; they always ran away. I thought I was doing good. I was making a difference.
“And then Kirkov came along, and he didn't blink. He didn't want to run away. It wasn't in his nature. He had staked out his piece of turf and it was his. No one was going to take it away from him. He would have killed me…”
“I know.”
Her face softens. “But he didn't, right? I got this”—her fingers touch her throat—“and he was dead, so I had won again. My… souvenir was proof that I was invincible. It was a symbol to Big Ag to watch out. I wasn't going to stop coming…”
“It's like that the first few years after… after we become Arcadians,” I say, filling the void that follows her last sentence. “We think we're invincible. We are invincible. But eventually, that feeling wears off and it gets replaced by an awareness of how fragile everything is. We have to be careful; we have to keep ourselves hidden because the human appetite is too ferocious.” I don't mean to let all these words out, but now that I've started, they keep coming. “We waited too long, and humanity's hunger is out of control now. They're like childish Arcadians, inured to their mortality. They want to feel something—anything—to give them hope that death is not the end. They're too frightened otherwise. Too frightened to sit in stillness and hear how inconsequential they are to the world, and yet how marvelous their entire existence is.”
“We want to feel something in order to stop thinking about nothing,” she whispers.
“And here we are,” I say, glancing around. I spot our waiter returning with two drinks. We silently watch him put each on the table, perfectly aligned with our untouched food. He hesitates for a second, seeing that we've not taken a bite, and then takes his cue from the way Mere reaches for her drink. Intuiting the minefield he is standing beside, he bows slightly and vanishes again.
Mere holds her drink out. “To us,” she says. “Stupidly blundering through life.”
“Lying to ourselves,” I say, picking up my glass and clinking it against hers.
“Making a wreck of things,” she adds after taking a sip.
I tap glasses again. “Pretending we're not alone,” I say. The drink is smooth and marvelous, and I try to remember if I was ever in Calvados during the apple harvest.
She takes a big swallow of hers. “Pretending we don't want each other,” she says, offering her glass again. When I don't immediate tap my glass against hers, her eyebrows pull together. “Oh, da—” she starts, her words barely slipping out of her throat.
I tap her glass hard enough to make them ring. “To living long enough to laugh about our mistakes,” I say, and then I down the rest of the cocktail. It's not that sort of drink, but I don't think I can handle any more sharing right now.
“Silas,” she says. She's not looking at me, though; her gaze is on something over my shoulder. I look, and spot a familiar bald head near the archway into the restaurant. Talus and I make eye contact for a moment, and then he turns and leaves the restaurant.
“Eat up.” I raise my hand, trying to catch our waiter's eye. When he comes to the table, I smile and indicate my empty glass. “Another round please,” I say, “Oh, and I'll need a large bowl of raw spinach, the largest piece of raw beef you have, and an equal amount of raw tuna.”
He nods, completely unfazed, and vanishes to do my bidding.
“Eat up,” I tell Mere. “This may be our last meal.”
Talus wanted to be seen. He'll be waiting outside. I don't see any reason to rush things. The food is good; the company is better. I might as well enjoy the respite we've been offered.
* * *
He stands on the mezzanine with his back to the restaurant as if he is intently studying the sculptures below. He's wearing a dark gray suit made from polished virgin wool, and his skin is ruddy without being sun-burned. His head has been recently shaved and moisturized. He turns as we exit the restaurant; he's not wearing a tie and his beard has been groomed to a dignified shape. He looks well-rested and well-fed. When he smiles, I don't believe him, and the fact that he tries to be genial alarms me even more than seeing him here.
“How was dinner?” he asks. His nostrils tighten. “You had the beef?”
“I did,” I reply.
“Bloody?”
“Very.”
He nods as if that was to be expected and turns his gaze upon Mere. “It is good to see you again, Ms. Vanderhaven.”
“Fuck you,” Mere says. She had my second drink after bolting hers. I didn't mind.
For a split second, Talus struggles to maintain his veneer and I see the angry man who stared me down on the boat, but he manages to plaster another smile on his face and shrug off her comment.
“Any chance the lady gets to go home?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Not yet.”
Mere takes my arm. “Well,” she says, “at least he didn't say ‘no.'” She's shivering lightly, and I tamp my anger down.
Talus grins again, and this time I really see the man I remember. He wants me to do something stupid. He wants an excuse.
“So,” I say instead. “What's the plan?”
“We're going upstairs,” he says. “Señor Montoya wants to have a chat with you.”
�
�Alberto?”
He laughs, and that's all I need to know about his feelings toward the dashingly handsome Alberto. “Señor Escobar Montoya,” he corrects me.
I feel Mere stiffen slightly beside me, and as Talus indicates that we should join him at the private elevator on the other side of the mezzanine from the restaurant, she leans over and whispers in my ear: “The clan patriarch,” she says. “I read about him. When the construction boom hit Santiago in the '30s, he was at the heart of it. He's got to be at least ninety. I thought he was dead.”
“Not dead,” Talus said, reminding Mere of his superior hearing. “He prefers a less public profile.”
The elevator opens as Talus approaches it, triggered by an unseen hand, and he stands beside the doors, indicating that we should enter. I eye the narrow box, considering the risk of taking him once the doors close, but Talus shakes his head as I dawdle.
“You two first,” he says. “I'll come up later.”
I look at him, and my thoughts must be plain on my face, because he shoves me. “Get in,” he snarls, all pretense of civility gone. He stands in the doorway, getting himself under control, until the doors close.
“Well,” Mere says as we begin to ascend. “I guess this is the part where we find out just how stupid this whole evening was.”
I stand in front of her, taking her hands in mine, and I look at her face. “It was a lovely dinner,” I tell her, “and you look fantastic. Nothing else matters. Okay?”
She looks at me and a brave smile struggles to find its way across her lips. “Okay.”
“If things go off the rails up here, take care of yourself. Okay? No heroics. No bullshit efforts to stick with the story. Keep your head down. Get out. Go to the Consulate. Call Ralph. Do whatev—”
“I get it, Silas,” she says, cutting me off. “Fuck. I get it.”
“Okay.” I release her hands and start to move to stand beside her. She doesn't let me, surging off the wall to press herself against me, her arms around my neck. Her lips find mine, her teeth nipping at my mouth. I grab her and return the kiss. Her tongue flicks against my mouth, and I open my lips, letting her in. She presses herself even harder against me, her hands winding in my hair. My hands drop, and I step forward, crushing her between me and the wall. She makes a tiny noise, gasping, and then her mouth seeks mine again.
The elevator dings, announcing our arrival, and the doors open. She breaks contact first, and I step back, giving her room. Mere rests against the wall for a moment, catching her breath, and then raises a hand and wipes at the lipstick on my mouth. “Live to laugh,” she says quietly, looking me in the eye.
“Absolutely,” I reply, and she nods tightly before adjusting her dress and walking off the elevator, head held high.
TWENTY-NINE
I step out of the elevator and I'm in the center of the penthouse. There's nothing between Mere and me and the floor-to-ceiling windows but hardwood floors, a couple pieces of furniture, and an impressive art collection. Off to my left is an equally ostentatious kitchen; to my right are several mobile partitions filled with books and an assortment of smaller trinkets; beyond I spot the edge of a billiards table and an array of large-screen televisions. Somewhere back there is a real wall. The display is meant to be daunting in its dizzying display of wealth, and it succeeds in its efforts.
“What do you think of the view?” someone asks.
The voice comes from a burgundy-colored leather chair near the windows, facing away from the elevator. A narrow glass of wine sits on a nearby side table.
I touch Mere on the elbow, guiding her toward the windows, and we walk over to admire the view. The glass is tempered and there's a pattern to it that shifts when I look at it. Controlled tinting, the sort of atmospheric control that an Arcadian would have installed. “It's impressive,” I say, looking out at the glittering skyline of Santiago. There is only one building that is as tall as the one we're in, and I suspect Montoya owns it too. Off in the distance, I can see the dark hump of Sero San Cristobal, the glowing figure of the Virgin Mary at the peak.
The man sitting in the chair on my left appears to be in his late sixties, but he sits too readily, too upright, to be bound by the physicality of that age. He's older, his physical appearance simply a disguise. Much like my own.
“Alberto's tastes are a bit grandiose,” the older man says, “but it makes him feel more… at home. More like a prince.”
Mere fidgets next to me, her hands twisting over themselves, and she finally turns to the older man and puts out her hand. “Hi, I'm Meredith Vanderhaven. I don't think we've met.”
He takes her hand—gracefully, elegantly—and raises it slowly to his lips. “Escobar,” he says. “Escobar Montoya.”
“You were born in 1896,” she says, not letting go of his hand. “Which means you've got to be an Arcadian, like Silas. Alberto is twenty-seven. So my first question is: great-grandson or grandson?”
“Neither,” Escobar says. “Both.” He laughs, glancing past her at me. “She knows.” It isn't a question.
“Probably more than I do,” I say dryly.
Escobar laughs again. “Oh, that I know.”
I look at him fully, examining his face. Trying to recognize it. All I can see is a resemblance from the sculpture downstairs. “I don't know you,” I tell him.
His nostrils flare for a second and his face clouds. “You're a liar, Silas Dardanidi,” he says.
“So I've been told,” I reply, and as if on cue, the elevator sounds.
I expect it contains Talus, but when I hear the echo of more than one pair of feet, I glance over my shoulder. Talus is there, but so is a younger version of Escobar. He wears his suit like he knows how to. Unlike Talus, who is putting on a good show, but looks like the half-thawed French peasant he is next to Alberto Montoya.
“Well,” I hear Mere say, “look here. It's the prodigal grandson and your old pal. This is turning into quite the party.”
Grandson.
Pieces click together. “He's not your grandson,” I say to Escobar. “He's you.”
Escobar chuckles. “I was never that young,” he says.
One of the side effects of Mother's care: we may live forever, but we're never less aged than the day we first enter her embrace.
“How long has it been since you were truly young, Silas?” he asks.
My head is spinning. “Thirty-three centuries,” I say, “give or take a few.”
Mere stares at me, her mouth open.
“One of the first,” he concedes. “But then, you always were one of her favorites.”
I shrug. “I wasn't aware that she has favorites. And even if she does, I'm certainly not on the list anymore.”
Mere is still staring at me, and Escobar carefully picks up his glass and takes a tiny sip. “Yes, being aware is sometimes difficult when you return to her so frequently, isn't it?”
“What do you mean?”
“How much do you remember of all those years?” he asks.
“Most of it,” I counter, somewhat defensively, not meeting Mere's gaze.
He laughs. “Most? Silas, do you know how complex the pathways in your brain would have to be to sustain all that history? Haven't you ever wondered why, of all the things that are perfect about us, it is our memories that are the most fragile?”
“The world is fragile,” I counter. “It's not like it used to be. It's become so toxic. Brain tissue degrades easily.”
“Toxicity has nothing to do with it,” he snorts. “Memory is just as easily not restored.”
“What do you mean?”
“Come now, Silas. You know she takes memories from you. But do you know how? When you go into Mother's embrace and she heals you, how do you think that works?”
“I—she—she restores us.”
“Restores you? How? You've been part of her for thirty-three hundred years, and you've never wondered how she heals you? Is it just a matter of growing you new tissue? If you come back to her without l
egs, she grows you new ones. No arm? No problem. Missing a kidney, or a lung, or an eye? Just as easy. Is that how you think it is done? She buries you beneath her roots and you lie there like a blind worm, letting her knit you whole again.”
“Wait a minute,” Mere interjects. “This is all true? This is what happens?”
“More or less,” I say, somewhat stung by Escobar's words.
“More or less?” Mere echoes.
“He knows so little about how it truly works, dear,” Escobar says. “He's not just a passive recipient of her affection. Ask him what happens when he buries himself? Ask him if he can grow a new arm? You hide in the ground, Silas, don't you? You hide so that you can make new marrow from the humus. You can eat flesh to replace your own. You drink blood to flush toxins out of your own bloodstream. If you can do all this without her, then why do you need her at all?”
“I—” I suspect “that's just the way it is done” isn't the answer he's looking for.
“Mother says you need her, and you believe her. Like any good child does when its mother tells it the way the world works. But it's more insidious than that, Silas, because Mother has built you in a such a way that you crave her soil above all others, and the longer you are gone from her embrace, the more that craving builds. Don't you feel it?”
“No,” I resist. “It's the air. It's this world. It's this… this poison that is in my blood. She would heal me. She would protect me.”
“She would lie to you,” Escobar says sadly. “It's what she's been doing for more than thirty-three centuries.”
“No,” I protest. “You're the one who is doing the lying.” I look at Mere for help, but she's just standing there, listening. Taking it all in. Trying to grasp what she's hearing.
“He's trying to confuse me. Confuse us,” I tell her. “We know that Hyacinth owns land on Rapa Nui. We know they built the lab. We know what they're doing. This has nothing to do with how Arcadia works. He knows that I'm rootless. He knows I can't call Arcadia.”