Remembrandt

by Robin King

  Casey must have covered me during the night, because when I awoke from my dreamless sleep, her soft, furry zebra-print blanket was keeping me warm.

  My headphones played Latino radio on the way to my new Spanish class. Despite my slight limp from training, the lively salsa beat got my blood flowing while I walked. I was also excited that I was beginning to understand more than just simple phrases in Spanish.

  The Rochambeau House looked more like a French chateau than a university building, but I entered without knocking on the large wooden door. I had been there once before, to meet Casey after her French class one day. The plaque on the exterior explained how the building was once the home of one of the first Brown presidents and then had been gifted to the university and became the departments of French, Hispanic, and Italian studies.

  My eyes scanned the paintings on walls of the paneled foyer as I headed in the direction of the classrooms near the rear of the house. I paused at a few of them, admiring the colors and lines. That was something my mom had instilled in me—a love of art. I shook the memory off. I couldn’t think of home.

  I was the first to enter my new Spanish class, so I took a seat near the back—no need to draw attention to myself. The class had already been meeting for a month, and I was a little nervous about joining late in the game, but at least I felt confident in the textbook material now embedded in my mind.

  Several students trickled into the room over the next ten minutes, and by the time class was supposed to start, about thirty students filled the neat rows of desks. Some of them were chatting excitedly in Spanish—oh no! Is this a Spanish-only class?—and others kept to themselves like me.

  While I was watching the doorway for the new professor, William walked into the room. My breath caught in my throat. He took a seat at the front of the classroom and rummaged through his bag, pulling out a textbook and some papers. It took me almost ten seconds to realize he was sitting in the teacher’s desk for a reason. Seriously? The one guy on campus I’ve said more than two words to all semester just happens to teach my class. I slumped down in my seat, trying to hide behind a large guy in front of me.

  “Buenos días, clase,” William spoke, his voice a rich honey. I couldn’t help peering at him from my hiding place.

  “Buenos días, Señor Gunderson,” the whole class, minus me, replied.

  “We are going to work on the past again, specifically the difference between the preterite and imperfect. Go ahead and get with your partners and work on the first section of chapter 6.” As he continued to speak in Spanish I was surprised how much I understood, although I was certain he was speaking slower than the average Spanish-speaker, for the students’ benefit.

  “Let’s work together,” the guy next to me whispered. I looked over to my new “amigo,” then sank lower in my chair. Maybe William—I mean, Señor Gunderson—wouldn’t notice me and I could transfer to a different section when I escaped the classroom.

  “Sure,” I said in English.

  “Ayer, caminaba al museo cuando caí . . .” my partner began. We continued the exercise, and I forgot to pretend to use my book as I “read” and completed each part. Luckily my partner was too busy staring at his own text to notice.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off the front of the room. William began writing some vocabulary on the white board hanging on the wall. I really tried not to stare as he reached up high to write enconderse and each conjugation below it. His blue dress shirt was untucked on one side and hung out from under his brown vest. Does he do that on purpose?

  “Are you going to do number 5?” my partner asked.

  I answered the question while still admiring the dark curls of hair that brushed against the collar of William’s shirt. I blinked my eyes away from the front of the room. I had to get a hold of myself. I was nearly an adult. I could be adult-like here. William and I were just acquaintances. That was it. And wasn’t he the one with the problem here? It wasn’t like I had hidden the fact that I was a student at Brown.

  When everyone had completed their partner work, our teacher stood at the front of the class and began telling a childhood story in Spanish. I wanted to make sure I could understand every word so I leaned in a little closer.

  “And then my little brother jumped on top of the wooden chest, locking us all in. It was dark and hard to breathe” —William’s eyes focused on the whole class— “and I was scared for my life.” He paused dramatically, his students hanging on every word. “Uno, dos, tres—we all pushed and the sides of the . . .” He stopped again, but not for the effect. He was looking directly at me, surprise written all over his face. A few students glanced in my direction. I buried my burning face behind my book, glad to have the prop handy.

  It felt like hours passed as he finished his story and we completed several more sections in the book. Every time I peeked over my book, those beautiful blue eyes looked in my direction. I sighed with relief when class finally ended. Unfortunately, William stood at the only exit as all the students filed out of the room. So much for sneaking out.

  When I mustered enough courage, I rose from my seat like a perfectly composed adult. William was still standing at the door after finishing a conversation with a student. He waited until they left and turned to face me.

  “Should I be worried?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “That I may be the one with a stalker now.” He smiled.

  “I really didn’t know this was your class. Actually, I didn’t even know you were a professor. By the way, how is it that I didn’t seem to know that important piece of information?”

  William bit the inside of his cheek, and I told myself it did not look adorable. “Sorry. It’s not something I like to broadcast, especially since most of my students are close to my age or older. I want people to know me for me and not cast judgment when they find out I teach here. It’s not that I lie about it, I just want people to know other things about me first.”

  I knew exactly how he felt. “So how long have you been teaching?” I asked, leaning against the wall, the three-foot doorway our only separation.

  “This is my second semester. I got my doctorate last fall in Spanish. I studied here at Brown, but I did several semesters in Granada and Barcelona while still an undergraduate.”

  “You have a PhD? You’ve studied abroad? How old are you?” The questions tumbled out before I could stop myself.

  He laughed. “How old are you?”

  “Okay, okay, but I guess I’m confused at how you can already be a professor. I didn’t think you were much older than I was. You’re obviously some kind of genius.” What is wrong with me? Why do I keep saying the first thing that pops into my head?

  “I’ll take that as a compliment, but don’t give me too much credit. Before I started school, my dad’s job took us to live in Argentina until I was ten. When we came back to Rhode Island, my mom wanted me to keep learning Spanish. I was homeschooled and started a few college classes at fourteen. My mom turned out to be a great teacher and I liked the challenge. By the time I was eighteen, I had already done a semester in Barcelona and started the master’s program here at Brown. I’m twenty-two now.”

  “Oh.” I looked down, trying to hide my surprise and disappointment. A professor! And five years older than me! Ugh. “Well, I’d better get going to my next class.” I glanced at the time on my phone. The class wasn’t for over an hour, but remaining there with William was a little too intimidating. “Gracias.” I went out the doorway and back down the hall to the foyer. I thought I heard him calling my name, but I wasn’t ready to face him again so I continued walking.

  Outside of the building, I rounded the corner of the Rochambeau and entered the gated gardens on the west side of the house. They overflowed with greenery and flowers despite the impending fall, and the enchanting scene helped me relax. I slumped against the worn, red-brick exterior and tried to breathe normally. I felt like the few pieces of fruit just barely hanging on to the espaliered pear trees creeping
along the wall. Just one little nudge and they would probably fall to the ground.

  I tried to reason with myself. What is there to worry about? So what if William is a professor? In fact, that was probably a good thing. It’s not like I was looking to date anyone, and I was sure there had to be rules about student-professor relationships. He must have understood the conditions of his employment. Brown professors were known to be close to their students and even keep in touch as friends once they graduated. I already had a close relationship with Golkov, so what was wrong with being good friends with another professor?

  Good friends. I could do that.

  11

  Admission

  I input my passcode and waited for the eye scan to admit me into The Company headquarters. The organization’s computer system now carried my information, allowing me to enter through the iron door unaccompanied. It was beginning to feel more natural to be in the headquarters. Several of the operatives nodded or smiled at me as I walked to the back toward the gym.

  Sensei Itosu greeted me with a bow after I had changed into my workout clothes. He showed me some stretches to help my mind and body relax. It reminded me of the awkward yoga poses Casey had convinced me to do once a week—her idea of exercise.

  “Our minds and bodies are one,” said the sensei. “When we can conquer a troubled mind, we can focus on the workings of body and do things we would have once thought impossible. Focus your mind and concentrate on each muscle and tendon in your leg.” I stood on one leg with my arms outstretched in front of me, and my other leg extended behind me. I tried to clear my mind, but flashbacks from Spanish class clouded things over. My mind replayed William’s surprised blue eyes penetrating into mine. In slow motion, the edges of his mouth turned up just a little bit. I hadn’t noticed that before.

  I lost my footing and threw out a hand to catch myself on the floor. “I don’t know how to clear my mind. There’s too much to empty out,” I said while I repositioned my legs and arms in warrior III position, as Casey had called it.

  “Focus is different than what you call ‘clearing,’” Sensei Itosu explained. “No one can completely erase their minds of thoughts. You must focus on those things that bring peace and joy. In turn, other parts of your mind—especially those that house fear, confusion, and sadness—will begin to fade but not disappear. The clarity of a peaceful mind allows us to make accurate choices about our life and the reactions we have to life’s circumstances. Working for this organization requires that concentration.”

  I played back happy memories in my mind—vacations with my family, hanging out with Tanner, some moments at Brown. Each thought brought a small piece of happiness to my mind, and I pulled on that emotion until I became vividly aware of my surroundings.

  My body remained still, but I grew conscious of everything in the room. Two men were lifting weights in another corner of the room, someone was jogging on a treadmill behind me, and a woman in a dress suit stood at the balcony near one of the glass offices. I heard Daly’s voice upstairs, though I couldn’t make out what he was saying or to whom he was speaking. All of my senses were alert. I could even smell, much to my chagrin, the sweat coming from the bodies in the room, and the faint aroma of floral perfume.

  “Whoa,” I said aloud.

  Sensei Itosu smiled. “Our minds can be an impressive tool. Of everything we will work on together, mastering the depths of your mind will be your greatest self-defense.”

  I knew he was right. I had spent the better part of the last year trying to forget what happened in East Wenatchee and move on. Maybe my teacher could help me. Forgetting wasn’t something I was capable of doing, but maybe through focus I could control my thoughts.

  After our focusing exercises, we worked for an hour on how to get out of an attack from behind.

  Daly was waiting for me at the end of the workout. “Looks like Sensei Itosu is training you well,” he said.

  “Now if I could only keep him from knocking me off my feet so much.” I wiped the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand, then rubbed at the bruise forming on my hip.

  “You should have seen me the first few months I was here. I had more bruises and sore muscles than I ever got playing rugby in high school.” I tried to picture a teenaged version of Daly dressed in something other than a tailored suit. The visual drew a smile to my lips.

  Sensei Itosu stepped next to us with a water bottle in his hand. “You were always one of my favorite students,” he said to Daly. “So much energy. Though I wouldn’t be surprised if Alexandra surpasses you soon.” The sensei winked at me.

  “Oh, really? Well, once I am cleared for exercise” —Daly pointed to his wounded shoulder— “we will have to have a little match.”

  He no longer wore his sling, but I figured it would be weeks before he would be entirely healed. That would give me more time to get better at protecting myself. The idea of beating him was very enticing. There was something about his self-assurance and cockiness that made me want to see him flat on his back.

  “I have some things for you in my office.” Daly motioned for me to follow him up the stairs. I hadn’t realized his office was on the second floor overlooking the gym. It seemed kind of strange to have an office where your only view was of operatives in physical instruction and exercises.

  “All of the handlers have offices up here,” he told me.

  “Not the best view, though, huh? But I guess when your office is underground there really isn’t much to see anyway.”

  “On the contrary. The offices are located where they are so we can watch our operatives and become familiar with their reactions and movements. When we’re on missions together, I’ll be here or at one of our foreign offices, and you’ll be in the field. It’s my job to know how you’ll respond in a situation and keep one step ahead of you. There will be times when I’ll be your eyes and ears and help guide you. All of this technology allows me access to information that may help you.”

  We entered his office. A touch-screen like the one in the conference room filled the back wall. Everything appeared spotless and organized, no paper askew, every object placed deliberately. The glass side walls gave a view of the adjacent offices. With all the glass, the lack of fingerprints or smudges surprised me. I wondered how often the offices were cleaned. A picture of my dorm room flashed in my head, and I promised myself to get better organized.

  Daly placed a few books on a square glass table in the middle of the room and sat in his leather chair. I took a seat across from him. I was glad we were on opposite sides of the table because I hadn’t yet taken a shower, and Sensei Itosu had given me quite a workout.

  “Here are some training materials we want you to be familiar with,” Daly said. “Most of this stuff will be learned hands-on in the field, but reading it will help you know how to respond to the many situations you may be placed in. You’ll need to memorize the code words and phrases we use in different scenarios so we can communicate without giving up your identity or mission.”

  “Okay, sounds easy enough.” I leaned back in the chair.

  “Ms. Stewart, there is nothing easy about what we do here.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “It’s hard work. It takes intense training. Most operatives train for years before they go into the field. We’re serious about making our operatives ready for anything. Just because you have already experienced firsthand in Russia some of the things you may be faced with doesn’t mean you are mission-ready. You got lucky. In fact, I’m not too sure you are ready for any of this.” He folded his arms across his chest.

  I sat up straight. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like I wasn’t serious about training. I just meant that I know I can be familiar with what’s in the manual. I realize I have a lot to learn, and I believe I can work hard.” My temperature was rising, but I took a few deep breaths and remained cool and calm. Maybe Sensei Itosu’s focusing exercises really did work.

  “Why don’t you start by reviewing the first section of the manual on top
, and then we can discuss its practical use,” Daly said tersely. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He shoved the books toward me and abruptly left his office. I tried not to watch him strut down the hallway, but the glass walls hid nothing. He entered another handler’s office and began speaking with him, his back toward me.

  If there was ever a time when I needed my mind, it was now. I hated being told I wasn’t ready or mature enough for something. I quickly grabbed the manual on top and scanned each page, making sure I didn’t miss anything. The next manual was even thicker, but I managed to capture each page in my head. The last manual was filled with more pictures and diagrams than the other ones, with several pages devoted to weapons I had never heard of. I hope my training doesn’t involve guns.

  I finished looking at the last page of the final manual just as Daly headed back to his office. I placed the manuals back in their spot and straightened in my seat.

  “That took longer than I thought. Millard is our technology expert. Most handlers are very versed in all things computer related, but he actually builds all of our devices. He is currently working on your new smart phone and earpiece. The phone was taking a little longer than usual, so I pushed for an earlier completion date. But apparently a female college student’s phone has to look a certain way.”

  “Hmm. I think I like Millard already.” I peered through the glass walls trying to get a good look at him, but a computer monitor blocked his face.

  “We can review that chapter later. I know it is getting late and you have schoolwork to get to.” Daly appeared to have calmed down.

  “No, it’s okay. I’m ready. Test me.” I crossed my legs and looked straight at him.

  “Test you?”

  “On the material you gave me. I’m ready to discuss it now.” I tried not to sound too cocky. He looked at me incredulously, but proceeded to open the training manual on top. He flipped to one of the first few pages.