10. Twilight
TWILIGHT
It was twilight by the time they reached her apartment. He rolled to a stop in front of it, and parked the car.
She got out silently, head downcast.
He followed her. The tree-lined neighborhood was already deep in shadow, with no city lights, and the few apartments that had the lights on had their curtains closed.
“Why?”
That was all she said.
He shook his head. “I don’t know. But they will take—it—away by morning.”
She was tired of this, dancing around the subject. “A woman died right in the street—and they left her!” she hissed.
Ri shook his head. “You don’t know that,” he said quietly. “Please.”
“Don’t gaslight me. I know when I see contempt for human life.”
He put his fingertip to his lips. “There are things we all know but can’t speak of openly.”
She stopped next to a tree and looked up at him.
“We should go now,” he said.
“I checked the sightlines,” she said, pointing above them. “The cameras. The apartment windows. This is the one blind spot.”
He took a step back. “You took me to a blind spot from the cameras, and the neighbors?”
She looked down the street. A bicycle crossed, three intersections down the road.
She covered her face with her hands. “I’ve never seen that before.”
“I’m sorry, Marina. I’m sorry. My country…” he trailed off.
She tried not to cry, and it had the reverse effect. Her shoulders were shaking quietly.
“I’ve never had to compartmentalize like this. I can’t do this. I can’t see one thing and do another. I can’t lock my feelings away and take them out later, or never?—”
He inhaled sharply.
She looked up. He was looking at her, like she’d said something more than she’d intended.
She rewound her words and realized that she had.
Her mouth opened and she tried to say something, deny everything, but nothing came out.
Now her words failed her. Sure. Now. She heard an old bicycle squeaking in the distance, someone probably trying to get home. In a city of millions, it was almost perfectly silent.
“I can’t believe this place,” she whispered.
He wrapped his hands around her wrists and lifted them away from her face. His thumb brushed away a tear from each cheek.
He meant to pull back, she felt it—so she curled her fingers around the cuffs of his jacket. Her fingertips slipped inside, drifting down his wrists.
He leaned his forehead to hers. “This is forbidden here.”
“Everything is forbidden here,” she replied. Her index fingers still inside each of his sleeves, the leap of his pulse against her fingertip.
“We’re not supposed to…” he said.
“We’re not supposed to do anything,” she agreed, searching his face. There were so many rules practically begging to be broken.
He made one last look around them but there were no witnesses. She knew; she’d done the same.
“No. I think we’re supposed to do this,” he said.
His hand broke away from her grasp, found her waist and pulled her to him.
A first kiss had rules. But she didn’t know how much time she’d ever have, and if this would happen only this once—so she poured herself into it.
He surprised her by matching her intensity, and raising the bar to press her up against the tree. Ridges of bark pressed into her back, the heat of him in front, and before she knew it she’d tightened her arms around his neck?—
He staggered back, panting. “We’re going to get caught.”
“We can’t get caught,” she said.
He ran a shaky hand through his hair and stepped away. “I have to be back before curfew,” he said at last.
She nodded, remembering the bicycle. Dusk was deepening, but no lights were on. Everything was rationed here: electricity. Time. Passion. Freedom.
She walked up to the building door, and looked back at him. He was standing in front of the embassy’s car, looking up at her from the street.
“I’ll find someone to walk home with,” he said.
There was curfew, he couldn’t walk alone.
“We have a couch, do you want to stay?” she asked.
He looked at her ruefully. “The night watchman will do house checks, and if I’m not there, there will be questions about where I was. The answer can’t be that I was here, in the house of a foreign delegation, overnight.”
She took a step back, her stomach plummeting. He was in his own country and treated like a parolee.
“Wait,” he said suddenly.
And she did.
He looked around quickly and settled his eyes on her, saying nothing. But he put his hand in her hair, and gently pulled the elastic off.
She leaned her head back and closed her eyes as her tresses tumbled down.
His expression guarded, he handed the hair tie back to her.
“Keep it,” she said impulsively. “I have another.”
He nodded, and pocketed it.
“I’d better go,” he added.
“Bonsoir,” she called out, and he said the same.
She nodded, opened the door, and went inside. Giovanni was in the kitchen, stirring a boiling pot of spaghetti. Aya was looking through a collection of music albums from the 1970s. Marina heard a shower in the back—that was where Esmee must have been.
She blinked. Maybe Esmee was showering. It was just the sort of noise cover that an operative might use to cover their real movements.
Giovanni looked up. “You’re back early.”
She put her hand to her lips, a half smile on her face. “No. I’m back just on time.”
She took a glass from the kitchen, and poured herself some water. She sipped it in the living room, watching him walk away as evening descended. Giovanni turned on another light in the kitchen. It obscured Sung-cheol’s retreating form entirely, turning the window into a mirror.
She saw her reflection as she lowered the glass. Of all the questions in her mind, she wondered why she’d spoken French. She knew how to say goodnight in English, and even knew how to say it in Korean. But why say it in French?
Because it belonged only to them, she thought.
She heard footsteps: Esmee was padding towards her, in a bathrobe and white fluffy slippers.
Somehow seeing a dead body at the main train station and white fluffy slippers should not exist on the same day, and yet they did.
“It’s good of you to get back now,” Esmee said.
Marina frowned. “Look. What is your deal?”
“Nothing,” Esmee said, her tone saying the reverse. “I’m just wondering how you’re going to assess host-nation staffing and access.” Emphasis on the last word.
Marina decided to ignore it.
But she noticed Esmee’s hair was dry. “I thought you just took a shower?”
“I didn’t wash my hair,” Esmee demurred.
Very slippery. “I see that.”
“I don’t like to get my hair wet too often.”
“No wonder why you’re so uptight, with restrictions on how often you get your hair wet.”
Esmee scowled.
Marina smiled. She’d hit her mark.
“Maybe you should be more careful,” Esmee suggested.
Giovanni leaned out of the kitchen, looking between them.
“Maybe you should learn to mind your own business, and stop acting like the mother of teenagers: pretending that you know more than you do, and insinuating the worst,” Marina continued.
“Maybe you should stop acting like a teenager!” Esmee snapped, just as Aya walked in.
“Is there a problem?” she asked slowly.
“No,” Esmee said.
Marina folded her arms. “That’s right, Aya, there’s no problem, because Esmee is going to take advice from diplomatic security and mind her own business.”
Aya scoffed.
Marina turned to her. “What?”
“I don’t think she’s going to mind her own business any time soon,” Aya said. She looked beside her at Giovanni, who met her eyes briefly and looked down.
“Look, we all know you two are an item, so just drop the charade,” Marina said.
“Marina,” Giovanni said, drying his hands on the apron he’d brought with him: a stiff, photorealistic apron with pictures of basil leaves all over it.
“I don’t think Esmee is going to—” he looked around dramatically, as if he could see any electronic surveillance, “—comply with that.”
Esmee was almost preening.
Marina clenched her jaw. “What are you talking about?” Hands on hips, to make her point.
“Let’s chat after the staff meeting,” Esmee said lightly, patting Marina’s shoulder.
“There’s no need to patronize,” Marina ground out.
Esmee yawned, walking back to her room. “I’m going to make it an early night.”
“I hope you wake up refreshed—and in a better mood,” Marina called after her, but from the look on Aya and Giovanni’s faces, it was a useless effort.
Esmee had something up her sleeve.