Chapter 14 #2
She did, and they easily filled the conversation with trivialities in case her phone was listening, but underneath it all,
Aida knew they were burning to get to the bottom of the MODA mystery.
In London, the onset of the holiday season had subtly transformed the city, and its festive touch was evident as Aida arrived at the hotel.
The lobby was tastefully decorated with discreet strands of twinkling lights and a modest, elegantly adorned Christmas tree in one corner, creating a cozy, welcoming atmosphere.
As she navigated the softly humming common areas, Aida paid attention to the individuals she encountered, hoping to recognize someone from the list Yumi had given her.
She sat in the lobby for a while and observed guests coming and going.
The only familiar face was Luciano, who entered with a single carry-on suitcase.
Their eyes met for a moment before he quickly masked his expression, diverting his gaze and moving swiftly toward the check-in desk.
Aida made her way to her room, and not long after, her phone buzzed—it was Luciano on Signal.
Ciao Aida. ??
Aida’s heart fluttered. I’m glad you’re here. I have something important to share with you.
He responded immediately. Are you staying in town after your meeting or returning? If you are staying, would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow
night?
She gave a little fist pump to the air, glad she hadn’t planned to return to Rome right after her meeting with MODA the next
day. I’d be delighted.
Meet me under the clock on the corner of High Holborn and Southhampton Row at 19:00. There’s a Thai place about 15 minutes
away, if that would interest you? Better if we aren’t seen together at the hotel.
As soon as she hit Send on her affirmative response, her MODA phone buzzed, startling her and sending her blood pumping. They
couldn’t know she had been communicating with Luciano, could they? She willed her voice to be calm as she picked it up and
said hello.
“I hope your report is ready.” She was surprised to hear Mo’s voice, as she’d never spoken with him on the phone before.
“Now? I thought we were meeting tomorrow afternoon?” Aida said, confused that they would want her report in the evening before
she even had a bite to eat. She glanced in the mirror above the hotel dresser, wishing she had time to redo her makeup.
His response was terse. “You’re here now, and I’m waiting.” The phone disconnected, leaving Aida to stare at the glowing interface.
She wanted to text Luciano back to warn him that his schedule might change too, but the timing of Mo’s call at the end of
their conversation worried her, so she decided against it. She rushed to pull herself together and made her way to the private
elevator.
An attendant let her into the penthouse and walked her to the dining room. The table was there, but the chairs had been removed,
except for two. Mo stood behind the one at the far end of the table and motioned for her to sit in the other. Fran and Disa
were nowhere to be seen.
“This looks like an interrogation,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t betray the unease simmering beneath the surface.
“It is,” he said with a sly smile.
“Well then, officer, let’s get on with it.” Aida took her seat, determined not to let him see her flustered.
Mo came around the table and perched on the edge so that he was inches away, peering down at her. His proximity was unnerving,
but there was something soft in his gaze. He suddenly reached into a pocket. Aida drew back, unsure of his intentions. He
chuckled at her discomfort.
“Just the recorder,” he said, placing a small black rectangle on the table before her. “So my partners can catch up later.” He said partners as though it were a funny joke.
“Where are Disa and Fran?” she asked, trying to shift the subject and escape the strange energy between them.
“They’re visiting with an old chum. Someone has to report back on your work, so I volunteered to stay here with you, my funless
friend.”
She wished Mo wouldn’t sit so alarmingly close to her. It was meant to intimidate, and she hated that it was effective.
“Let’s begin.” Mo’s voice broke through her spiraling thoughts.
Aida drew in a breath, steadying herself.
“Explain happiness to me,” he said, his blue eyes searching her face, lingering for just a moment too long.
“It’s the supreme good. Being able to live a life that enables us to use and develop our reason . . .”
Mo cut her off with a wave of his hand. “You think I wouldn’t know Aristotle?” He folded his arms against his chest and frowned
at her.
“I was about to credit him, but I couldn’t finish my sentence.” Aida tried to keep calm and not let an edge creep into her
voice. She knew Mo enjoyed riling her up. Or riling anyone around him up.
“Do I make you happy, Aida?” His blue eyes were hard ice, daring her to answer.
“Yes,” she said.
A slow smile spread across his lips, the satisfaction unmistakable.
“If you consider amusement to be a component of happiness,” she added, though she was more irritated than amused. But Mo liked
it when she pushed back, and his smile broadened as she spoke.
“Ah.” He leaned in, closer than before, and for a moment, Aida was certain he would kiss her. She tensed, not because she
wanted it, but because part of her was curious. Would she stop him? To her relief, she never had to answer that question, as he pulled back suddenly and stood, beginning to pace the room.
“Did winning the National Book Award make you happy?”
Aida raised an eyebrow. “Is that a serious question?”
“Yes,” he said, staring her down.
“Yes, of course it did. Why wouldn’t I be happy about that?”
“How did winning make you happy?”
“It gave my writing public legitimacy, something I never had when working academically. It made me feel accomplished, successful.”
It was his turn to raise an eyebrow. “And feeling accomplished makes you happy?”
Aida was so confused about this line of questioning. “Yes. Don’t you feel happy when you accomplish something amazing?”
He laughed, a roaring belly laugh that made Aida bristle. He was laughing at her. “Oh, my dear, everything I do is amazing. Now then, explain the puppet show,” he said, his tone more clipped, shifting
the conversation in a way that left Aida feeling like she had missed something important.
She had spent the previous week cataloging the Teatrino di Pulcinella Gianicolo, a puppet show on the Janiculum Hill that
had been running since 1959. She began to describe the children’s reactions to the puppets before he interrupted her.
“What did you think when you first watched the puppet show?”
“I wished I could have watched it as a child, with the wonder that comes naturally to them.”
“The puppets are violent. Why do children delight in violence?” Mo shook his head in mock disappointment.
“Puppet shows were originally satire for adults, and Pulcinella, like Punch from Punch and Judy, was often associated with characteristics of the devil. But in the eighteenth century he became a little more benevolent,
representing the greater good, even if through violent means. People were used to seeing violence, and humor helped to balance
such unsavory aspects of life.”
“I didn’t ask about the history. Answer my question. Why do children delight in violence?”
Aida tried not to show how flustered his questions made her. She had only tangentially explored the psychology of the puppet
shows, preferring to stick to the history of the tiny theater. “They aren’t responding to the violence—they’re responding
to the uniqueness of the mode of storytelling. There’s excitement in watching a figure fight off injustice, even if it is
only perceived injustice.”
“They’re watching a puppet beat the shit out of another puppet and they think it’s hilarious.” He was leaning against the far wall, his arms crossed, staring at Aida. “Did you think it was hilarious?”
“I did,” she said, although she felt dirty as the words fell from her lips. In this context, it sounded terrible that she
had found such behavior funny.
“Do you also delight in violence?”
“No, I don’t.”
“What a conundrum we have here,” he said, chuckling and drumming his fingers on his upper arm. He stared at her, willing her
to speak.
Aida held her ground and waited for his next question.
“It seems that violence can make even normal people happy. Would you agree?” Mo smiled again, but this time there was something
softer behind it. “You ever think about the Colosseum? Thousands of normal people, rooting for real bloodshed. Makes you wonder how far we’ve really come.”
Aida exhaled slowly, keeping her frustration in check. “There’s a difference between enjoying a story and condoning real harm.”
“Is there?” His smile faltered for a moment before returning. “People used to cheer for blood. And here you are, cheering
on fake violence.”
“You are distorting my words.”
“But I’m not incorrect, am I?”
Aida couldn’t deny that he was right. She thought of all the violent TV shows and movies, all the video games she had played,
the books she had read. She had grown up watching the Road Runner repeatedly destroy Wile E. Coyote, laughing every time his
head was blown off or he fell off a cliff.
“We delight in watching the destruction of bad things,” she said, but she knew it sounded weak.
“What do you consider a bad thing?”
Mo’s needling was starting to grate and her retort was sharper than she meant it to be. “I don’t know what this has to do
with the work I’ve done in the last three months.”
Mo pressed on. “So now our conversation is a bad thing?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Oh, but you did.” Mo broke into loud laughter. Then he seemed to notice the recording device on the table. “But, my dear
Aida, I will refrain from continuing this mode of inquiry lest my partners accuse me of scaring off our little novelist.”
He gestured for her to stand and leave. Aida was surprised . . . She had not covered most of her work in the last quarter.
She gathered up her bag and went to the door.
“You’ve done well today, Aida,” he said as she put her hand on the door handle. “Very well.”
Aida raised an eyebrow at the praise. He seemed sincere. But when she looked back, he wasn’t interested in her and was instead
fiddling with the recording device. Perplexed by everything that had just happened, she opened the door to go.
“Wait.”
She turned and Mo was coming toward her, pulling an envelope out of his jacket pocket. He handed it to her, then gestured
for her to go before turning back to the recorder.
Aida waited until she was in her hotel room to open the envelope and gasped when two stacks of €50 banknotes fell onto the
bed. She stared at the money in shock. They had just boosted her salary when she was longlisted for the National Book Award,
and now MODA was throwing more money at her. Why? Then she thought of all the times she’d struggled to convince bosses she
was worth her salt, and smiled.
The next morning, Aida set off for the Victoria and Albert Museum. Despite many past trips to London, she’d never found enough
time to explore its vast collections properly. Today, she was thrilled to have an entire day to wander its halls, finally
fulfilling her long-held desire to see the famous Raphael Cartoons and tapestries.
As she walked through the building’s grand entrance, the familiar sights and sounds of a bustling museum surrounded her.
But she froze in shock at the signs informing visitors that the Raphael Court and the Renaissance Britain and Baroque Europe galleries were all closed due to a fire in the neighboring fashion gallery.
“There was a fire?” Aida asked the elderly woman behind the glass of the ticket booth. She cursed herself for not paying attention
to the news.
“Aye, it’s terrible what happened.” Her Scottish accent was thick. “A few days ago, someone managed to break into the area
behind the glass cases and lit up a bunch of 1950s dresses and some of the Alexander McQueens. It spread through the room,
taking down half the collection before the flames were doused.” She handed Aida her ticket. “Terrible, terrible. They have
no idea who did it.”
“Weren’t there cameras?”
She nodded. “Worthless.”
Aida was disappointed, but she decided to make the most of her visit and explore the rest of the museum. Yet even as she examined
the Medieval treasures of the Simon Sainsbury Gallery, Aida couldn’t shake the thought that it was related to all the other
cultural disappearances MODA seemed to have a hand in. But why would they burn down the fashion gallery? Or destroy any of
the other locations, for that matter. And how could they possibly erase memories? None of it made sense, and if it was all
true, Aida didn’t want to think about what that meant for her—for her job, or her future.