Topic 33: All good things come to an end (Ficlet)
He’s very young, almost a rookie. Being allowed to participate in a White House briefing is an honor he’s keenly aware of, though he does not feel entirely undeserving. He knows what he’s worth, and he worked hard for this. There’s just one junior agent whose performance has been on a similar exemplary level, one J. D. Bristow, and Bristow, J.D., has a reputation for being not exactly a team player, which means he’d never have been first choice for a briefing in the White House. Actually, Sloane, A., does not regard this as an advantage; he likes his victories to be not by default. He’ll try to get assigned with Bristow, J.D., he’ll make the man into a team player, and then, then they’ll see whether it will still be Sloane who gets to meet the President.
Tonight, though. Tonight he’s living the perfect moment. He does his job, he makes his minor part during the briefing succinct and impressive precisely, he gets a presidential handshake, though he doesn’t doubt the President will have forgotten him within the next hours, or at most after the next day. That is alright, though. It wasn’t the President he wanted to impress; Presidents come and go. His superiors, on the other hand, are in for a longer time, and they won’t regret having chosen him.
“Coming, Arvin?” one of them says, pointing to the limousine which is supposed to bring them all back to Langley, and he surprises himself.
“No,” he says. “I’m going to walk for a while.”
The approving smiles all around falter slightly. It is early February, and the night is cold. He doesn’t even have a coat, and he’s small and wiry, not the athletic type with pounds of flesh for protection. This is an excentric statement, and excentricity is not approved by the CIA.
“I need to get some air,” he says hastily, and they nod in understanding relief. It’s been a big day. Any kid would feel a bit weak in the knees. Nothing wrong with that.
Having said his goodbyes, he walks down the steps of the White House and tries to determine just what he feels. The cold night air around him makes it possible to see the stars, very clearly, and he can recognize individual constellations. Every breath he takes is filled with promise. His career within the CIA will flourish; he knows it will. He’ll meet a woman he can love, and who will love him. He’ll make friends, true friends, not the casual useful acquaintances he has cultivated so far. And one day, he’ll have children as well.
Die now, the Greeks used to say about such moments.
After a while, he realizes he’s heading towards Jefferson Memorial. Jefferson the wordsmith, the man of contradictions, the intellectual among the Presidents, inspiration to explorers, the devoted husband who in all likelihood had fathered illegitimate children, called the Sphinx among American statesmen; he has always been Arvin Sloane’s favourite President.
The Memorial doesn’t provide its usual calm and comfort, though. He feels increasingly restless, and pursued by something he cannot trace down. Not literary; he may be young, but he thinks he’d be able to spot someone following him. But something is there, making it harder for him to breathe, and it’s not the February cold.
He doesn’t understand why he’s not happy, why the joy this moment should provide is not forthcoming.
Looking over the basin, he can see Lincoln. Stern white features, square jaw. Father of the nation, martyr of the nation. No room for ambiguities there. But the illumination used to highlight Lincoln in the night doesn’t reach across the waters, and suddenly he knows. As surely as he knows that life will give him all he wants, the career, a loving wife, a friend, a child, he knows there is a darkness coming that will swallow it all.
Anything that lives, dies. Nothing is eternal. Not these monuments, either; he can already see the decay setting in, the slow rotting away, and they’re nothing compared to the remains of truly old cultures, a mere century or two. He has always known this, but suddenly, tonight of all nights, it seems unbearable. On a whim, he takes out his matches and strikes one. He’s not a heavy smoker, and he doesn’t smoke now; he just watches the match burn, a small glow in the darkness, and the brief, sharp pain when the flame reaches his skin manages to extinguish all forebodings for just that second.
When he leaves Jefferson Memorial behind, the darkness swallows him whole.
Tonight, though. Tonight he’s living the perfect moment. He does his job, he makes his minor part during the briefing succinct and impressive precisely, he gets a presidential handshake, though he doesn’t doubt the President will have forgotten him within the next hours, or at most after the next day. That is alright, though. It wasn’t the President he wanted to impress; Presidents come and go. His superiors, on the other hand, are in for a longer time, and they won’t regret having chosen him.
“Coming, Arvin?” one of them says, pointing to the limousine which is supposed to bring them all back to Langley, and he surprises himself.
“No,” he says. “I’m going to walk for a while.”
The approving smiles all around falter slightly. It is early February, and the night is cold. He doesn’t even have a coat, and he’s small and wiry, not the athletic type with pounds of flesh for protection. This is an excentric statement, and excentricity is not approved by the CIA.
“I need to get some air,” he says hastily, and they nod in understanding relief. It’s been a big day. Any kid would feel a bit weak in the knees. Nothing wrong with that.
Having said his goodbyes, he walks down the steps of the White House and tries to determine just what he feels. The cold night air around him makes it possible to see the stars, very clearly, and he can recognize individual constellations. Every breath he takes is filled with promise. His career within the CIA will flourish; he knows it will. He’ll meet a woman he can love, and who will love him. He’ll make friends, true friends, not the casual useful acquaintances he has cultivated so far. And one day, he’ll have children as well.
Die now, the Greeks used to say about such moments.
After a while, he realizes he’s heading towards Jefferson Memorial. Jefferson the wordsmith, the man of contradictions, the intellectual among the Presidents, inspiration to explorers, the devoted husband who in all likelihood had fathered illegitimate children, called the Sphinx among American statesmen; he has always been Arvin Sloane’s favourite President.
The Memorial doesn’t provide its usual calm and comfort, though. He feels increasingly restless, and pursued by something he cannot trace down. Not literary; he may be young, but he thinks he’d be able to spot someone following him. But something is there, making it harder for him to breathe, and it’s not the February cold.
He doesn’t understand why he’s not happy, why the joy this moment should provide is not forthcoming.
Looking over the basin, he can see Lincoln. Stern white features, square jaw. Father of the nation, martyr of the nation. No room for ambiguities there. But the illumination used to highlight Lincoln in the night doesn’t reach across the waters, and suddenly he knows. As surely as he knows that life will give him all he wants, the career, a loving wife, a friend, a child, he knows there is a darkness coming that will swallow it all.
Anything that lives, dies. Nothing is eternal. Not these monuments, either; he can already see the decay setting in, the slow rotting away, and they’re nothing compared to the remains of truly old cultures, a mere century or two. He has always known this, but suddenly, tonight of all nights, it seems unbearable. On a whim, he takes out his matches and strikes one. He’s not a heavy smoker, and he doesn’t smoke now; he just watches the match burn, a small glow in the darkness, and the brief, sharp pain when the flame reaches his skin manages to extinguish all forebodings for just that second.
When he leaves Jefferson Memorial behind, the darkness swallows him whole.