Inception fic: Words and stones (1/4)
Words and stones
by SomeInstant
Fandom: Inception
Rating: R for language, descriptions of violence, and sexuality
Pairing: Arthur/Ariadne
Word count: ~18,000 total (6,260 for Part One)
Disclaimer: The world and characters of Inception are the property of Christopher Nolan and Warner Bros. Pictures. No infringement is intended: I write for pleasure, not profit.
Summary: The problem with the past is that it never quite lets go of the present.
Notes: This is the second of three connected stories, which I’m calling Truth to be a liar as a series. I would advise you to read the first story in the series, The profoundest fact, before beginning this one. This is a work in progress, and I will be adding the final section as soon as I am able.
I owe a huge debt to both anatsuno and frenchroast for their help on the French translations in this section; their contributions and advice were invaluable, and any remaining mistakes should be chalked up to my own linguistic inability. (You would think, then, that perhaps I would be clever enough to set at least part of this story in a Spanish-speaking country, just so that I could do my own translations, but-- oh, no. I had to be difficult.) Also, I've had to commit one of the Great Fannish Sins and give Ariadne a last name, since she doesn't seem to have one in the film and I couldn't have her referred to as 'Dr. Ariadne,' because that would be horrific. So for the purposes of this series, she's Ariadne Greer. Ten points to anyone who figures out the reference.
That being said, on to:
Part One.
Poetry does not require new words; it is made by arranging words. That's what makes it so impressive. Through ordinary words, poetry might accomplish the words' dream: to speak the unspeakable, to express the last tip of our thoughts. You could picture the architect's materials as words: if you think of words as stones, you can build whatever you want to in accordance with the way you organize these stone-words. By rearranging the same pre-existing words, you get another outcome.
Paulo Mendes da Rocha
Paris, France.
18.12.14
"Ton verre est vide," Cait said, owl-eyed. "Ça ne va pas du tout ; il ne faut pas que ton verre soit vide." She peered into her own glass suspiciously, then said, decisive, "Il nous faut plus du vin," and reached out to hook a passing waiter by the arm. The young man scowled, nearly dropping his food-laden tray. "Une autre!" Cait instructed grandly.
"Cait, vraiment, non," Ariadne protested, but without any real force. It was three in the afternoon, and she was more than halfway to drunk already: she hadn't eaten much that morning out of nerves, and lunch had been mostly an exercise in shaking hands and nibbling at the cheese and fruit provided by the department. Unsurprisingly, the wine was going straight to her head. "On a déjà bu une bouteille à nous deux, il n'est pas besoin d'une autre."
"Mais si, bien sûr," Cait argued. "Tu as l'intention de faire plusieurs thèses? Ça se fête. Et puisque tu as refusé que je t'organise une vraie soirée, nous sommes obligées de fêter ça avec du vin." Cait upended the nearly empty bottle of wine over Ariadne's glass, tapping the bottom to shake out the dregs.
Ariadne laughed. "D'accord, d'accord," she conceded. "Mais tu vas devoir me payer le taxi, parce que si ça continue comme ça je ne vais pas pouvoir rentrer à pied." The waiter returned, still scowling, thumping a bottle of wine down on the table and drawing the cork with a distinct air of annoyance. "Merci," Ariadne said, and the waiter rolled his eyes and walked away. Ariadne sighed contentedly. "Mon dieu, que j'adore Paris."
"C'est que tu es masochiste," Cait explained with the casual derision of one born outside the city, and poured new glasses for them both.
"Ce n'a pest-- Ce n'est qua pe je sois-- oh, fuck it all, I'm too drunk to manage French right now."
Cait blinked slowly, processing the linguistic shift, then said, "I may be too drunk for English. We will have to see."
"I've heard you give lectures on gender and hierarchical spaces while drunk," Ariadne said, taking a large gulp of her wine. "You'll manage, I'm sure."
Cait snorted. "That was for first year students," she said. "I could have been talking about elephants and clockwork robots for all the attention they pay." She brightened, then said, "I think I will try that next time."
"What?" said Ariadne, distracted. Her cell phone was buzzing in her pocket. "Shh, shhh," she told it, shifting in her chair so she could pull it out. "Why are you so loud?" she asked.
"Because I am somewhat drunk," Cait said. Then, seeing Ariadne had been addressing the phone, "But perhaps not as drunk as you."
"Hush, you," Ariadne said dismissively, and pulled up the message waiting for her. congratulations, it read. do I have to call you doctor, now? It was an unknown number-- but then, it always was.
"You have a very stupid expression on your face just now," Cait informed her. "From this I deduce that Arthur must have texted you."
"Shut up," Ariadne muttered, and tried to convince herself that the blush was from the wine, not embarrassment. She shoved her phone back in her pocket.
"No, I don't think I will," Cait said, leaning forward and propping her chin up on her hands. "I am being Jane Goodall, you see, studying the mating habits of a strange and complex species." She tilted her head to the side. "You have been like this since you came back from Argentina," she said. "Did you run into him while you were there?"
"No," said Ariadne, sharply. "I just-- we've been talking, a little. Over the phone."
Cait raised her eyebrows, clearly not buying Ariadne's denial, but willing to let it go. "What happened to I will rip off his testicles with my teeth? I thought we decided that was the plan, not making pathetic soupy facial expressions at cell phones?"
Ariadne drained the last of her wine, then poured herself another glass, not meeting her friend's eyes.
"Ah," Cait said wisely. "Well. For this, we may need another bottle," and reached out to collar another waiter.
Sometime after dinner and the third-- maybe fourth? it was hard to remember-- bottle of wine, Ariadne found herself at home on her sofa, staring thoughtfully at the waterstain on the ceiling near the window. It looked a little like a duck, if ducks could have antennae.
It was a good flat, alien duck waterstains aside: the herringbone floors were warm and scarred in comfortable patterns, and there was a tiny Juliet balcony off the back of the main room that overlooked the building's courtyard, which was overgrown in a pretty, ramshackle sort of way.
After the Fischer job, Ariadne found she was reluctant to distance herself completely from her previous life: she had worked a handful of extractions with Arthur, and sometimes Eames, but she had worked hard for her position in the graduate design program and she had no intention of letting that go. Still, she had been glad to leave the crappy flat she'd been sharing with three art students and an infestation of roaches.
"You ought to buy," Miles had advised her, the semester after she returned from Los Angeles. "If you intend to stay here for any length of time, there's no reason why you shouldn't at least be comfortable. After all," he said, wry, "I imagine you can afford it now."
"Well, yes," she had conceded, reluctant. Thinking about the growing number of zeroes in her bank account made her dizzy, sometimes. "But wouldn't it look funny?" she asked.
Miles lifted an eyebrow. "Half of my students have trust funds, Ariadne. The other half kip on their friends' floors, and neither group particularly seems to care about the financial status of the other. I doubt anyone will think twice about it, beyond wishing they could do the same. Besides," he said seriously, "you should start building some equity. Stop throwing your rent money down a hole."
Ariadne snorted. "It's like you're channeling my dad," she said. But he was right, so she found a place that needed some attention-- oh dear god, Ariadne, I didn't mean for you to buy a hovel, was Miles' appalled comment when he first saw the flat-- and made it her own. The kitchen was a gut job, all the windows had needed replacing, and it took three months of pointed bribery and arguing with the couple one floor up to have them fix their leaking bathtub, but it was coming along. Once the worst of the repairs were complete, she rented out the extra bedroom. She didn't need the income, of course, but she had found that she didn't feel quite like a student if she didn't have someone else's dirty dishes cluttering the sink.
"Not a student anymore, though," she told the waterstain. Eventually, she should paint over it. But not tonight. No paint, the ladder was in the cellar, and she was too drunk to manage either. "Finished with that, finally. Dr. Ariadne Greer," she said slowly, testing the sound. She lazily waved to the waterstain duck in greeting. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."
In the kitchen, something began buzzing at regular intervals. It was either her phone, or the refrigerator, which usually hummed as though it were about to explode. Ariadne let her head fall back against the sofa cushions, unconcerned, and eventually the buzzing stopped.
Ah. Probably not the refrigerator, then.
After a moment, the buzzing began again, thus supporting her theory that the sound was related to a cell phone, and not a kitchen appliance. "Someone should get that," Ariadne called out, and then remembered that there wasn't anyone else: Cait had left an hour ago, taking the last of the wine with her, and Dorine, her roommate, was staying over at one of her boyfriends' apartments, like she did most weekends. Ariadne wasn't sure if it was Karl's turn this weekend or Mathys'-- Dorine's schedule was difficult to keep straight, sometimes.
"All right," Ariadne told the phone, pushing herself unsteadily to her feet, "hold your horses, I'm coming." She made it to the kitchen without tripping over anything-- quite the accomplishment, considering the way the floor was swaying underfoot-- and found her phone where she had left it, sitting next to an empty glass on the counter.
"Hello?" she said, and then remember that one had to hit talk before anything happened. She tried again, pressing the button deliberately. "Hello?"
"You're a hard woman to track down, Dr. Greer," said a voice, and Ariadne let her hip thump heavily against the edge of the kitchen cabinet rather than try to enforce some sort of arbitrary perpendicular angle on her spine. "You probably have six or seven missed calls from me by now."
"Arthur," she said, deeply pleased. "I meant to text you back, but Cait and I went to dinner and I think I forgot." Or maybe it had something to do with Cait taking away her cell phone at one point, saying, You will get it back when you can speak sensibly, or learn to pick pockets. Which was a silly thing to have said, Ariadne thought. Eames had showed her how to lift wallets during the job in Istanbul, and Cait had been no challenge at all.
"Don't worry about it," he said. "I just wanted to call and congratulate you in person. How'd the defense go?"
"Oh, fine. Fine," Ariadne said, absently rubbing her hip. The counter was harder than she remembered. Her bed was soft, though, and not far away at all. "Well, mostly fine. Actually sort of awful," she told him, crossing the hall to her bedroom, "but Miles snuck me some scotch before it started, and Ebrennac was really sweet like always, so it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be." Ariadne flopped down on the mattress with a quiet oof, the comforter bunched up under her shoulders in wrinkles. She squirmed a little, trying to get comfortable. "Dr. Astor was a stone bitch about my literature review, though."
"But it all worked out in the end?"
"Yep," she said happily. "There was wine and cheese and Cait paid for the taxi home, plus I have a bunch more letters after my name, now, which is cool." She blinked up at the dark ceiling. "I forgot to turn on the lights."
"Are you drunk?" Arthur asked after a moment, his voice censorious with mock disapproval.
Ariadne hummed in agreement. "Oh, very," she said. "There were a lot of empty bottles by the end. I'm probably going to regret this in the morning," she heard herself say. "Because I am getting old and cannot hold my drink."
"If you're old, I'm ancient," Arthur told her, sounding amused. "I don't think I've ever seen you drunk."
"Well, you can't see me now, either," she said, serious. "That would be very embarrassing. Which is probably," she paused and yawned, stretching her arms over her head, and lost her train of thought in the process. She turned her head to the side, then wrinkled her nose. Her clothing smelled like cigarettes. "My shirt smells like smoke," she complained to Arthur.
"Well, were you at a bar?" he asked. He was laughing at her, damn him.
Ariadne waved her hand above her face, dismissive. "Eventually. Le caberet est le salon du pauvre," she told him, and then, confidingly, "Plus that's where they keep the alcohol."
"You're not poor, you lush. I know about your offshore accounts."
Ariadne ignored him, trying to take off her shirt while keeping the phone pressed to her ear. The long sleeves were proving to be a challenge. But that was okay; she was very smart, she had a doctorate to prove it. She could handle sleeves.
"Ariadne?" Arthur's voice was tinny as the phone fell onto the mattress, and Ariadne took advantage of its absence to pull the rest of her shirt over her head.
"I win," she told her shirt, and went to work on her jeans. Clothing was interesting, she realized, kicking the denim across the room, following it with her underwear. If you did it right, it felt good to put it on, and even better to take it off.
"Ariadne?" something said near her shoulder. It was still Arthur, so she picked the phone back up. "What are you doing?" Arthur asked, sounding suspicious.
"I told you," Ariadne said, trying to be patient because Arthur could be a little slow, sometimes. "My clothes smell like smoke."
"So you're-- taking them off?" Arthur's voice sounded funny. Maybe the reception was bad; sometimes she didn't have much service in this part of the apartment.
"I don't want to sleep in smoky clothes," she told him, patient. "You wouldn't, either."
Arthur cleared his throat. He did that a lot when he talked to her; it meant he had something he wanted to say, but thought it wasn't appropriate. "No," he said, "I wouldn't."
Ariadne yawned again. "What time is it?" she asked, too lazy and liquid to turn and check the clock.
"Well, it's a little after eleven thirty for me, so it's ten thirty for you," Arthur said. His voice sounded almost normal again.
"So you're--," Ariadne tried to remember her time zones. "Somewhere that isn't France. Um, further to the east."
"Bucharest," he told her, and she nodded. She'd never been to Romania. There was a good poem about it, though-- something and extemporanea. She couldn't remember the author. Someone like Edna St. Vincent Millay, but not. Early twentieth century, female author. Depressed. Arthur might know; he knew lots of things no one else did.
"Arthur, who wrote that poem about Romania?" she asked.
"What poem about Romania?"
"You know," she said, impatient. "Life is a glorious cycle of song. It's by someone who stuck their head in an oven, maybe."
"Sylvia Plath? I have no idea," he said. "Frankly, I'm impressed you can remember what direction Bucharest is in relation to Paris at the moment, let alone come up with a poem."
"I'm drunk, not stupid." And freezing to death, actually, now that she thought of it. The radiator in her bedroom never seemed to work very well. That needed to go on her list of things to fix. "I think I'm going to go to bed," she told Arthur. "It's cold in here."
"Drink some water first," Arthur told her. "Or you'll feel like hell in the morning."
"I already did," she insisted. "Cait made me drink gallons before she left."
"Good for Cait. I should send her a thank-you note."
"I don't think so," she said, pulling back the covers and sliding in. "She doesn't like you."
"I've never even met her," Arthur sounded exasperated. "How can she not like me?"
"Cait is very loyal," Ariadne explained, sleepy. "She thinks you're an excuse." She pulled the comforter up around her ears; the sheets were still cold, and she was beginning to regret not having put on pajamas or socks or something.
"What does that even mean?" asked Arthur, and she closed her eyes, listening to him breathe in her ear, a thousand miles away. "You're almost asleep, aren't you," he said, his voice low. Ariadne hmmed in response; if she stayed still, she felt like she was floating down a river made of honey. "How do you do that?" he wondered. "You lay down and it's like turning off a light. You're just out."
"Practice," she said, and yawned. Arthur chuckled. It was a nice sound. "You should laugh more," she said, and thought, And love is a thing that can never go wrong; and I am Marie of Roumania. "Dorothy Parker," she remembered, teetering on the edge of a dream. "That's who wrote it."
"Get some sleep, Dr. Greer," Arthur said.
"Don't call me that, it sounds ridiculous," she muttered, but he was already gone.
The next morning was damp and grey and painful for Ariadne, who awoke to an electrified headache running up and down her optic nerve and a stomach unsuited to anything but weak tea and toast. She spent the morning curled unmoving on the couch, waiting for the aspirin to kick in and plotting her elaborate revenge against Cait. Cait, she was sure, was the reason why everything after dinner was fuzzy around the edges. She didn't think there had been anything too horrifyingly awful, though: no embarrassing mishaps at clubs, no vomiting in the street, no drunken confessions. At least, not to Cait-- she thought she remembered talking to the waterstain on the ceiling in the main room at some point, but she did that sober, sometimes.
Eventually, the aspirin did its job and she felt human enough to manage a shower and proper clothing, pulling on a worn pair of jeans and a ratty long-sleeved t-shirt and sweater.
When the phone rang, she was in the middle of making herself a sandwich with two heels of slightly stale bread; at some point later in the day she'd need to venture out to the market, but the idea was distinctly unappealing. The number on the screen was withheld, and she suddenly remembered being naked and talking about Dorothy Parker to Arthur.
"Oh god," she said, appalled at herself. She had told him Cait thought he was an excuse for her lack of dating over the past two years, hadn't she. So much for no drunken confessions. Fuck. The phone buzzed again, and she bit her lip. She could ignore him, but-- no, it was better just to rip off the band-aid and deal with it.
She picked up the phone before she could over-think it. "I am so sorry," she said, her words tumbling over themselves. "You need to forget everything I said last night, because I was really, unconscionably drunk and I'm sort of dying of embarrassment here."
There was a surprised-sounding cough on the other end of the line, and then a warm voice said, "Clearly, I ought to have called last night, then."
"Yusuf," she said, mechanically, feeling the tops of her ears burn. "Sorry. Shit. I-- thought you were someone else."
Yusuf chuckled. "Evidently. I take it there was a good measure of celebration last night in honor of your successful defense?"
Ariadne groaned, sitting heavily on one of the two chairs crammed around the tiny cafe table in the kitchen. "There was a good measure of wine, anyway," she told him. "Enough that I shouldn't have been allowed anywhere near my phone."
"I'm certain it wasn't as bad as you seem to think," Yusuf said, probably trying to sound comforting, but coming off as more amused than anything else.
"Oh, I don't know," Ariadne said. "It could always be even worse than I remember."
"Did you leave threatening messages for a head of state?" Yusuf asked. "Try to initiate phone sex with a former grammar school tutor? Give a tell-all interview with a syndicated cable news program?" Ariadne said no, laughing. "Then I think you are probably fine," Yusuf declared. "You are certainly ahead of Eames, at the very least."
"I'm hungover," she told him. "The time to tell me ridiculous lies was when I was still drunk."
"I would never." Yusuf said, buttering his voice with a thick layer of hurt. "With you, my dear, I am never less than truthful."
Ariadne smiled, shaking her head. She had always liked Yusuf, although there were moments when she wondered if she ought. He had some pretty frightening-- if useful-- connections, after all, and the idea of his dream den creeped her the hell out. "Why did you call, Yusuf? If it was to offer congratulations, thanks, but you could have just sent flowers or something."
Yusuf sighed, reluctant. "Truly, I wish I were calling to congratulate you-- you know we are all very proud? You would think he invented you, the way Cobb brags whenever I speak to him. But," he said, and his voice became very serious, very quickly, "I am calling because of something on the wires. Someone has been inquiring-- very subtly, you understand-- into the whereabouts of a Patricia Archer."
Ariadne went cold, icy nausea settling in her uneasy stomach. "What did they want," she heard herself ask, lips numb.
"A job offer. A routine extraction," Yusuf said. "So very painfully routine that I can't help but imagine it does not exist." He paused a moment, then said, his voice weirdly gentle, "They suggested that Ms. Archer might have worked with a man called Grant Hammett in the past. They were looking for an architect, they said. This was two, maybe three days ago. I'm afraid I wasn't actively looking for such information," he said, apologetic, "or else I might have heard of it immediately."
"It's all right," she said automatically. Somewhere outside the rush of noise inside her head, she was impressed with how calm she sounded. "Souza? That's the only time I've used Archer, it has to be."
"I'm fairly certain," Yusuf confirmed. "There have been plenty of inquiries into Arthur's various aliases over the last few months as well, but he is used to disappearing, and this is the first I have heard of anyone looking for you. I found it-- concerning," he said. "That they connect Archer with Hammett would make me think they have managed to track you as far as Lisbon, but likely not beyond that. Still," he said, and let his voice trail off.
Ariadne nodded blindly at her stove. Still. She cleared her throat. "Right," she said after a moment. "Thanks, Yusuf. You'll let me know if you hear anything else?"
"Of course," he said. "Be careful, Ariadne. Souza-- he is not a pleasant man."
"I know," she said. "Really, thank you. I owe you."
Yusuf cleared his throat awkwardly. "Best not to say such things to those in our profession, my dear doctor," he said, and hung up without saying goodbye, as always.
Ariadne set the phone down, staring at its blank screen for a long moment. As far as Lisbon, but likely not beyond that. "Okay," she said, steepling her fingers and resting her forehead against them. She exhaled slowly, trying to settle her pulse.
It wasn't a surprise, not really. She had always known that there was a high likelihood that Souza would try to track down both her and Arthur; they had hid in Brazil by staying in plain sight, and she would have to be incredibly foolish to suppose they weren't on any number of security tapes. No, the surprise was simply that it had taken so long for Souza to trace one of them back to Europe. She had spent a few weeks after returning to Paris with the curtains drawn tight against passersby, and fighting the urge to wear dark sunglasses and baseball caps whenever she went out to class or studio or the market. But that had been nearly three months ago, and she had allowed herself to imagine that perhaps everything would be all right.
She shook her head. "But that," she muttered, "would be too damn easy."
If you ever think you might need to run, Arthur had said while they were preparing for the job in Madrid, her first attempt at extraction, you probably should. A somewhat ironic piece of advice, in hindsight, as he apparently applied that principle in his personal life as well as his professional one, but she suspected the theory behind it was sound. So.
She stood up, pocketing her cell phone. Her laptop was in the lounge; she grabbed it and carried it back to her bedroom, tossing it on the mattress. It was possible that Souza hadn't tracked her as far as Paris-- if he were still asking about Archer, that meant he hadn't made the connection to Ariadne Greer just yet-- but that was only a matter of time; she had switched directly from her Archer ID to her legal identity once she entered France, and the link would be unmistakable to anyone looking for it. But at least she had a little time to move, and she wasn't entirely unprepared to do so.
Her cache was tucked into a hollow space behind the baseboard near her bed, and she used the pocketknife on her nightstand to pry it back, revealing the little metal safe bolted into the wall. There were a handful of passports inside, and a bank bag with a mix of currency. Ariadne thumbed through the IDs until she found the ones she had used as Patricia Archer and Sara Webb, holding those separate and laying the other three on the bed next to the laptop along with the money. She locked the now-empty safe, carefully pressing the baseboard back into position.
Ariadne stood up, brushing off her hands-- she hadn't swept her room in too long, but it looked like she wasn't going to have time to worry about that for a while. "Okay," she said, thinking aloud, trying to remember the lessons Arthur had insisted she learn in the weeks leading up to the Fischer job. "Money and ID," she pulled a large messenger bag out of the wardrobe, "bag, laptop, I need to get a different phone, transportation, and cover." She slid her cell phone out of her pocket, tapping it against her palm a few times. Cover was the hardest bit-- she had friends, a roommate. A complete disappearance would result in Cait or Dorine or someone reporting her missing to the police, and that was no help at all.
But she had just finished her defense. No one would think it odd if she decided she wanted a vacation after the last year and a half of writing her dissertation. Hell, even Miles had told her she needed to get away for a little while. And it was very nearly Christmas, anyway; she'd be able to blend in with the holiday travelers.
Mind made up, Ariadne pulled up Dorine's number and hit talk. It rang several times before Dorine picked up, sounding breathless. "Si ce n'est pas une urgence absolue, va-t'en," she said, sounding irritated and hoarse, and Ariadne could hear a man's voice-- Karl, maybe?-- saying something in the background.
Ariadne suppressed a snort, and quickly explained that she had decided to go visit some friends in Barcelona for the next few weeks, so Dorine would have the flat to herself until Ariadne got back.
"Mmhm," Dorine said, clearly distracted. "Autre chose?" she asked, and a masculine someone-- definitely not the same masculine someone as before-- moaned in the background. Dorine was apparently branching out.
"Non," Ariadne said, rolling her eyes over the phone. "Amusez-vous," she said dryly, and hung up. She'd need to leave Dorine a note on the bathroom mirror or something to remind her, because there was no chance anything Ariadne had said to her had sunk in.
She grabbed a piece of paper from her drawing board. Dorine, she scrawled, too hurried to bother with French, You sounded a little busy over the phone, so I wanted to make sure you knew where I was. Haven't disappeared-- decided to take up a friend's offer to crash on their futon in Barcelona for a while. (Maybe a week or two? Might stay past Christmas. Haven't made up my mind yet.) You know me and Gaudí-- thought I'd go and commune with the guy for a while in celebration. Say hi to Mathys and Karl for me, and whoever that was I heard on the phone. I don't know if I'm jealous or just impressed at this point, honestly.
The note sounded breezy enough so far, she thought, but she felt a pang of unease. If Souza's men managed to connect Patricia Archer with Ariadne Greer, they'd have no problem finding her flat, and she doubted they'd care if Dorine got caught in the crossfire. Granted, Dorine could probably put up a hell of a fight if she needed to, but Ariadne didn't like the idea of leaving her totally in the dark.
Ariadne bit her lip, then wrote, Just to let you know: last night there was someone in the courtyard for over an hour, and they kept looking up at our flat. She felt incredibly low for writing that: Dorine had had a former partner follow her obsessively in the past, and Ariadne hated to trade on what she knew was an extremely unpleasant memory. But if it helped to keep her roommate safe, perhaps it wasn't such a bad lie.
I don't know if they were just waiting on someone or drunk or what, but it kind of freaked me out, she continued. I'm going to let Mme. Thibault know about it before I leave, but keep the doors locked, okay? You might even want one of the guys (or all of them!) to come and stay with you while I'm gone, just in case the creep comes back-- I don't mind at all.
It wasn't enough, really, but it would at least let Dorine know she needed to be on her guard. Maybe she would even decide to break her no men during the workweek rule and stay with a boyfriend for a while, just in case. Ariadne signed her name with a flourish, and wrote the date at the top.
So that was one cover story taken care of. Ariadne went and taped the note to the vanity mirror in their shared bathroom, grabbing her toothbrush and a few other things on her way out and depositing them on the bed next to her messenger bag. Cait was going to be more difficult, so Ariadne decided to skip that call until she had worked out what she wanted to say with a little more finesse. She could call Miles, though-- probably ought to, just to have him pass word along to Arthur and Cobb.
She dialed the number while pulling clothes out of her wardrobe: something dark and long-sleeved, a heavy jacket, a blouse, another pair of jeans, a couple t-shirts, a scarf, gloves, a knit hat-- did she need boots? Dress shoes? Be different people in different places, she heard Eames say, Different classes, different professions, different ages, different bodies. Hide your ears and hands-- they're hard to change and people remember piercings and chipped nails. She wondered if she ought to take a suit or something. Really, she had no idea what she might need, or how to fit it all into one small bag-- it had been much easier to do this in September, when she hadn't had the choice or time to think about it all.
Miles answered on the second ring, saying, "I thought for certain you'd have a terrible hangover today, Ariadne."
"I do," she said grimly, grabbing a few pairs of underwear and some socks and tossing them into the growing pile on her bed. "I've also got people looking for me," she told him. "One of Cobb's contacts just called. They've got the alias I used to get out of São Paulo in September, so the hangover's the least of my problems today."
There was a moment's silence, and Ariadne heard something creak heavily in the background. "Oh, my dear," Miles said at last, sounding distressed. "What can I do?"
"If you could call Cobb and have him get in touch with Arthur, that would be incredibly helpful," she told him, trying to sound upbeat and confident. "I'd call them myself, but I need to get rid of this phone before I leave-- which means they won't have my number anymore."
"What shall I tell them?" Miles asked. Ariadne started separating her clothes into two piles: wear and pack. The jacket was wear, as were the gloves, jeans, sweater, blouse, hat, and scarf. The rest she'd find a way to fit into the bag-- maybe she could roll them up? And shoes, right-- something to run in, and something more upscale.
"Tell Cobb I'll call him when I've decided where I'm going, and he can pass my number along to Arthur," she said, grabbing a pair of black flats from the floor of the wardrobe and shoving them to the bottom of her bag. "Arthur needs to know that Souza's traced us both as far as Lisbon, maybe farther than that, but possibly not." Ariadne began cramming her clothes into the messenger bag, shoving t-shirts and socks around her laptop and into the corners. She decided to leave the suit-- too bulky, and she'd never get the wrinkles out-- and grabbed a jersey dress from the wardrobe instead. Much less complicated. "He doesn't have my real name yet, as far as I know."
"Is there anything else I can do to help?" said Miles, his voice anxious. "I'm so sorry to have got you into all of this, Ariadne."
Ariadne smiled, shaking her head. "Miles, it's okay," she told him gently, just as she always did whenever the question of Cobb and dream-sharing and her recruitment came up over the past four years. "You had nothing to do with this, and it's not your fault. I don't regret it. Besides," she said, tossing a tube of toothpaste and a small zipped makeup case into her bag, "I can handle this."
"Of course," Miles said, his voice thick around the edges. "I never meant to imply otherwise."
"I know you didn't," she said, looking at the bank bag and passports still left on the bed. Keep the essentials on your body if you're on the move, she remembered, and went to look for the cheesy money belt that her aunt had given her the first time she went overseas in high school.
"Do you have a plan for where you'll go?" Miles asked while Ariadne rooted around in the top drawer of her dresser.
" I think I have an idea," Ariadne said, still groping through the drawer. Why did she have so many scarves? She really didn't wear them all that often; it was like they had multiplied in the dark when she wasn't looking. "I'd rather not say, if that's all right," she said, apologetic. "Not that I don't trust you-- I just don't want there to be any reason for Souza to start looking at you, too, Miles." She pulled her hand out of the drawer, triumphant, clutching the money belt.
"Of course," he said. "Forgive the old man his follies."
"Miles," she sighed, and started distributing the bills and IDs around the belt. She decided she'd keep her legal ID in her wallet, the way she always did. "There's nothing to forgive, and you know it." She zipped the belt up, then stood back for a moment. "All right," she said, half to herself and half to Miles, "I think I'm as packed as I'm going to get."
"Please be careful," Miles said, and Ariadne was startled to hear a quaver of age in his voice.
"Hey," Ariadne said, sitting down on the bed. "None of that. Look," she told him, making her voice bright and cheerful, "I'm just going to lie low for a few weeks until Souza gets bored and stops looking. You said I needed a holiday, anyway, right?"
"This is not precisely what I had in mind," Miles said dryly, and Ariadne smiled.
"Yes, but it's what I've got," she said, serious. "I'll be fine. I was tough enough to put up with five years of Professor Astor's bitching, right? I'm tough enough to handle this. I'll check in with Cobb, and he can let you know how I'm doing, okay?"
Miles sighed. "All right," he said, and cleared his throat. "I suppose this means you won't be at Henri's for supper tomorrow night, then."
Ariadne groaned; Ebrennac had planned to have her and several other graduate students in the department over for dinner on Sunday. "Shit, I forgot about that. Could you make my apologies, do you think?"
"Of course I can," Miles said. "Where shall I say you've gone?"
"Barcelona. I have some friends there," Ariadne said, and glanced at the clock on her nightstand. It was a quarter after two, and Cait would be leaving for the studio at three. She needed to catch her before Cait left her apartment. "I have to go, Miles," she said, reluctant. "I want to be out of here in an hour or two at the latest."
"I understand," he said with forced cheer. "Well. Good luck, my dear. I'm sure everything will work out for the best."
"It will," Ariadne agreed, and said goodbye before her throat thickened any. Then she stared down at the phone in her hand, reluctant to make her last call. But it was the best she could think of at the moment, and she didn't have the luxury of refining this particular design. She nodded sharply to herself, and made the call.
"Cait," she said when it went through, "I need a favor."
Continued in Part Two.
And for those interested, an English translation of the opening scene:
"Your glass is empty," Cait said, owl-eyed. "That's not right, why is your glass empty?" She peered into her own glass suspiciously, then said, decisive, "We need more wine," and reached out to hook a passing waiter by the arm. The young man scowled, nearly dropping his food-laden tray. "Another bottle!" Cait instructed grandly.
"Cait, seriously, no," Ariadne protested, but without any real force. It was three in the afternoon, and she was more than halfway to drunk already: she hadn't eaten much that morning out of nerves, and lunch had been mostly an exercise in shaking hands and nibbling at the cheese and fruit provided by the department. Unsurprisingly, the wine was going straight to her head. "We've already had a bottle between the two of us, we don't need another."
"Of course we do," Cait argued. "How often do you expect to earn a Ph.D? It's something to celebrate. And since you won't let me throw you a party, celebration will have to mean more wine." Cait upended the nearly-empty bottle of wine over Ariadne's glass, tapping the bottom to shake out the dregs.
Ariadne laughed. "All right, all right," she conceded. "But you're paying for my taxi, because there's no way I'm walking home if we keep going." The waiter returned, still scowling, thumping a bottle of wine down on the table and drawing the cork with a distinct air of annoyance. "Thanks," Ariadne said, and the waiter rolled his eyes and walked away. Ariadne sighed contentedly. "God, I love Paris."
"This is because you're a masochist," Cait explained with the casual derision of one born outside the city, and poured new glasses for them both.
"I am not a maso-, masa-, oh, fuck it all, I'm too drunk to manage French right now."
Cait blinked slowly, processing the linguistic shift, then said, "I may be too drunk for English. We will have to see."
And there you have it.
by SomeInstant
Fandom: Inception
Rating: R for language, descriptions of violence, and sexuality
Pairing: Arthur/Ariadne
Word count: ~18,000 total (6,260 for Part One)
Disclaimer: The world and characters of Inception are the property of Christopher Nolan and Warner Bros. Pictures. No infringement is intended: I write for pleasure, not profit.
Summary: The problem with the past is that it never quite lets go of the present.
Notes: This is the second of three connected stories, which I’m calling Truth to be a liar as a series. I would advise you to read the first story in the series, The profoundest fact, before beginning this one. This is a work in progress, and I will be adding the final section as soon as I am able.
I owe a huge debt to both anatsuno and frenchroast for their help on the French translations in this section; their contributions and advice were invaluable, and any remaining mistakes should be chalked up to my own linguistic inability. (You would think, then, that perhaps I would be clever enough to set at least part of this story in a Spanish-speaking country, just so that I could do my own translations, but-- oh, no. I had to be difficult.) Also, I've had to commit one of the Great Fannish Sins and give Ariadne a last name, since she doesn't seem to have one in the film and I couldn't have her referred to as 'Dr. Ariadne,' because that would be horrific. So for the purposes of this series, she's Ariadne Greer. Ten points to anyone who figures out the reference.
That being said, on to:
Part One.
Poetry does not require new words; it is made by arranging words. That's what makes it so impressive. Through ordinary words, poetry might accomplish the words' dream: to speak the unspeakable, to express the last tip of our thoughts. You could picture the architect's materials as words: if you think of words as stones, you can build whatever you want to in accordance with the way you organize these stone-words. By rearranging the same pre-existing words, you get another outcome.
Paulo Mendes da Rocha
Paris, France.
18.12.14
"Ton verre est vide," Cait said, owl-eyed. "Ça ne va pas du tout ; il ne faut pas que ton verre soit vide." She peered into her own glass suspiciously, then said, decisive, "Il nous faut plus du vin," and reached out to hook a passing waiter by the arm. The young man scowled, nearly dropping his food-laden tray. "Une autre!" Cait instructed grandly.
"Cait, vraiment, non," Ariadne protested, but without any real force. It was three in the afternoon, and she was more than halfway to drunk already: she hadn't eaten much that morning out of nerves, and lunch had been mostly an exercise in shaking hands and nibbling at the cheese and fruit provided by the department. Unsurprisingly, the wine was going straight to her head. "On a déjà bu une bouteille à nous deux, il n'est pas besoin d'une autre."
"Mais si, bien sûr," Cait argued. "Tu as l'intention de faire plusieurs thèses? Ça se fête. Et puisque tu as refusé que je t'organise une vraie soirée, nous sommes obligées de fêter ça avec du vin." Cait upended the nearly empty bottle of wine over Ariadne's glass, tapping the bottom to shake out the dregs.
Ariadne laughed. "D'accord, d'accord," she conceded. "Mais tu vas devoir me payer le taxi, parce que si ça continue comme ça je ne vais pas pouvoir rentrer à pied." The waiter returned, still scowling, thumping a bottle of wine down on the table and drawing the cork with a distinct air of annoyance. "Merci," Ariadne said, and the waiter rolled his eyes and walked away. Ariadne sighed contentedly. "Mon dieu, que j'adore Paris."
"C'est que tu es masochiste," Cait explained with the casual derision of one born outside the city, and poured new glasses for them both.
"Ce n'a pest-- Ce n'est qua pe je sois-- oh, fuck it all, I'm too drunk to manage French right now."
Cait blinked slowly, processing the linguistic shift, then said, "I may be too drunk for English. We will have to see."
"I've heard you give lectures on gender and hierarchical spaces while drunk," Ariadne said, taking a large gulp of her wine. "You'll manage, I'm sure."
Cait snorted. "That was for first year students," she said. "I could have been talking about elephants and clockwork robots for all the attention they pay." She brightened, then said, "I think I will try that next time."
"What?" said Ariadne, distracted. Her cell phone was buzzing in her pocket. "Shh, shhh," she told it, shifting in her chair so she could pull it out. "Why are you so loud?" she asked.
"Because I am somewhat drunk," Cait said. Then, seeing Ariadne had been addressing the phone, "But perhaps not as drunk as you."
"Hush, you," Ariadne said dismissively, and pulled up the message waiting for her. congratulations, it read. do I have to call you doctor, now? It was an unknown number-- but then, it always was.
"You have a very stupid expression on your face just now," Cait informed her. "From this I deduce that Arthur must have texted you."
"Shut up," Ariadne muttered, and tried to convince herself that the blush was from the wine, not embarrassment. She shoved her phone back in her pocket.
"No, I don't think I will," Cait said, leaning forward and propping her chin up on her hands. "I am being Jane Goodall, you see, studying the mating habits of a strange and complex species." She tilted her head to the side. "You have been like this since you came back from Argentina," she said. "Did you run into him while you were there?"
"No," said Ariadne, sharply. "I just-- we've been talking, a little. Over the phone."
Cait raised her eyebrows, clearly not buying Ariadne's denial, but willing to let it go. "What happened to I will rip off his testicles with my teeth? I thought we decided that was the plan, not making pathetic soupy facial expressions at cell phones?"
Ariadne drained the last of her wine, then poured herself another glass, not meeting her friend's eyes.
"Ah," Cait said wisely. "Well. For this, we may need another bottle," and reached out to collar another waiter.
Sometime after dinner and the third-- maybe fourth? it was hard to remember-- bottle of wine, Ariadne found herself at home on her sofa, staring thoughtfully at the waterstain on the ceiling near the window. It looked a little like a duck, if ducks could have antennae.
It was a good flat, alien duck waterstains aside: the herringbone floors were warm and scarred in comfortable patterns, and there was a tiny Juliet balcony off the back of the main room that overlooked the building's courtyard, which was overgrown in a pretty, ramshackle sort of way.
After the Fischer job, Ariadne found she was reluctant to distance herself completely from her previous life: she had worked a handful of extractions with Arthur, and sometimes Eames, but she had worked hard for her position in the graduate design program and she had no intention of letting that go. Still, she had been glad to leave the crappy flat she'd been sharing with three art students and an infestation of roaches.
"You ought to buy," Miles had advised her, the semester after she returned from Los Angeles. "If you intend to stay here for any length of time, there's no reason why you shouldn't at least be comfortable. After all," he said, wry, "I imagine you can afford it now."
"Well, yes," she had conceded, reluctant. Thinking about the growing number of zeroes in her bank account made her dizzy, sometimes. "But wouldn't it look funny?" she asked.
Miles lifted an eyebrow. "Half of my students have trust funds, Ariadne. The other half kip on their friends' floors, and neither group particularly seems to care about the financial status of the other. I doubt anyone will think twice about it, beyond wishing they could do the same. Besides," he said seriously, "you should start building some equity. Stop throwing your rent money down a hole."
Ariadne snorted. "It's like you're channeling my dad," she said. But he was right, so she found a place that needed some attention-- oh dear god, Ariadne, I didn't mean for you to buy a hovel, was Miles' appalled comment when he first saw the flat-- and made it her own. The kitchen was a gut job, all the windows had needed replacing, and it took three months of pointed bribery and arguing with the couple one floor up to have them fix their leaking bathtub, but it was coming along. Once the worst of the repairs were complete, she rented out the extra bedroom. She didn't need the income, of course, but she had found that she didn't feel quite like a student if she didn't have someone else's dirty dishes cluttering the sink.
"Not a student anymore, though," she told the waterstain. Eventually, she should paint over it. But not tonight. No paint, the ladder was in the cellar, and she was too drunk to manage either. "Finished with that, finally. Dr. Ariadne Greer," she said slowly, testing the sound. She lazily waved to the waterstain duck in greeting. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."
In the kitchen, something began buzzing at regular intervals. It was either her phone, or the refrigerator, which usually hummed as though it were about to explode. Ariadne let her head fall back against the sofa cushions, unconcerned, and eventually the buzzing stopped.
Ah. Probably not the refrigerator, then.
After a moment, the buzzing began again, thus supporting her theory that the sound was related to a cell phone, and not a kitchen appliance. "Someone should get that," Ariadne called out, and then remembered that there wasn't anyone else: Cait had left an hour ago, taking the last of the wine with her, and Dorine, her roommate, was staying over at one of her boyfriends' apartments, like she did most weekends. Ariadne wasn't sure if it was Karl's turn this weekend or Mathys'-- Dorine's schedule was difficult to keep straight, sometimes.
"All right," Ariadne told the phone, pushing herself unsteadily to her feet, "hold your horses, I'm coming." She made it to the kitchen without tripping over anything-- quite the accomplishment, considering the way the floor was swaying underfoot-- and found her phone where she had left it, sitting next to an empty glass on the counter.
"Hello?" she said, and then remember that one had to hit talk before anything happened. She tried again, pressing the button deliberately. "Hello?"
"You're a hard woman to track down, Dr. Greer," said a voice, and Ariadne let her hip thump heavily against the edge of the kitchen cabinet rather than try to enforce some sort of arbitrary perpendicular angle on her spine. "You probably have six or seven missed calls from me by now."
"Arthur," she said, deeply pleased. "I meant to text you back, but Cait and I went to dinner and I think I forgot." Or maybe it had something to do with Cait taking away her cell phone at one point, saying, You will get it back when you can speak sensibly, or learn to pick pockets. Which was a silly thing to have said, Ariadne thought. Eames had showed her how to lift wallets during the job in Istanbul, and Cait had been no challenge at all.
"Don't worry about it," he said. "I just wanted to call and congratulate you in person. How'd the defense go?"
"Oh, fine. Fine," Ariadne said, absently rubbing her hip. The counter was harder than she remembered. Her bed was soft, though, and not far away at all. "Well, mostly fine. Actually sort of awful," she told him, crossing the hall to her bedroom, "but Miles snuck me some scotch before it started, and Ebrennac was really sweet like always, so it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be." Ariadne flopped down on the mattress with a quiet oof, the comforter bunched up under her shoulders in wrinkles. She squirmed a little, trying to get comfortable. "Dr. Astor was a stone bitch about my literature review, though."
"But it all worked out in the end?"
"Yep," she said happily. "There was wine and cheese and Cait paid for the taxi home, plus I have a bunch more letters after my name, now, which is cool." She blinked up at the dark ceiling. "I forgot to turn on the lights."
"Are you drunk?" Arthur asked after a moment, his voice censorious with mock disapproval.
Ariadne hummed in agreement. "Oh, very," she said. "There were a lot of empty bottles by the end. I'm probably going to regret this in the morning," she heard herself say. "Because I am getting old and cannot hold my drink."
"If you're old, I'm ancient," Arthur told her, sounding amused. "I don't think I've ever seen you drunk."
"Well, you can't see me now, either," she said, serious. "That would be very embarrassing. Which is probably," she paused and yawned, stretching her arms over her head, and lost her train of thought in the process. She turned her head to the side, then wrinkled her nose. Her clothing smelled like cigarettes. "My shirt smells like smoke," she complained to Arthur.
"Well, were you at a bar?" he asked. He was laughing at her, damn him.
Ariadne waved her hand above her face, dismissive. "Eventually. Le caberet est le salon du pauvre," she told him, and then, confidingly, "Plus that's where they keep the alcohol."
"You're not poor, you lush. I know about your offshore accounts."
Ariadne ignored him, trying to take off her shirt while keeping the phone pressed to her ear. The long sleeves were proving to be a challenge. But that was okay; she was very smart, she had a doctorate to prove it. She could handle sleeves.
"Ariadne?" Arthur's voice was tinny as the phone fell onto the mattress, and Ariadne took advantage of its absence to pull the rest of her shirt over her head.
"I win," she told her shirt, and went to work on her jeans. Clothing was interesting, she realized, kicking the denim across the room, following it with her underwear. If you did it right, it felt good to put it on, and even better to take it off.
"Ariadne?" something said near her shoulder. It was still Arthur, so she picked the phone back up. "What are you doing?" Arthur asked, sounding suspicious.
"I told you," Ariadne said, trying to be patient because Arthur could be a little slow, sometimes. "My clothes smell like smoke."
"So you're-- taking them off?" Arthur's voice sounded funny. Maybe the reception was bad; sometimes she didn't have much service in this part of the apartment.
"I don't want to sleep in smoky clothes," she told him, patient. "You wouldn't, either."
Arthur cleared his throat. He did that a lot when he talked to her; it meant he had something he wanted to say, but thought it wasn't appropriate. "No," he said, "I wouldn't."
Ariadne yawned again. "What time is it?" she asked, too lazy and liquid to turn and check the clock.
"Well, it's a little after eleven thirty for me, so it's ten thirty for you," Arthur said. His voice sounded almost normal again.
"So you're--," Ariadne tried to remember her time zones. "Somewhere that isn't France. Um, further to the east."
"Bucharest," he told her, and she nodded. She'd never been to Romania. There was a good poem about it, though-- something and extemporanea. She couldn't remember the author. Someone like Edna St. Vincent Millay, but not. Early twentieth century, female author. Depressed. Arthur might know; he knew lots of things no one else did.
"Arthur, who wrote that poem about Romania?" she asked.
"What poem about Romania?"
"You know," she said, impatient. "Life is a glorious cycle of song. It's by someone who stuck their head in an oven, maybe."
"Sylvia Plath? I have no idea," he said. "Frankly, I'm impressed you can remember what direction Bucharest is in relation to Paris at the moment, let alone come up with a poem."
"I'm drunk, not stupid." And freezing to death, actually, now that she thought of it. The radiator in her bedroom never seemed to work very well. That needed to go on her list of things to fix. "I think I'm going to go to bed," she told Arthur. "It's cold in here."
"Drink some water first," Arthur told her. "Or you'll feel like hell in the morning."
"I already did," she insisted. "Cait made me drink gallons before she left."
"Good for Cait. I should send her a thank-you note."
"I don't think so," she said, pulling back the covers and sliding in. "She doesn't like you."
"I've never even met her," Arthur sounded exasperated. "How can she not like me?"
"Cait is very loyal," Ariadne explained, sleepy. "She thinks you're an excuse." She pulled the comforter up around her ears; the sheets were still cold, and she was beginning to regret not having put on pajamas or socks or something.
"What does that even mean?" asked Arthur, and she closed her eyes, listening to him breathe in her ear, a thousand miles away. "You're almost asleep, aren't you," he said, his voice low. Ariadne hmmed in response; if she stayed still, she felt like she was floating down a river made of honey. "How do you do that?" he wondered. "You lay down and it's like turning off a light. You're just out."
"Practice," she said, and yawned. Arthur chuckled. It was a nice sound. "You should laugh more," she said, and thought, And love is a thing that can never go wrong; and I am Marie of Roumania. "Dorothy Parker," she remembered, teetering on the edge of a dream. "That's who wrote it."
"Get some sleep, Dr. Greer," Arthur said.
"Don't call me that, it sounds ridiculous," she muttered, but he was already gone.
The next morning was damp and grey and painful for Ariadne, who awoke to an electrified headache running up and down her optic nerve and a stomach unsuited to anything but weak tea and toast. She spent the morning curled unmoving on the couch, waiting for the aspirin to kick in and plotting her elaborate revenge against Cait. Cait, she was sure, was the reason why everything after dinner was fuzzy around the edges. She didn't think there had been anything too horrifyingly awful, though: no embarrassing mishaps at clubs, no vomiting in the street, no drunken confessions. At least, not to Cait-- she thought she remembered talking to the waterstain on the ceiling in the main room at some point, but she did that sober, sometimes.
Eventually, the aspirin did its job and she felt human enough to manage a shower and proper clothing, pulling on a worn pair of jeans and a ratty long-sleeved t-shirt and sweater.
When the phone rang, she was in the middle of making herself a sandwich with two heels of slightly stale bread; at some point later in the day she'd need to venture out to the market, but the idea was distinctly unappealing. The number on the screen was withheld, and she suddenly remembered being naked and talking about Dorothy Parker to Arthur.
"Oh god," she said, appalled at herself. She had told him Cait thought he was an excuse for her lack of dating over the past two years, hadn't she. So much for no drunken confessions. Fuck. The phone buzzed again, and she bit her lip. She could ignore him, but-- no, it was better just to rip off the band-aid and deal with it.
She picked up the phone before she could over-think it. "I am so sorry," she said, her words tumbling over themselves. "You need to forget everything I said last night, because I was really, unconscionably drunk and I'm sort of dying of embarrassment here."
There was a surprised-sounding cough on the other end of the line, and then a warm voice said, "Clearly, I ought to have called last night, then."
"Yusuf," she said, mechanically, feeling the tops of her ears burn. "Sorry. Shit. I-- thought you were someone else."
Yusuf chuckled. "Evidently. I take it there was a good measure of celebration last night in honor of your successful defense?"
Ariadne groaned, sitting heavily on one of the two chairs crammed around the tiny cafe table in the kitchen. "There was a good measure of wine, anyway," she told him. "Enough that I shouldn't have been allowed anywhere near my phone."
"I'm certain it wasn't as bad as you seem to think," Yusuf said, probably trying to sound comforting, but coming off as more amused than anything else.
"Oh, I don't know," Ariadne said. "It could always be even worse than I remember."
"Did you leave threatening messages for a head of state?" Yusuf asked. "Try to initiate phone sex with a former grammar school tutor? Give a tell-all interview with a syndicated cable news program?" Ariadne said no, laughing. "Then I think you are probably fine," Yusuf declared. "You are certainly ahead of Eames, at the very least."
"I'm hungover," she told him. "The time to tell me ridiculous lies was when I was still drunk."
"I would never." Yusuf said, buttering his voice with a thick layer of hurt. "With you, my dear, I am never less than truthful."
Ariadne smiled, shaking her head. She had always liked Yusuf, although there were moments when she wondered if she ought. He had some pretty frightening-- if useful-- connections, after all, and the idea of his dream den creeped her the hell out. "Why did you call, Yusuf? If it was to offer congratulations, thanks, but you could have just sent flowers or something."
Yusuf sighed, reluctant. "Truly, I wish I were calling to congratulate you-- you know we are all very proud? You would think he invented you, the way Cobb brags whenever I speak to him. But," he said, and his voice became very serious, very quickly, "I am calling because of something on the wires. Someone has been inquiring-- very subtly, you understand-- into the whereabouts of a Patricia Archer."
Ariadne went cold, icy nausea settling in her uneasy stomach. "What did they want," she heard herself ask, lips numb.
"A job offer. A routine extraction," Yusuf said. "So very painfully routine that I can't help but imagine it does not exist." He paused a moment, then said, his voice weirdly gentle, "They suggested that Ms. Archer might have worked with a man called Grant Hammett in the past. They were looking for an architect, they said. This was two, maybe three days ago. I'm afraid I wasn't actively looking for such information," he said, apologetic, "or else I might have heard of it immediately."
"It's all right," she said automatically. Somewhere outside the rush of noise inside her head, she was impressed with how calm she sounded. "Souza? That's the only time I've used Archer, it has to be."
"I'm fairly certain," Yusuf confirmed. "There have been plenty of inquiries into Arthur's various aliases over the last few months as well, but he is used to disappearing, and this is the first I have heard of anyone looking for you. I found it-- concerning," he said. "That they connect Archer with Hammett would make me think they have managed to track you as far as Lisbon, but likely not beyond that. Still," he said, and let his voice trail off.
Ariadne nodded blindly at her stove. Still. She cleared her throat. "Right," she said after a moment. "Thanks, Yusuf. You'll let me know if you hear anything else?"
"Of course," he said. "Be careful, Ariadne. Souza-- he is not a pleasant man."
"I know," she said. "Really, thank you. I owe you."
Yusuf cleared his throat awkwardly. "Best not to say such things to those in our profession, my dear doctor," he said, and hung up without saying goodbye, as always.
Ariadne set the phone down, staring at its blank screen for a long moment. As far as Lisbon, but likely not beyond that. "Okay," she said, steepling her fingers and resting her forehead against them. She exhaled slowly, trying to settle her pulse.
It wasn't a surprise, not really. She had always known that there was a high likelihood that Souza would try to track down both her and Arthur; they had hid in Brazil by staying in plain sight, and she would have to be incredibly foolish to suppose they weren't on any number of security tapes. No, the surprise was simply that it had taken so long for Souza to trace one of them back to Europe. She had spent a few weeks after returning to Paris with the curtains drawn tight against passersby, and fighting the urge to wear dark sunglasses and baseball caps whenever she went out to class or studio or the market. But that had been nearly three months ago, and she had allowed herself to imagine that perhaps everything would be all right.
She shook her head. "But that," she muttered, "would be too damn easy."
If you ever think you might need to run, Arthur had said while they were preparing for the job in Madrid, her first attempt at extraction, you probably should. A somewhat ironic piece of advice, in hindsight, as he apparently applied that principle in his personal life as well as his professional one, but she suspected the theory behind it was sound. So.
She stood up, pocketing her cell phone. Her laptop was in the lounge; she grabbed it and carried it back to her bedroom, tossing it on the mattress. It was possible that Souza hadn't tracked her as far as Paris-- if he were still asking about Archer, that meant he hadn't made the connection to Ariadne Greer just yet-- but that was only a matter of time; she had switched directly from her Archer ID to her legal identity once she entered France, and the link would be unmistakable to anyone looking for it. But at least she had a little time to move, and she wasn't entirely unprepared to do so.
Her cache was tucked into a hollow space behind the baseboard near her bed, and she used the pocketknife on her nightstand to pry it back, revealing the little metal safe bolted into the wall. There were a handful of passports inside, and a bank bag with a mix of currency. Ariadne thumbed through the IDs until she found the ones she had used as Patricia Archer and Sara Webb, holding those separate and laying the other three on the bed next to the laptop along with the money. She locked the now-empty safe, carefully pressing the baseboard back into position.
Ariadne stood up, brushing off her hands-- she hadn't swept her room in too long, but it looked like she wasn't going to have time to worry about that for a while. "Okay," she said, thinking aloud, trying to remember the lessons Arthur had insisted she learn in the weeks leading up to the Fischer job. "Money and ID," she pulled a large messenger bag out of the wardrobe, "bag, laptop, I need to get a different phone, transportation, and cover." She slid her cell phone out of her pocket, tapping it against her palm a few times. Cover was the hardest bit-- she had friends, a roommate. A complete disappearance would result in Cait or Dorine or someone reporting her missing to the police, and that was no help at all.
But she had just finished her defense. No one would think it odd if she decided she wanted a vacation after the last year and a half of writing her dissertation. Hell, even Miles had told her she needed to get away for a little while. And it was very nearly Christmas, anyway; she'd be able to blend in with the holiday travelers.
Mind made up, Ariadne pulled up Dorine's number and hit talk. It rang several times before Dorine picked up, sounding breathless. "Si ce n'est pas une urgence absolue, va-t'en," she said, sounding irritated and hoarse, and Ariadne could hear a man's voice-- Karl, maybe?-- saying something in the background.
Ariadne suppressed a snort, and quickly explained that she had decided to go visit some friends in Barcelona for the next few weeks, so Dorine would have the flat to herself until Ariadne got back.
"Mmhm," Dorine said, clearly distracted. "Autre chose?" she asked, and a masculine someone-- definitely not the same masculine someone as before-- moaned in the background. Dorine was apparently branching out.
"Non," Ariadne said, rolling her eyes over the phone. "Amusez-vous," she said dryly, and hung up. She'd need to leave Dorine a note on the bathroom mirror or something to remind her, because there was no chance anything Ariadne had said to her had sunk in.
She grabbed a piece of paper from her drawing board. Dorine, she scrawled, too hurried to bother with French, You sounded a little busy over the phone, so I wanted to make sure you knew where I was. Haven't disappeared-- decided to take up a friend's offer to crash on their futon in Barcelona for a while. (Maybe a week or two? Might stay past Christmas. Haven't made up my mind yet.) You know me and Gaudí-- thought I'd go and commune with the guy for a while in celebration. Say hi to Mathys and Karl for me, and whoever that was I heard on the phone. I don't know if I'm jealous or just impressed at this point, honestly.
The note sounded breezy enough so far, she thought, but she felt a pang of unease. If Souza's men managed to connect Patricia Archer with Ariadne Greer, they'd have no problem finding her flat, and she doubted they'd care if Dorine got caught in the crossfire. Granted, Dorine could probably put up a hell of a fight if she needed to, but Ariadne didn't like the idea of leaving her totally in the dark.
Ariadne bit her lip, then wrote, Just to let you know: last night there was someone in the courtyard for over an hour, and they kept looking up at our flat. She felt incredibly low for writing that: Dorine had had a former partner follow her obsessively in the past, and Ariadne hated to trade on what she knew was an extremely unpleasant memory. But if it helped to keep her roommate safe, perhaps it wasn't such a bad lie.
I don't know if they were just waiting on someone or drunk or what, but it kind of freaked me out, she continued. I'm going to let Mme. Thibault know about it before I leave, but keep the doors locked, okay? You might even want one of the guys (or all of them!) to come and stay with you while I'm gone, just in case the creep comes back-- I don't mind at all.
It wasn't enough, really, but it would at least let Dorine know she needed to be on her guard. Maybe she would even decide to break her no men during the workweek rule and stay with a boyfriend for a while, just in case. Ariadne signed her name with a flourish, and wrote the date at the top.
So that was one cover story taken care of. Ariadne went and taped the note to the vanity mirror in their shared bathroom, grabbing her toothbrush and a few other things on her way out and depositing them on the bed next to her messenger bag. Cait was going to be more difficult, so Ariadne decided to skip that call until she had worked out what she wanted to say with a little more finesse. She could call Miles, though-- probably ought to, just to have him pass word along to Arthur and Cobb.
She dialed the number while pulling clothes out of her wardrobe: something dark and long-sleeved, a heavy jacket, a blouse, another pair of jeans, a couple t-shirts, a scarf, gloves, a knit hat-- did she need boots? Dress shoes? Be different people in different places, she heard Eames say, Different classes, different professions, different ages, different bodies. Hide your ears and hands-- they're hard to change and people remember piercings and chipped nails. She wondered if she ought to take a suit or something. Really, she had no idea what she might need, or how to fit it all into one small bag-- it had been much easier to do this in September, when she hadn't had the choice or time to think about it all.
Miles answered on the second ring, saying, "I thought for certain you'd have a terrible hangover today, Ariadne."
"I do," she said grimly, grabbing a few pairs of underwear and some socks and tossing them into the growing pile on her bed. "I've also got people looking for me," she told him. "One of Cobb's contacts just called. They've got the alias I used to get out of São Paulo in September, so the hangover's the least of my problems today."
There was a moment's silence, and Ariadne heard something creak heavily in the background. "Oh, my dear," Miles said at last, sounding distressed. "What can I do?"
"If you could call Cobb and have him get in touch with Arthur, that would be incredibly helpful," she told him, trying to sound upbeat and confident. "I'd call them myself, but I need to get rid of this phone before I leave-- which means they won't have my number anymore."
"What shall I tell them?" Miles asked. Ariadne started separating her clothes into two piles: wear and pack. The jacket was wear, as were the gloves, jeans, sweater, blouse, hat, and scarf. The rest she'd find a way to fit into the bag-- maybe she could roll them up? And shoes, right-- something to run in, and something more upscale.
"Tell Cobb I'll call him when I've decided where I'm going, and he can pass my number along to Arthur," she said, grabbing a pair of black flats from the floor of the wardrobe and shoving them to the bottom of her bag. "Arthur needs to know that Souza's traced us both as far as Lisbon, maybe farther than that, but possibly not." Ariadne began cramming her clothes into the messenger bag, shoving t-shirts and socks around her laptop and into the corners. She decided to leave the suit-- too bulky, and she'd never get the wrinkles out-- and grabbed a jersey dress from the wardrobe instead. Much less complicated. "He doesn't have my real name yet, as far as I know."
"Is there anything else I can do to help?" said Miles, his voice anxious. "I'm so sorry to have got you into all of this, Ariadne."
Ariadne smiled, shaking her head. "Miles, it's okay," she told him gently, just as she always did whenever the question of Cobb and dream-sharing and her recruitment came up over the past four years. "You had nothing to do with this, and it's not your fault. I don't regret it. Besides," she said, tossing a tube of toothpaste and a small zipped makeup case into her bag, "I can handle this."
"Of course," Miles said, his voice thick around the edges. "I never meant to imply otherwise."
"I know you didn't," she said, looking at the bank bag and passports still left on the bed. Keep the essentials on your body if you're on the move, she remembered, and went to look for the cheesy money belt that her aunt had given her the first time she went overseas in high school.
"Do you have a plan for where you'll go?" Miles asked while Ariadne rooted around in the top drawer of her dresser.
" I think I have an idea," Ariadne said, still groping through the drawer. Why did she have so many scarves? She really didn't wear them all that often; it was like they had multiplied in the dark when she wasn't looking. "I'd rather not say, if that's all right," she said, apologetic. "Not that I don't trust you-- I just don't want there to be any reason for Souza to start looking at you, too, Miles." She pulled her hand out of the drawer, triumphant, clutching the money belt.
"Of course," he said. "Forgive the old man his follies."
"Miles," she sighed, and started distributing the bills and IDs around the belt. She decided she'd keep her legal ID in her wallet, the way she always did. "There's nothing to forgive, and you know it." She zipped the belt up, then stood back for a moment. "All right," she said, half to herself and half to Miles, "I think I'm as packed as I'm going to get."
"Please be careful," Miles said, and Ariadne was startled to hear a quaver of age in his voice.
"Hey," Ariadne said, sitting down on the bed. "None of that. Look," she told him, making her voice bright and cheerful, "I'm just going to lie low for a few weeks until Souza gets bored and stops looking. You said I needed a holiday, anyway, right?"
"This is not precisely what I had in mind," Miles said dryly, and Ariadne smiled.
"Yes, but it's what I've got," she said, serious. "I'll be fine. I was tough enough to put up with five years of Professor Astor's bitching, right? I'm tough enough to handle this. I'll check in with Cobb, and he can let you know how I'm doing, okay?"
Miles sighed. "All right," he said, and cleared his throat. "I suppose this means you won't be at Henri's for supper tomorrow night, then."
Ariadne groaned; Ebrennac had planned to have her and several other graduate students in the department over for dinner on Sunday. "Shit, I forgot about that. Could you make my apologies, do you think?"
"Of course I can," Miles said. "Where shall I say you've gone?"
"Barcelona. I have some friends there," Ariadne said, and glanced at the clock on her nightstand. It was a quarter after two, and Cait would be leaving for the studio at three. She needed to catch her before Cait left her apartment. "I have to go, Miles," she said, reluctant. "I want to be out of here in an hour or two at the latest."
"I understand," he said with forced cheer. "Well. Good luck, my dear. I'm sure everything will work out for the best."
"It will," Ariadne agreed, and said goodbye before her throat thickened any. Then she stared down at the phone in her hand, reluctant to make her last call. But it was the best she could think of at the moment, and she didn't have the luxury of refining this particular design. She nodded sharply to herself, and made the call.
"Cait," she said when it went through, "I need a favor."
Continued in Part Two.
And for those interested, an English translation of the opening scene:
"Your glass is empty," Cait said, owl-eyed. "That's not right, why is your glass empty?" She peered into her own glass suspiciously, then said, decisive, "We need more wine," and reached out to hook a passing waiter by the arm. The young man scowled, nearly dropping his food-laden tray. "Another bottle!" Cait instructed grandly.
"Cait, seriously, no," Ariadne protested, but without any real force. It was three in the afternoon, and she was more than halfway to drunk already: she hadn't eaten much that morning out of nerves, and lunch had been mostly an exercise in shaking hands and nibbling at the cheese and fruit provided by the department. Unsurprisingly, the wine was going straight to her head. "We've already had a bottle between the two of us, we don't need another."
"Of course we do," Cait argued. "How often do you expect to earn a Ph.D? It's something to celebrate. And since you won't let me throw you a party, celebration will have to mean more wine." Cait upended the nearly-empty bottle of wine over Ariadne's glass, tapping the bottom to shake out the dregs.
Ariadne laughed. "All right, all right," she conceded. "But you're paying for my taxi, because there's no way I'm walking home if we keep going." The waiter returned, still scowling, thumping a bottle of wine down on the table and drawing the cork with a distinct air of annoyance. "Thanks," Ariadne said, and the waiter rolled his eyes and walked away. Ariadne sighed contentedly. "God, I love Paris."
"This is because you're a masochist," Cait explained with the casual derision of one born outside the city, and poured new glasses for them both.
"I am not a maso-, masa-, oh, fuck it all, I'm too drunk to manage French right now."
Cait blinked slowly, processing the linguistic shift, then said, "I may be too drunk for English. We will have to see."
And there you have it.