“It’s difficult, Marty. I know it is very difficult for you. I don’t want to pretend that I understand how you feel.” She whispers those words, but she is so close to my ears that I feel her soft breath tingling the side of my face.
“You don’t have to…”
“I know I don’t,” she says but this time to the void ahead of us. I want her to turn around so I can feel her warm breath on me, but she continues to speak to the void. “They were lovely people, your parents, and it’s utterly unfair to you to be left alone without them. But don’t ever feel that you are alone. You have your friends at home and you have me here. You can always reach me. You know that, right?”
“I know.”
I don’t want to talk about my parents. I don’t want her words to make me cry. I don’t want to cry standing on the tiny balcony looking at London and feeling her body next to me, while my device is molesting her computer.
I turn around and face her and she does the same. The balcony is truly tiny so we can only turn our bodies partially unless we want to be in each other’s arms. It’s horribly intimate and the conversation is becoming too painful. I don’t want to reply harshly, but I feel I must defuse the tension that’s burning within me.
“Maybe they were soulmates and maybe they weren’t. It doesn’t matter now, does it, Gabrielle? She died of cancer and he died of losing her.”
“Of course, it matters, sweetheart. You don’t have to pretend to be strong.”
She’s still holding on to my hand. She doesn’t want to let go. I love how she called me sweetheart. My mother used such terms of endearment when she talked to people. Gabrielle doesn’t remind me of my mother, but I love her for her tenderness. She feels my discomfort and asks, “How’s your head?”
I casually look back in the room. There is still a little glow. “Much better. I’ll finish the cup and then we can go.”
She nods and takes a step back to the room, but stops and says, more to herself than me, “We all have to face our demons sooner or later.” Then, she steps inside the room, not waiting for a response.
My heart drops and I fear the worst. She doesn’t glance at her computer. She puts her untouched cup on the counter and goes to the bathroom. I dash in the room and stare at my little device, willing it to finish its job quickly. Her computer is simply too slow for my product. I hear the toilet flush and then the faucet. For the first time, I wished she were one of those women who spent a long time in the bathroom. She never did.
She opens the door and walks outside the bathroom. I quickly sit on the bed again, drinking my tea. She must have seen my quick movements, but doesn’t say anything. She walks over and sits next to me.
“Are you feeling better?”
“Yes, much better. It’s almost done.”
She smiles and looks at me patiently. My mind is racing. I think I need a few more minutes. I curse her slow computer. This should have been finished long ago. I was wondering if something has gone wrong. I need to check the computer again. I need to make sure everything is okay. I feel nervous and in my nervousness I keeping drinking from the empty cup.
“Do you want more tea?”
“No. I’m ready to go.” Then I touch her face as if I am wiping something.
“What is it?”
“Nothing, just a little smudge.”
She wipes her face with her finger. “Is it gone?”
“No.”
She gets up to go back to the bathroom, but I know this wouldn’t buy enough time. I need a different kind of distraction so I take advantage of her Achilles’s heel, her left eyebrow. “Gabrielle?”
“Yes?”
“Nothing. Well… well, I just wanted to say that you look very nice. I may not have mentioned it earlier, but you look very pretty tonight.”
“Thanks. Let me wipe the smudge and then we can go.”
I know my next comment would worry her and send her in the bathroom for a while. “And…and…you’ve done a great job with your hair and eyebrow.”
“Oh! Thanks, Marty.” She touches her face and then runs her fingers through her hair a few times. “Why don’t you have another cup and let me wash my face,” she says and then dashes to the bathroom, closing the door behind her.
I jump up and bring up my shell program. It’s doing fine, but just way too slow. I sit there looking at each line that comes up on the screen. It’s almost done, just another minute. I hear the water in the bathroom. She is busy fixing her eyebrow that was fine in the first place. I feel guilty for making her feel self-conscious, but tell myself I had no other choice. I have already crossed all ethical lines so what is a little lie on top of everything else? I shouldn’t have asked this question in the middle of everything because the answer that’s now swirling in my head is not the one I want to hear. There is no smudge on her face, her eyebrows are perfect, and her computer is half-open when it was closed when we entered the room earlier. Each little clue could cause her to suspect something and if she finds out, then that’s the end of us for certain. I’d been so preoccupied with protecting her that I forgot to think about safeguarding us. I should have let someone else do this job. I had done all the prep work in protecting her and somebody else, anybody, could have been doing the actual transfer of the computer worm. I’m sitting in front of her open computer staring at the seemingly never-ending lines of codes scroll by and I have exhausted all my excuses for staying in her tiny room. If this routine is not done by the time she comes out, I’d be forced to pull out my device and start the whole process from scratch.
I’m staring at the screen and willing it to stop and finally the green light flashes twice and then goes dark and with it the screen. It’s done. I just need to write a single code to execute the commands. I touch the screen and it comes alive again. Then I hear the door click open. I jump up and put the computer behind me and grab the empty teacup with my left hand.
“Good, you got another cup.” She is drying her hands.
“No. I mean, yes. That is, I’m fine.” I type with my right hand while facing her and sipping my empty cup. My hand is twisted behind me and I’m just hoping I have my fingers on the right keys. I’m also hoping that she thinks I’m just scratching my back.
“I’m ready if you are.” She grabs her coat and smiles. She has fresh makeup on. I smile back and with that she walks towards the door.
“I’m ready.”
I turn around slowly and put my cup next to the TV and pull out my little device with my other hand. I look at the codes one final time and press enter. The screen goes dark. I walk towards the door, hoping she had not paid any attention to me.
She has.
“What are you doing?”
My heart sinks. I fear she’s caught me. “Nothing.”
“You’re so silly. You forgot your shoes.”
She is right. My shoes are still next to the bed.
I am protecting Gabrielle. She will never be blamed for bringing the malware to the company. I’m good at my job. I had a choice to make though. The German firm owns Care Medical Group, the insurance company that my parents used. I could have done some damage to them. I could have added a routine to exact some cost from CMG, to make them pay for their ruthlessness. I could have made them pay. I could have and no one would have known.
I didn’t. I’m better than they are. I don’t need revenge. I only want to protect Gabrielle while accomplishing my task. I would never hurt Gabrielle. I loved her very much once and I have done my best to protect her. I know I will hurt the man who is selling information though. I don’t think about him. I can’t think about him. I can’t allow myself to be a judge. I don’t know if he is a target because our government simply doesn’t like him or if he is a target because he’s selling to our enemies. The day I start thinking about him is the day I will have to quit my job. I was told the very words when I started with the agency. He will be hurt. I have a hand in it, but no one will know.
We walk out of the hotel and Gabrielle wal
ks towards Queens Arms. I’m thinking we are just going that direction since it’s a short cut to the main street. She stops by the pub. It’s getting late, but people are still drinking outside. Jill is not there.
Gabrielle looks at me for a second and says, “It’s time for me to face my demons.” And then she walks inside.
There are no demons waiting for me inside so I follow her in. The place is heavy with the smell of people and their drinks. They are all talking at once and their conversations hang in the air making the room thick and heavy. She walks smoothly through them, not looking at anyone. I push through the masses of people to keep up with her. I catch up with her and she is leaning against the bar. Our booth is at the end of the room. It looks the same, the same red fake leather seats with wooden frame. The heavy oak table with red number 12 stamped on a corner is still there. Gabrielle is focusing on the bartender. She doesn’t want to look at our old table. Others are sitting around it. It is no longer ours.
She orders two pints and pays for them immediately. She grabs both glasses and walks back towards the door. I follow her again. The noise is deafening. We walk outside and there is a vacant table. She puts down the ciders and sits down heavily. I sit down and take a long sip. She follows. The air is cooler still and more clouds are forming in the sky.
I wonder if I did everything correctly. I go through the steps in my head, trying to remember if I put all the right codes in her computer. I should have waited, and looked for a better opportunity, when I’d have had more time. I’m certain the program will do its job, but I am anxious about Gabrielle getting blamed for it. I try to visualize all my keystrokes. They were fine. They must have been fine otherwise the routine would not have ended. I had put the extra manual requirement for this very reason. If I had pressed the wrong keys, it would not have asked for the final “enter key”. I’ve done everything correctly and, moreover, there is nothing else I can do. All of a sudden I feel a sense of relief, like when you turn in your final exam and you know you have aced it. I can put it out of my mind. I can be myself now, and not the horrible person who uses his friend’s computer to do his dirty job.
I’m glad Gabrielle came to the Queens Arms. It used to be our place and it could be again. She may have demons in this place, but I don’t. My demons are hidden elsewhere.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve been here,” Gabrielle informs me.
“Are you okay?”
“It’s just another place, Marty. No reason to run away from our past, right?”
The question is more for her than me. She is assuring herself. She has many reasons for not wanting to go to the Queens Arms.
“We had good times here. I’ve fond memories of this place.”
She nods. She does as well. Then she looks up and stares at me soberly. I’m not sure what she wants, but I can guess. “What, Gabrielle?”
“Why are you here?” She asks.
She looks worried. We’ve come full circle again. I don’t think she means the pub, but maybe she does since everything is connected, one way or another.
I reply, “To visit London, of course.”
“Why now?”
“I told you, to blow ten grand.”
She shakes her head. She doesn’t want to play games. She is a mother of a two-year-old and she’s fed up with games. She certainly doesn’t want to play my game.
“Yes, Marty. But why now?” I don’t answer so she says, “Tomorrow is Saturday.”
“I know.”
“June 27th.”
“I know the date, Gabrielle. You don’t have to remind me.”
She looks at me and I look at her. Her eyes have stopped dancing. I think I still could love her, but I don’t want her pity. There’s a cold breeze in the air. I wonder if it will rain. Rain speeds up everything, but it could also slow things down too. She is looking in the distance now. She takes another sip.
“I need something stronger,” she says as she gets up and walks towards the pub.
I agree. This is not the time to be timid. We both need to be fully drunk before the night’s end. We will have to face each other by and by, and we need the alcohol to facilitate the journey. I take the little device out of my pocket and press the green glass three times. The light comes on. I slowly count to ten before pressing it four more times. The green light blinks several times and goes dark. The device is dead. I hold both ends and break it into pieces. I will dispose of the pieces one-by-one later. I’ve done my job and even though this may be my last, I’m fine with it. I will send a coded message to the office when I go back to my hotel and then will enjoy the rest of the weekend in London. I’m ready.
Gabrielle walks back with four shots of tequila and two pints of cider. She loves tequila. That’s my contribution. She puts the little tumblers on the table and we take a shot each without a word. That’s the way Daniel likes it: take shots in silence and then liven it up with a pint. We pick up our glasses and clink them loudly. We like our old rituals.
“I’m sorry, Marty,” she says, but I don’t want her to be sorry.
She has nothing to be sorry about. She’s right about the date even though I pretended that it was a coincidence. It was not. I chose to come on this weekend and not the one after or before. In the greater scheme of things, it may not have made any difference, but I thought this weekend was the easier one. I feel the tequila and the cider and the oysters and my betrayal in my head. They are in there, jumbling my thoughts. So I reach for something real.
“Why do you call me Marty?”
She laughs, surprised. It’s a deep mirthful laugh, a genuine joy that only little babies display. “After all these years, you ask this now?”
“I don’t know why I was never curious about it. I should have asked you then but I was a new student in a foreign country and I felt lonely and out of place. Do you remember?”
“I remember how awkward you were.”
“Daniel introduced me to his friends and you all asked me about the TV show. I wanted to tell you something about the show, but I’d never watched it.”
“I’m sure we were just being silly.” She said we, even though she had no role in the mockery.
“I know but everyone looked so disappointed and I felt rather foolish.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No. No. It wasn’t your fault. In fact, you saved me. You asked about my favorite show. I’m not sure if you meant to help, but your question gave me an opening to talk about something else.”
The whole thing was silly and I made it more than what it was. TV shows were not a big deal in the UK, and nobody really cared about them. It was their way of goading a new kid from the States, but I didn’t know it then. I wanted to be accepted and I thought not knowing about “Dallas” was a death sentence. It wasn’t.
“And I called you ‘Marty’”.
“You did. You called me Marty and I accepted it. Don’t get me wrong, I like the name.”
She smiles. “It fits you.”
“You didn’t name me after the character in the movie, right?”
“Would it be so bad if I did?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Marty Piletti is a sad character. He is a lonely thirty-something looking for love. I wasn’t that, was I?”
“You looked so lonely and so vulnerable and you reminded me of my brother.”
“Your brother?”
I look at Gabrielle, puzzled. This was the first time she mentioned a similarity between Ben and me. I don’t think I looked like her brother, not by any stretch of the imagination.
Perhaps I look like a Marty more than I know it. She sees the disappointment on my face. The smile dies on her lips, but she says, “Ben loved the movie. We watched it again before he sailed for the last time. He was such a romantic and he adored the story of Marty’s love for Clara. And at the time you looked so much like my brother.”
“I did? But why Marty, why not Ben or Robert?”
“I don’t know. All day long that day, I wa
s thinking of Ben and how much I missed him. Then Daniel brings you around and for a moment you looked like my brother. For a moment, I thought he was back. But of course, you don’t really look like him. You reminded me of my brother. You looked so vulnerable and in need of attention that I thought of Ben and then Marty. And for a moment you were him.”
I don’t know if she means Ben or Marty. “I don’t understand.”
“I know. It was stupid and I can’t explain it now after so many years. But at the time, when you came in with Daniel, looking so eager to please, I felt a connection with you. At the time, it felt so natural to call you Marty and it seemed to fit, as if my brother was there with me. Silly…”
I feel foolish, like I did at her party, so many years ago. I’m certain we would be in a different place if we had this conversation years ago. It’s strange the way we do things, the way we don’t verbalize how we feel. I should have asked her about it then. She should have told me that she felt a connection with me then. But neither of us said anything. I should have said how I felt about her when I had the chance, but I didn’t. We keep our emotions in check and we make assumptions about each other. We think words don’t mean anything, but they do. We build or break relationships because of what we say or don’t say. A friendship that should have lasted a lifetime is cut short because of a few words that should have been spoken. I am guilty of it. Gabrielle is guilty of it. And perhaps our other friends are too. None of them are here with us and that’s the result of each of our shortcomings.
I was timid when I should have been bold. I should have spoken out, but I stayed quiet. I should have asked why she was calling me Marty and not my real name, but I accepted it without question. I’ve waited fifteen years to ask and the answer has no meaning now. I should have asked many other questions and should have offered many of my own answers, but I didn’t.
Gabrielle was right. She saw me as Marty when I was a teenager and she was right. She saw me for what I was to become. I’m sitting here face-to-face with a woman that I loved once and I think I could love again, but I don’t speak out. I should tell her how I feel, but I can’t. She is married and she has a two-year-old son. I’ve just assaulted her computer and within a week or so my actions will cause major turmoil in her company. I have no right to tell her anything.
Pisgah Road Page 18