by Cole Reid
“Pull,” said Georgia. Georgia took one step back and bent forward as Xiaoyu pulled the sleeves to drag her shirt over her head. Georgia stood up in front of Xiaoyu. Xiaoyu’s nerves were still as was his body, but not his entire body. Georgia’s golden eyes met Xiaoyu’s. For the first time, he noticed something about her face, her nose. It wasn’t perfect. It was slightly crooked to the left and bent inward. It had been broken. It sparked a subtle attraction to her. He saw himself as slightly crooked and bent like her nose. Her breath was smoke and coffee flavored her perfume cedar and tobacco tasting.
“This is part of your training,” she said flattening her breasts against Xiaoyu’s chest and kissing him. Folding her arms behind her back she unfastened her bra. It didn’t drop. The straps came to rest at the bend in her elbows the cups were stuck against Xiaoyu’s chest. She raised her left leg to trap Xiaoyu in place leaning in harder pinning his head against the wall. She went from hardly kissing him to kissing him hard. Deadening his fight or flight reflex. Entranced, he was stuck, not going anywhere unless told to. He realized a sudden power Georgia maintained, different from the command structure of the Triads—different from the tyranny of his grandfather. Different entirely. His uneasiness cycled. It went around. He could stop her if he wanted to, if he really wanted to. Her power wasn’t that of an opponent. It wasn’t working against him. He was comfortable knowing she couldn’t hurt him. He could hurt her and bad. And they knew it. She was naked, without weapons. And still she advanced. There was power in it. The moment overtook his confusion. He tried to meditate to focus on the moment. But Georgia kept changing the moment so he focused on the feeling. His eyes closed. What was left of his guard dropped.
“Help the lady out,” said Georgia. Xiaoyu instinctively read her body language. She was rubbing the inside of her left thigh against the right side of his pelvis making it hard to balance on one leg. Xiaoyu grabbed the underside of her left thigh realigning her body with his. With balance, she didn’t need her arms to steady herself. She prioritized. She pulled Xiaoyu’s tucked shirt and undid the buttons professionally. With working room, she worked her hands along the contours of his pelvis then reached down for what she was after. She caressed him slowly for minutes taking time, making her reservation. She made him wait. He grew tired of slow motion and wanted her to speed up. There was no speed, only a gentle caress—first up and over then down and around. She rolled her hand around circling her wrist pushing him against himself, letting him feel how excited he was—a tease that she played out like a threat. He could overheat—a sensual suicide—go off before he ever reached his target. He didn’t want that but did she? Her hand kept turning but that was it—mocking. She was making a consistent effort but what of the time? She attacked. She grabbed him and yanked. It was crazed and comforting. It was as if she was trying to hurt him but neither jerk nor jam made him flinch. Her hands moved and he could feel the motion before the touch, an intense intuition. For seconds he forgot the woman and knew only the hand. All other senses untethered. Her smell became used to him. His eyes were closed. The spice of tobacco and perfume still swirled. But it was too little to succumb to, too little compared. The touch was the only sensation. It was all the touch. Lips on his. The ebb and flow of her breasts against him. The subtle scratch of her silk bra, fixed by the pressure of her body to his. He wanted her to let it go. He just didn’t know it. She leaned back letting her bra slide to her wrists, sliding his zipper down with her one free hand. With both hands, one inside one outside she dismissed his pants button and took her lips off of his. Unhooking her leg from his hand, she squatted to the floor taking his pants with her. She let her bra fall to the floor and stood up to face Xiaoyu. She looked down to see skin looking up at her. Gravity couldn’t control it neither could he. She took her cue. Wrapping her fingers round, she pulled him to the center of the room.
“Pay attention,” she said, “Follow instructions.” Human ingenuity from masculine to feminine worked the room. Only table and chairs—nowhere to lie down—all positioning depended on creativity. With combined creativity anything went, the only thing that didn’t was cliché. Creativity lasted more than two hours, wrecking the room.
“It’s almost five,” said Georgia, “You salute me. I salute you.” Georgia walked over to her neglected pants and pulled a likewise neglected pack of Pall Mall out of her pocket. Pulling the lighter out of the pack, she waved both in front of Xiaoyu. He nodded. She lit her own cigarette and Xiaoyu’s, laughing at herself and the state of the room.
“Ok,” said Georgia, “I said I have a high testosterone level but I don’t manufacture the stuff. I’m on break. You on the other hand.” Xiaoyu looked at Georgia.
“What?” asked Xiaoyu.
“The gallery closes at 7:00pm,” said Georgia, “Marti is still downstairs, have her close early and bring her up here. Repeat with her everything we just did. Don’t say too much you’ll spoil the surprise. Women like surprises. And that’s what we’ll call it, Operation Surprise.” Xiaoyu looked at Georgia. He didn’t have to read her face. He was beginning to understand her seriousness came in subtleties. Most men Xiaoyu’s age would have laughed, as if it were a joke. Xiaoyu wasn’t so deep in fog. He was willing to learn.
“Why do you call it Operation and not Project Surprise?” asked Xiaoyu.
“An operation requires cooperation, we operate with someone. A project is designed to get the objective. Like a kill. If we send you to kill, we’re not anticipating the target’s cooperation,” said Georgia, “Not at all.” Georgia took a short drag from her cigarette. She had more to say.
“The point is to persuade Marti to come with you,” said Georgia, “I have no doubt you could knock her out and drag her up here. Not what we want. And there’s one more thing you should be doing from now on. You need to be spraying your entire body, to cover that entire tattoo. It’s sexy for sure. But it gives you a whole lot of explaining to do. When you woke up this morning, you didn’t know you’d be standing there with no clothes on. That’s how it works. When there’s the moment, there’s the opportunity. You’ll never know beforehand. You have to spray over your entire tattoo every morning because you may not be coming home for the evening.”
Xiaoyu walked toward the wall and started to put his clothes on. Georgia sat still in a chair smoking. She flattered herself, naked on the chair—smoking. Her body resembled oil poured into water, shapes of skin trying to figure out where they should go. But unlike oil the skin on her body went down not up. As she shifted her body weight in the chair, her low breasts huddled to decide on a place to run. Xiaoyu looked back. Georgia raised the right side of her mouth—a look that had a plan.
As Xiaoyu descended the stairs to the gallery he thought of one thing, adapting. Georgia had told him not to spoil the surprise but she had also praised him on his ability to adapt. He did. He didn’t spoil the surprise; he soiled it. He saw Marti sitting on a rolling stool downstairs at a short desk. He walked straight toward her and told her the truth.
“Upstairs the rooms are sound proof,” said Xiaoyu, “Do you know what that means?”
“Privacy,” said Marti.
“You can be as loud as you want,” said Xiaoyu, “You call that privacy?”
“Because the gallery is open for another hour plus,” said Marti, “There’s nothing private about that. That’s quite ordinary.”
“The curator can close it,” said Xiaoyu, “There’s nothing ordinary about that.” Marti leaned in and whispered in his ear.
“We have to keep up our appearances,” said Marti, “Without it we won’t get anything done for long.”
“Then let’s do it,” said Xiaoyu.
“What?” asked Marti.
“Keep up appearances,” said Xiaoyu, “If I’m a customer what do I do?”
“Look at paintings, ask questions, inquire about the artist and the price,” said Marti. Xiaoyu didn’t say anything else. He moved toward the first painting on the right near the door. For forty-five mi
nutes he looked at paintings, remembering their details. When he was done he asked Marti about the techniques, how certain affects were created. He asked about paints, how they were made. He was curious about a small white statue of a man balancing on a wheel barrel. He didn’t know what the sculpture was made of. His curiosity was genuine, even the pieces in the room knew. Unsurprisingly, Marti had all the answers Xiaoyu required, with footnotes. She played her role well as housemistress and curator. Xiaoyu understood she was not the former pretending to be the latter. She was the latter pretending to be the former. She had a list of artists’ names, a backlog of periods and a lot of practice with canvas and clay. She was a professional. On top of art topics, she spoke in code, kept secrets and filled requests. She also sold an art piece now and again. She didn’t take comers in a cage but she duked it out with dichotomy. She painted her own landscape that turned in to the person she was—charming and serious—profound and professional. Xiaoyu played a very nostalgic role, the gentleman caller, calling upon a woman and being genuinely interested. Xiaoyu had a lot of respect for Marti and the way she carried herself, different from Georgia who carried herself well but got carried away. He had respect for both women. But Marti he liked, genuinely.
Marti gave thirty minutes of her time to Xiaoyu’s art education. At 6:20pm, the gallery had no signs of life and no signs of evolution. Marti made an exception to her usual routine. She locked the doors a half hour early. There were no more questions about painting or sculpture. The mood changed. Marti looked at Xiaoyu and he followed her up to the third floor. They returned to the same room. The room where Georgia and Xiaoyu let things happen and hours pass. When Xiaoyu left the room, Georgia was naked in a chair smoking a cigarette. Returning to the room, Xiaoyu found the room empty. The smell of incinerated tobacco still crept quietly about the room. Georgia was gone. And Xiaoyu wasn’t sure what it meant. Was she keeping tabs on him somehow? Was she lying? Was the room really private? How would she know what did or did not happen in the room? There was much for him to think about—Operation Surprise. With Georgia gone, Xiaoyu began to see behind Caprice. The Agency wasn’t this powerful organization—the all-seeing eye. It was a submarine always submerged, navigating tricky or complicated waters. The deeper the dive the more the pressure. Caprice was an attempt to alleviate the pressure, an introduction of control to an underwater wilderness. With Georgia gone, there was no way to keep track of Operation Surprise—no way to know what Xiaoyu did or didn’t do, no reminder of his mission. He improvised. He adapted. He relaxed and did the same to the operation. Instead of an infusion of raucous decisions, Marti went across the hall where the more civil conversations and decisions were had. She made two cappuccinos and took them back across the hall. By the time she had arrived the furniture to the room had been arranged and Xiaoyu was sitting at the table. Marti set the cappuccinos on the table. The topic was art, at first. The topic changed. The childhoods of both at the table became relevant before long. Marti’s life was very different from Xiaoyu’s.
Different in that she knew her parents. Different in that she was fond of her parents despite their divorce. Different in that she had a career choice. Alike in that her parents were from different places. Her father was French, her mother American. A dual Franco-American citizen, she had wanted to stay in Paris and work in the art industry—no such luck. The art industry in Paris was tough and insular. She won only internships that lead her into other internships. She applied to do research work for companies doing art and fashion reporting. ArtWire5 SA—an online magazine—responded to a resume she sent. ArtWire5 was a CIA concern that wanted her for her dual citizenship and fluency in English and French. She didn’t know it. To avoid any Agency association with ArtWire5, Marti was called by a CIA recruiter after she applied to ArtWire5. But Marti wasn’t easily taken in. She understood that her recent unemployment and lengthy job search must have sent her across the path of the CIA. She just didn’t know which company, until after she joined. Marti made a compromise, the Agency wanted her but she was brave enough to declare her own wishes. She would come aboard but she chose her own capacity. She wanted to work in an art gallery. And she wanted it full-time. She didn’t want cloak and dagger. She wanted palette and easel. She got it. Galerie L’Esi was the brainchild of then Agency Regional Director, David Redmond and Marti herself. The brilliance behind the gallery was that it was an actual gallery. It wasn’t a CIA front; it was also a CIA front. The gallery had receipts for everything. And the receipts were accurate. They would not be off by even the smallest amount unless some mistake had been made. The Agency also used the gallery to launder money. If the Agency had $1million that needed to be sourced, someone would buy a million worth of art pieces from Galerie L’Esi. The gallery would pay the money as a dividend to its parent company and the money would make its way back to CIA coffers. It would even get taxed by the French government. There was no better all-clear sign that money had been completely laundered other than for it to be taxed, making it legitimate by definition. Marti was part of that system. And it was good for everyone involved. Marti was better than eighty percent of the art dealers in Paris. She was more interesting and interested in art. She had no problems filling the Agency’s requests. At most, it required her to look the other way, a small price to pay to do what she wanted with her life. That made her a joy to be around.
Marti had a joie de vivre that resonated in her speech and conversation. It wasn’t the caffeine from the coffee or the excitement of meeting a new person with whom she could fall in love. The vibe was always there. She had struck the right deals at the right time. As a consequence, she was genuinely happy in life. Marti was seven years older than Xiaoyu but found his life story equally fascinating. His life was the opposite; there in lied the fascination. With Marti’s luck in life they would become lovers; with Xiaoyu’s they wouldn’t. But they talked for hours with a deep-seated mutual interest. For the rest of their lives they would remember such genuine conversation. Near the end of the French conversation both had realized it. Xiaoyu wanted good things for Marti because it made her the joyous person she was. Xiaoyu had only met burdened people. He relished the novelty of a person who seemed unrestrained. He imagined his mother was much like Marti when she was young—before Xiaofeng, before him. Happiness could be liked, even if it couldn’t be had. Marti wanted good things for Xiaoyu simply because he had never had them. In fact, Xiaoyu had thought of himself as a devil when he was young enough to be foolish. Talking to Marti made him feel a fool, knowing how much humanity was still in him. Their conversation ended with over five cappuccinos and eight hours between them. It ended out of necessity, not the notion that conversations had to end. Marti would have taken the underground to get home but at eight minutes to 3:00am the underground was closed. Marti decided on a taxi. Xiaoyu split the fare. Marti’s apartment was on Rue Ordener around the corner from Boulevard Barbès. Goodbyes were exchanged and a mutual feeling languished over the night for both. It was a first feeling for Xiaoyu, one of roofless optimism. For the first time, he felt he might have a connection to the world. Memories wouldn’t let him believe it.
• • •
Goulette à Goulette was an interesting idea, a café that fought hard to open in a residential-zoned block of Paris. The café won the fight but had to sacrifice serving food of any kind, outside prepackaged coffee biscuits to have with a good selection of beverages. There were wines—red and white—and coffee had anyway or tea, all teas. The food no doubt would have been spectacular but for the health codes that prevented its service. But the café flourished, for a different kind of clientele, those who met for a business brunch but had already filled their bellies with breakfast. A businessman staying at the best hotel in Paris couldn’t pass on the hotel’s breakfast, especially when it was already included. But the same businessman wasn’t so serious about doing business during the breakfast hour. By eleven o’clock he was already fed, but ready to negotiate. A glass of wine or cup of coffee was all he needed.
Not even a croissant would make the mood better, so Goulette à Goulette was its own standard. Parisians and tourist alike favored the atmosphere that was like coffee-to-go but most stayed anyway. There were even tables in the back in the courtyard where residents of adjacent buildings parked their scooters and bikes. The tables got sunshine around one o’clock. Georgia and Xiaoyu sat in the courtyard at the back of the restaurant. A new café for a new day, Georgia thought it bad taste to visit the same place in the same week. The conversation was friendly, in that it avoided the topic of the prior evening. It was awkward in that the two had to find all else to talk about, anxious as all hell. Georgia noticed the three rings on Xiaoyu’s right hand.
“What are those for?” asked Georgia.
“They tell you what they’re for,” Xiaoyu turned the rings—slightly oversized for his fingers—each character facing forward. He laid his hand down on the table for Georgia to see.
“I’ll need a dictionary or a translation,” said Georgia. Xiaoyu turned his head to the right.
“They represent luck, health and longevity,” said Xiaoyu.
“Why?” asked Georgia.
“I thought about it myself,” said Xiaoyu, “These are the three that you don’t want to run out.”
“What about money?” said Georgia, “What about love? Most people would add those.”
“You could but you would have a ring for each finger,” said Xiaoyu, “Your hand would be crowded. Bad Feng Shui.”
“But you’d have everything you could want,” said Georgia.
“Not necessarily,” said Xiaoyu, “Not really.”
“Oh no,” said Georgia, “Why not?”
“Why be in this world?” said Xiaoyu, “You’d have everything. There would be no point in having time in this world. There would be nothing to achieve with the time given to you. You might as well leave this world and leave your gifts for others who don’t have them.”