Vengeance (part 17)
The burning wood cracked in the fireplace, the flame dancing to create bright batterns of flickering light on the wood paneled floor. The parlor had a warm feeling to it, as home should. It was a complete contrast from the heavy, dank atmosphere she grew up in. Family photographs were propped up above the hearth, the walls were decorated with old black and white pictures.
“I never thought you would come meet me out of your own volition,” the older man, his hair already a saber silver, pronounced wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, stood near the fireplace with a mug in his hand, “I have been hoping, very much so, to speak with you.”
“I-I never knew, sir...” Svetlana whispered softly, staring at the foam floating in circles in the warm cup of coffee, “my apologies, sir, I never meant to-”
“Apologies? What are you saying, my child? If anyone, it should be I who needs to be making apologies,” he looked at her with a benevolent guilt in his eyes.
“But-” she didn’t get very far in her protest as he put up a hand.
“When you were born, I wanted to raise you myself.”
“You did?” she raised her head again, surprised at this new revelation, “Really?”
“Very much.”
“Then... then why didn’t you?”
“Well... that would have meant exposing your mother.”
At the mention of her mother, a visible frown formed on her lips, and the next words that Svetlana spoke were laced with arsenic bitterness, “That coward.”
“Pardon me?”
“She was a coward. I know you love her.”
“Your mother?”
“Yes, my mother.”
“I do, but she loves you very much, Svetlana. She still does.”
“Yes,” she laughed, the sound of it acidic and harsh, “maybe she does, or did. But back then, she was willing to leave her daughter to be beaten by her husband to save her own skin.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“You have?”
“It was a long time ago though. When you first left the Arbatov family.”
“You know then.”
“You were quite the infamous runaway child.”
“What else to you know?”
“About Nikolai as well...”
“How do you know about him?”
“I’ve spoken with him on previous occasions. We Horowitz are known for family gatherings, after all. By the time you’re ten, a Horowitz child knows most of his relatives.”
“But...you didn’t tell him, did you?”
“About you?”
“About who are I am. About you and I, and my mother.”
“Ah...that... no, I didn’t.”
She seemed visible relieved by this, “I see...”
“However, I have to ask. When do you plan on telling him?”
“Very soon.”
“And your brother? When will you tell him of your origins?”
“I’m actually waiting for him.”
“To come and find you?”
“Yes,” she nodded, “I imagine he must be in Zurich already. He’s never been a patient man, after all.”
“Have you...called him...or something?”
She smiled softly, “Something like that.”
“He has quite the character, doesn’t he? That Mikhail...”
“Oh yes, quite. Misha’s like that.”
“And you, are you...nervous?”
“Very nervous in fact,” she drew her hands together and threaded her fingers, “I don’t how he will respond. At all. I imagine he was quite infuriated.”
“Well that’s to be expected.”
“But as to what he feels now, I can’t even begin to guess.”
“Well, what can you do?”
“Just wait I suppose,” she raised her hands to her face and sigh, “That’ what a decade and a half of hiding out does, you know. You start forgetting so many things. In the end, a skeleton of that person remains, an outline, a summary of sorts. I don’t quite know how to explain it.”
“I understand. The slipping away sensation, as if you’ll completely forget they existed.”
“That.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll find your way sooner or later,” he gave her a conciliatory smile.
****
Credit Bank, Zurich
Mikhail stood behind the surveillance officer, his powerful arms crossed across his chest. He was staring intensely at the screen, watching the recording fast forward. In it, people moved in haphazard, jerky motions, going about their usual business at superspeed.
“Where is this camera?” he asked, eyes still riveted to the screen.
“Just above the reception desk at the right corner, sir. It has a view of both the entrance and the desk,” the man answered as he began slowly down the surveillance tape, “We should be getting there pretty soon now.”
Mikhail leaned forward. He could feel the muscles in his gut contracting in anticipation. If she indeed had been to the bank, then there was no doubt that she would have been caught on tape if only for a fleeting moment. If he saw her, it would be the first time in a long time. How much had she changed, he wondered. No doubt she would be much older now, fifteen or so years later.
On the screen, a woman’s figure appeared from the corner, approaching the desk.
“Freeze it here.”
The movements stopped and everyone on the screen was caught mid motion.
“Zoom in on her.”
The man scrolled in to the woman’s image and stopped when her body, head to toe, filled the screen. She was wearing a long coat, cinched at the waist to accetuate her lean figure, and a calm, determined expression.
“Close in on her face.”
After two more magnification, they were looking at a close up of her face, and Mikhail had a suppress a shudder. Something about seeing a person that was at once familiar and unfamiliar, friend and stranger. Their uncanny resemblance was still there in the shape of their nose, the ears, the harsh but beautiful angles and lines of their faces.
“My God...”
The image resolution was good enough to show the color of her eyes. Even if it hadn’t, he would still remember them for their utter uniqueness. No one else in his family had them, her green eyes. No one else possessed such striking colors in their iris, like staring at those deep turquoise parts of the deep sea from above, those blotches of deep, deep green on the ocean surface or an impossibly deep lake that make your insides drop out from an obvious internal fear that beneath that dark surface was a bottom so deep that you could drown in it. Literally.
“Sir?” the man looked up at him, “Is that all sir?”
“No, unfreeze the frame and play it as it is.”
The image zoomed out and the video continued. She and the man shared small talk and the man came around the desk, presumably asking her to follow.
Shortly before moving out of the field of view, she paused.
Then she turned and looked up at the camera and the corner of her mouth turned up nearly just barely. It was a fleeting moment and she was no longer on the screen.
“Did she just...”
“That she did,” he wanted to smile, “that she did...”
****
[3 days later]
“But professor, it’s Christmas next week!” the students whined, “Pleeeeeeease.”
Takaba sighed and pushed up his sleeve to check his watch. “Listen, there’s still another hour of class left,” he said, “if the dean finds out that I let you guys off early just because winter break starts next week, he’ll come at me with a typhoon or something.”
“He won’t because we won’t say anything.”
“No, of course not,” Takaba said dryly, clearly not believing a word of his student’s word.
“But professor-”
“It’s just an hour to endure and you’re done!”
“Just an hour?”
“What, is my class that boring?”
“No, but we want to celebrate!”
He threw up his hands as though he were surrendering, “Okay, okay, fine. Class is over. See you guys in January. And remember your portfolios!”
His words were falling on to deaf ears though as the students rushed out of class, most likely off to celebrate the beginning of the winter break. Hyouta packed his bags, but not the flurry that every else did. Peace at last, he was going to say, but it seemed his newfound friends had other plans for him.
“You, come with us, we’re going drinking tonight!” Akari, one of the female students that he had several other classes with, pulling him out as soon as he had his bag packed.
“Uh...” he said, being dragged by her toward the door, “I’m not legal yet.”
“Oh, please, like it matters!” she laughed, as if he had said the silliest thing in the world, “This will be a welcome party for you.”
“What?”
“Relax, it’ll be fun, come on, let’s go!”
Hyouta looked back at Takaba, who was erasing the white board of the few things he had actually written on it. Honestly, he had planned to talk to him after class, but with the insistent begging of Akari and several other classmates, it seemed that it wasn’t going to happen, at least not tonight.
****
Takaba rubbed his neck and stared blankly at the blank classroom. Before him, there was a new stack of student portfolios to critique, but he didn’t much feel like doing a repeat of last week, staying until midnight because he had nothing better to do.
He slid the portfolios onto the corner of the desk and stuck a post-it note on top of it. He looked around for a pen on his desk and finding none, proceeded to check the nearly empty drawers. Indeed, there were few things inside, paper clips, pen caps but no pen, dried whiteboard markers. He opened the drawers one by one, looking for that nonexistent pen, and at the very bottom drawer, he found a single film canister.
He picked it up as though it were diamond, carefully, and held it up before him. There was no name on them, no identification, just a simple black cylinder. He popped open the cap and took it out; it was a used roll of film, no tongue of film sticking out from the end. Someone hadn’t yet taken the trouble to develop it and process any prints off of it.
It was a pet peeve of his, when people never got around to developing the films and ended up wasting potentially good prints. It really did. It was somewhat like... a one night stand or a relationship failed just because one or both parties didn’t have the patience to ride out the rough bumps. It was like a parent ruining a child’s future, a seed unable to germinate until it rots away in unfavorable conditions, trapped within the confines of the black plastic cylinder.
Takaba had always cherished his films, had an almost paternal feeling or maybe even romantic (if one wanted to push the metaphor to a breaking point) sentiment attached to them. Much of it came from the fact that he used to spend hours and hours on stakeouts, and his photographs were the physical products of his efforts.
So with resolution, Takaba slipped the film canister into his pocket and headed down to the darkroom that his students so often used.
****
Yoh hadn’t talked even once with Takaba since their last unpleasant conversation in which Takaba had walked out of the apartment, slamming his door closed. This was somewhat rare since Takaba usually called Yoh every other day or so to check up on anything that he had missed.
This time, however, not only did he not contact Yoh, but he was also ignoring calls from Yoh to show just how pissed off he was at the prospect of getting some macho bodyguard tagging him everywhere like toilet paper and gum stuck to the bottom of his shoes and getting in his way.
Yoh had made it his priority to compile the list of candidates in three days times. Whether he was right in his precaution, it put his mind to rest, knowing that Takaba would be at least somewhat protected in this rising mayhem. The sooner, the better.
More likely though, he was putting his conscience to rest, to convince himself that he had done what he could to protect Takaba should anything happen. Despicable, he knew, but what of it? The stubborn man was not one to be coerced, and he was not about to be convinced into carrying a “small army of men” around him.
So here he was, on his way to Takaba’s workplace to confront him as he left work. Takaba wasn’t going to physically avoid Yoh intentionally, not like he did when Asami was around; they both understood that he was a bit too old for that. Besides, he was going to have to meet Yoh sooner or later anyway. No harm done in facing the inevitable.
So he had expected to find Takaba in a room full of students, mid-lecture.
He looked around, no sign of struggle, but that didn’t really mean much, of course. With a reluctant sigh, he flipped open his cell.
****
“Fuck!” Takaba jumped when the phone vibrated in his back pocket, nearly dropping the fixed reel of film he had just taken out of the developing tank. He wiped his hands on his pants and pulled the phone out of his pocket and raised his eyebrows at the caller ID.
“What?” he made no attempt to smooth over the edge of irritation in his voice.
“Where are you?” Yoh’s voice came loud and clear over the phone.
“I’m at the university. Where else would I be at this time?”
“It’s empty.”
“What is?”
“You class is empty. You left your things in your studio room.”
Takaba wanted to bang his head into a wall, “Don’t tell me you’re here.”
“I am. So Where are you?”
That pushy bastard. “I’m in the darkroom.”
“And where is that?”
“Go down the hall a bit farther, turn right and it’s the second door to the left.”
Takaba palmed his face. He had been hoping to postpone this whole bodyguard thing as long as possible, but it seemed that Yoh did not have the patience this time to wait for him. He hung the negatives in the drying cabinet, turned on the regular light. It wasn’t really necessary to work in darkness or safelights once the film was put into the light tight developing tank, but he found the dim lighting calming. That rare tranquility had been shattered though, and Takaba was none to please about that.
****
Hyouta reached into his pocket to call his brother and tell him that he would be coming home late that night. His fingers grabbed at nothing but the fuzz of lint in his pockets and he checked the other one.
“My phone,” he said to Akari, “I think I left it at the studio.”
“Huh? Then just borrow mine.”
“No, that’s not the problem,” he said. The problem is that Kaito won’t be able to reach me. “I have to go back and get it.”
“What? But you can’t. We’re all going out together right now.”
“You don’t understand. I really, really need my phone,” he turned around, ready to sprint back to the university when Akari grabbed his arm.
“You can’t, Hyouta, that’s no fun!”
“Sorry, I really gotta go. I’ll catch up with you guys later.” He turned around and began making his way back to the university.
****
“This is the list I compiled,” Yoh said, handing him the stapled stack of paper.
“You’re serious about this, aren’t you?” Takaba asked as he took it and began flipping through the pages. “How many are there?”
“Thirteen.”
“Lucky number, hm?”
“Just pick one. They’re all qualified.”
Takaba raised his eyebrows. Was that an edge he just heard in Yoh’s voice? “How do you know?”
“Because I looked into them.”
“They’re mercenaries,” he whispered, “how can you trust paid soldiers?”
“You refused bodyguards, so this is what I came up with.”
Takaba laughed but not out of amusement, “I refuse bodyguards so you come up with hit-men instead?”
“They’re not hit-men, Takaba.”
“No, of course not,” Takaba replied sarcastically. “They just kill people because they feel like it, and of course, it has nothing to do with money.”
“Look, this is the best compromise we came up with so it’s a bit too late to start complaining about it now.”
“Compromise? You call this a compromise?” Takaba threw down the paper on the countertop, “I never asked for this.”
“That’s beside the point.”
“Are you blind? It’s exactly the point.”
“Then what do you want?”
Takaba looked at him with utter exasperation and walked out of the darkroom.
****
Hyouta stepped into the building, his ears and nose red from running in the cold. He hoped to God that he had simply left his phone on his desk or something because if not, he would have to buy a new one soon.
The corridor was silent as he approached the studio. Its door was ajar, and a sliver of light was streaming out into the dim hallway. He knocked softly but received no reply.
“Professor?” he said, opening the door farther so that he could peer inside.
It was empty. Hesitantly, he stepped inside, closing the door behind him, and quickly walked over to where he had sat that day and sure enough, found the phone where it had dropped under the seat. With a sigh of relief, he picked it up. He was about to turn around and leave quietly when he heard shouting coming toward the room, two voices, one of which sounded like his professors.
****
“What do you want?” Yoh asked again, following him out of the darkroom and down the corridor, “Something has to be done obviously.”
“Stop following me, and no, nothing has to be done at this point.”
“What then, do you want me to let you walk around vulnerable?”
“Vulnerable to what?” Takaba had his hand on the door knob.
“To anything.”
“You’re fucking paranoid.”
“Listen to me. This is necessary. I wouldn’t want it otherwise”
“I don’t need you watching my back all the time.”
“That’s not what I’m trying to say.”
“Then what are you trying to say? That’s I’m not capable of-” he opened the door and stopped mid sentence. Shit...
“Professor.” Hyouta was looking at him with a blank shock.
“Nakamura...what are you doing here?” Takaba said, immediately suppressing the anger that he had had for Yoh, “I thought I dismissed class early.”
“You did, sir. I just left my cell phone here.”
“Oh, alright,” he nodded, “Did you find it?”
“Yes, sir. It was under my desk.”
“I’m glad then,” he managed a feeble smile, “This is... a colleague of mine, Takahashi-san. Takahashi-san,” he turned to Yoh, eyes promising retribution if Yoh didn’t go along with this, “this is my student Nakamura-san.”
Hyouta bowed politely, “Nice to meet you sir.”
Yoh in turned nodded at the young student. Hyouta, sensing that he was in a tense and awkward situation quickly excused himself. He knew he had heard part of a very private conversation.
****
“Takahashi*-san?” Yoh said, “That’s the best name you can come up with?”
“Drop it,” Takaba plopped into the nearest chair and sighed, “At least he didn’t hear anything important.”
“True.”
The unexpected encounter had calmed Takaba significantly and he held out his hand, “Give me the list,” he said, sounding as though he had just lost some epic battle, “I’ll give you a final decision by tomorrow afternoon.”
“I’ll be waiting then,” Yoh put the paper in Takaba’s hand and left.
*Takahashi is a very common Japanese surname