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Copyrights and Credits

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Madam Crystal

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YUE KAWAHARA WAS A FIRST-YEAR at Okayama Higashi Public Junior High School. Just started, in fact. Her favorite school lunch was the rice with green peas, and her favorite subject was science. She hadn’t told any of her friends about that yet—the science part, that is. Not the peas. The peas would have been easier to talk about.

“What’s the point of science anyway? Why do they make us memorize all these things? It’s wicked boooring.”

“Magma flow viscosity muh muh muh. I don’t care.”

“We’re literally never going to use this. I hate all those English and kanji tests, but at least those have a purpose. Remind me when I’m going to need to know about magma flow viscosity?”

“Exactly. You agree, right, Yue?”

“…Oh, yeah. I guess.”

At least the science teacher was as cute as a button, her friends agreed with a laugh. The other girls pulled out their phones—they were allowed to bring them to school, though forbidden to use them during classes and breaks—and started up a conversation about pop star videos.

If Yue was honest with herself, she found more joy in science class than in pop stars. Magma viscosity? Well, Yue could take it or leave it, but once that magma hardened, she was all over it. As long as she could remember, she had delighted in learning about different kinds of rocks and minerals. It felt like the ground beneath her feet, which until then had been nothing more than boring rocks and dirt, had transformed into something new and dazzling. If she traced the family tree she’d drawn in her social studies class all the way back, she would find an ancient ancestor in the planet Earth itself.

She went home and told her father this while he watched TV, but he didn’t understand. He just laughed at her and told her not to confuse science with social studies. Yue’s older sister, a second-year in high school, was too busy to talk to little sisters these days. Nor could Yue bring this up around her friends her own age. At least, not to her current friends.

“Hello? Earth to Yue?”

“…Oh, sorry. I was just spacing out.”

“C’mon, astronaut, it’s time for PE. We have to go change!”

“Wait up, I’m coming!”

Yue and her friends ran out of the classroom in a flurry of running feet and gym bags, only to freeze when they rounded a corner and bumped into their teacher. They slowed to a walk as one, pretending they’d never been running at all.

The teacher covered her mouth to hide a laugh. “Don’t run, girls. It’s dangerous,” she called after them as they tiptoed away. She was one of the younger teachers on staff, her crisp Tokyo accent a sharp contrast to that of the local students.

It wasn’t much of a reprimand. In fact, it was as exciting as if the cool older girl next door had chosen to talk to them. Yue and her friends shared a delighted grin.

“I love the way it sounds in her big city accent! ‘Don’t run, girls’!”

“It’s wicked cute.”

“Remember when the VP told us we were getting a new teacher from Tokyo who’s, like, just brilliant?”

“What a weird thing to say. That’s so creepy of him.”

“I think he meant she’s brilliant at her job. Not that he had the hots for her.”

“She’s just the coolest.”

“We love a working girl.”

“Hey, did you hear? One of the guys asked her if she was single.”

“Eww. Speaking of creeps! What’d she say, though? Does she have a boyfriend?”

“He says she refused to tell him.”

“So yes, in other words.”

“Why do you care? Creep.”

“Oh, shut up!”

The girls laughed and talked over each other as they got changed.

Yue felt rather sorry for Ms. Tanimoto. Yue didn’t have a boyfriend, either—or the desire for one—and if she’d had people gossiping about her love life behind her back, she would have felt gross, too.

It was volleyball day in PE, and the match got heated. The classroom continued to buzz with excitement all throughout lunch but fell silent the moment the students were let out for their break. Those who didn’t want to go outside and run around stayed in the classroom to snooze at their desks. Sleeping at school was the latest thing, with students folding their arms across their desks or using their bags for makeshift pillows. It cut down on the number of kids dozing off by fifth period, so the teachers didn’t put a stop to the practice. Yue usually joined her sleeping schoolmates, but she didn’t feel sleepy today. It wasn’t just all the tandoori chicken she’d eaten for lunch, either. Something was bothering her.

She hesitated a few minutes before getting up and leaving the classroom. Her feet carried her to the room she’d had class in earlier that day. Its sliding rubber-sealed door was open about fifty centimeters, give or take a few. Yue sidled in through the gap and into the science lab.

All the specialty classrooms were quiet at lunch. Eerie, even, what with the biological specimens and model of the human body in the science lab’s storage room. Even if there wasn’t anything gross lying around, the girls in Yue’s class weren’t fans.

As Yue walked in, a person surfaced from between two of the desks like a plesiosaur lifting its heavy neck from a swamp. “Oh, do I have a visitor? Hello!”

It was Ms. Tanimoto. She must have been working on something down there on the floor.

“H-hello,” Yue said.

“Welcome. You’re Kawahara, right? From class 3. What can I do for you?”

Yue liked Ms. Tanimoto. This was her first year of teaching, and, according to the older students, she could not have been more different from the old fuddy-duddy of a science teacher who’d retired just before she came. Ms. Tanimoto twinkled like a star. She wore her slightly wavy black hair in a short ponytail and pinned back her bangs with barrettes. She looked like a model from one of the magazines aimed at older teens that the more mature girls in Yue’s class took into the corners of the classroom to read. Everyone, Yue recalled, agreed that she was adorable.

Not that it made any difference to Yue. All she wanted was to hear more about the stones that could form from magma.

Asking, however, was easier said than done.

“…I think I left something in here,” Yue said.

“What was it?”

“Um. A hair clip.”

“What color?”

“Black? Yeah, black.”

“Hmm… I was just cleaning the floor, but I didn’t see one…”

There was an apologetic tone in Ms. Tanimoto’s voice as she suggested that maybe Yue had left it somewhere else. So far, Yue’s biggest take away from junior high was how differently the teachers treated the students. Some teachers treated them like kids, just like in elementary school. But others treated them like people—almost like clientele in a store. Of the two, Ms. Tanimoto fell into the students-as-people camp. Yue normally liked the respect and distance that came with it, but now it only made her feel guilty.

“Okay. I probably did,” she said. “Sorry to bother you.”

“No, don’t worry about it. Let’s have another look for it, okay? I’ll help.”

Yue didn’t know what to say. Ms. Tanimoto was already on her hands and knees looking around for the hair clip. Yue felt compelled to do the same, but the guilt grew in her chest until it felt so strong, she was sure it would kill her. She wanted to admit she hadn’t lost anything, but she couldn’t. She turned red as she realized she was no better than that boy who had teased Ms. Tanimoto by asking about her love life.

She had to make it right. So she said, “Uh… Excuse me, Ms. Tanimoto?”

“Yes?”

Yue fell silent. Do you like science, Ms. Tanimoto? Do you like rocks? They weren’t much, those two little things she wanted to know. Yet the words stuck fast in her throat and refused to come out.

Oddly enough, it reminded her of a conversation with her sister. Not all teachers actually wanted to be teachers, her sister said. One of the math teachers at the high school didn’t want to teach at all; they only wound up in that job because research didn’t pay the bills. Yue’s sister insisted it made no difference to her, but Yue could tell that revelation had shocked her. Her eyes used to light up when she talked about how much she enjoyed math class. Not anymore, though.

The thought of learning more about Ms. Tanimoto was, honestly, kind of frightening. What if Ms. Tanimoto didn’t care much for science either? What if she had never wanted to teach in a place like Okayama? If that were true, Yue wasn’t sure how she should respond. Worse, she was scared the precious connection she felt between the ground under her feet and the rocks of the planet Earth would snap in two. She wanted anything but that.

As Yue struggled with her silence, Ms. Tanimoto took a good, long look at her. Yue likewise sized up the teacher, kneeling across from her on the quiet classroom floor. She panicked. She had to say something. If she didn’t speak up now, she knew she would regret it for the rest of her life.

Finally, she managed, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“…Do you…?”

“Yes?”

“…Do you like r-rocks?”

“Hmm?”

Ms. Tanimoto looked astonished. Yue felt she might explode with embarrassment. It wasn’t a bad “Hmm?” but she still felt like she should never have said anything. Driven by some inexplicable fear, she stood up at once.

“I’m sorry. Forget I said anything. I-I’m going back to my classroom.”

“What about your hair clip?”

“I’ll look for it somewhere else.”

Yue bowed, but before she could rush out of the science lab, Ms. Tanimoto stood up and called her name. Ms. Tanimoto was as pretty as a doll, but when Yue turned back to look at her, there was a very un-Ms. Tanimoto-like strength in her eyes.

“Kawahara, are you free on Saturday? It’d have to be the morning, if that’s all right.”

“…Saturday, you said?”

“Yes. I don’t have a class that day, but I have permission to run an experiment as part of the science club. You should join in if you’re interested. I think you’ll enjoy it.”

“I’m not in the science club, though.”

“We’re always happy to have guests participate. It’s not for school. Only if you want to. But I would be happy if you came along.”

Yue fell silent.

“Okay?”

When Ms. Tanimoto smiled at her, Yue found herself nodding without ever intending to have done so. Then she turned and all but ran back to her classroom, slipping into her seat among her snoozing classmates.

Saturday. The science club. Ms. Tanimoto.

It was all she could think of all day. Fifth period, after break, was language arts, but all the new verb conjugations went in one ear and out the other.

Going to school on a Saturday felt like exploring an abandoned building in a sci-fi story. It was quiet. Deserted, even, and so silent. Between the soccer and softball clubs, there was usually at least some activity on the field, but both were playing away games at other schools today, according to the notice posted on the bulletin board next to the shoe lockers. The board also mentioned something about a science club experiment chaperoned by Ms. Tanimoto Shouko. Yue had never seen Ms. Tanimoto’s first name before.

She changed into her school shoes and climbed the silent steps to the upper floors. Voices grew louder as she neared the lab. They weren’t boisterous, but the fragments of chatter she caught were still plenty excited. She came to the small window in the door and peeped into the room. About half a class’s worth of boys were inside. Boys, boys, boys, every one of them. Yue didn’t find boys intimidating, but today was different. These boys wore lab coats and transparent goggles over their faces. They looked like a group of aliens.

The boys hunkered in groups of three or four at the green desks around some pieces of equipment. They looked like portable cassette stoves to Yue, the kind with gas canisters that could be used at home. She had one just like it at her house. Her family would put a pot of a little something on it to cook at a low boil, and similarly, a small, empty pot sat on each of these burners.

Ms. Tanimoto stood in front of her desk. She was dressed in a white lab coat and a pair of transparent goggles, just like all the boys. Right as Yue was about to lose her nerve and back away, Ms. Tanimoto looked directly at her and smiled. Her black hair, tied up in a bun near the base of her neck, bobbed with the movement.

“I’m so glad you could make it, Kawahara!” Ms. Tanimoto said. She opened the door with another smile and invited Yue in.

The goggle-wearing group stared holes into Yue. She flinched for the briefest of moments, but once she realized she knew every boy behind his goggles, her fear vanished altogether. They may have been dressed weird, but they were still just her classmates.

Ms. Tanimoto wasted no time in introducing Yue. “I know we have many new club members today, but I’d also like to introduce one more new face. This is Kawahara from the first-year class. Kawahara, take a coat and a pair of goggles and join Group Three.”

“Okay.”

Yue donned both—this was her first time wearing a white coat over her clothes for anything besides lunch duty, and she was surprised at how exciting she found it—and hurried to join the students at the third table on the right. The other members of group three welcomed her with a wave. Only after she sat down with them did she realize she had missed her chance to ask what exactly they were doing today.

Yue turned her head to look at the neat chalk letters on the blackboard. “Bismuth?” she read.

“It’s a type of metal,” the boy sitting next to her explained. She hadn’t met him before. He was a bit on the tall side, with large, round eyes. Probably an upperclassman. “Ms. Tanimoto said you can melt solid bismuth in a pot and let it harden again to make crystals. The crystals make wicked cool shapes.”

“Neat.”

Ms. Tanimoto announced that it was time to begin and moved from table to table plopping small cubical objects into the pots. They looked like the magnets Yue used in class, and it reminded her of melting chocolate cubes to make treats for Valentine’s Day. The only difference was that they were heating metallic chips, not bits of chocolate.

Ms. Tanimoto then turned on the burners and told the designated group leaders, “Go for it, and good luck!” There was a click, the smell of gas, and the thrum-thrum of the large ventilator fans whirring to life.

“Careful of the fire,” she warned the class. “We’ll be working with flames at 270 degrees.”

“Whoa, 270 degrees? How hot is that?” a boy at the next table called out.

The boy who had explained the experiment to Yue rounded on him and yelled back, “Duh, 270 degrees! How stupid are you?”

“No, Matsuda is asking a good question. We fry tempura at around 170 degrees, so you can think of it as even hotter than that. Watch out, everyone.”

“Ms. Tanimoto, that means nothin’ to me. I’m one of those guys who doesn’t know his way around a kitchen.”

“Get with the times, dude,” Yue’s groupmate jeered.

“Aw, shut it, Akira. My big bro cooks all the time. I figure it’ll rub off on me eventually; the apple can’t fall that far from the tree.”

“Apple or no apple, you still have a brain, don’t you? You can imagine how hot tempura oil is. Friggin’ Hiroto… Right, Sensei?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Ms. Tanimoto. “I never cooked tempura when I was your age, either.”

“Come on, Sensei! Back me up here!”

The boys’ open laughter took Yue by surprise. Boys her age were a largely unknown species that tended to lurk in the back of the class, acting surly and sneaking in manga to read, but these boys were as chatty as any of the girls. They weren’t sullen and scowling at all.

Ms. Tanimoto cleared her throat to quiet the rowdy classroom. “You do need to watch out, though. It will hurt very badly if you get burned. Plus, you’ll make me sad.”

The students responded with a unanimous “Yes, ma’am,” as if they’d gone back to being elementary schoolers for a moment. Ms. Tanimoto, Yue thought, could work magic.

The magician lifted her index finger to add one final thing. “Remind me, kids. What’s the Okayama Higashi Public Junior High School science club motto?”

“Science is fun, and safety comes first!” This time, Yue and about a dozen other kids answered as one. Ms. Tanimoto nodded with a bright smile.

The chips in the pot softened by degrees as the fire sputtered away. It really was like chocolate, Yue thought. Metallic chocolate. She couldn’t tear her fascination away from the array of colors that oozed out of the bismuth.

Someone tapped her on the elbow as she stared through her goggles into the pot. “Hm?” she said.

“What grade are you? And what’s your name again? I’m Hiroto Matsuda. A second-year.”

It was the loud boy from earlier, the one her groupmate had spoken to. Yue answered shyly, “I’m, uh, Yue Kawahara. First-year.”

“Dang, a first-year! Well, thanks for coming. Lucky you showed up on an experiment day.”

“…What kinds of things do you guys do here in the science club?”

“All sorts of stuff. Ever since Ms. Tanimoto came to our school, we started doing a buncha new things. The club’s way more fun now. We go to the beach to collect rocks, break stones with hammers, check out geological strata in cliff faces. All sorts of stuff.”

“And this,” Yue’s helpful groupmate added, pointing to the pot.

Hiroto laughed. “This chump’s Akira Uetake. He’s my science club buddy. A second-year, like me.”

“Ew. I don’t want to be your buddy. Go back to your own table. You gotta watch the pot.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. My brother says it never hurts to help the newbie settle in, you know? Oh yeah—making bismuth crystals was another idea of Ms. Tanimoto’s.”

“Wow,” Yue said.

“Oh wait. The teacher’s coming around. Gotta go.”

“Yeah, go already,” Akira called at his departing figure.

Ms. Tanimoto went from table to table, checking on the pots and the heat of the flames. Yue admired the way the bottom of her lab coat billowed every time she took a step.

Ever since the start of junior high, Yue had come to realize just how much a club’s activities—especially for non-sports clubs—depended on the advisor. Some advisors were like the drama club teacher, who had been in an amateur acting troupe in college and was passionate about mentoring upcoming actors. Others, like the literature club advisor, took a more laissez-faire approach and didn’t do much apart from signing off on any activities the students proposed. Okayama Higashi Public Junior High also had a significant number of students who opted to go home straight after school instead of joining any clubs. Most of them were busy with cram school.

Yue hadn’t joined a club, either, but she didn’t have cram school as an excuse. She just hadn’t been able to commit to a decision. Several decisions, really.

Akira leaned over as Yue gazed at Ms. Tanimoto. “So, bismuth is a metal, right? Number 83 on the periodic table. Soen in Japanese. I’m a science nerd, if I do say so myself, but I never knew bismuth existed until Sensei mentioned it. How about you? Did you know of it already?”

“I-I didn’t.”

“Whew. For a minute there, I was worried you were an Einstein.”

Akira laughed with a big ha ha ha before walking Yue through the process of making bismuth crystals. (Yue thought to herself that he must have great grades.)

Step 1: Put the bismuth chips—those cubic magnet-looking thingies—into the pot.

Step 2: Heat the pot to 270 degrees, bismuth’s melting point.

Step 3: Wait for the bismuth to melt completely and turn off the heat.

Step 4: Stick a pair of forceps into the metal bismuth and pull out the solids that form as the metal begins to reharden.

Ta-da: Bismuth crystals.

Everyone had gotten to review the process, Akira explained, with a video Ms. Tanimoto had shown them before Yue showed up. The video had briefed them pretty well on what bismuth crystals looked like. But to Yue, this was all unexplored territory.

With that said, her only job was to snap pictures on her phone as the bismuth slowly collapsed into a melting puddle, a task not too intimidating even to a non-club member like her. Ms. Tanimoto said she didn’t mind if they were on their phones during experiments, but only if they kept in mind that they or their friends could get hurt if they got distracted. Most people weren’t on their phones for long. Yue, too, pulled out her phone carefully, took one quick shot, and immediately put it away again.

Ten minutes later, the bismuth was a puddle.

“All right, class. Once you turn off the heat, I want you to use your forceps to peel off the top layer and lay it on the plates I’ve put at every desk. Then it’s time to get your crystals. Careful not to topple the pot!”

Another unanimous “Yes, ma’am!” went up.

Akira took the lead at Yue’s table. He gasped in excitement, like he had felt something solid, when he stuck the ends of the forceps into the thick, sludgy silver liquid. Over at Group Six, Hiroto yelled at him to shut up. Yue almost laughed, but Akira’s face was stone-cold serious.

“Whoa. There’s something there! This is brilliant!”

“Can you grab it?”

“Yeah, easily. One sec.”

After carefully groping around on the bottom of the pot, Akira jerked his forceps up, with a shiny, iridescent solid stuck to its tips. The solid looked like the wing casing of a jewel beetle and was about the size of a caramel candy. Its geometric structure reminded Yue of a labyrinth made of tiny cubes. She would have thought it was some weird industrial product sold at a hardware store or gift from an alien. It was hard to believe it could have come out of that pot of liquid.

The rest of the group members cheered. Yue was so caught up that she oohed along.

“There’s something there!”

“The forceps are covered in little bits of bismuth! What do we do now? Ms. Tanimoto, are they ruined?”

“Don’t worry. Once we reheat it, the bismuth will melt and run off. Now let everyone else have a turn to scoop up crystals, okay?”

Akira put his crystals on the plate with a look of triumph before turning to Yue and grinning. “You next! It’s wicked fun.”

He held the forceps out to her, and she shyly accepted. She looked around—she wasn’t sure if it was okay for someone so brand spanking new to go second—but everyone else was too engrossed with the crystals to pay any attention to her. She fiddled around with the forceps before getting them to work and extricating a small crystal from the bottom of the pot. A little sigh slipped past her lips. It was one of relief, but also happiness and something she couldn’t quite put into words. It moved her. This was like taking part in creating something new and magical. She passed the forceps along to the next boy in line and put her crystal down on the plate, with Akira’s crystal next to it to keep it company.

“So whaddaya think of the experiment?” Akira asked.

“Oh my God. It’s so cool—oh, um. I mean, it’s very fascinating.”

“You don’t need to be so formal around me. We’re all classmates, right? Especially here. Everyone’s friends in the science club.”

“Um…if you say so.”

“You sure are a stickler for manners, huh? Suit yourself, I s’pose.” Akira smiled.

Once everyone had a turn with the bismuth, he picked up the forceps with a delighted “Awright!” and had another go at it. As time went on, the pot spat out bigger crystals. Probably because the metal was cooling and solidifying, Yue thought. Watching it harden before her eyes—using a principle even a kid like her could comprehend—made her heart beat faster and faster. Putting the lab coat on was thrilling in its own way, but it was nowhere as cool as this.

When Yue went to dig out crystals for the third time, she felt a strong resistance. It was like she was fishing in the liquid bismuth, which was such an odd feeling that she had to smile as she pulled the crystal cluster out. It came up with a blorp past the surface of the liquid—a maze of bismuth with a metallic sheen. The bright pinks and greens showed more variety of color than any crystal yet.

“That thing’s huge!”

“Look at the size of that monster! You’re killing it, first-year.”

“I sure am!”

She set it down on the plate, where it rolled to a stop. Her crystal was larger than any of the others. Its bright, vivid colors almost moved her to tears of happiness. Until she grabbed them with her forceps, these crystals hadn’t existed anywhere in the universe. It was the only stone like it on Earth, and it only existed thanks to one girl in her first year of junior high.

To Yue, it felt like a miracle.

Pull out crystals until the metal hardened, heat it up again, rinse and repeat. Group Three repeated the process three times in total, until their lab table looked like a display at a bismuth-themed rock show.

Just as the kids began to get rowdy with excitement, Ms. Tanimoto clapped her hands. “Okay, everybody, pause where you’re at. This is the end of today’s experiment. Let’s start cleaning up. I want one person from each group to bring the leftover liquid to my desk. Don’t touch the metal portion of the stoves, because they’re still hot. Just leave them where they are.”

“What do we do with the crystals, Ms. Tanimoto?”

“You can each take home the ones you made. Just watch out—bismuth is a soft metal, so it might break if you bump it into something.”

The class erupted into cheers. Yue herself felt some measure of relief. She wouldn’t have minded her crystals going up on display in the science lab, but taking them home to show her sister was even better.

After Ms. Tanimoto deposited the pots of leftover bismuth and gunked-up forceps into the lab’s storage room, she smiled, pulled off her goggles, and went to the blackboard with a piece of chalk. “Let’s talk bismuth while we wait for the stoves to cool off. Does anyone have any idea why bismuth forms these shapes?”

Hiroto raised his hand. “Maybe God made it that way just ’cause he thought it was cool.”

That got the class going. Akira loudly proclaimed that Hiroto was full of it, making Hiroto scratch his head self-consciously.

Ms. Tanimoto, however, took it seriously. “Hm. That’s certainly possible. If we think about the natural elements as—oh, do you all remember what elements are? As you learned in your first-year science classes, an element is the smallest fundamental unit of matter. We’ve discovered 118 elements, although only 117 have ever existed. That’s a lot of elements. If God made them all, I wouldn’t be surprised if he started adding unusual crystal formations into the mix to have some fun.”

“You mean, God was messing around?”

“No, I think God took his work very seriously. After all, every person is unique in their own way, aren’t they? Apples might not fall far from their trees, but each apple can grow up to be their own unique tree.”

Ms. Tanimoto went on to talk about the crystalline structure of metals and illustrated her point by drawing a jungle gym-looking figure on the board. In her words, every element had a certain shape that its molecules tended to assume when they came together to form bigger structures, i.e., the crystal. Bismuth formed that labyrinthine geometric shape. Alum, the stuff the kids often crystallized in science class, formed regular octahedrons. As for the jungle gym, that was a model that showed how metal molecules “linked hands” or clumped together. Much to Yue’s relief, Ms. Tanimoto added that it was okay if not everything made sense now, as it would be covered in class later.

She continued into a broader discussion of metal: the molecular structures, the properties of gold that made it flatten and stretch under hammering. Not once did she say, “This will be on the test.” Most teachers would have peppered their speech with those magic attention-grabbing phrases—“This will be on the test,” or “You’re going to see this often in life”—but not Ms. Tanimoto. She simply acted like metals were fun and interesting to her. It reminded Yue of the way her older sister talked about the celebrities she followed or the latest social media trends. Strangely, Ms. Tanimoto also made a bizarrely debonair face from time to time before she caught herself and laughed it off with an embarrassed grin.

She paused to say, “Oh goodness, it’s almost time for lunch. We only have this room for the morning, so we need to wrap up and head on out. Please take off the gas canisters and bring them with the stoves to my desk. And that’s it, we’re done! Thank you so much for coming, and take care on the way home.”

“Thanks for everything, Ms. Tanimoto!”

The boys were in no hurry to leave even after putting away the equipment. To Yue, it looked like they wanted to talk to Ms. Tanimoto but didn’t know how to approach her. They asked her questions about science, but Yue could tell that Ms. Tanimoto was their true interest.

Yue watched her classmates from the other side of the room. Ms. Tanimoto sure is popular, she thought.

Just then, Ms. Tanimoto caught her eye and walked over to her with a bright smile. Yue’s stomach dropped.

“Thanks again for coming, Kawahara,” said Ms. Tanimoto. “How was it? Did you have fun today?”

“…Y-yes, I did.”

“Wow, is that your bismuth? You got a big one!”

Ms. Tanimoto’s happiness was infectious. “…Yeah. It’s a cool shape.”

“I think so, too. That’s why I chose this lab. I thought you’d all enjoy it.”

“It was nice.”

“I’m glad to hear that. I hope we see you again at another one of these labs.”

“We’ll help plan the next one!” Hiroto chimed in. “Just sit back and relax, Ms. Tanimoto. We’ll take it from here.”

“Thank you, Hiroto. You’re such a big help. I’m glad to have so many good kids like you in this club.”

Hiroto’s pleasure—verging on arrogance, even—was so obvious to see that Akira rolled his eyes. Yue almost grinned. She didn’t understand why she felt so at home here, but it was magical.

She looked down at the bismuth in the palm of her hand and said to herself, “It’s like an Indian stepwell.”

“A what?”

“Oh, uh…”

Yue stuttered her way through the explanation. Her sister followed an account online that posted pictures of beautiful sights all around the globe. She showed the especially pretty ones to Yue, and one of them, a photo of a dry well in India, had stuck with her. A staircase had been carved out into the rock, forming an inverted pyramid leading into the depths of the earth. It was unbelievably beautiful.

“So, um, these crystals look kind of like that. Sorry, I know I’m being thick.”

“You mean stupid?” Ms. Tanimoto asked, using the Tokyo-standard term. “You’re not being stupid at all. That sounds lovely. If I remember correctly, a friend once showed me a photo of a well like that, and they do look similar.”

Ms. Tanimoto had the same look of approval as when one of the boys made a good analogy. Yue’s heart swelled.

“Who was your friend who showed you the picture?” she asked.

“Hm? Oh, he…he’s a friend of mine with an interesting job. He lives in Sri Lanka.”

“Where’s that?”

“It’s an island off the coast of India. It’s very famous for producing tea.”

“Huh, India… What does he do there?”

“He’s, uh…a jeweler.”

A joo-lurr? What was that? That word was a head-scratcher and no mistake. At the very least, Yue sure didn’t know any joo-lurrs. She repeated the word to herself over and over in the hopes that she wouldn’t forget it before she could get a chance to look it up.

“The world is full of pretty things, isn’t it? Some are big, like stepwells, and some are as tiny as bismuth crystals. All of them require us to slow down and admire them, don’t you think?”

“I guess so.”

If Yue thought about it like social media, then what Ms. Tanimoto said made sense. She would never have learned about stepwells if her sister hadn’t shown her the photo. The internet was awash with images, and if any didn’t catch the viewer’s immediate interest, it was all too easy to swipe past them to the next image with a flick of the finger.

Ms. Tanimoto smiled. “The words cool and pretty are like magic spells to me. Without them, wells are just wells. Rocks are just rocks. It’s when you think they’re cool or pretty that they gain special significance. It’s like a kind of magic that broadens our horizons and builds bridges to the enormous world around us.”

Yue goggled at Ms. Tanimoto, with her lab coat and smiling face. She wasn’t quite sure she understood all this business about magic, but at the same time, part of it made sense.

“Kawahara, do you remember the question you asked me the other day?” Ms. Tanimoto went on.

“Hm?”

“If I liked rocks.”

“Oh. Um, yes.”

She was surprised Ms. Tanimoto remembered. It was even more remarkable that it could make Ms. Tanimoto smile. Her smile was so big and bright, it chased away the concern that maybe, just maybe, Ms. Tanimoto was another teacher who had never wanted the job.

“I do. I love rocks. You know, back when I was in junior high, I became president of the rocks and mineral club.”

“The what?”

“A sort of club for rockhounds.”

“Really?”

“Mm-hmm. I love rocks so much, I ended up becoming a science teacher.”

Yue was stunned.

“Oh—I can teach lots of other topics, too, of course. Even ones that have nothing to do with rocks. Although, come to think of it, isn’t everything in the universe connected to rocks in some way? That’s how I see it—but oh goodness, there I go on again about rocks. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be!” Yue interrupted.

Ms. Tanimoto gave her an odd look, and the boys turned to stare at her, too.

Yue screwed up her courage. It was now or never. “Um, Ms. Tanimoto…I want to have a rockhound club, too. Can I be a part of the science club?”

Bafflingly, Hiroto and Akira burst into applause behind Ms. Tanimoto.

Yue was alarmed, but Ms. Tanimoto lit up like a light bulb. “Do you really? That’s wonderful! Look, Hiroto and Akira. We have a girl in the club now.”

“Aww, yeah! High five, Akira,” Hiroto crowed.

“Let’s not,” said his more reserved companion. “Safety first, remember? Still, this is good news. I feel bad that we’re the one non-sports club without any girls.”

“…Really?” Yue asked.

“Yeah! The girls on student council keep calling us the boys’ club. That’s discrimination! You don’t see them calling the softball club the boys’ club.”

“That’s because there’s a girls’ softball club, too, you dolt. No wonder the boys’ softball club is all boys.”

“Wait, is that how it works? No, no, don’t get the wrong idea, Kawahara. They may call us the boys’ club, but there’s nothing gross about us. We may all be weirdos in our own way, but we’re fun weirdos! We’re like a family at this office. Plus, you get two days off a week and paid vacation.”

“Since when was this a job? Sorry about him, Kawahara. His brother’s a comedian, so he’s always like this.”

Yue nodded, a bit dazed.

Ms. Tanimoto took a seat in front of her on one of the round stools. Yue was a little startled—they were at eye level now. She couldn’t stop thinking about her friends gushing over how cute Ms. Tanimoto was.

“Let me give you a brief overview of what we do in this club. We meet three times a week here in the science lab to explore topics our club members are interested in, perform experiments, and write reports on what we’ve learned. Whenever possible, we also have a bigger experiment or field trip once a month. We might pick up stones by the river, sample the water quality, and so on. Our next trip will be to visit a local rock outcrop.”

“Oh, that sounds like fun!” Yue said.

Ms. Tanimoto smiled once more. To Yue, she looked like an angel. The boys stared at them, their faces saying, Oh great, there she goes again.

Yue was reminded of a visit to a relative’s house over New Year’s. Ms. Tanimoto and the two boys acted like siblings with a big age gap.

“…Can I ask why there aren’t any other girls in the club?” she said. “Was it always like this?”

“Hmm… I couldn’t tell you. I only started teaching here this year.”

“Nah, there’s never been any girls,” said Hiroto. “My big brother was a part of the club back when he was in junior high, and he said there were nada. He only joined the club to get time to work on his jokes, see. Girls just don’t like science, you know? There’s more guys than girls in STEM. It’s a boys’ subject.”

“Don’t say that in front of the student council unless you wanna get a knuckle sandwich,” Akira put in. “The prez is super into STEM. Says she’s trying to win the Math Olympiad.”

“I-I mean, she’s just the exception to the rule…”

“Are you sure? What about me?” asked Ms. Tanimoto. “I became a science teacher and everything.”

“Uh.”

Hiroto shot Akira a look, begging for backup. Ms. Tanimoto was still smiling, but it was clearly not the same smile from before. Suddenly, Yue remembered Ms. Tanimoto talking about gold—how it could be hammered and hammered but never break, only keep growing and growing under pressure.

The smile never left Ms. Tanimoto’s face as she said, “Every person has their own likes and dislikes. It takes time to figure those out, so in the meantime, lots of people look to what their friends are doing and choose similar subjects and hobbies. It makes it easier to fit in. However, when you do discover something you enjoy, you shouldn’t ignore what your heart tells you just because your friends don’t feel the same way about it. Science is just as fun of a subject as English or social studies. I mean it. I enjoyed it so much, I started teaching it.”

“…But there’s data that says there are fewer girls in the sciences than boys. Plus, all of the science and math teachers here are men. Except you, Ms. Tanimoto.”

“That’s true, but what difference does that make? Maybe that’s what the data says today, but we don’t know about tomorrow. Still…Hiroto is right. There aren’t so many girls interested in science.”

“…Does that mean it’s unnatural for girls to join the science club?” Yue asked.

“No, not at all. Not in the slightest,” Ms. Tanimoto declared emphatically. “Nature itself is a very, very big thing. Like I mentioned earlier, there are many elements we know are theoretically possible but have yet to discover. We’ve only uncovered a tiny fraction of the universe, and the rest is a void in which our species is adrift. Before we tell ourselves that something is natural or unnatural, we must remember that nature is too large for us to fully comprehend. It’s up to you to decide whether something is unnatural. All right?”

“So you’re telling Kawahara that it’s wrong to think the science club isn’t for girls?” Akira said.

“Yes, exactly. Thank you for summing it up.”

“Any time!”

When Yue still said nothing, Ms. Tanimoto gave her a smile that was a cross between concerned and self-conscious. “Well,” she amended, “I’m not a girl, per se. I’m a woman. But as a female teacher…I would feel better having a friend like you in the club.”

Yue whispered, “Thank you.”

She bowed her head. Goodness, but she was embarrassed. She didn’t know why she was on the verge of tears. Maybe it was better to keep her head down until the feeling went away.

Later, she was still so caught up in the excitement she agreed to walk home with Akira and Hiroto. They told her more about Ms. Tanimoto’s friend, the one who worked as a joo-lurr. Hiroto swore with a big grin on his face that he had caught them eating burgers together once. That was her boyfriend. Akira scoffed. Nuh-uh; Ms. Tanimoto said otherwise.

Well, boyfriend or no boyfriend, Yue was just happy to fit in as a “natural” part of the group.

When the time came for them to go their separate ways, her new friends waved goodbye and called “See ya later!” She waved back.

Once she was alone, she mulled over the name of that mysterious occupation. Joo-ler. It sounded like jewel, and she knew what jewels were. The problem was the -er part. How did someone -er a jewel? Besides, jewels were for girls. What was a man doing working with jewels? A man who was Ms. Tanimoto’s friend, a man who knew about Indian stepwells… She couldn’t begin to imagine what such a person could be like.

However, Yue’s imagination worked just fine in other areas. She could name plenty of things she knew very little about, like India—and Sri Lanka—not to mention the molecular structure of metals. She had never been to Tokyo, where Ms. Tanimoto said her parents lived.

Right…Osaka. Tokyo was like a bigger Osaka, according to Yue’s mom, but at least Osakans talked similarly to people in Yue’s neck of the woods. The unknown wasn’t the unimaginable. Yue enjoyed removing items from her collection of unknowns and adding them to her list of knowns over time. Regardless of what a jewel-er’s job turned out to be and whether this mystery man was actually Ms. Tanimoto’s boyfriend, Yue hoped she would get a chance to meet him someday.

“What a cool shape! Are you gonna use it for a pendant?”

“You’re not supposed to wear bismuth because it’s too soft. I was told there’s a way to harden it with a thingy called resin, but I dunno how.”

“Oh, I know all about resin. I have a friend who, like, swears by that stuff. I’ll need to ask her about it sometime.”

The moment she walked through the door that evening, Yue went to show her sister the bismuth crystals. Her sister was so beyond taken with them, she promised to go with Yue to the 100-yen shop and buy a jar to put them in. Opportunities to go on outings with her sis had dropped off precipitously as of late, so Yue was gladder than ever that she had chosen to go to the science club today.

Leaning up against a pillow stamped with the logo of a social media company, Yue’s sister snapped pic after pic of the crystals.

“Hey, Sis?” Yue said. “Do you know what a jewel-er is?”

“You mean a jeweler? Yeah, why?”

“Today the teacher said she has a friend who’s a jeweler. I guess I don’t get how jewels can be a job, you know? What does a jeweler do, exactly?”

“Sells jewels and jewelry and stuff. Right?”

“Is that it?”

Like, a person who worked at the jewelry counter in department stores? Just a clerk in a jewelry shop?

Yue’s sister was about to nod before she thought better of it, frowned, and shook her head. “No, it’s more like a specialist. Jewelry store workers are basically retail workers that just so happen to sell jewels, you know? I don’t think they would call themselves jewelers. Jewelers are, like, people who know everything about gemstones and jewelry. I think they’re more like the folks who buy jewels from the suppliers to sell to jewelry stores.”

“You sure know a lot about it.”

“That’s ’cause I’m the queen of the internet.”

She signaled for Yue to give her a sec and scrolled through something on her phone. Yue figured her sister was about to make her watch another video of her friends dancing, but when her sister passed her the phone, she saw a photo of green gemstones with an astronomical number of likes. The gemstones formed a three-strand necklace draped across a black bust.

“Whoa! That’s so cool. What is it?” Yue asked.

“An emerald necklace. It’s a new item from a company called Gargantua. I hear the designer is a Japanese lady. Isn’t it brilliant? I’m in love. There’s, like, no way I’d ever afford it, but at least looking is free.”

“Whoa.”

“The people who hunted down the stones for this bracelet would be jewelers like the guy you were talking about.”

“…You mean they go out and find jewels in the ground?”

“I can only guess, but I would imagine they’re not the miners themselves. They, I dunno, buy gems from the miners and sell them to big companies like Gargantua. Sorta like intermediaries? I guess. Maybe.”

“What are intermediaries?”

“So, like, basically, imagine you’re running a three-person relay race. The second runner is the one who ‘connects’ the first and last runners, you know? That’s the intermediary. It’s a company that connects two other entities. Get it?”

“…I think so.”

Yue’s sister chuckled with pride. “Now this is why I have top marks in language class.”

“We get it, Sis. I heard you the first twenty times you bragged about it.”

“Oh, let me have my fun.”

Yue looked back down at the emerald necklace on the phone screen. The bismuth crystals were beautiful in their own way, but when it came down to it, Yue realized that both types of beauty—the bismuth’s and the emeralds’—came from the stones. Theirs was a world of beauty born from humans and stones coming together to transform the stones into something new. In her mind, Ms. Tanimoto smiled.

“…I think my science teacher would like this,” Yue said.

“Oh, the one all your friends like? Why, does she wear a lot of blingy jewelry?”

“No! You’re way off.”

The unusually stern tone in Yue’s voice startled her sister. Yue felt the stirrings of pride—she was in junior high, and her sister had better believe it—and softened the sting with a smile. “No, Ms. Tanimoto’s just…someone I think I could talk about stones with.”

“What? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I dunno. Just the impression I get from her.”

“Huh.”

It was an odd thing to say, but her sister didn’t tease her for it. For that, and for accepting it at face value, Yue felt grateful. She was sure that she was right about Ms. Tanimoto, and at that moment, her decision was made.

“So anyway,” she said, “I’m going to join the science club.”

“Huh, really? I thought you said it’s nothing but guys.”

“Yeah, well…once I join, it won’t be. And maybe,” she added shyly, “then other girls will join, too.”

Her sister beamed. Her smile was bigger and brighter than when their mom announced they were having her favorite—curry—for dinner. “Really? Well, I guess I don’t need to ask—you look like your mind’s made up. Good for you! You’re a brave kid, Yue. Seriously. Major props. Still, you know you can come talk to me if you ever get tired of hanging around boys all day, okay? You can bring me along on Saturdays if you need backup.”

Yue didn’t respond.

“Oh no, are you crying?” her sister asked.

“I’m not.”

“You so are.”

“I’m not!”

Yue’s sister sent her the photo of the emerald necklace that night after dinner. She just couldn’t get enough of looking at it. It was so beautiful it made her sigh in wonder, no matter how many times she came back to it. Running the English caption under the photo through a translation app gave her: “This necklace was once owned by Indian royalty. It has been remade upon request.” India. That was right next to Sri Lanka, the place where Ms. Tanimoto’s friend lived.

Ms. Tanimoto said pretty and cool were magic words. It was that very magic that made Yue feel the first drops of water seeping up through the soil in the dry stepwell of her heart.

Dragon Season

Dragon Season - 05

OH, THE DRAGON BOATS—boats bearing the heads of dragons!

Every June during the Dragon Boat Festival, these vibrantly colored watercraft took to the harbors, their teams of twenty rowers heaving the oars with all their might at every beat of the drum. Fishing boats paddled alongside, sporting red and yellow streamers. Walkie-talkies crackled with impatient voices, and the waterside thrummed with noise. Cooking smoke drifted up from food stalls, and the air grew hot with the press of bodies. A TV station was recording. Flags were fluttering on the wind. Flags, flags, flags, as far as the eye could see.

The dragon boats shot forward like arrows. The drum beats urged them ever forward, forward, forward as they tore through the water.

Vincent didn’t know when it had all started. Really, when was it? When did the sight of the dragon boats begin to fill him with such anguish?

紛緫緫其離合兮，

斑陸離其上下。

吾令帝閽開關兮，

倚閶闔而望予。

The jewelry store’s patron burst into applause when the ­poetry recital came to an end. The speaker’s voice was as musical as a koto in the hands of a skilled performer. This jeweler—a man with blond hair, cerulean eyes, and a suit of a peculiar grey ­bordering on purple—bowed with reserve. He remained as stoic as an actor facing applause following a show.

“I am simply glad to hear you enjoyed it, Ms. Liu,” said the jeweler.

“You rendered it perfectly!” Ms. Liu said. “Thank you for indulging me, Richard. Oh, I just knew I had to hear it in your voice today, and I’m sure I don’t need to explain why. Now, don’t forget about the jade I ordered! Goodbye—I’m needed at Victoria Harbor! My friends are waiting for me by the boats.”

“Do take care in the crowds.”

Once their affable client had left, the little shop fell silent. Vincent Lai, the shop assistant, watched her trot off with a sigh of disappointment. So much for the tray of fresh tea in his hands.

“She didn’t stick around long enough for me to offer any milk tea.”

“Yes, she seems to have called on us during a rather busy moment in her schedule. A pity, but such is the way of life.”

“Do you want to drink it instead?”

“Yes, if you would be so kind.”

The magnificent jeweler picked up a white teacup patterned with red flowers and took a silent sip of the sweet milk tea. This was royal milk tea, not its more basic cousin or the Hong Kong variation with evaporated milk for sweetener. No—royal milk tea was a longtime favorite of the jeweler, one that Vincent himself had never desired to partake of. He could tell at a glance that it would be much too sweet for him. The first few times it appeared at the store, Richard had invited Vincent to join him for a cup, but he got the hint and stopped asking after enough refusals.

Vincent took back the now-empty teacup and brought the tray to a waiting empty space in the kitchenette at the back of the store. Several others just like it sat nearby, awaiting their turn to be put away at the end of the shift. Ms. Liu was the fourth customer of the day, Vincent noted at a glance. The number of trays was the only way he kept track of the store’s traffic. None of the customers ever spoke to him, of course. They were too busy fawning over Richard for his looks or his fine jewelry to ever pay any attention to the set piece in the background.

Hiding a scowl, Vincent returned to the main room. The beautiful man seated there greeted him with a faint, pleasant smile. “Do you have any plans for the day, Vince?”

“Not really.”

“I see. As such, would you be so inclined to join me for an outing?”

“…I have to go home and take care of my father.” Vince’s tone of voice made it clear that was the only thing on his agenda.

“Very well,” said Richard with an agreeable nod.

Vincent ignored the hint of loneliness in Richard’s voice. “What about you?” he asked, like the idea had just occurred to him. “Are you doing something today?”

“Yes, I was just thinking of enjoying a nice walk. It is a festival day, after all.”

“Be careful not to get hit on again.”

“I shall wear sunglasses. Oh, yes—the schedule. For the rest of the week, I only have a few appointments with clients and meetings with Saul. Next week looks to be similar, but things shall pick up a bit the week after that. I plan to spend two days in Japan at that point.”

“Okay.”

Vincent hadn’t asked, but that hadn’t stopped Richard from volunteering all sorts of information. Vincent logged it in his mental notebook before excusing himself to clean up. He needed to write it down for real, but of course he couldn’t do that in front of Richard. It was a good thing his phone had a note app.

Speaking of his phone… He checked it while washing the dishes on autopilot. Among all the pointless small talk from old friends with whom he was rapidly falling out of touch, there was one short message: Come meet me. Same time, same place. The sender used a pseudonym, naturally. It prevented issues if someone happened to look over Vincent’s shoulder and spot the message by accident.

Okay, he texted back.

He finished the cleaning and returned to the main room just as Saul walked in. Saul was Richard’s boss, the owner of Ranasinghe Jewelry, and a mysterious figure who was greeted with reverence by his customers on the rare occasions he showed his face.

The store was too tiny. Richard had nowhere to run, and Saul advanced on him brandishing a bag of souvenirs.

“If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times. It will not kill you to wear the traditional garments once in your life. I am told this changpao is of magnificent quality.”

“Thank you, but I shall pass.”

“Come, stop being obstinate. Think how much business you’d bring in if you wore something more colorful! I’ll wear a changpao if you do. Let us experience the local culture! You’ll look like an actor who escaped from the set of a settlement-era film.”

“Forgive me, but I’ve never harbored any desire to be an actor.”

“How cold. Flirting with outright discourtesy, I might say. Vincent, what about you? Will you humor an old man?”

Now the attention was on him. Vincent made his displeasure known in the look he directed at Saul. Wasn’t he being asked to, as the Japanese called it, cosplay?

Saul, the master of hiding what words he did and didn’t know, looked back at Vincent with childish innocence. Why, what’s that word mean? his eyes asked.

The part-time kid sighed. “I don’t see what’s so fun about someone who looks Chinese wearing a changpao.”

“Nonsense. It would cultivate a charming sense of authenticity.”

“Sorry, I’m already off for the day.”

Richard looked like he was about to say something, but Vincent pretended not to notice and hurried out the door. Alone.

Hong Kong could be divided into two broad regions: Kowloon, a sprawling hodgepodge of shops and houses from the good old days in the northern part of the city, and the bustling financial district of Hong Kong Island on the south. Victoria Harbor sat in between, separating the two. Ranasinghe Jewelry was on the north side of the city, and there were lots of ways to get to Hong Kong Island from there—everything from the subway to taxis—but Vincent always used the ferry whenever he had a meeting at the same time, same place. It was the most time-consuming and melancholy of the possible routes, affording him ample time to question just what the hell he was doing.

No matter how many times he asked that question or how long he searched for an answer, he always drew a blank. He knew it was no use asking, but even so, he found himself gravitating toward the ferry every time.

He got off at Tsim Sha Tsui, one of Hong Kong’s leading tourist destinations, and walked to the usual hotel. He wanted to groan the moment he stepped inside—the place was packed with tourists. The hotel might have been known for its elegant colonial-era lounge, but it felt more like Disneyland in here.

This couldn’t be where they were meeting, right? Vincent checked his phone—just as a new message showed up. A room number.

His frustration only grew as he waited in line for the front desk to ring up and show him to the appropriate room on one of the top floors. This high up, he had a sweeping view of the city’s neon lights and the boat races in the harbor.

A man in a flawlessly tailored suit waited for him alongside a sofa and table in the hotel room’s living room. “Hey there! How’s tricks?”

Confident British accent, gleaming polished leather shoes, a smile as blinding as ever—that was Jeffrey Claremont, all right.

“Not too bad,” Vincent said. “Why’d you book a room today?”

“Because of the festival. You see how busy the lounge is? We couldn’t begin to have a secret conversation there.”

“Are you actually spending the night here? They said so at the front desk. You’re not just going to run off again like you always do, are you?”

Vincent’s blond-haired companion smiled brightly. He never drank, but Vincent felt like he was always on something.

“Of course! It’s the Dragon Boat Festival, the biggest celebration in Hong Kong. It’d be a waste of air fare to go home so soon! What’s the point of being rich and famous if you don’t live a little?”

Vincent didn’t dignify that with a response.

“All righty, Vincent. Can you tell me my dear little brother’s plans for the day?”

“…Fine, Jeffrey.”

“Ah ha, finally got you to say my name. I have to admit—I’ve been looking forward to that! I was wondering when you would acknowledge me.” Jeffrey laughed. “Made my day, right there.”

Vincent didn’t respond to that, either. Instead, as if the playback button had been pressed on a tape recorder, he repeated Richard’s upcoming plans verbatim. Jeffrey sat, legs crossed, in a chair with armrests as he entered everything into his large smartphone. Vincent thought it would have been faster to send the info electronically, but Jeffrey seemed to think these intricate rituals were important. Everything had to be face-to-face; all discussions were verbal. Once set on the path, straight forward, no turning back. The usual work in Hong Kong. A stay in Japan. Same old, same old.

Jeffrey checked everything he had written down one last time and then beamed. “You’re a huge help, sport. Couldn’t have done this without you. Looks like he’s on the move again, after all.”

“What do you mean, ‘after all’?”

“Oh, I had a hunch. I get information from other sources besides you. Seems like he’s making plans to move out of his current place, and not being too secretive about it either. Giving furniture away to the neighbors, scheduling fewer appointments these days… Japan, though. About time he went to Japan.”

“Why do you say that? Does he have some special connection to Japan?”

“…What, he never told you? He studied Japanese when he was at Cambridge.”

“Ah. I assumed it had something to do with you knowing Japanese, too.”

“Me? Nah, I just picked it up for fun. Everyone likes a celeb with lots of talents.”

Jeffrey flashed a smile made for Hollywood and sprang out of his chair. This forced Vincent to rise, too, an elegant form of a command that only worked because Jeffrey held all the power in this equation.

“Thanks for your hard work, kiddo,” Jeffrey said.

“…Don’t mention it.”

As they shook hands, Jeffrey slipped a piece of paper to Vincent, just like he always did. From its distinct texture, Vincent knew it was a signed check.

“Take care. Oh, and—”

Something else had occurred to Jeffrey. He grabbed Vincent’s hand again, and his eyes softened. His voice was laced with warmth as he said, “I hope your father feels better soon.”

“…Goodbye.”

“Righty-o. See you around!”

The purchaser of information on his cousin watched the traitor walk away with the ever-present smile lingering on his face.

Vincent tried reaching Marian three times, but her phone always went to voicemail. She did housework in the mornings before a hectic lunch with friends; her afternoons were taken up with errands and more shopping. Vincent knew being the Lai housekeeper kept her busy, doubly so now that his father was ill and half-bedridden. Still, it was odd that she hadn’t picked up the phone at all.

Once it had been long enough that she should have called back, he tried calling a fourth time. No luck. Should he go back to the house? Nah. She might have been catching up with a friend and fellow maid over lunch at a spot along the trails that wound past Causeway Bay. It was the Dragon Boat Festival, after all. He hoped she was getting out and enjoying it.

When he caught himself thinking that, he had to laugh at his own behavior. The thing was, Marian had been looking a bit under the weather recently. Vincent was worried for her. Of everyone in their immediate circle, she was about the only one not concerned for her health.

Speaking of concern for health… Vincent would have worried about his father, but he knew only too well what a joke that was. If he had really wanted his father to recover—were that even possible for an old man displaying symptoms of a terminal illness—he would have used the money from Jeffrey Claremont instead of simply pretending it was going toward treatment and ferreting it away for his own escape from Hong Kong. That was what a good son should have done, even if it was only delaying the inevitable. A good son wouldn’t wish for his father’s death. That was a rule that transcended country borders and cultural divides.

Vincent’s mother was dead. He never had any brothers or sisters. His father was, in fact, his only family.

Sure, there was Richard Ranasinghe, a colleague of sorts. But the thought of caring about Richard was farcical. Vincent asked Richard what was wrong, only to gleefully exchange that information for cash. God, but Vincent was repulsive.

He shut down that line of thinking. A lack of worrying never killed anyone, and the more he thought about it, the less he understood why he was so intent on worrying about people anyway. His dream, long cherished since the days of his father’s disappointment, was to move to the United States. To get there, he committed betrayal after betrayal. At this point, he didn’t even know who or what he was betraying.

Overthinking was a form of mental suicide. It was better to turn his brain off and pretend his gradually swelling bank account was a measure of his own personal achievement. Best to have the innocence of a child brimming with pride at having grown taller. Best to pretend to see nothing, to focus only on the money, until it was all done.

So Richard was planning on leaving Hong Kong, huh? He hadn’t breathed a word of that to Vincent. He would miss Richard, Vincent thought. He wished Richard would have told him—but no, those were dangerous ideas. He was, he reminded himself, Richard’s enemy. Enemy meant a person in conflict. Wasn’t that how he was able to sell out Richard? He didn’t care about Richard. There was no point in caring about Richard. Conversely, if an enemy was anyone whose well-being he shouldn’t care about, that saved him quite a lot of grief and anguish.

That was Vincent’s guiding compass. He had to hold tight to it whenever he started to lose himself in the baffling maze of his emotions.

Vincent’s deceased grandfather was on his mind a lot these days. His grandfather had been a double agent in the Chinese Civil War who had let go of that compass in the post-war period. He confessed his misdeeds to his one-time enemies and current compatriots, only to be detested, shunned, and left to die a social outcast. Vincent couldn’t afford to be like his grandfather. He couldn’t get too caught up in emotion and confuse his dreams for reality. It was plainly stupid to think he could be forgiven after doing something so unforgivable, and just as stupid to confuse trust with the delusion that all could be forgiven. As a child, Vincent had loved his grandfather. Now, the memory of his younger, loving self was hurting worse than anything in the world.

But it was almost over. Just a little longer, and he would be free.

As he threaded Hong Kong’s infamously crowded streets toward the harbor, Vincent tried calling Marian one more time. Call number five went to voicemail again. Something wasn’t right. Marian could be a dawdler, but never lazy. Besides, she had never ignored her employer’s son’s calls on purpose.

Vincent was disquieted. Maybe he should go home after all. But just as he turned, he heard a voice call his name in a crisp, gorgeous tenor. Each syllable was clipped so sharp the edge could cut like a knife.

Vincent turned in the middle of the busy boulevard to discover a gentleman with a rich dark complexion standing there. “…Mr. Ranasinghe?” he asked. “What are you doing here?”

“It is my duty as an elusive jeweler to pop up out of nowhere. Now, could I borrow you for a short chat?”

“What, right here? In the crowd?”

“No, no. I don’t care where, so long as we talk soon. I wouldn’t want to lose my chance to ask about that check you happen to have in your possession.”

At that moment, Vincent felt like a hand had reached into his chest and yanked out his heart. He didn’t know what to say.

The prize of Vincent’s transparent heart held aloft in his hand, the short Sri Lankan gentleman eyed Vincent coolly. “Evidently, I have struck a sore spot.”

“No, you… That’s a leading question.”

“Come, let us walk and talk about it. The buses and subways will be packed, but—oh, I’ve quite forgotten!—there will be a lot of foot traffic down by the waterfront, won’t there?”

“Sorry, I’m bus—”

“If you will pardon the use of a line that’s been done to death, I think you’d best follow me if you know what’s good for you.”

Before Vincent could ask if that was a threat, Saul was already striding away. The boat race of Vincent’s life had begun, and the qualifying matches were in full swing.

North of Tsim Sha Tsui, halfway up the peninsula, was a nostalgia-flavored shopping hub in Prince Edward—a name which felt almost inappropriate these days—the old and young alike went for a good, cheap meal. Saul walked along in silence before entering an eatery that retained its classic charm from the olden days. Vincent was disconcerted. He would have expected a more casual tea house. Every other customer here was a female tourist.

“What is this place?” he asked.

“A milk pudding shop.”

“No, I mean, I can see that.”

“Fear not. I am not expecting another guest to join us.”

Vincent searched for a reply and found nothing. In the meantime, Saul strode right into the eatery and took his place at a small table in the corner. Saul was in the process of learning Cantonese from Richard, but for now, he conducted all his day-to-day affairs in English. “Hot steamed milk pudding,” he said and held up two fingers.

The store was reasonably famous, but its prices were too high for it to be a favorite haunt of locals. Consequently, Vincent had never been here before. He flipped over the menu—it had Japanese on the back—and found the store’s famous ginger milk labeled as the Japanese equivalent of “jinger milk.” Such a basic error, in an era of online language dictionaries available at one’s fingertips, stirred a feeling of nostalgia in Vincent.

In typical Hong Kong fashion—leaving a customer waiting was sacrilege—a server set two white bowls in front of Saul and Vincent just seconds after they ordered. Each bowl contained a pudding with a thin film on the top—evidently, the shop’s specialty. Steam was still wafting from them.

“…Piping hot, aren’t they?” Saul commented. “We’re liable to burn our mouths if we eat them now.”

“Too bad we didn’t get them cold.”

“Come now, it’s not so bad as all that. We can let them cool while you and I have our little chat.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. I’ll eat it, okay? It’s always better to eat these things while they’re still warm, anyway.”

“Why don’t we start with you telling me about the gentleman you met with at the hotel just now? Hmm?”

Vincent stopped with the white porcelain spoon halfway to his mouth and stared at Saul in silence.

Saul’s eyes were as devoid of emotion as a fish’s. “That man is an adversary of mine. Or,” he amended, “strictly speaking, the adversary of my pupil.”

How much does he know? Vincent wondered.

Saul smiled threateningly. “How much do I know, you ask? That all depends on how much you know of the truth.”

“You mean, you know more about what’s going on than I do?”

“Once again, it all depends on how you look at it. If you think I am leveling accusations against you, fear not. I am a businessman, and I am no stranger to the capitalistic notion of give-and-take. However, I also equally pride myself in being your employer and—in some small way—your guardian.”

“You’re no such thing.”

“I must assure you, I am.”

“…So I get no say in it, huh?”

“Oh good, I’m glad you understand. With that said, I think it is only fair that I inform you of something.”

“Fair? Bit late for fairness, isn’t it?” Vincent’s smile was laced with sarcasm.

A powerful light kindled in Saul’s eyes, and Vincent flinched. Saul’s pupils looked like two black suns cresting the horizon.

“…What is it?” Vincent asked.

“He already knows everything.”

“What?”

“He knows you betrayed him to sell him out to his cousin.”

He.

Even if Saul didn’t say the name, Vincent could picture his face—the face of the exquisite jeweler. His ephemeral smile. That haze of golden eyelashes. The footsteps that Vincent could never quite seem to catch up to.

If he knew everything…then what?

Vincent’s face was frozen stiff. “He said what now?”

Saul shot a question right back. “That he knows what you’ve done and is giving you this information. Do you understand the significance of this?”

“…I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

Saul ignored Vincent’s rhetorical response and hurled the answer at him. “It means, even after everything you’ve done, my idiot pupil wants to offer you an extra gift of cash.”

Vincent felt like he had been ejected into the vacuum of space. Which way was up? Down? Left, right? His senses were so scrambled he couldn’t tell.

Saul’s weighty stare eventually pulled Vincent back down to Earth. The older gentleman brought a spoonful of steaming pudding to his lips, blew on it once, twice, and popped it into his mouth.

“Scrumptious. A pure and simple sweetness.”

“…Why—why did he…”

“Why did he ever think the two of you could be friends?”

The fact that it was a joke, as Saul added moments later, turned Vincent’s face into a rictus of fury. The words of his housekeeper—You’re a cute guy, Vince, but that makes you look even more terrifying when you act tough—played in his head, so he immediately looked down, but not before he caught the faintest wisp of a smile on Saul’s face.

“Come, don’t be surprised. You should have been ready for this.”

“…I’m not surprised.”

“Oh? Well, a word to the wise: My idiot pupil did not sniff out this rat—you—by himself. Some heartless charlatan tattled on you. That poor man displays an alarming lack of self-preservation.”

“Who ‘tattled’?”

“It should go without saying that it was me. Furthermore, I do not regret it one bit.”

Now Vincent frowned hard. Saul laughed, but with the shop so busy, no one took any notice. “It takes one to know one, Mr. Rat. I learned that Mr. Claremont approached you because I, in multiple senses of this phrase, take care to ensure the safety of my surroundings. A foundation is only ever as firm as the bedrock on which it sits. You’d do well to keep this rule in mind when destroying foundations. No matter which side of the foundation you stand on, the bedrock is of critical importance.”

“I don’t know what all this bedrock talk’s about, but I don’t think it’s fair to call me part of the foundation for that rich prick. I don’t work for him like that.”

“For the sake of argument, I shall pretend that’s true. Yet can you say with 100 percent certainty that you do not support him at all?”

Vincent fell silent, which was Saul’s cue to sweep past him and carry on in a warm, amiable tone. “Vincent. I am just a jeweler. I am not Richard’s friend, nor am I his family. However, I know he considers me something of a benefactor, which in turn grants me some place in his heart. I speak from this perspective when I offer you this piece of advice.”

“I don’t want your advice.”

“It costs you nothing to listen to me, Vince.”

“I said, I don’t want it.”

“Nevertheless, I believe it would behoove you to start hating Richard as fast as humanly possible.”

Vincent was as baffled as if Saul had slapped him with no warning. No—it was like Saul had reached out and stroked his cheek. Vincent didn’t know what his next move should be. Ask what the hell Saul meant? No, that would just be falling for this wise old owl’s tricks once more. But staying silent was no better. Saul had already gotten him well and good.

Vincent tried to hide his conundrum behind a surly frown. He snorted in derision. “Fat load of good that does me. I never liked him to begin with.”

“You’re quite exceptional, then. Not many people are capable of harboring negative feelings for that man.”

“Everyone’s entitled to their own opinion. But what do feelings have to do with anything, anyway? Some help this advice is.”

“Yes, everyone certainly is entitled to their beliefs. You, however, are a different story. This advice comes from concern for the safety of you and your future. You don’t hate Richard at all, do you?”

“I can’t say I feel one way or the other about him.”

“That’s a lie. You admire the man. No, let me rephrase that. You used to revere him.”

“Ah, sorry. I’m not into 3D men, no matter how pretty they are.”

Saul’s voice dropped. “You know perfectly well I am not speaking about his appearance.”

Vincent responded with silence.

To Vincent Lai, Richard Ranasinghe was a beautiful object of worship. And, therefore, a slippery slope down into darkness.

Vincent’s father’s illness had forced him to take a month off work. Prior to that, his duties entailed assisting with price estimates for coral and jade, serving tea to clients, cleaning the shop, and other miscellaneous small tasks. However, once he returned to work, he was forced to confront the stark reality—Richard only ever asked for his “help” because Richard was playing nice. In Vincent’s absence, Richard had run the shop with no trouble.

The shocking bit wasn’t Vincent’s uselessness. It was his arrogance. How come he had never noticed that Richard was a steel mannequin that didn’t need anyone else’s help? Why had he assumed this graceful, slender man was always yearning for someone to come save him? Only then did Vincent realize what pride he’d taken in providing support for such a creature. It was like discovering love and heartbreak in the very same instant. Vincent had never hated anyone like this before. He was ashamed of himself. He had wanted to give Richard his all, and not only had Richard never been aware, Richard had never wanted Vincent’s all. And Vincent had admired him. Vincent had known that they lived in two separate worlds. It had been plain from the moment he asked, out of idle curiosity, where Richard went to university and was told “Cambridge” with nonchalance that suggested Cambridge was nowhere—but he had never realized entirely what that meant. For that, Vincent hated himself.

It had no bearing on Richard’s life whether Vincent was a part of it. But in Vincent’s life—oh, but in Vincent’s life—Richard Ranasinghe played far too great a role.

The moment of this revelation was precisely when Jeffrey reached out to Vincent. Jeffrey’s awful proposal to join forces with him coincided perfectly with Vincent’s ridiculous desire to leave his mark on Richard in any way possible. He was in such a disconnected, dreamlike state that he went along with Jeffrey’s plan before he even knew what he was doing. And kept going along with it. And kept at it and kept at it—and now it was too late to back out.

“Vincent.” Even the tone of Saul’s voice seemed to challenge Vincent—Do you get it now? “If your actions are not quite the opposite of your feelings, then they are certainly not on the same page. If you keep this up, it will tear you apart.”

“Could you spare me the metaphors?”

“Fine. Let me be frank. You should not sell yourself out for a person you cannot bring yourself to hate. This is equivalent to selling your soul piece by bitter piece. A soul should never be for sale, no more than one’s emotions. As I’ve mentioned before, I have some experience in the medical profession, and I will not have anyone killing themselves in such an excruciatingly slow fashion under my very nose.”

An excruciatingly slow suicide.

Oddly enough, the phrase reminded Vincent of his ailing father. The weight of his own horrible deception made him want to tear his head off. His father didn’t want to die; it was the son who longed for his death. Vincent’s father was a pitiful, helpless old man. His was not a prolonged suicide. It was a murder.

What if, Vincent wondered, he ended up in his father’s shoes some day? He imagined his father’s ashen face, exhausted from lying awake all night in that white bed in the narrow room, as the one he saw in the mirror every day. He wondered what it would be like to lead such a pointless life, to suffer such meaningless agony, until death finally claimed him.

What good could come of selling the ground under one’s own feet for the sake of a dream? What was the point of living a life like that?

Marian flashed through Vincent’s mind. Like a swimmer coming up for air, he gulped before forcing a smile. “I think you’re reading too much into this.”

“If only I were so fortunate.”

Vincent said nothing.

“From what I know of you, Vincent, you lack the moral fiber required to be a villain.”

“…Uh, thank you? Is that a compliment?”

“I’ll leave that for you to decide. Now, it’s time you direct your attention back to that pudding. It’s growing quite cold.”

“I don’t care if it gets cold. Mr. Ranasinghe, why did you bring me to this store at all?”

“It wasn’t my idea. Naturally, it was Richard’s.”

“What?”

“Seeing as I had no preference for the location of our talk, he suggested several options.”

There was a whole list of candidates, according to Saul. This store was, apparently, one of them. Vincent didn’t know what to make of that.

“I take it to mean he wants to learn more about your taste in food.” Saul said, sounding like a parent admitting to something embarrassing about their child. “Sweet versus savory and so on.”

“When did you guys have this discussion?”

“Quite recently, as I would hope you can imagine.”

“…So, he really knows what I’ve been doing this whole time?”

“But of course. Now, here is the part you may not be aware of. My pupil is as much of an idiot as they come. Should I tell you how his estimation of you changed when he learned you were selling him out to his cousin? Well, I can’t, because it didn’t. Not in the slightest. It meant nothing to him. Do you understand now? You are the same man you always were in Richard’s eyes.”

“…Are you making fun of me?”

“If not nothing, then perhaps it meant that he trusted you.”

“But why?”

“Haven’t I made it clear? Because this man is an imbecile.”

Which was another way of saying saint, Vincent thought, but he didn’t say it. Admitting that would reduce himself to an ordinary man—just another of that saint’s worshippers. He had to acknowledge that, until now, he had felt like a bit of a chosen one. Now that bubble had finally burst, and Vincent felt ridiculous, pathetic, and—he supposed—a little sad.

He picked up the pudding as Saul had directed and shoveled it into his mouth. It was lukewarm and tasted of nothing at all. Vincent had the sort of metabolism where everything he ate went straight to his midsection; desserts were his mortal enemy. Now, though, he felt like it didn’t matter what he ate. Everything would taste the same.

The restaurant staff members were beginning to glare at them for staying too long, so Saul paid and left with Vincent. The world outside carried on the same way it had before, which seemed so very strange to Vincent that he wanted to laugh at himself. He wanted to go somewhere far, far away. The sooner, the better.

“What is it now, Vince?”

“…Am I fired?”

“Whatever for? The person you sold out is aware of your treachery and takes no issue with it. As for me, I consider you an essential member of my crew. I would prefer you to keep working at Ranasinghe Jewelry, should that be feasible for you, even if it is after Richard leaves Hong Kong. Is that something you would want?”

Vincent didn’t see the point in answering Saul’s question. Considering Saul knew of Vincent’s secret conversation with Jeffrey, he probably knew Vincent’s plans to leave Hong Kong, too. He forced himself to look unbothered, like he had never heard the question at all, and changed the topic. “Where is he anyway? Richard, I mean.”

“I wouldn’t know. The shop is closed for the afternoon. He mentioned going for a walk, and considering it is the Dragon Boat Festival, I’m sure we can all imagine where he might have gone.”

Vincent didn’t reply.

“Do give our conversation some thought. Your life is yours to do with as you like—as is everyone’s, I suppose. Nevertheless, you only ever have one chance at it. Much like a sports match, there are no do-overs. Now, I will take my leave.”

Saul vanished, although to where, Vincent didn’t know. Hong Kong was teeming with people. This Pearl of the Orient had once been likened to a labyrinth. Now, for the first time in his whole life, Vincent felt completely lost within it.

The main roads near Victoria Harbor were, in charitable terms, hideously congested. That Vincent found a spot so close to the water without having a boat of his own was nothing short of a miracle. It was funny—every time he, his father, and Marian went out to watch the races, they could never stake out such a good spot. Only today, when he was in half a mind to give up and go home, was it like something had led him straight down to the ocean. The irony made Vincent grin.

Fishing and ferry boats festooned in colorful flags, each a resplendent mansion for fisherfolk, turned the harbor into an explosion of color. Yellow, pink, and red triangular flags fluttered in the breeze. There were the succulent smells of food stalls, the crowds, snatches of chatter (“I bet the firemen team’s gonna win this year!”), kids crying, laughter, English announcements blaring from loudspeakers…

Vincent drifted on the tide. The world felt like a mirage—­until a bang split the sky and the crowd erupted with cheers. The race had begun.

A line of four boats burst into passionate motion. Each craft was thin, lancelike, with dragon heads mounted at its prow. They raced in a mad dash toward the center of the bay. These were the best of the best that had risen through the preliminary matches. The twenty-person teams sliced through the water, moving as if in time to the beat of their drums. The oars flew along, sending up waves of spray. Every stroke was of uniform height and angle, so much so that they seemed almost mechanical. Such precision was necessary, because even a nanosecond’s variation in the strokes would have produced unwanted resistance. It was a picture scroll of a perfectly synchronized dance.

The dragons raced as if man and boat were one entity. The rowers rowed and the boats flew forward. There was no self-interest or compromise on the part of any of the players. Constant forward movement, throwing up spray in their wake—that was all. Just going and going, always forward.

A roar of wild cheering told Vincent the race was over. Everything was blurry and warped like some kind of illusion, which explained why the sight of the man in the boat didn’t feel real at all. The man stood on the deck of a white ferry, no doubt some rich person’s plaything. His face was impossibly beautiful. His blond hair swayed in the wind and the spray off the sea; his eyes were clearer and paler than a bright blue sky.

Richard.

It almost looked like this suit-clad man was watching Vincent, not the race, from his distant vantage point. In that ephemeral figure, Vincent glimpsed an infinite sadness. It did not ask why. Nor did it blame Vincent. It merely watched him. The look in his eyes—the eyes of this foreigner watching him from far, far away—told Vincent that the two would never be part of the same world.

By the time Vincent came to his senses and found his voice, the beautiful phantom-like figure was long gone.

Too often of late, Vincent suffered dreams where he wandered the inky blackness of darkest night. That night, he had his first unique dream in many days, racing through rainbow-colored stars alongside creatures of myth. Some part of him recognized that even he, after all he’d done, was still permitted to have dreams like this. At the same time, another part of him knew it could never be more than just a dream.

紛緫緫其離合兮，斑陸離其上下。吾令帝閽開關兮，倚閶闔而望予。

Now sundered, now complete, now joined and ruptured once more, undulating in capricious, beautiful fits—I arrive at the gates of Heaven and bid its keeper grant me entrance; he does naught but recline against it and cast his eye over me.

Such went a passage from the Chu Ci, a work by ancient Chinese statesman Qu Yuan. It was from the “Li Sao,” his poetic magnum opus, and the very same passage Richard recited at the behest of his client. Considered the most prominent classical Chinese poetry anthology after the Confucian Five Classics’ Shijing, the Chu Ci was also mentioned in the Wen Xuan, a ­favorite work of the master poet Du Fu. In terms of subject matter, the “Li Sao” touched upon the profound mysteries of the emotive world.

The poem was so popular that any person growing up in the Chinese cultural sphere was guaranteed to have read it as a child, whether they wanted to or not. It was therefore only natural that the recitation prompted Vincent’s imagination to take flight and deliver him fantasies of soaring through the skies in a vessel propelled by dragons, phoenixes, and winged tigers. His was a journey through the cosmos, rising and falling through the night sky, endlessly converging with and drifting from his dream companions.

Why, there was nothing to be frightened of, he realized. No, not in the slightest. And just as he really began to believe it, the indigo curtains and charcoal clouds parted, and he beheld glittering gates of gold. The gates of Heaven shone so bright he believed any and every dream of his would come true if they opened outward and let him cross their threshold. Imposing and majestic, they put Vincent in mind of the splendid thrones of dynasties thousands of years past.

And there he was.

Before the gates stood a vision of loveliness in a smoky blue changpao—none other than one Richard Ranasinghe, the European jeweler. Vincent knew intuitively this was not the same Richard who had point-blank refused to wear the outfit for Saul. This Richard’s curls were adorned with a diadem of gold and obsidian. He was garbed in slippers woven with gold and silver threads, a gold and jade dagger with coral inlaid in its hilt, and a magnificent robe upon which embroidered dragons and phoenixes danced. Behind him, the golden gates shone like a halo.

The fantastic beasts in Vincent’s train kneeled before Richard in reverence, one after another. Vincent almost followed suit, because it was just too plain who was in charge here: this all-too beautiful figure standing before the gates of Heaven. Really, he was frighteningly beautiful.

Vincent begged for Richard to open the gate, but his voice didn’t even register to his own ears. It was so quiet, or perhaps even silent, that it sounded like some vague shout off in the distance.

The changpao-clad man stood with arms together in classic Chinese fashion and cocked his head to the side a degree. He radiated divine magnificence. It was, Vincent realized, a gesture of confusion.

And that was when he heard his dreams shatter around him. There was no escaping the look in Richard’s eye. He had to face the facts: This divine, sinless being could not comprehend the feelings of a lowly sinner like Vincent. Richard could not understand the common man’s pettiness—why Vincent would beg Richard to hate him for his sin, not offer forgiveness and further funds. Vincent did not want to be forgiven. And yet, Richard did.

A divine being would never understand him, no more than the gates of Heaven would ever open for him. His vessel lost its steam, and his celestial companions melted away into the mist. He plunged into darkness—and that was when he woke up.

Vincent’s breathing was shallow as he sat upright. In the darkness of his bedroom, he grinned at the irony of it all. One of his final exams in elementary school had featured the “Li Sao” in the language arts section. He’d been tasked to describe the life of the poet. Just a basic memorization problem, really.

Qu Yuan had been a statesman who struggled with his role at the center of the political machine. It frustrated him that his good advice to the king was ignored in favor of the various petty dullards at court. Eventually, he was exiled to a land in the south, where, grieving the state’s descent into abysmal governance, he committed suicide by drowning himself. The end.

That was all Vincent had written on his test, but everyone knew the rest, even if it wasn’t relevant to examinations. Everyone knew the dragon boat story, and it went like this: To mourn the late statesman, the local fisherfolk set forth in dragon boats. They trawled up and down the water, producing a fierce noise to scatter the fish before they could nibble on the eminent poet and statesman’s body.

Turning away from legends and looking to contemporary sources instead, it was known that the story of the dragon boats preceded Qu Yuan’s watery demise. However, the dragon boat tradition retained an association with the historical figure among members of the Chinese cultural sphere. On the day of the festival, this group included Ms. Liu, one of Ranasinghe Jewelry’s patrons.

Vincent massaged his temples and relaxed as he remembered the clear, ringing tones of Richard’s recitation. The sound was like cold, silver rain falling from the heavens.

The “Li Sao” was, in a phrase, an escapist poem. Its narratorial statesman, frustrated that the world could not live up to his ideals, donned a mask of fantasy and escaped into the sky with creatures from myth and legend. Alas, even his dreams did not end as he had hoped. Even those who soared through the skies of fiction must eventually come down to reality, the poem claimed. Total escape, it said, was impossible—unless one were to completely free themselves from this mortal coil.

Many great cultural figures met a similar end. However, Vincent wasn’t too keen on dying, and he remembered thinking the same thing back when he was a child learning about the poem in school. Even when talking about people who had lived very, very long ago in the Spring and Autumn or Warring States periods, dying purely because they didn’t get their way had always seemed, well, a bit much to Vincent. He didn’t understand why no one tried putting some distance between themselves and the problem, maybe even acting like the problem wasn’t there anymore. Like his own grandfather, fleeing his homeland. Even if bad things happened, you could always never speak of your flight and find new pleasures in your newfound home. As Vincent’s father had been fond of saying, why try to have everything when you could be satisfied with half? In the end, that was what made a person happiest—accepting kismet. Being happy with one’s lot in life. Everything was best in moderation.

But if that were true, then why did these great cultural figures die? Why should they make such an inexplicable choice for themselves? It was as if living was the greatest torture of all.

Now that the fantastical visions of his dream and the silly childhood memories were gone, Vincent was left with nothing to mull over but the dragon boat race from earlier that day. Not the look on Richard’s face but the race itself. Vincent couldn’t get it out of his mind.

Forward. Just moving forward. Headlong to the point of simple foolishness. Eschewing all wasted motion. Striving onward to save the object of one’s respect from the unconquerable laws of the universe.

Was it, Vincent wondered, possible to live that way? Some­where out there? Anywhere?

A knock at his door abruptly returned him to his senses. He knew immediately from the gentle rap who the knocker was.

He climbed down from his narrow loft bed and opened the door. Sure enough, it was Marian. The hallway light was off behind her, so she carried a flashlight. Turning on the lights always woke up Vincent’s father—or the master of the house, as she called him.

“You not doing okay, Vince?” she asked.

The live-in housekeeper, called a worker or gung jan in Cantonese, had grown up and lived alongside Vincent for many years. She had light brown skin and similarly brown, slightly curly hair. Marian was a cheerful sort, not one to fuss over details or stand on ceremony with Vincent, but she also never intruded on the family’s privacy more than was strictly necessary. Probably, he thought, to make it easier to live under the same roof.

He and she shared similar interests, and even back when they were teenagers, he knew she would break his heart when she eventually went home to the Philippines. Funny that he would end up being the one to leave Hong Kong first, he thought. Once his father died, Vincent would have a new beginning. He would start all over somewhere new and pretend like none of this had ever happened.

But for his plans to work, it was best not to grow any fonder of Marian. He shook his head. “I’m not the one you should be worrying about. How’s my dad?”

“The master? He’s all right. I heard your voice, though. That’s why I’m here.”

Vincent grimaced but suppressed it so that Marian wouldn’t see. He’d probably made a noise in his sleep while he was having that weird dream. What was he, a kid? He scoffed at his own foolishness.

“Nah, you were hearing things,” he said. “I’ve been asleep.”

“That’s good, but…you sure? I can boil you a Coke if you’re having sleep problems.”

“I can sleep just fine. You should go to bed yourself.” Vincent remembered the multiple failed phone calls from earlier and redirected the conversation away from himself. “Oh yeah—where were you today?”

Marian jolted. She visibly paled in the light of her flashlight.

Vincent frowned. “Did something happen?”

“No, not at all. Sorry. I had to—you know—see a doctor.”

“For another one of my dad’s appointments? Man, I’m sorry you have to do all this for us. You really should get some rest.”

“Yeah, I will. I’m okay, though. I worry more about you, Vince.”

“Don’t. I promise you, I’m really, really not worth the effort.”

“…You said that once before. What do you mean by that?”

Vincent didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

He didn’t want to envy Richard’s sympathy-inducing misfortune. At the same time, he couldn’t stifle the jealousy he felt for Richard’s myriad talents and good looks. He didn’t want Jeffrey’s money, but he needed the cash. He wanted to go to the US and start a new life for himself. He didn’t want to feel guilty, not when he’d already made up his mind and was only waiting for his father to die, but ultimately, that didn’t stop the shame nor the endless self-sabotaging dreams.

He was so damn wishy-washy. He had neither the determination nor the perseverance to pick a side. That was why he wasn’t worth it.

But when he didn’t say any of that, Marian gave him a smile that felt like a hug. She said, “You know what? I think you need that Coke after all. I’ll put lemon in it. Let me make you a boiled Coke with lemon.”

“I’m not some fifteen-year-old kid anymore.”

“So? You still like boiled Coke, don’t you?”

Vincent couldn’t argue that, but he sure could pout. Marian grinned. If anyone could see that smile and fire off a retort, Vincent always thought, he wanted to meet them and shake their hand. Marian always had a smile ready for him, even though it seemed to him like her job kept her on her toes all day. It made him wonder how much power it took to smile as bright as the sun day in and day out.

One of the factors driving him to the US was his complete and utter lack of respect for his pissant of a father, who dared gripe at their housekeeper and her sunny smile. His father was less than human to him. Vincent hated him so much that he knew if he threw the first punch, he wouldn’t stop until that lower life-form was dead. He wished he would do Vincent the favor of dying already. That would be the best outcome.

Vincent stood there in silence. Look at him, blaming everyone else for every crack in his armor. Poor, poor Vincent. In his head, he imagined killing himself.

On the outside, he just gave Marian a listless smile. “Yeah, I do. I’ll drink it tomorrow.”

“Good! I’ll leave it in the fridge. Good night, Vince.”

“…Night.”

The last thing he saw before the light went away again was Marian’s smile.

The mid-April Florida weather resembled the heights of Hong Kong summer. Vincent watched the cruise liners leave the harbor of Fort Lauderdale, bound south for Nassau and Havana. It was a quintessential summer at the seaside, but no matter how hard he looked, he failed to catch a glimpse of any Asian dragons.

May was just around the corner. Hong Kong would soon be abuzz with preparation for the Dragon Boat Festival.

After waking from a nap, Vincent rose from both his hard ­hotel bed and his comforting memories. He hadn’t comprehended the truth back when he struggled to see himself as just another member of the masses, but now, he could. A person would always be a person. Just like everyone else. No one, no matter how otherworldly they might seem, was divine.

To this day, Vincent still didn’t like dragon boat races. He didn’t hate them—didn’t begrudge his own youth, the stupidity and the experience of staring at the sun so hard he blinded himself, or his inability to conceptualize the loneliness of a man only centimeters away from him. Really, it was only at the very end, right before that beautiful Caucasian man left for Japan, that he’d been able to stare into the heart of the darkness.

Richard was never offended by Vincent, not even when Vincent called him lonely to his face. Richard was like a divine being to whom anger was a foreign concept. All he did was take Vincent’s words obediently to heart.

Now, Vincent could see that Richard had had no other choice. Richard wasn’t aloof by nature. No, he was simply incredibly lonely.

As such, Vincent realized, his advice to Richard wasn’t wrong. Don’t you ever let go of him. Not ever. A bit violent for a parting gift, perhaps, but it was the one and only thing Vincent had been capable of giving at the time.

He prided himself on not being the type of person who could plunge headlong into the next enterprise, always striving to move forward. Whether that was a good or a bad thing was beyond him to say—it was simply the truth. There were others, he knew, who had no choice but to keep surging forward. That was the truth, too, whether he liked it or not. It had nothing to do with him. It was as inevitable as the arrival of dragon season.

He finished dressing, prepared to check out, and took one final look at his phone screen. He grimaced. There was a message from a person he knew quite well indeed.

It showed a red cup full of a dark brown liquid. A slice of lemon and a mint leaf floated on the surface.

He gave the screen a silent, wistful look for a handful of seconds before striding from the room and into a different world than the one from which he’d been born.

Happy Days

Happy Days - 06

“BOY, I WISH I COULD’VE GONE to that concert.”

“Do you now?”

“Real shame it didn’t work out.”

“No doubt.”

My name is Seigi Nakata. When this story took place, I was a run-of-the-mill college student at Kasaba University. At the moment, I was down in the dumps at my part-time job, a jewelry store in Ginza called Étranger.

I was supposed to have gone with my friend Shimomura to see a concert by a guitarist duo, but the show was canceled at the last minute. Some problem was discovered in the concert hall’s anti-earthquake protection, apparently. A little hole in an important section of a wall or something. The place could come down at any minute. Yikes. I didn’t even want to imagine what would happen if, by a stroke of bad luck, the wall collapsed in the middle of the show. It was a good thing the concert was canceled. Hopefully, the wall would be fixed soon.

It was the sensible thing to do. The safe thing. Safety first and all that. Yup, safety sure was paramount. It was so self-evident even a little kid could have accepted it.

And yet here I was, moping.

This would have been my first time going to a concert with Shimomura. I’d really been looking forward to having an opportunity to get to know him better. He’d mentioned a nice restaurant we could stop by on the way back from the show—grab a bite, shoot the breeze, and head home in a happy haze of how nice everything was.

That was how it was supposed to have gone. But for good, sensible, pragmatic reasons, our plans were completely and utterly trashed. Which really, really, really sucked.

There wasn’t anything I could do about it. Life happens, right? That’s what made it so much harder to break out of this endless slump—right in front of my kind boss, who had nothing to do with the concert or Shimomura. I’m so sorry, I thought.I was, when it came down to it, taking advantage of his kindness. His clipped, polite responses rang with tenderness, but it was past time for me to snap out of this funk. I forced myself to smile and brought my hands up to mouth level in a cheery gesture.

“Just kidding!” I forced myself to laugh. “Sorry about that. There’s nothing that can be done about it, so I should quit moping. Time to think of something fun instead! Instead of the concert—yeah, exactly. To replace the concert!”

“With all due respect, I would not recommend embarking on that exercise.”

I almost yelped in surprise. I had expected Richard to go “That’s nice” or whatever. Too late, I realized my boss wasn’t just letting all my self-centered whining go in one ear and out the other.

He studied me with the same clear gaze he reserved for customers. “The word replace carries a curious nuance. There is a subtle difference between ‘Give up on A in favor of B’ and ‘Choose B due to a lack of A.’ What you are proposing is similar to ‘Use B as if it were A,’ is it not?”

My head swam with the letters of the alphabet. Uh…

Richard was talking about definitions. Let’s start there. It was easy to grasp “Give up on A in favor of B.” Forget miso ramen and go for shio, right? That sort of thing happened all the time. As for “Choosing B because of a lack of A”—I got that, too, sure. If there was no miso ramen, shio would do in a pinch.

But what about using B as if it were A? How did that work with my ramen metaphor? After all, miso ramen and shio ramen were fundamentally different dishes. Saying they were all just ramen was a good way to get beaten up by ramen supremacists. It was just illogical. There were too many key differences. That was as true for ramen as it was for anything else.

What if I used a gemstone analogy? This was like passing off zircon as diamond or peridot as emerald. So…fraud?

Every gemstone had its differences, I thought, as I looked Richard in the eye. He must have seen my inner distress, because his expression softened.

“I see you understand.”

“Yeah, sort of.”

“There is no such thing as a perfect replacement. No two stones in all the world are alike.”

“…Yeah, I agree.”

“You must understand—I am not telling you to quell your displays of disappointment as, blessedly, we do not have any customers at present. You might say I play the role of a mentor of sorts in your life. Should you wish to get anything off your chest, you are perfectly welcome to do so now.”

“Does that mean I can whine as much as I want here?”

“Unless you have a more suitable location in mind, in which case I suggest you direct your distress there. However, I do not mind if you wish to vent your feelings to me.”

“…Is this a thinly veiled way to call me pathetic?”

“Nonsense. In Japan, is there not a cultural practice to mourn that which never came to be? I find the practice quite fascinating and noble.”

Mourning the intangible? Could one even mourn a concert? I had never heard of this concept before, and it sounded kind of inappropriate to me. But just then, it hit me, and everything made sense. I wouldn’t be mourning the concert. The memorial was for…

“…It’s too bad I couldn’t go.”

“Certainly.”

“It wasn’t just the concert. I was looking forward to the whole happy atmosphere. I’m not a superfan of the artists or anything—honestly, my pal Shimomura knows them better than I do. But I liked hearing him talk about them. I was looking forward to getting together with a bunch of strangers and letting our emotions run high over a shared experience. Listening to music with lots of people isn’t exactly an everyday occurrence, right? Really, the anticipation was the best part.”

“You certainly know how to make the most out of an experience. Very thrifty of you.”

“Is that meant as a compliment?”

“But of course. My apologies. Perhaps I worded it a tad impersonally.”

“No, don’t worry. I’m an economics major. I like that kind of thing.”

Richard made a slightly odd face. He frowned at me in concern?—Are you sure?—and I couldn’t help but grin. In the same way that looking at pretty things made me feel better, Étranger was an oasis for the soul. After all, Richard was always there, and he was always gorgeous.

“Maybe it is because I like getting the most bang for my buck. Once I lost the target of all my excitement, I didn’t know what to do with it. The thought of discarding it made me feel kind of guilty, like it would be going to waste, but I also felt like there wasn’t anything else I could do. Your suggestion of a memorial service was just the thing I needed to get my head on straight.”

“If so, then I suppose my conjecture proved correct.”

“Ooh! Get a load of that, folks. Now that’s something a mystery-solving jeweler would say.”

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware you were interested in becoming a variety show host.”

“Huh? You watch variety shows, Richard?”

Richard said nothing.

“Do you?”

“Purely to learn more about Japanese culture.”

The look in his eyes radiated disappointment. His voice was as chilly as a knife made of ice, and his smile was perfectly heartless. It told me Seigi Nakata was about to be sliced in two. I decided to drop the topic instead of swinging my baseball bat at this proverbial hornet’s nest.

Instead, I smiled brightly. It wasn’t a fake smile this time, either. “Thanks, Richard.”

He said nothing again.

“I mean it. I’m an only kid, so I’ve never been able to talk things through with a brother before. If I had an older brother…I bet it’d be just like this. Boy, do I feel great. Richard, remind me—do you have any siblings?”

“Our next customer will be here momentarily. Tea.”

“You got it.”

According to the operating manual of Jeweler Richard, sibling discussion was off the table, as Seigi Nakata had just learned. Richard knew everything, spoke a billion languages, was a master of gemstones, had the world’s biggest sweet tooth, and was particularly picky about his royal milk tea. And, most of all, he was the kindest person I knew.

My grandmother told me that kind people knew what it was like to experience pain. I never wanted to be the sort of person who poked at those feelings for a lark, but unfortunately, I kept finding myself doing just that. I made mental notes whenever I caught myself in the act, notes I dearly needed to review at every opportunity. (This was a particularly recent realization.)

I wanted to have as good of a relationship with my boss as possible. He wasn’t a person B whom I’d chosen after having had enough of person A. He was, in every way, a one-of-a-kind individual.

But if Richard was right, then maybe everything—every event, every gemstone, every person—was one-of-a-kind. Maybe, then, my desire to cultivate a good relationship with him had nothing to do with him being so unique.

Maybe I just wanted to be closer to him.

I wanted to be close enough to have at least a vague idea why he shied away from conversations about his siblings. That way, I wouldn’t accidentally go prying at any sensitive personal business. I wanted it to be like second nature for me.

But that was like asking for the moon. I had to come to terms with the fact that I might never know that part of Richard’s past. I understood he would probably recoil and try to put some distance between us if I asked him directly. Worse yet, it could end in me losing my job. Yikes!

I portioned the royal milk tea cooling in the fridge into cups for the customers and covered them with plastic wrap. They would be here in another, oh, five or ten minutes. The days were getting to be real scorchers, and guzzling ice-cold milk tea could cause brain freeze. It was more customer-friendly to serve tea a little closer to room temp.

No one knew what the future had in store. The best I could do was work behind the scenes to help Richard give his customers an amazing experience. And then, if possible, I also wanted to give this store’s beautiful owner a quiet helping hand.

“You know what they say,” I’d said the other day. “Behind every great man…”

Richard didn’t like that one. Another mental note for me: Don’t pull out that quote again today. In fact, never mention it again.

“Oh hey, Nakata. You still free on the day of the concert?”

The phone call came out of nowhere. I didn’t recall ever telling Shimomura about my job in much detail, but just as I finished cleaning the shop at 7:30, my phone rang. It was him—Haruyoshi Shimomura. The buddy who invited me to the concert that started it all.

I shrugged him off with a “Not really” as I walked down the street in Ginza. Shimomura laughed.

“Then wanna get dinner together? With a show, kind of.”

Kind of? What sort of show was he talking about?

“Yeah, sure! That sounds amazing,” I said. “Funnily enough, I was thinking of asking if you had plans. You beat me to it.”

“Yeah. Sure sucks that the concert fell through, huh?”

“You’re telling me. I was dying to go with you.”

“Aww, am I one of your special friends? You’ll make me cry.”

“I don’t know. Aren’t all friendships special?”

“…Maybe, maybe not. Whatever. See you at dinner?”

“Yeah, see you!”

And just like that, I had plans for dinner!

Shimomura took me to a Spanish restaurant tucked away in the back of a department store in Shinjuku. It was one of those places that doubled as a sports bar, judging by the huge TV in the corner. Sports weren’t the focus today, though.

Tonight, there was a woman in a black dress dancing to the music of a guitarist. She clapped with gusto in time with the music. Clap clap clap, cla-cla-cla-clap! It was flamenco.

“Whoa! This is one hell of a place, Shimomura.”

“Yeah, I guess. You cool with this sort of thing?”

“Cool? In what sense?”

“You know how it is. Some people say they don’t get it.”

“What is there to get about flamenco?”

I had to admit I didn’t know much about flamenco, either…

Shimomura burst out laughing. “Forget it. Don’t worry about it. This is why I like you, Nakata.”

“I-It is? Well…yay?”

“Yay. C’mon, let’s get something to drink.”

They filled our glasses with a red liquid called sangria—a punch made from red wine and orange juice. It was sweet but had a slightly spicy kick to it that stimulated my appetite. Periodically, the other patrons would shout, “Olé!” Shimomura told me that meant, “Nice one!” He really knew his way around this place.

“Man, Shimomura, you know what?”

“What?”

“I’m glad we got the chance to come here today! Thanks for bringing me.”

“…Eh, well. Some things are just out of our control.”

“Oh, quit going on about the concert. I’m having fun without the disclaimers.”

We had to shout to be heard over the music and dancing, which kept building as it reached the finale. I couldn’t pull my eyes away from the dancer, but even just knowing I had a friend sitting next to me at this small table made me feel good. Here we were with a bunch of strangers, listening to the same music, and for one brief moment, letting our emotions run high together.

Shimomura sounded proud as he said, “If plan A doesn’t work out, all you need to do is make plan B and have fun. That’s important, according to my teacher. He says that’s what life is all about. It’s the kind of advice guys with real prospects just shrug off, but honestly, I think he’s got a point. It’s realistic. Kinda go with the flow.”

“Huh,” I said. “You didn’t pronounce those letters like ‘ayy, bee.’ You said, ‘ah, beh.’”

He chuckled. “Yeah, I’m learning all sorts of stuff. Olé! ¿Qué tal?”

“Ke…tal? Kettle?”

He laughed some more. “Sorry for messing with you. You’re a fun guy, you know that?”

The alcohol in our systems made us slap each other on the back and shout “Olé!” together. Then, his voice dead serious, Shimomura said the artist we’d ended up not seeing was actually amazing, and he would invite me out again if they did another show. Hearing that he had wanted to go just as badly as I did touched me. I responded enthusiastically, if less morosely than him, that I’d be happy to go to the next one.

Maybe there wouldn’t be a next one. Even so, I realized, just making the plans was so much fun.

After I said goodbye to Shimomura and started for home on the Yamanote line, my phone lit up with a message from Richard.

“How was your evening?”

For once, I was more grateful than guilty. The concert was on a Sunday, so I’d told Richard I couldn’t make it to Étranger, and he’d been kind enough to schedule clients around me and close up the shop for the day. I’d figured he would be occupied with other business in the meantime, but here he was, texting me.

Bumping and swaying with the movement of the train, I tapped out a message back. “It was a blast.”

I added a ‘thank you’ at the end before I sent the message off. A full three stops later, Richard had yet to respond. Funnily enough, though, I heard his voice in my head. The one that spoke in silence; the smile that told me, “I’m quite glad to hear that.”

As I admired the nocturnal version of Shimomura’s beloved Tokyo skyline, my thoughts kept returning to that beautiful jeweler. I wondered where the most beautiful man in the world was and what vista he beheld. I wondered if he’d had a good day himself.

I hoped so. It would have made me very happy.

The Extraordinary Life of Edward Baxter

The Extraordinary Life of Edward Baxter - 07

MY FIRST ENCOUNTER with Edward Baxter occurred when I was a pupil of a Swiss boarding school.

I had no plans to return home over the summer holidays. Even at the age of fourteen, I was not so innocent as to fail to comprehend the hidden meaning behind my father’s message that things were terribly turbulent at home and it was best I stay in Switzerland. I don’t want to deal with the trouble of taking care of you. It will eat into my research time.

So be it. I elected to hole up in the library. My only companions were those who, like me, had nowhere to go home to over the holidays. As time passed, my mood grew increasingly wretched.

Switzerland is a beautiful country. In fact, it was once beloved by Queen Elizabeth herself. The town where I studied had no lack of places where a young man might amuse himself from dawn to dusk. Even the local church held pipe organ concerts for the congregation. All this led me to the foolish belief that it was safe to walk the streets even after dark.

I had earned myself a reputation for good behavior—a waste of effort if there ever was one—which made securing permission for an outing a simple affair. There was the usual sort of question of where I was going, laced with, I dare say, a suggestion that a boy such as I ought to get out and have a little fun for a change. I was not altogether fond of that bit. I fear I was not especially good at acting like a child, and even then, aware of this fault.

Tourists crowded the streets that summer. The roads were paved with mud-colored bricks, like something out of a fairy tale, and every place I looked seemed to be decorated with planter boxes sprouting pink and white flowers. The town had many riverfront properties, and at one such restaurant along the riverbank, a large black dog—someone’s pet, I assumed—­sauntered past with a lead trailing behind it, looking for someone to play with it. Just as I started to fancy taking a moment to play with the pup, its owner called for it, and it turned on its tail and loped off.

Come nightfall, I enjoyed myself immensely walking about the city. It felt like I had a companion with me, even though I was perfectly alone. I couldn’t have asked for anything better.

By the time I realized I was lost, it was long after I had wandered out of the familiar neighborhoods. Every time I turned down a new street with the conviction that the church hosting the concert must be nearby, I only stumbled across more apartments, trash bins, and deserted underpasses. It occurred to me that I was trespassing in a residential area in a rather unsafe part of town, but I had no idea how to find my way back.

For lack of a better plan, I turned to retrace my steps—only to bump into someone directly behind me. It was a boy of seventeen or eighteen, dressed in an anorak and baseball cap. He certainly did not look like the sort to patronize a bustling sidewalk café on the waterfront.

“’Sup, kid?” he said around a mouthful of gum.

As my uncle the Earl was sometimes wont to do, I pretended I hadn’t heard him and made to carry on again. Alas, when I turned to my right, there was another person blocking my path. He must have been the boy’s companion, for he was of the same age and dressed similarly, albeit armed with a basketball to complete the look.

Basketball Boy spoke. “What’s a little pipsqueak like you doin’ round here? Where’s your mommy and daddy?”

I said nothing.

“They leave you all alone?”

“Then you must have a wallet on you, huh?”

Again, I said nothing.

“Lookatcha. Prettier ’n a doll. You talk, kid?”

“C’mon, rich boy. Give a little cash to the poor?”

A cold sweat trickled down my back. I didn’t know what would happen to me if I refused. I had started taking boxing lessons, but lessons were conducted with strictly demarcated age and weight classes. They were certainly not meant as training to fight two boys my senior.

As my panicked thoughts began to race—how could I possibly make it out of this scrape on my own?—I felt a hand on my arm.

“Hey there, Edward! Found ya.”

The voice sounded familiar, but for a split second, I couldn’t place the speaker. I looked over. He had golden brown hair, light blue eyes, a knitted vest, a pair of black slacks, and shiny leather shoes. He wore a smile like a suit of armor.

“J-Jay!”

“Yup, that’s me, Jay. Glad you remember me.”

“Jay” was, without a doubt, my older cousin Jeffrey.

He circled around behind me and wrapped an arm over my shoulder. Ever the brilliant actor, he shot me a look questioning what on Earth I was doing here even as he smiled and whisked me behind him.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding. Come on, we have to hurry or we’ll be late. You-know-who’ll be angry if we keep him waiting any longer. He’s scary when he’s mad, he is.”

“I-I’m sorry. I’ll be right there.”

“Great. Later, chums!”

Jeffrey gave my shoulder a firm, protective squeeze and marched me away. Perhaps he was so very loud and cheerful that the other boys didn’t think to pursue us.

After a moment, I admitted, “That was frightening.”

“Let’s get out of here.”

“Please.”

We wound through the dimly lit, fishy-smelling backstreets in the direction of the larger, streetlamp-lit boulevards. I pressed against his side, but it would have made no difference if I didn’t, for Jeffrey had my arm in an iron grip.

“Good thing I stumbled upon you,” he said.

“Why did you come looking for me?”

“Why, he asks. Because I’m your superhero, silly. It’s my job to come running when you’re in trouble.”

“Don’t be like that. Tell me the real reason, Jeffrey.”

“That was the real reason… Nah, I’m just pulling your leg. It was an accident, actually. Today’s the first day of the holidays, remember? Term ended at my school before yours, so I wanted to swing by and surprise you. Boy, I sure got a surprise of my own when they told me up at your school you’d gone into town,” Jeffrey cheerfully remarked.

As a boy, Jeffrey had a fresh expression for every sentence he spoke. Some took this as a mark of extroversion, and others as one of untrustworthiness. No matter what was said about him, Jeffrey had room in his heart to accept all his varied reputations with a smile.

I’d had the misfortune to be born to a rather bohemian set of parents, and Jeffrey was kind enough to take me under his wing in recompense. To me, he was everything an older brother should be, and more.

I asked if he had come alone, and he had, much to my relief. It was a matter of necessity to me that neither the Earl nor my other elder cousin were to find out about this incident.

“You okay, Ricky?” Jeffrey asked.

“…Oh, please don’t be concerned. I was only thinking that your father and Henry aren’t here.”

“Dad’s in Cannes, I should think. Harry’s there, too. Now’s a busy time for hobnobbing in high society, I suppose.”

“I wouldn’t want to be them.”

“It’s not all bad. I would imagine they’re having some fun, too. Maybe not Harry, though. He’s too serious. He’s more interested in piano practice than casino gambling.”

“…I can sympathize.”

“Yeah? Well, one of these days, we’ll go to Cannes, just you and me. We’ll live it up big in the casinos.”

“What if I bleed my wallet dry buying books instead?”

“Then I’ll just pay your share. I’m planning on getting into finance. I’ll be able to lend you all the money you could ever want—but I’ll make you pay through the nose on interest.”

“See here, you—”

I shoved him with all the affection of a hug.

By the time we came out onto a major boulevard, the roads were long since deserted. I finally allowed myself a sigh of relief. It’d been quite the frightening ordeal for a boy with no experience being threatened—or at least not much. My schoolmates sometimes teased me for my looks or ran up to touch me, yelling, “I’m just picking up a piece of trash!”

Yes, I certainly did not lack for experience of that sort. I had my strategies to resist those playground bullies, but trouble outside of school was beyond the scope of my imagination. I shivered, remembering the feeling of being trapped between those two older boys.

At that moment, something—a Jeffrey’s-hand-shaped something—landed on my head with a pat. Jeffrey ruffled my hair and gave me a teasing grin. “First things first, you gotta learn how to navigate around here.”

“…Did you see me get lost?”

“Nah. Wish I had, though. I was running all over the place trying to find you. Heck, I should win an acting award for ­hiding how hard I was wheezing in front of those guys. Where’s my trophy?”

“Then how did you know I lost my way?”

“You wouldn’t have gone into a place like that on purpose, Ricky.”

I supposed he was right.

It occurred to me, then, that Jeffrey was no less a child than I. Someone ought to have been keeping him safe instead of letting him run around playing superhero. All the Claremonts maintained a substantial fund as insurance against kidnappings. What was I doing out without a bodyguard, even if I left school too infrequently to warrant one? Better yet, what was Jeffrey doing without several? The thought was not a little unsettling.

“Er, Jeff, is this quite all right?” I asked. “I’m so very sorry. Your bodyguards…”

“Oh, don’t keep harping on. Look, Ricky. Just admit you were scared and leave it at that. I gave my bodyguards the slip. I mean, it’s such a bore having them around! Dad will probably call to chew me out again, but what was I gonna do? Visit my dear baby bro with two chaps in suits hanging off my tail?”

Again, I supposed not. I realized this was probably a nice gesture on Jeffrey’s part, borne from my fear of bodyguards. That only worsened my guilt, but before I could wallow in feeling absolutely wretched, Jeffrey spotted a café—one that looked like just the ticket—and steered me into it. We found a quiet spot to take a seat and ordered two lemonades. Lemonade went splendidly with the Swiss summers, as Jeffrey commented offhand.

“Er…” I said.

“Yeah?”

“…What was all that earlier about an Edward something chap…?”

“Him? Oh, he’s nobody. Someone I made up.”

He did not need to articulate how very foolish it would have been to use my real name in front of those who might very well remember it. A frightening thought. I appreciated his tact in not saying it out loud.

I repeated the name in my head until it felt familiar on my tongue. After nursing my lemonade for a moment or two, I admitted, “I wish I’d given you a name like that.”

“Hm?”

“Like Edward.”

Jeffrey laughed. “What about Jay?”

“That was only me cutting myself off before I finished saying your name.”

“Mm,” he said, a response that meant nothing.

He slurped away at his lemonade straw. I could tell from the look on his face that he was concocting some amusement for me. I gave him a shy grin, and he returned a smile three times as wide.

“Give me another, then.”

“Pardon?”

“Give me a name like Edward. It’ll be a secret, just for you and me.”

“…You won’t even tell Henry?”

“Nope. Harry doesn’t need to know.”

Jeffrey’s smile was free of trickery and as sweet as honey. I smiled back in heartfelt relief and began running through a mental checklist of the names of notable individuals. Would this one do? Or that one? I fear I was a tad predisposed to favor Japanese names or those belonging to fictional characters in classic literature, neither of which suited Jeffrey. Eventually, I opted for something simple.

I looked up and met my cousin’s eye. “…James.”

“James?” he repeated.

“Yes. James.”

Jeffrey chuckled. “Right you are, Edward. James it is. Wait, what’s my last name? I’ll take anything but ‘Bond.’ I can’t stomach martinis, see.”

“…You drink, Jeff?”

“We’re talking about James right now. Forget Jeff.”

Jeffrey plucked the straw from his lemonade and brandished it like a magic wand. I was transfixed, as if admiring a jewel.

My cousin was brilliant. He could do anything. There was no one else quite like him on Earth, and yet, this august individual cared for me so. Better than that. He treated me like he had a special place in his heart just for me, like I was a treasure which had no equal anywhere on the globe. So, too, was Jeffrey a treasure that could not be traded for anything, not even an ancient king’s elephant bearing a load of pearls, rubies, and emeralds. Whenever he fell ill, I thought that if I were ever to lose Jeffrey and never see him again, I would cry something fierce. It was never long, though, before he would reappear in my life and dispel those dreadful dreams.

To give such a figure his name—certainly, it was an honor. My heart swelled with quiet emotion that eventually spilled over into words: “…Ya’aburnee.”

“Come again?”

I repeated it for Jeffrey’s benefit. Ya’aburnee. The apostrophe marked the pause between words; the accent rested on the first vowel.

“Ya’aburnee, huh? That’s pretty. Has a funny ring to it.”

“It’s Arabic.”

“Look at you, learning another language. What are you, a genius?”

“Hardly, I should think.”

“Okay, Mr. Hard-Working Genius. Fine. My secret name will be James Ya’aburnee. So, what about Edward?”

“Pardon?”

“What’s his last name?”

I was rather taken aback, but it only lasted for a moment before I slumped in my chair.

“What’s the matter?” said Jeffrey.

I looked up with temerity. “Erm…James and Edward are brothers. They share the same last name…”

As my voice dwindled to nothingness, Jeffrey’s eyes widened slightly. Then he gave me the most emphatic of nods and a grin. The adults in our family often struggled to discern whether Jeffrey’s smiles were real, but I could spot a real smile in a heartbeat. The trick was the dimple—a dimple on Jeffrey’s left cheek signified a real smile. After all, Jeffrey had said so himself.

Presently, there was a dimple on his left cheek as he exclaimed, “Oh! Well, all right.”

“Yes.”

“James and Edward are just like us, then.”

“…Er, how so?”

“They’re brothers. At least, that’s how I see us.”

The clerk at the counter shot us a nasty glare as Jeffrey slurped up the last of his lemonade through his straw in a fashion entirely devoid of manners. A headline danced across the front of her magazine: “How to Land Yourself a Guy with Money.” I had half a mind to tell her the scamps she was scowling at were far richer than any man in that magazine. At any other time, this would have been an impossible notion. But now, I felt like I could do anything. My heart was singing. I felt warm and full of light.

When words failed me, Jeffrey laughed and ruffled my hair. “Ready to go back to school?”

“…I was hoping we could spend a bit more time together, actually.”

“Sure. Why not?”

Jeffrey took me, his “brother,” by the hand and escorted me to a hotel not far from the dormitories. Before we rented our lodgings for the night, he placed a call to the school and requested on behalf of my parents that I be allowed to stay out overnight.

It turned out to be a rather inexpensive hotel, a popular abode for skiers in the winter. The two of us stayed up quite late, lying on the same bed and talking—about home, about our family, our friends, Jeffrey’s business course at school, dramaturgical interests… Once, Jeffrey recounted, his coursework required him to write a speech pretending to be the prime minister of a country who had failed to reclaim 50 of 300 civilian hostages from terrorists. It’d been so stressful that he’d almost thrown up. Later, as he told me with great amusement, he performed it so well, a perfect chameleon in his acting class, that his schoolmates claimed no one would ever trust him again.

He had an endless supply of stories, each wittier than the last. One tale after another lodged in my heart as a brightly sparkling gem.

In return, I told Jeffrey of my idyllic life in a Swiss boarding school—bright sunshine, a warmer climate than we had back home in England, white-capped mountains always off in the distance, jolly and athletic teachers. Not many friends, no, but I chalked that up to my less-than-childish mannerism. Really, so long as I had Jeffrey, I didn’t mind about all that.

Jeffrey, lying sideways propped up on his elbow, ruffled my hair again. “Aw, crumbs. You keep this up, and I’ll never want to leave.”

“Would that be so bad?”

“Yeah. When you get tired of me, you’ll think, ‘I hate this guy! He never leaves me alone!’”

“Don’t be daft. I could never hate you.”

“Double crumbs. But you know, Richard…everyone goes through a rebellious phase someday.”

“Not me. I don’t seem to have a rebellious bone in my body.”

“The later the rebellious phase shows up, the worse it can be. That’s what I read in an article.”

“Yes, well, I simply won’t have one.”

After a bit of horseplay—ruffling each other’s hair and such—we returned to our earlier discussion ofJames and Edward. Where would they live? Did they get along? Who else did they know, and what did they get up to with their time? In our half-asleep state, the human drama we constructed was built half on dreams and half on jokes. James and Edward lived in Japan. They were part of the yakuza, in fact. The Ya’aburnee brothers had a running argument over whether sushi was better with or without wasabi, but always made up again in good time. The two were inseparable.

As gangsters, they eschewed all illicit activities. Theirs was an honorable gang, one that always extended a helping hand to those in need. No tattoos for them, either. (We found them a tad frightening for our tastes.) Members of the yakuza could pledge their loyalty to one another and become sworn brothers, but James and Edward had no need for that. They were real brothers.

At some point, we dozed off for a time. I woke with a start. Jeffrey didn’t look tired at all. His eyes were fixed on some point off in the distance, and I could not read the look in them. Some point over my head held his attention.

“So how does the rest of the story go, Ricky?” he asked.

“Er?”

“What happens to Edward and James in the end? How do they turn out?”

My head was still in a fog, and Jeffrey’s question puzzled me. Why ask something so self-evident?

I didn’t have to think to respond, “They stay best friends for as long as they live.”

“Huh. Do they?”

Jeffrey rose, then, and bade me a good night. He gave me a pillow and tucked me in before he climbed into the neighboring bed to get some rest. However, when I gave him a pleading look, he picked up his pillow and climbed right back into bed with me. We felt asleep together pressed close like two baby birds in a nest. We dreamed of the future.

I was still quite bleary-eyed the following morning, when Jeffrey walked me back to school, chatted up the teachers to ensure I didn’t get into trouble for staying out late, waved, and returned to his own stone-faced bodyguards.

Before long, rumor spread like wildfire among the more idle of my classmates that the second son of a British earl, one of the top students in an elite public school, had stopped by this very academy to visit his sibling. For a time, it was the talk of the school. But, like a misty mirage above a summer lake, the rumor petered out and vanished before autumn.

“Let us decide on a name for you.”

“Sorry, what?”

“I can hardly call you Seigi in front of our adversaries. However, should we choose something completely different, you may struggle to respond in a timely fashion when addressed. It would be safest to pick something simple and close to your real name.”

“Okay. Um, Seigi, Seigi, Seigi…Seiji?”

“Too close. It may be misheard as Seigi. Think up a last name, and I shall refer to you as such.”

As we geared up to raid the scam jewelry store, Richard made the odd suggestion that I choose a fake name for myself. Fair enough—slipping up and saying my real name was potentially dangerous. It was time to put my nonexistent thinking cap on. A simple name that sounded close to my real name…but not too close. Hmm.

“Nakata, Nakata, Nakata…Yamada? Maybe? Or I could do Tanaka. Hmm, which one’s better? Yamada or Tanaka?”

“Yamada will suffice. A pleasure to meet you, Seiji Yamada. You may call me Edward Baxter.”

“…How on Earth did you get that from Richard?”

“A pleasure, Mr. Yamada.”

“Right, uh, pleasure’s all mine!”

Decked out in a red open-necked shirt that would have looked less out of place at a costume contest, I slid into the Jaguar’s passenger seat. As weird as I looked, I had no hope of winning that metaphorical contest—not with the way the man next to me was dressed. White, white, white—he wore nothing but white from head to toe. He’d even slicked back his hair. He looked spiffy, but a gangster kind of spiffy.

“…Just so we’re on the same page, what does Edward Baxter do for a living?”

“Works miracles, tells fortunes, reads fates in stones, and delivers messages from the cosmos.”

“Ooh. Okay. I’ll try not to laugh.”

“I should hope you wouldn’t. It is quite rude to laugh at an emissary of the universe.”

That got a laugh out of me anyway.

The Jaguar purred to life and cruised down the road like this was any other errand. If the car had a mouth, this was the part where it would have raised a timid question—wasn’t there something, well, off about its driver? But the Jaguar was an untalkative and loyal beast.

My anxiety began to creep up the more we drove. I wanted to break the silence, but Richard looked too stern. Bringing up some random anecdote about tea or desserts would’ve been awkward at a time like this, but I wanted to say something. The question was, what? Only one thing seemed appropriate.

“Hey, so… Does Master Baxter have any family? I guess not, if he’s too busy taking messages from the universe. Sorry for asking. You probably didn’t plan that far ahead.”

But…

An odd look flickered across Richard’s face, which was usually a mask of calm. It was intense—something I couldn’t describe as anything but a warped grin. He didn’t look at me as he smiled, though. His eyes were caught on something far off in the distance.

Then, he said, “Mr. Baxter has no surviving relatives.”

“Got it.”

With that, the two of us carried on our way to the shady jewelry store.

I caught the sole remaining member of the Baxter family’s eye in the rearview mirror. He looked sad, almost. But Seiji Yamada was too conscientious to comment, and thus pretended not to have noticed that moment of weakness in this cosmic messenger.

Seigi Nakata, though? I don’t know if he had it in him to ignore it.

Sympathy for the Devil

Sympathy for the Devil - 08

SINCE CHILDHOOD, he had often been told his cruel smile became him. With his half-lidded eyes, suggestively sensual lips, toned musculature, and wavy golden-brown hair, he checked all the boxes necessary to be considered conventionally “handsome” or “sexy.” But, for some reason, no one ever called his regular smile attractive. Perhaps it was because he was too eager to assume a false smile, Jeffrey Claremont mused.

His brother Henry was next in line to be earl, and Jeffrey wanted to be a supportive figure for him. It was only right, after all. Similarly, someone had to be there for his younger and more reclusive cousin Richard, and Jeffrey enjoyed doing just that. But playing those roles came with a price. Ever since he was a boy, Jeffrey had constantly needed to provide excuses, deceptions, and fake cheer for the adults around him. These skills became staples of his toolkit. Now that he was twenty-nine, he sometimes looked back fondly on his childhood and appreciated that, despite being Henry’s junior and Richard’s senior, he had never needed to play the role of middle manager between them. Such memories were sweet. Sweet as poisoned honey.

“—self—sir?”

“Sorry, say that again?”

“ARE! YOU! ENJOYING! YOURSELF! SIR?”

“BUT OF COURSE!”

Jeffrey shouted back like a drunken lout and shucked off his suit jacket. A beautiful blonde woman manned a DJ booth on the edge of the five-star hotel’s pool. Beside her, celebrities touting champagne flutes crowded the dance floor. Men in neckties, men naked to the waist, men in thongs… Women in minidresses, women dressed in the height of fast fashion, a woman stroking a cat poking its head out of her handbag… A mariachi band in folk costume parading around the pool, strumming guitars… A group of strippers dancing on table tops…

Welcome to the birthday party for some rich somebody-­­or-other.

Endless ’80s disco beats, mixed by the latest in music technology, pulsed from speakers all around the pool. The surface of the pool itself, awash with lights, rolled and rioted despite a complete lack of swimmers—with over a hundred guests crammed into such a small space, the water rocked with their stamping, dancing feet. It was like a rush-hour train whose many passengers all qualified for the highest tax bracket.

The Claremonts—a British aristocratic family with a long lineage—owned and invested in many companies, but their crown jewel was a commercial insurance company based mainly in the United States. The company had five financial officers at its highest level. One among them—the one who had rocketed to power astonishingly quickly, the one destined for bigger and brighter things, the son of the Earl of Claremont—received invitations to parties on the daily. He was young, not even thirty, but that made little difference. People longed to throw themselves at his feet to reach out, timorously, in the hopes of receiving untold wealth.

Oliver, a junior partner assigned to be Jeffrey’s assistant for the night, leaned toward the ear of his young boss from across the pond, shouting to be heard over the din, “Today’s my lucky day! I can’t believe I got an invite to this party.”

Jeffrey’s ears rang as he yelled back, “Sure are, kiddo. You’re one lucky duck.”

“Oh, I love how ‘lucky’ sounds in your British accent! Can you say it again?”

“Only if you say ‘tomato’ like an American.”

Oliver, a man five years Jeffrey’s senior, laughed. His breast pocket bulged with business cards bearing his name: Oliver Straight. He must have planned to hand them out at this party he and his new supervisor were invited to. This was, clearly, not the venue to swap business cards, but Oliver took it in stride.

“I’m so glad I could come,” he gushed. “I’ve been to plenty of parties with the fellas at work, but I’ve never gotten to rub shoulders with celebrities at one of these fancy dos.”

“Watch your behavior, now. There’re paparazzi with telephoto lens cameras just off the property.”

“This isn’t your first rodeo, huh?”

“You get used to it when you live in a family like mine.”

The Claremont line went back ten generations. Jeffrey’s name was in the papers whenever he started at or graduated from a new school, and that was just how things were. Since he was a kid, even. He was sure it would be that way for future Claremonts long after he was dead and gone. No, he didn’t doubt it for an instant.

The kid trailing behind him with a frozen smile, Jeffrey accepted a glass of champagne from a blonde woman in a bikini and stepped onto the dance floor to a chorus of feminine squeals melding with the beat of the music.

“Hey, I know you! You’re the new owner of Atlas Yachts, right?”

“No, no. You’re Ellory Higgens from Sentry GP Financials. Right?”

“I hate to disappoint you, ladies, but you are both incorrect. I’m simply an executive of a miserable little insurance company.”

“Wait. Jeffrey Claremont?”

“In the flesh.”

“No way! Get out.”

“You’re so much younger than I pictured!”

“All the better to catch the prince’s eye.”

“How is your dog? Taro, was it? I saw something about that in the newspaper.”

“Alas, he passed away quite a while ago. Thanks for asking, though.”

“Would you ever want to check out my Facebook? I post sooo many dog photos.”

“My pet passed away recently, too! It’s been so hard on me. If only I had someone to help me through my grief…”

“I’ve been keeping an eye on your business for years. Tell me more about what you do.”

“Let me redirect you to my partner, Oliver. He can tell you everything you want to know and more.”

“And you can’t?”

“I, unfortunately, just walked in and still need to say my hellos. Not this time, ladies.”

Jeffrey smiled ruefully before tipping the women a wink, eliciting another chorus of squeals from his fan club. Evidently, there were more people here than he’d thought who wanted to secure every promotion that their schedules and wallets permitted. Worse, he estimated he was the only one here still in his twenties. The ladies here could scream like college kids, but they were all over the hill and bore their tallies of marriages and divorces like medals of honor. He almost choked on their thick perfume.

Oliver dangling off his heels like a charm on a bag, Jeffrey found the birthday boy—whom he’d heard was turning sixty-four—and deftly made niceties with the host’s girlfriend, other close associates, even more members of his inner circle…

Only then did Jeffrey realize that his jacket had disappeared. He hadn’t been stupid enough to leave anything of value in the pockets, but it was still an annoyance. There was no chance he could find it in this bedlam. At least it wasn’t winter. He sighed in disappointment just as Oliver, curiously, removed his own jacket.

“You need a jacket, sir? Take mine,” Oliver offered.

“Don’t worry about it. My shirt is fine for the dress code.”

“What about the paparazzi, sir? I’ve heard they make a mint off of pictures of businessmen in their shirt sleeves.”

Jeffrey laughed. “You’re not wrong. I do run the risk of making the news. However, that’s no reason to—”

“Sir, please. Your lord father will give me an earful if you don’t take it.”

His tone was polite but brooked no argument. Jeffrey smiled faintly. He felt a sudden chill wind blow through his heart.

Oliver bowed and returned to talking shop with anyone and everyone within earshot.

Jeffrey’s leather shoe tapped the floor in time with the music. Next thing he knew, he was mobbed by a group of four women.

“Jeffrey! Aren’t you drinking?”

“Come drink with us. They have first-growth Bordeaux!”

“Jeffrey, listen—can I call you Jeff?”

“Go for it,” he said. “That’s what everyone calls me.”

“Jeff, look over here! Let’s take a selfie for social media.”

“Is it true? Are you dating that actress G—? She’s three-timing you, Jeff!”

“Jeff! Let me show you a picture of my cat.”

“Jeff.”

“Jeff!”

And then—

“Jeffrey!”

There was a distant echo, low and choked with something stronger than alcohol. A figure materialized from the crowd. His winter coat blurred like a double exposure of neon in an advertisement. His eyes shone with tears.

A sob wrenched from his throat as he cried, “No! This isn’t you.”

Jeffrey felt the need to justify himself. A phantom voice floated up and out from his chest. “It is me,” he began to say, but just then, a thump on the back jolted him back to reality.

It was no casual slap on the back. No, he realized, he’d been punched—but by then, he was stumbling, and his momentum carried him outside the ring of his interlocutors.

Out of the merrymaking.

Over the surface of the pool.

Now I’ve done it, he thought.

The next thing he knew, everything was in darkness.

Jeff. Jeff!

The boy calling his name shot up like a tree before Jeffrey’s eyes. One moment, he was an angelic child with lovely blond curls, the next, an attractive youth with sharp features that did nothing to dampen his sense of reticence. With every second, he assumed more of the incredible man he would one day be, a man with all the coldness of ice and the warm affection of spring.

The youth grew up before Jeffrey’s eyes like an image in a magic mirror or the pages of a photo album flying by. Throughout it all, the boy continued to call Jeffrey’s name. Smiling. Crying, at times. Chastising, at others. Spoken entreatingly. Spoken in the murmur of one half-asleep.

And, at the end of it all, he always said the same thing: No. This isn’t you.

Jeffrey wrenched up and out of sleep with an unvoiced scream dying on his lips. His face hurt, oddly. His nose in particular ached like nobody’s business. Someone had laid him out on a sofa, and there was a crick in his neck from sleeping at an odd angle. A white bathrobe covered him.

That reminded him. He had face-planted into the pool.

Before he could remember anything that happened before that, something warm was thrust into his face.

“Hot apple juice.”

Jeffrey registered a white mug and a set of dark, hazel-brown fingers gripping the handle. The owner of those fingers was younger than anyone Jeffrey had met at the party. Their voice was low, moderated.

“Do you want some or not, hon?”

Jeffrey couldn’t tell if this person was a man or a woman under all that makeup. They were, however, attractive. And they had a friendly smile.

He muttered his thanks, took the mug, and sipped the juice. The overpowering sweetness was an assault on his taste buds. That’s one hell of a wakeup call, he mused as the person grinned. Whenever they smiled, their lips, orange with lipstick, quirked up into a semicircle.

“You’re one lucky guy. You probably passed out the moment you hit the water. It’s a miracle you didn’t drown.”

“Lucky? Sounds unlucky to me.” Jeffrey sneezed. “Excuse me.”

“Gesundheit. No, I’d say you were lucky. There was someone there to pluck you out after you went for your little swim.”

“…Let me guess. You?”

“Mm-hmm. I was on the swim team way back in elementary. I wasn’t going to let you drown, you know? I ruined one of my suits in the process, but that’s fine. I have another.”

At the mention of clothing, Jeffrey looked over the clothes this man—or were they a woman?—wore. The suit bore the Chanel logo, guaranteeing the finest of materials and make, even if the color wasn’t the most flattering for this person’s skin tone. That logo, the white fringe, and the lapel pin glittering at their throat in the shape of a thoroughbred horse’s head were signs that this was a person with power.

Jeffrey scratched his head self-consciously. He set his mug on the floor and offered his hand to shake. The other person’s hand was large but soft. It smelled good.

“I can’t thank you enough for all your help. My name is—”

“Oliver Straight? If the pile of business cards in your pocket was anything to go by.”

The person tittered and flashed a wad of sodden, misshapen business cards in Jeffrey’s stupefied face. The laughter and gesture were coquettish, the kind that would charm any stuffed shirt in a high-end suit.

One finger, its nail painted a garnet orange, pointed at the impeccably made-up face. “Joanna Zarzuela. Sorry, hon, but I don’t think we’re going to run into each other again. If you want to thank me for saving your life, you’re gonna have to do it now.”

“No, give me a moment, and I’ll… Shoot. I left my phone at the coat check.”

Jeffrey couldn’t even sigh in disappointment. He had hoped to call up the manager of the Chanel stores on Fifth Avenue or the Rue Cambon and let Joanna shop till she dropped on his dime. So much for that idea. Enough of that, he thought. He lowered his bathrobe-covered legs from the sofa to the floor and looked his savior in the eyes.

“Thanks a million, Joanna. I unfortunately don’t have a lot going for me, stripped of my wallet and contacts as I am, but I still truly appreciate you saving me. I hope something very good comes your way before long.”

“Even if you’re a broke nobody, I’m happy to get a thank-you. I’m glad I fished you out of that pool.”

“I promise, I really do have money and connections. It’s just, well…without my phone…”

“Pooh, who cares about that? I like glamming myself up with accessories, but I don’t need connections with hot-shots to bedazzle my social network. Money and connections are peeling gilt in the face of real sincerity.”

Jeffrey blinked. Could words like these really be coming from the lips of someone who attended that vanity fair of a birthday party? In the business world, everything was business. A person’s name was a commodity and friendship, a product to be bought and sold. In Joanna’s terms, it was a veritable accessory fair. Buyer and seller alike were fully aware and enjoyed the game for what it was. They enjoyed playing pretend that it was sincere. That, or they enjoyed making fun of each other. I’m the only one who knows the truth, they thought, a derisive snicker burbling up from the pits of their stomachs.

But this Chanel-clad character had no shame about calling it the farce it was. As far as Jeffrey was concerned, they might as well have been royalty from some unknown kingdom. He grit his teeth—if only he had his phone—and offered a bashful smile instead.

“…Could I ask for your—”

“No.”

“Not even your phone number?”

“Nope.”

“I could give you mine.”

“Not happening, buster.”

“Not even if I offer you a nice surprise? Something to brag about to your friends?”

“Didn’t hear me the first time? Shoot, it’s getting late. I gotta run.”

“Nooo!”

“You sound like an unhappy child. I’m not Santa Claus, honey.”

“I wish you were. All I’d have to do to see you next year is be a good boy, but for you—oh, for you, who knows what sort of boy I’d have to be?”

“Bless your heart. The mystery is what makes it so fun, silly. Now, ta-ta.”

“No, wait—”

With one last goodbye and a waggle of those orange fingertips, Joanna rose. Jeffrey couldn’t tear his eyes away from the way she towered over him in her stilettos—God, what brand were those?—and the willowy torso that supported the entire magnificent structure. Did she delegate all her work to her employees and spend the whole day doing yoga? Jeffrey clenched the mug of apple juice in his hands.

“We’ll meet again!” he called. “I’m persistent like that.”

“Don’t press your luck. I’m as free as the wind, honey. Get some rest and stay warm. Try not to go jumping into any more pools, Oliver.”

“I’ll try, but I can’t make any promises.”

“I won’t be there to pull you out next time.”

She blew him one final kiss—and he knew it was a kiss with no feelings behind it—before sauntering out of that dimly lit room. Several minutes later, the real Oliver appeared, practically foaming at the mouth with anger. Jeffrey greeted him with an affable grin, a wink, and a reminder to keep the whole affair secret from dear old dad.

That Oliver was the one who pushed him—and that Jeffrey knew it—went unsaid.

Jeffrey was happy to play along with any one of his client’s demands. So long as his insurance covered it, of course. The strip club he had to attend today…well, that was pushing it, wasn’t it?

The club was located just outside Manhattan on the border of Brooklyn and Queens. The residents of the neighborhood lived in the shadow of the boroughs’ more urban cousin alongside rows of ramshackle shops. Back when Jeffrey was in boarding school, his insurance company had issued him a list of bad neighborhoods to avoid while on extended vacations overseas. The list ran through his mind now as he said, “Mr. Gable, are you sure this is the place? I wouldn’t be opposed to something a bit more, well, on the classy side.”

“All the girls in those joints have the same goddamn body type. I like my chicks with a little meat on ’em.”

“Fair’s fair.”

“You sleep with one skinny chick, you’ve slept with them all.”

“Sure.”

Jeffrey’s fake grin stretched wide as he kept up the conversation with his client and seatmate. The club was supposed to serve Moët & Chandon, but the client preferred Bollinger. Time for an upgrade.

He was on the verge of offering his client his pick of the menu when the curtains opened. It wasn’t time for the main show yet. An opener, then? A woman dressed like Marilyn Monroe sauntered onstage and drawled, so slowly Jeffrey wondered if there was something wrong with her mouth, her way through the club’s basic rules. No photos. No videos. No touching the dancers.

Behind her, a figure began to dance. Ropes of large stones—pearl, from the look of them—were cinched around their waist and chest, but beyond that, their only other article of clothing was a pair of hot pants that just barely covered their unmentionables. Their ash-grey hair was swept back in a modish ponytail. An extraordinary stature. No visible breasts. The dancer punctuated “Marilyn’s” monologue with pantomime, now modestly averting their eyes from the flashes of imaginary cameras, now slapping away the phantom hands of rowdy patrons. Every move had the elegance of a choreographed dance.

And Jeffrey recognized this dancer.

Their eyes roved over the room, constantly conscious of the patrons’ attention as they cycled through a series of ever-changing expressions, like a kaleidoscope—flirtatious one moment, frigid the next—before vanishing back behind the curtains at the end of the act.

As the patrons’ applause washed over him, Jeffrey registered a tongue click from his neighbor.

“Why’d they put a man up there?” the client grumbled. “What’s wrong with a girl? Phah. I’m not gonna get up in arms over an opener… Jeff? You there?”

“Hm? Oh, excuse me.”

“You surprised to see a man dancing? Betcha never seen that growing up in your daddy’s house. Hey, is that rumor true? Are you seein’ that environmental activist F—?”

“Some rumors are just rumors, my friend. Oh, would you look at that? The show’s starting.”

“Oh ho!”

Girl after girl came out onstage, but, judging by the underwhelmed reaction, Jeffrey’s client—the only reason Jeffrey was here—didn’t like what he was seeing. Sure, the lack of projection mapping and LEDs made the show feel outdated, but that was where the differences from the high-end clubs ended. All the girls were young and gorgeous. Identical, even. They could have been androids produced from the same factory mold.

“She’s had work done,” the client pointed out. “Her, too. And her.”

Two hours later, the curtain closed on the finale and Jeffrey’s client vanished into the blue. Alarmed, Jeffrey began to panic when his client reappeared as suddenly as he’d left with a paper bag and an absurd request: “Here. Give this to the dancer.”

He brandished the bag in Jeffrey’s face. Chocolates—the leftovers from the candy dishes on all the tables.

Jeffrey was confused. “Which dancer?”

“That beanpole of a man. The one who did the opener, guy with the pearls.”

“Well, this is a surprise. I thought he wasn’t your type.”

“He’s not. That’s why I threw the candies down the toilet first. Man comes down with a stomach bug, he won’t be able to dance. Come on, who comes to a strip club to see a fella?”

Jeffrey was aghast.

“’Course, if you’re too hoity-toity to get your hands dirty…”

“Not at all. This sort of thing’s right up my alley.”

“Good. I always knew you were a man after my own heart.”

“I’ll send photos when I’m done.”

“Good man.”

The client flashed Jeffrey a grin as he climbed into a waiting cab that set off in the direction of Queens. Jeffrey saw him off with a smile of his own and then got to work. The cabs were still running, but this late at night, all the department stores were closed. Instead, he found a kitschy souvenir shop, bought a brand-new box of chocolates, popped over to the florist next door, and added a bundle of roses to his purchases. The toilet-water chocolates were unceremoniously dumped in a bin next to the umbrella stand outside the souvenir shop.

By the time he got back, the club was already closed, but a bundle of cash convinced the bouncer to help him in his time of need. He wove his way through the throng of staffers packing up to go home until he found the dancers’ dressing room. The space was an untidy mess of mirrors and stools—it was clearly a communal room—but, as luck would have it, there was only one figure in a black bathrobe seated before a mirror.

“Is that you, boss?” the dancer said. His voice was exaggerated, theatrical. “Don’t kill the lights yet. My fake lashes are a fright.”

“Sorry, it’s just me.”

The owner of this dramatic voice squeaked and visibly jumped like a character in a manga. Jeffrey had to bite back laughter. Now here, he thought, was someone with acting chops.

“…You,” the dancer repeated.

“Told you I’m persistent.”

The naked light bulbs ringing the mirror scoured all the shadows from “Joanna’s” face as he sat, shocked, in front of the vanity. Jeffrey placed the box of chocolates and the roses on either side of him. “These are for you. Great show tonight.”

“…What are you doing here?”

“Fate led me here.”

Joanna laced his fingers together in a Christian praying gesture, grinned, and said, “Amen to that, brother.” When there was no sarcasm in Joanna’s voice, Jeffrey knew all his prayers had been answered.

“All right,” Joanna said. “Tell me how you found me.”

“Actually, I wasn’t even looking. I just happened to stumble across you. Isn’t it funny how these things happen? Guess it’s a good reminder to never stop giving life a chance.”

“…I’m surprised you remember me so well.”

“What, did you think I’d forget? Did I seem that ungrateful?”

“I took you for the type who’d block out unpleasant memories as soon as he could.”

“Unpleasant? I mean, maybe. But I couldn’t tell you—I don’t have any unpleasant memories. Good ones, on the other hand… Speaking of which, I see you left the Chanel at home tonight.”

“…That wasn’t mine. I was working, and one of the customers left their…cicada shell, shall we say. I admit I got a little carried away and tried it on, but I put it back right where I found it. I didn’t steal it.”

“A cicada shell…?”

“After I saved you, and put you in my bathrobe, I had nothing else to wear. Stroke of luck that I found the Chanel suit. While I’m ’fessing up, I should let you know that bathrobe was, ahem, part of my ‘work uniform.’ Sorry for making you wear something like that. But,” he added, like an excuse, “what else was I to do? I didn’t have any towels, and I wasn’t going to let you catch a cold.”

His eyes darted back over his shoulder. Joanna was genuinely afraid, Jeffrey realized, that someone else would come in to yell at him for the temporarily borrowed Chanel. Jeffrey sighed, smiled, and took a seat on the next stool over. It creaked as he turned toward Joanna.

“I came to thank you. Not chew you out.”

“…But how did you know where I was, really?”

“I told you. It was a complete coincidence. Really.”

He tipped Joanna a wink, and this time, Joanna visibly relaxed. A shadow crossed his face—some trauma? Some complex trouble?—but Jeffrey chose not to pursue it.

Joanna pushed back his long hair and, to himself, said, “Now you’ve done it.” To Jeffrey, he added, “I just wanted to be the mysterious celeb who shows up in style and vanishes into the night.”

“The most attractive roles are the hardest ones to play.”

Joanna turned back to face the matter. “Yes, I know. Laugh all you want.”

Jeffrey crossed his legs. As he brought one knee closer to his chest, one of his glutes twinged. “Ow!”

“What are you doing over there?”

“Just trying to copy you. You know, you amazed me. I had no idea people’s legs could move that beautifully. No one’s ever impressed me with a strip dance before.”

Without a word, Joanna turned his stool away from the mirror to face Jeffrey, crossed his legs, and lifted the left one to his chest to form an acute angle, as sharp as one from any compass. Jeffrey applauded, and Joanna smirked.

Jeffrey made the most of that momentary lowering of Joanna’s guard. “So I’ve been thinking, could I ask a favor of you?”

“…Depends on what it is.”

“Could I take your picture?”

Joanna was taken aback all over again. Jeffrey pretended not to notice and prattled on with a smile, “I won’t get your face in frame. I just need your hands and the chocolate box.”

“Why those?”

“So I can look back and always remember the moment I brought you chocolates.”

He couldn’t very well admit he needed to bring back photographic evidence of slipping Joanna some tainted candy for a client.

Joanna hesitated for a heartbeat before smiling. It was a bit pained, but he still gamely made a peace sign and laid a hand atop the chocolate box. Jeffrey whipped out his phone and took three photos from different angles—including one that didn’t contain the box at all.

“Whew,” he said once he was finished. “I was nervous you’d say no. Thank you.”

“What’s there to be nervous about, silly boy? It’s just some photos of my fingers.”

The hand possessing said fingers extended in Jeffrey’s direction. It was a slender hand, if knobby. Strong.

“The name’s Joachim Bergman. Nice to meet you, Oliver.”

For several seconds, Jeffrey couldn’t place the second name. Oliver was his first-ever junior partner who had long since moved on to bigger and brighter things. Since he hadn’t heard from the man since and no one in his social circles had any contact with him, it made for a safe pseudonym.

But was that enough? All of a sudden, the thought of this person knowing him as Oliver made Jeffrey feel hollow. “…Can I tell you a secret? My name’s not Oliver.”

“Oh? It’s not?”

“I was wearing one of my coworker’s jackets. Those were his business cards.”

“Oh my.” Joachim’s next question arrived with all the inevitability of an assembly line. “Then what’s your real name?”

Jeffrey hesitated for a few seconds in that almost empty room. At length, he admitted, “It’s Jeffrey.”

He watched his reflection in the dark mirror of Joachim’s eyes.

“I’ve never seen anyone look so sad to tell me their own name,” said Joachim.

“Maybe it’s another fake name. Ever think about that?”

“If that’s fake, then you deserve an Oscar. No, it must be real.”

“…Well, it’s just one of those things. It’s painful to be yourself, as they sometimes say.”

The moment those words passed Jeffrey’s lips, Joachim clenched his teeth hard. His sharp features tightened, a sight all too impossible to hide when the merciless light bulbs exposed every detail of his face.

However, Jeffrey beamed and pretended not to have noticed a thing. It was a sorry excuse for acting, but once again, Joachim played along and affected a bright smile of his own.

“I dance here on Wednesday and Saturday nights,” he said. “Saturday’s routine is different. You should come check it out sometime.”

“Ooh, Saturday… Let me see…”

Jeffrey mentally reviewed his schedule and found, much to his regret, that he just couldn’t make it work. Joachim smiled again.

“What?” Jeffrey said. “My face doesn’t look that funny.”

“I took you for the sort who’d make promises to come and never show up.”

“Seems kind of careless to give your schedule to a man like that,” Jeffrey pointed out.

“…You’re not wrong.” Joachim sounded thoughtful, like he was talking to himself. “Look at me, acting like a fool.”

Mentally, Jeffrey shook his head and chuckled at Joachim’s sincerity. He might have acted like he didn’t care what Jeffrey thought of him, but for all that, he still held onto the roses. He hadn’t let them go once.

“I’m booked solid for the next two weeks,” Jeffrey said. “Will you still be dancing here the week after? Let me know if you’ll be at a different club, and I’ll meet you there.”

Joachim turned to face the mirror. “I’ll be here.”

He readjusted his legs, made a show of noticing the box of chocolates, and turned again. The entire display was visible to Jeffrey in the mirror, but once again, he pretended not to have noticed.

“I’ll share these with the girls,” Joachim said, meaning the chocolate. “Thanks, hon. Oh, and if you do come back, wear something a little more appropriate.”

“For a club?”

“No, no, no. When you’re picking clothes, the first thing to consider is the fit. Then, you match the material to the design. Last comes quality, quality, quality. Don’t you dare buy a piece just because it’s expensive. Look at how you’re drowning in your suit—have you lost weight? And what is that abomination of a tie? That shade of brown does not bring out the best in you, hon. It makes you look like you’re fifty! Why don’t you go for a cute patterned tie in red or purple? You would work it.”

“I’ll consider it.”

Jeffrey nodded hello to the manager, who was coming in to shoo the two of them out, and left the club as if nothing major had happened at all. Later, he forwarded the photograph of Joachim’s nails sans chocolate to his client. He never received a response.

Once a week was out of the question, but from then on, Jeffrey patronized the club on a regular basis. He couldn’t deny how much he enjoyed planning his outfit for every visit. Not just to pass muster under Joachim’s critical eye—he also had to disguise himself from the paparazzi.

Which inevitably resulted in Joachim giving him an earful.

“That’s a nine out of twenty for me. Throw it out and start over.”

“Twelve. Better than last time, at least.”

“I’ll give that a sixty-five. Out of one hundred.”

“Oh, today’s outfit’s fun. I feel like I’m seeing the real you.”

Joachim greeted Jeffrey’s heavy tartan sweater, charcoal grey jacket, and carbon black pants with a smile and a thumbs-up. None of these traditionally British pieces were business wear. None of them were even in vogue. Jeffrey had scrounged them from his wardrobe at random. Still, the compliment made him smile awkwardly at Joachim, whose own ensemble today featured a rhinestone-studded tiara.

“You have a moment after this, hon?” Joachim asked.

“I sure do. Want to grab some dinner?”

Jeffrey’s response was casual. He had tried to buy Joachim dinner three times now only to be rebuffed at each opportunity. By now, Jeffrey had long since accepted the unspoken understanding: Joachim wasn’t interested in that kind of relationship.

Joachim smiled and shook his head. “No. Want to drop by my place?”

Had Jeffrey just swallowed a rock, or was that just how he felt? Joachim’s place? Was the issue all along his choice of venue? A thought ran through his mind—God, he would be in so much trouble if someone from the Claremonts found out what was happening—as he stared at Joachim’s glistening orange lipstick and broad smile.

“Don’t look so spooked, darling,” Joachim teased. “I don’t live in the slums. My place is a little more upscale.”

“We talking the Ritz-Carlton?”

“Close.”

Today Joachim broke routine, left the closing duties to his coworkers, and rolled out early with Jeffrey. He led his dinner-date to the lot directly behind the club, where it took Jeffrey a moment to comprehend what he was seeing. A huge silver box? Oh, a trailer house. The ten-meter-wide, twenty-meter-tall trailer lacked a towing vehicle and squatted directly on the ground, inert. Jeffrey recalled seeing something like this in the Wall Street Journal in an article on the urban homeless.

“Saves on the commute,” Joachim joked. He opened the door. “Welcome to the Ritz.”

Jeffrey goggled. The entrance of the trailer was graced by a blue chinoiserie vase, and glancing up, he saw a resplendent glass chandelier dangling from the ceiling. The silk bed-curtains, patterned with white flowers on a field of purple, would have made an elegant backdrop for a noblewoman in a Rococo painting. Meanwhile, a plush Persian rug—what else?—covered the floor. The finishing touch was provided by lithographs of women’s portraits scattered throughout the main room and the adjoining space—a bathroom, from the looks of it—like in any high-end hotel. Every item in the collection was a true antique or a convincing imitation, its grime wiped away, threadbare portions mended, and damage restored. The care with which they had been chosen was self-evident. Jeffrey had never seen such a glamorous, nor chic, labor of love in his life.

While he hesitated on the doorstep, Joachim brushed past him to sit down, legs crossed, on the “Ritz’s” sofa with a smile. The overstuffed claw-legged couch looked handmade and bulged in places. It swallowed Joachim in its plush.

“You gonna stand there all day, hon?” Joachim asked.

“…I’m just surprised.”

“I don’t show it off too often. It’s my castle.”

“Am I your special exception?”

“Yes, special. That’s the word. You’ve been a good audience to me.”

Jeffrey closed the door behind him. Joachim silently readjusted his legs, lay back on the sofa, and fixed his “audience” with a pointed look. At this angle, his stockings and garter belts did little to hide a sliver of slender upper thigh. Apropos of nothing, Jeffrey thought of La Grande Odalisque in the Louvre.

Joachim was the first to break the silent staring contest. He flashed Jeffrey a smile that had something of a regretful sigh in it, before rising, moving to the kitchen, and pulling out a Dr. Pepper bottle from a fridge designed to look like a lambskin-covered trunk.

“I don’t have any classy glasses, so bear with me and my basic cups. Hope you don’t mind hamburgers off the McDonald’s ­dollar menu for dinner.”

“Joachim.”

“Ooh, nasty! Half this tomato’s got mold.”

“Chim.”

“Oh, quit hovering and sit down already. I’ll have dinner out in a jiff.”

“I have an offer for you.”

“Hm? Is it a game of cards over a Dr. Pepper?”

Joachim looked back over his shoulder with the embers of emotion flickering in his eyes. Joachim could shrug off jeering customers with a smile and a wink, but this, Jeffrey realized, got his dander up. This produced an anger that Joachim could not hide. Deep down, Jeffrey was impressed. Happy, even—but like hell would he admit that.

Instead, he said, “Would you be interested in becoming the personal stylist of a businessman you might happen to know? Works in finance, early thirties, dresses mainly in high-end brands, interested in a playful touch from time to time. He’s happy to pay however you want. Cash, bank transfer, check—you name it.”

Joachim stared at him. His eyes seemed to demand to know what on God’s green Earth Jeffrey thought he was doing, but Jeffrey’s easygoing smile never ceased. Joachim turned back to the fridge. He picked up the half-rotten tomato, tossed it into a trash pail, and sniffed pointedly.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were describing Jeffrey Claremont.”

“That’s the one. British guy, disgustingly handsome.”

“I’ve seen paparazzi photos of him on fashion blogs, but most of his fits aren’t worth the media coverage.”

“You like reading blog articles about me? Oh, this idea is sounding better by the minute.”

“Only for fun. Fashion blogs with you in them aren’t worth taking seriously.”

“But with your help, we could change that.”

“I’m not interested in making more money.”

“I am, though. Lots and lots of money. That’s why I need your help.”

Joachim fell silent. His searching eyes were full of emotion, but Jeffrey turned them away with a smile. That emotion wasn’t pity or disgust. It was something deeper, and Jeffrey wasn’t ready to accept the ramifications of anything that serious. Not yet. He kept his smile shallow and cocked his head. “So? How ’bout it?”

“…I suppose there’s no harm in giving it a try.”

“Perfect. We have a deal.”

Jeffrey’s smile was all business as he extended a hand to shake…a hand Joachim never took. Nevertheless, the smile stayed glued to his face all through his one-dollar dinner, and after ­slidingJoachim his contact info, he said his goodbyes.

The terms of their agreement were simple. Jeffrey was to take photos of every item in his closet—not grouped together, ­separate—and send them to Joachim. Every single shirt, every single shoe. And, if possible, a shot of each garment in action. Joachim and Jeffrey agreed to count the first month as a free trial period, as neither of them knew the other’s taste in clothing. Subsequent work would be paid per assignment.

The results were instantaneous. As Joachim already had an approximation of Jeffrey’s style, every choice was perfectly suited to Jeffrey’s tastes. At times, he channeled the spirit of a tailor in a shop that had stood on Seville Row for hundreds of years. At others, he wielded his vast fashion know-how to compile the very best fits or offer style tips like an influencer plugged into the latest youth trends. Clothing was only one part of a person’s identity, but undeniably one that left a striking impression on the viewer. Jeffrey’s new wardrobe greased the wheels on talks with even the fussiest of business partners, and before long, he came to expect a shower of compliments like “Well, there’s a snappy dresser!” with every client he met.

Best of all, Joachim’s assistance saved him the time and effort of picking out what to wear. At the start of the second month, Jeffrey’s wardrobe pictures began to be accompanied by travel plans and other tidbits: the size of his suitcase, the weather at his destination, the proclivities of those he planned to meet.

“You’re incredible,” he gushed one day. “The paparazzi are having the time of their lives. You didn’t steal into my father’s estate to interrogate the servants about my clothing preferences, did you?”

“Pssh, who cares what the paparazzi think? I’m just glad you’re enjoying your new fits. By the way, this season’s collection from Hermes has a few accessories I think you’d adore.”

“I haven’t seen them yet. Send some pics to my email, if you would.”

“Aye-aye, captain. I’ll note which ones you simply must have.”

“Isn’t there anything you want?” Jeffrey might have asked, but didn’t. Joachim was clearly enjoying turningJeffrey into a ­fashion icon, but he maintained a firm boundary between what was work and what was his own desires. Still, Jeffrey made monthly deposits into Joachim’s bank account that were sizable enough to buy several high-end accessories, with money to spare. He never mentioned it, but he was impressed that Joachim could combine burning passion with professional detachment, the secret to all long-lived business endeavors.

“…How are things with you, by the way?” Jeffrey asked.

“Swell. You?”

“I’m going to a disco not long after this.”

“You most certainly are not, buster. Not in those clothes! The tabloids will have a field day. I can see them now—celebrity fashion disaster! That is one picture I do not want in my collection.”

“You have a collection?”

“As is necessary for my work.”

Joachim rarely sounded this aloof. He must really have been enjoying himself.

Jeffrey laughed and wondered, if he were to invite Joachim out to eat, where they would go. This was New York, so the Plaza Hotel? The Conrad? The Sofitel? The Grand Hyatt? There was only one answer when it came to Paris: the Ritz on the Place Vendôme. Oh, how he wished he could take the person on the other end of the line to dinner.

No sooner did that thought cross his mind than Joachim said, “You know, I wouldn’t mind having company for supper.”

“…Sorry?”

“So long as my company doesn’t mind something off the McDonald’s one-dollar menu. I’d love to catch up. It’s been too long.”

It was like Joachim had read Jeffrey’s mind. He was baffled. This felt like a magic trick gone wrong, as if he’d put a ball in one of several upside-down cups and moved them around only for the ball to pop out of the wrong cup. A seemingly impossible mistake. A mistake he knew better to indulge in.

Joachim, as ever, rolled with Jeffrey’s silence and tried to laugh it off. “Just kidding.”

Jeffey could play along, but it would cancel out the failed magic trick. It was the right thing to do, he knew.

And yet his mouth moved on its own. “Oh, not at all. You just surprised me, because I was thinking the same thin—”

Before he could finish his sentence, his phone lit up with an incoming call from his private secretary. Not his work phone, either. His cell. That signaled an emergency.

Jeffrey took a deep breath of the New York night and made his voice sound cheerful. “Sorry. Duty calls. I have to run.”

“Go do what you gotta do. I’ll send you those Hermes photos.”

“Thanks. Talk to you soon.”

In seconds, he switched lines and adopted a practiced harsh tone. “Hello?”

His secretary’s greeting was perfunctory at best before he cut to the chase. Jeffey listened attentively, waited just long enough to make it seem like he’d taken a pull from a cigarette, and asked the simplest of questions: “…When you say he moved the money, how many dollars are we talking? No…yen?”

Jeffrey’s smile gradually widened as he listened to the answer delivered in his secretary’s detached, professional tones. Excellent. He’d never felt happier. Never more alive.

After a final thank you, Jeffrey hung up and looked out beyond the balcony to the city below. His smile broadened. “So you’re alive after all,” he murmured. “I’m very glad to hear that, Richard.”

He pulled up his schedule on his phone to rearrange his upcoming appointments. It was time to work backward and plot his next course of action. Time to add it to his already flawless, already impregnable public presentation.

In the shadow of the seedy club, Jeffrey slumped across the “Ritz’s” dining table. Meanwhile, Joachim, dressed in sportswear and high heels, coiled around a silver pole running from the ceiling to the floor. Only after he finished his stretches and a planned routine for the club did he notice his audience’s complete lack of attention. Reluctantly, he left the pole and came over to the table.

“’Scuse me, sir. You gotta move. We’re closing.”

Jeffrey didn’t respond.

“Really, what’s gotten into you? You’ve been acting like a zombie all day.”

“…Something happened to me. You know that scene from Graham Greene’s The End of the Affair?”

“I’ve never read it.”

“…Well, something very, very good happened.”

“If this is good, I hate to see what bad looks like.”

The sympathy in Joachim’s voice when he said, “Must’ve been tough, whatever it was,” elicited a weak smile from Jeffrey. Joachim didn’t say another word but slid a McDonald’s Coke, the beverage of choice for tonight’s meal, over to Jeffrey. Jeffrey took a small sip before flopping back over the table.

The good news was that the cursed gemstone was not so cursed after all. It was only a phantom hatred, a father’s tender love for his son gone wrong. The present-day Claremont family’s emotional squabbles, tangled disputes, and petty quarrels were and had always been utterly meaningless.

It was starting to get hard to breathe. Jeffrey lifted his head and gazed up at the chandelier, but by now Joachim was back on the pole. Both he and Jeffrey were well versed in pretending not to notice things.

Joachim struck a pose at the end of his routine, to a smattering of applause. He took a bow and rejoined Jeffrey at the table. When Jeffrey still didn’t seem to be in a talkative mood, Joachim whispered, “Does this have something to do with that one thing? The pride thing?”

“Yes,” Jeffrey admitted at length.

Businessman and financial influencer Jeffrey Claremont’s active social media account had recently made the oddest post. “Love or money? My family chooses people who choose love. They make me proud.” Much speculation ensued, even a blogger suggesting too much work had made Jeffrey go off the deep end, but Jeffrey refused to explain himself and the post was eventually buried by newer photographs and videos. Now, Jeffrey himself wondered what had possessed him to post that. He must have just wanted to get the message out there, he supposed. Yes, a message to the young Japanese man he barely knew, the one he’d had his secretary run a background check on. Yes.

He forced himself to sound casual. “I guess it’s sort of related. Really, though, just slightly. I’m a little emotional, but it’s not a big deal or anything.”

“How did the outfit work out? You know, the jacket I picked to match the brooch you talked about wearing. I wanted something you could wear for lots of sightseeing after a long flight.”

“It was perfect. I wore it the whole time we toured London, and I didn’t have a single complaint.”

Joachim felt like a hand smoothing down the most ruffled part of his soul. Jeffrey didn’t understand why this dancer—this dancer who never seemed to get any richer, no matter how much money Jeffrey threw at him—could offer such a healing hand. All he knew was that this man had fished an unGoogleable nobody from a pool, thrust him into a bathrobe, and poured hot apple juice into him. Almost like a certain someone rescuing a different Claremont from a pack of drunkards.

Joachim didn’t remark on the unnaturally long silence that followed. Instead, he gave Jeffrey a helpful, sisterly look. “Can I get you anything to drink? I have OJ today.”

“I’m fine. I’m more of a Coke guy anyway. Did you know it’s even good for the common cold?”

“…You know, anyone would choose love if they had the option. The problem is, we don’t always get to make that choice.”

At that, the words rushed up and out of Jeffrey’s thoughts. When the time came to set his love for one brother against the other, why, oh why, had he not made a calmer, more rational decision? Even looking back on it made him want to die, but there was no point, because that would never let him go back in time and undo the past. Nothing would. He had chosen to live on, buried as he was under his own rhetorical questions, but it was such a thankless task. He had to live on, knowing what he had done. He truly regretted that he had never burned down the house with the diamond locked inside. And how…

“…Hey, Joachim?”

“Mm-hmm?”

“…So, can I ask…”

“Speak up. I can’t hear you.”

“…Can I ask when you had your first crush?”

“Why are you asking?”

Jeffrey bit back his next question before it could spill out too. Do you think sexuality can rub off on other people?See, my little brother appears to be going steady with a man. I haven’t done a deep dive on their relationship yet, but I think…I might be getting another “little brother” in the near future.

Is that, Jeffrey might have asked, all my fault?

It was in junior high that he first realized he had a secret he could not tell a soul. To him, his female classmates squealing over him always felt like, well, just business. He had never experienced the rush of excitement his friends gushed about, either. It was only when he came to the aid of a male classmate being picked on by a creep—when his classmate squeezed Jeffrey’s hand and cried tears of gratitude for him—that he came to the only conclusion that remained, no matter how very uncomfortable that conclusion might be. He went out with girls, yes, but it always felt like business. He dated, sure. But he never went beyond that. No matter how far he went with a girl, it could never be more than just business.

Joachim put a hand to his chin and tapped a finger as he spoke. “Oh, let me see… I was six years old. He was the young man working at the gas station down the street. His biceps were e-nor-mous, and every time he used a fist to wipe the sweat from his forehead, ooh, a tingle ran down my spine. He was a stud.”

“You’re into buff guys?”

“Back then, I wanted to be a buff guy. Ended up not working out, and let me tell you, it takes some serious effort to not beef up too much now. It’d make it harder to dance.”

Speaking of dancing… Jeffrey raised an eyebrow. Instead of asking where all the money he paid for his stylist services was going, he pitched a curveball. “Hey. Do you plan on spending your whole life here, or what?”

“…Hmm, who knows? I don’t think that’s up to me to decide.” Joachim’s lips formed one beautiful arc. He said nothing more on the subject.

“True enough,” Jeffrey said with a know-it-all nod. His cheeks twitched in irritation, and he flopped back over the table.

“Well, come on. It’s no fair if I’m the only one who spills the beans,” said Joachim. “Tell me about your first crush.”

“…Oh boy, here we go.”

Jeffrey shut his eyes, hard. It wasn’t to block out the outside world. If anything, he wanted to stop the details of his private inner life from leaking out.

He smiled an almost-wicked smile, like something out of Monty Python’s Flying Circus, and crossed his arms.

“Sure, I’ve had crushes. I don’t remember how old I was when the first one happened. Either way, I’m taking that secret to the grave, so I’ll tell you about my second crush. He was our local delivery guy. He had this long hair that would bounce up and down every time he moved. I was mad about that.”

“What? You have a thing for my hair?”

“…Huh, now that you mention it, you do have similar hair styles.”

“Oh, you tease.”

Joachim slapped Jeffrey on the shoulder and flounced back over to the pole with a smile. Using one arm for support, he lifted himself into the air until he was parallel to the floor and completed a revolution of the pole. Jeffrey propped his chin in his hands and drank in the sight of Joachim’s long hair trailing behind him.

“Bravo. You’re beautiful,” he said.

“So I’m told. I have African and Scandinavian blood in my veins, and if I go back far enough, Indian and Southern European, too. All the beauty in the world has culminated to make me and my body. Yes, yes, you may now worship me.”

“You almost don’t sound like you’re joking.”

“Goodness, you really must be tired.”

“I have a good eye for beauty. I’ve seen so much beauty I’ve had enough of it.”

Joachim laughed, and Jeffrey understood how the helpless victims in the clutches of the Inquisition must have felt. The culmination of all the beauty in the world smiled crushingly—even devilishly—before relenting and donning a more socially appropriate smile.

“Thank you. Henceforth, I will accept payment for styling in the form of one oil field per month.”

“Sounds like I need to find a new job. I’ll have to be one of those guys who drills for oil in the Arabian desert.”

“Well, that should be good for you, shouldn’t it? Out in the desert, you’d have all kinds of experiences your rich, white brother would never dream of.”

In his mind, Jeffrey opened his eyes and contemplated what, exactly, an eye for beauty meant. A literal, physical eyeball that evaluated whether a certain individual could be considered beautiful? To have a good eye, then, was stating one had the right to judge another person’s beauty.

Jeffrey rose, walked to the pole, crouched to be at eye-level with Joachim hanging upside down, and smiled gently. “Sorry.”

“…No, I owe you an apology.”

“Really, this one’s on me. I’m sorry.”

“Goodness, if I snapped like that at an audience member, I’d lose my job on the spot. Joachim, you sweet little fool. What has gotten into you?”

“Hey, I have no plans of giving up on such a talented and affordable stylist. You still have more magic to work. Right? Come on. This Jeffrey guy I’ve told you about is only moving up in the world.”

Joachim’s polite smile dropped away to be replaced with a serious look of concern. Concern for Jeffrey. In his mind, Jeffrey closed his eyes once more. He wasn’t going to take Joachim up on that unspoken offer. No, not any further.

“It’s about time I get going,” he said, and he put an envelope of cash down on the table.

He turned to leave just as Joachim said, “You know what?”

It was better not to turn around, Jeffrey decided. He stopped moving. “What?”

“We should get dinner sometime.”

“…McDonald’s?”

“Anywhere. Take me to your favorite restaurant.”

Joachim’s words felt like a peace offering of sorts. Jeffrey turned to face Joachim, who was back on solid ground, and raised his hands, miming You don’t have to go that far.

Joachim returned the gesture. He opened his eyes wide. I mean it, they said.

“…I mean, sure,” Jeffrey eventually relented. “I’ll take you to my favorite place.”

“Ooh, I can’t wait! It’s a date. You’d better not expect me to pay, understand?”

Jeffrey smiled awkwardly. It felt like he was forcing Joachim to accept his apology. However, Joachim smiled as brightly as if he were an actor in a play, so Jeffrey, too, recited his own lines. “Say, we’ve known each other for a year now, and this is the first time we’ve ever gone out to eat.”

“Oh, really? That’s so funny.”

“Isn’t it? I’m glad to be alive. Glad to have you here, too.”

“Amen to that, brother.”

When he saw Joachim’s smile, Jeffrey realized his feet had stopped and weren’t going anywhere anytime soon. Joachim must have noticed this, too, but ever the master actor, he turned back to the pole and gave Jeffrey a reason to stay.

“Let me show you one final trick as a treat. What’ll it be?”

“…Do the spinning thing.”

“Which spinning thing? There are lots of spin moves.”

“The one that looks like a falling paper cutout.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Do you mean a body spiral?”

With a flick of a finger, Joachim pulled up a song on his phone that Jeffrey had heard numerous times before, the moody male singer crooning about love. Joachim wrapped himself around the pole and practically floated up it. Supporting himself with a single arm and leg, he described a fluttering spiral in his revolution, like a figure made of paper. Unlike paper, Joachim’s spin and twirling did not end with him tumbling to the floor. So long as he had the power in his limbs to keep himself suspended, he could stay halfway up the pole indefinitely.

Anyone would choose love if they had the option.

Jeffrey mentally closed his eyes as those words ran through his mind. His eyelids were like transparent shutters. When he’d had enough of looking out and wanted to stop letting the world in, he would silently draw the shutters fast.

He would have thought pledging to live on in a loveless world for all eternity would be an exercise in solitude. But, he supposed, even in this most loveless of worlds, there was still a person he could take out to dinner.

What was he to make of this new development? Jeffrey wasn’t sure. Was this, what, a salvation of sorts? Or was it merely fodder for the sheep still bound for the slaughterhouse? Was there even a difference between the two?

He returned to his hotel long after he was supposed to. As his secretary preached his schedule for the following day over a phone call, Jeffrey’s mind was elsewhere. In his thoughts, the paper figure was falling, falling, falling…

Jeffrey ran a little behind schedule on the day of his big date. He planned to meet Joachim at the restaurant—a chic move if there ever was one—and proceed from there to their reserved private room. Unfortunately, that plan was a failure from moment one. He just knew Joachim would rail at him for being late, he thought as he raced through the streets in a yellow taxi cab toward New York’s upscale restaurant district. He didn’t want to fight off paparazzi, the necessary consequence of takingJoachim to his true favorite restaurant, so he booked a table at a place his father had frequented back when he still made public appearances as the Earl of Claremont. The restaurant did not lack for presentation, prestige, and price, but the food was middling at best. One of those joints.

The taxi parked under a gold-and-black awning that would have looked right at home in a Parisian café. Well, that was odd—a diner was not being let into the restaurant. A diner with an ash-grey ponytail and skin the color of sweet caramel. Joachim.

As Jeffrey rushed over, he began to make out Joachim’s argument with the maître d’.

“I apologize, sir, but we do not have any open tables this evening.”

“I just said I should have a reservation. Under a last name, spelled C—”

“I’m afraid I cannot seat you.”

“…But my res—”

“Your reservation was given to another party.”

“…You could give us a worse seat…? I wouldn’t mind.”

“Sir, I cannot seat you.”

Jeffrey felt all the heat leech out of his chest. The restaurant maintained a dress code, a policy that was becoming all but a formality as influential upscale restaurants began to accept tourist clientele. However, even in the modernity of the twenty-first century, this restaurant made a firm distinction between who could be allowed in and who most certainly could not.

Joachim noticed Jeffrey before the waiter did. “…Oh!”

Not to beat around the bush, Jeffrey thought, but Joachim might as well have been dressed in trash bags. His black faux-leather jacket looked decades old, and his hot pants weren’t any better. The outer enamel surface of his handbag was as chipped and flaking as the facade on a forty-year-old building. His stockings were as noticeably ripped as if he’d taken a nasty tumble, and water stains dotted his entire outfit.

Jeffrey didn’t ask if Joachim didn’t own any nicer clothes. Joachim was perfectly capable of picking out brilliant outfits, and he had a thorough understanding of what clothes were appropriate for what situation. He would not have chosen these clothes without a purpose.

“…Sorry. I, well, made some poor choices in coming here. There was no time… I tried to let you know, but I couldn’t get a hold of you.”

Joachim’s voice trembled. His face was pale, and there were the beginnings of tears in his eyes. Jeffrey gritted his teeth, then looked up at the sky and shouted loudly and ridiculously enough to be heard across the globe:

“I am so sorry, sir!”

No sooner had he paid the cabbie than he threw himself to the mat covering the sidewalk, pulled a silk handkerchief out of his breast pocket, and began dabbing at the wet patches on Joachim’s clothes. Joachim’s eyes widened. Jeffrey looked up at him and mentally begged him for forgiveness, painfully aware of the curious stares of the restaurant staff upon them.

“What are you—”

“My sincerest apologies, sir. I promise you, that man has no idea what he’s done. I’ll take you to a different restaurant at once. This was my mistake, and I cannot apologize enough.”

The assembled waiters goggled at the stammering mess of a businessman trying to clean up that trashy costume. This was not the sort of thing that happened every day, that was for sure. Out of the corner of his eye, Jeffrey registered some of the waiters fleeing back into the restaurant in alarm. Joachim held his hand over his orange lipstick-painted lips, but when Jeffrey saw the barest hint of a smile, he knew it was safe to throw Joachim a wink.

Three seconds later, Jeffrey was the picture of calm and ­collected as he stood up and addressed the restaurant’s manager in his neat uniform and stiff collar.

“Good evening, Johnny. It’s been far too long. How’s your old man? Say, I hear you have a full house tonight.”

“…It is a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Claremont. May I have a brief word with you?”

“No, no, don’t trouble yourself. We were just leaving. Off to Eleven Madison Park, you know.”

“We’ve had a sudden cancellation, so we could offer you a private room—”

“Hmm? A whole private room? That’s funny. I was told you were so busy you’re giving reservations away.”

“Not quite, sir. It appears that was an error on our end.”

“An error! Of all the things. What are the odds, an error at one of the most world-famous restaurants in New York City? With luck like this, I ought to go out and buy a lotto ticket. Who knows? I could win a billion dollars.”

“With all due respect, sir, I fear your chances may be even slimmer in the lottery. Nevertheless, I promise that my staff will make every effort to ensure this mistake never happens again. Might I offer you tonight’s meal on the house?”

The manager bowed deeply, Japanese style, and Jeffrey shot his partner-in-crime a pointed look. He sighed in exasperation—took them long enough to realize just who they’re snubbing—and Joachim laid a gentle hand on Jeffrey’s sleeve.

“Don’t give them too hard a time, hon. It’s all right.”

“It’s really not. They have no idea just how important you are.”

“Well, how were they supposed to know?”

Casually resting his weight on his back leg and leaning back, Joachim radiated the aura of a multimillionaire dressed head to toe in vintage Chanel. As Jeffrey internally applauded the smooth recovery of this star actor, he forced himself to look serious and whispered into Joachim’s ear—loud enough, still, for the manager to hear.

“Are you sure you want to stay here? I have no problem changing the itinerary. Although…it may be best to take a private room after all. To discuss the you-know-what.”

“The Arabian oil field you-know-what?”

“Yes, but also what we talked about at the Ritz—”

“Shh, hon. People are listening.”

“Forgive me. Eleven Madison Park wouldn’t be a bad choice, either. It’s just, well… I worry you’ll be bored if I take you to another three-star Michelin restaurant.”

“Time is money, so I say we stay here. Come on. Let’s go in.”

Jeffrey offered Joachim his arm, which Joachim accepted. The manager placed a hand on his chest and swept into a deep bow once more.

The couple were led to a private room with white walls and a black interior, and the moment the heavy door was closed seamlessly behind them, Joachim exploded with laughter and raised his eyes to the ceiling.

“Oh, Jeffy! You are one of a kind.”

“Jeffy?”

“You know, you’ve made this the best day of my life. How do you do it? Really now. How do you do it?”

“No, back up. Where did ‘Jeffy’ come from?”

“Oopsy-doo, did I say that out loud? My bad.”

Around stifled giggles, Joachim explained that a club of zealous Jeffrey fangirls—Jeffrey’s Wives, as they titled themselves—referred to him as Jeffy online. In the course of combing through photos for his styling assignments, Joachim had encountered that nickname so often, it began to roll off the tongue.

“…Jeffy…” Jeffrey repeated, aghast.

“Isn’t it cute? It sounds like a little Nordic bunny. I wasn’t planning on telling you, but that cat’s out of the bag now.”

“Do I look like I have bunny ears?”

“Could be your costume for next Halloween.”

“Oh, please. Let’s not.”

Whenever the waiters brought in another exquisite dish, the two pretended to be deep in discussion over top secret matters. Jeffrey brought up a series of complicated graphs on his phone, which Joachim scrutinized, nodding as seriously as if he understood exactly what he was looking at. It was all just too much fun. Better yet, both Joachim and Jeffrey knew the other was enjoying himself just as much as he was. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Jeffrey came to the only realization: Oh, I am completely screwed.

He called his favorite hotel and asked them to free up his usual room. The hotel swiftly complied.

“…Well, I’ll be damned,” Jeffrey muttered to himself. Joachim was in the bathroom retouching his makeup, leaving Jeffrey alone just long enough to put his shoes back on and retie them before checking out again. Outside the window, the New York metropolis was wrapped in a blanket of dusky red fog. So little of the city was visible that the area where Joachim lived in his trailer might as well not have existed.

Once love for another human being reached its highest point, only disillusionment could follow. Inflamed passions that had once blazed bright would gutter out, leaving nothing but ash or the dying sputters of a charcoal fire.

Which was why Jeffrey had booked the hotel room. It was time, he decided, to reach that ashen stage, and fast. However, much to his surprise, he soon discovered that there was quite a lot left in him to burn. Odder still, Joachim persistently failed to lose his interest. Their relationship developed, yes, but Joachim still refused to cede himself, body and soul, to Jeffrey. Regardless of Jeffrey’s intentions, there was no tinder in Joachim’s heart to burn.

That’s just how some people are, I guess, Jeffrey thought, as he tidied up his scattered thoughts. It was odd that he could understand that. He had known right from the start that an affair with Joachim was an enormous risk, but Jeffrey had perfect faith in his ability to discern which risks were the most dangerous.

The shoes were back on; their laces, tied. “Chim,” he called in the direction of the bathroom.

“Yes, hon?”

Just hearing Joachim’s voice made Jeffrey picture his lover’s mouth, lips parted.

He asked casually, “Do you want to make yourself happy, Chim? Do you think you’re one of those people who’ll find happiness someday?”

The hush that followed was so thick Jeffrey could hear the second-hand ticking on the clock. Still, he didn’t break the silence. It dragged on until Joachim’s voice floated out of the bathroom once more.

“…Sorry, but that’s not how I live my life.”

Good thing I booked a hotel, Jeffrey thought with a hint of a grin. He doubted he would have gotten that answer if they’d been intimate in a more personal location.

“Okay!” he called back. “In that case, I think we’ll get along very well with each other.”

Silence.

“I’m the same way. Look at us—twinsies!”

More silence.

“I’m glad I found someone like you.”

If their caresses remained purely physical—well, that was fine, because Jeffrey didn’t want anything beyond that. He could try to burn through all their passions at once, but what difference did it make when Joachim never offered any fuel for the fire to begin with? Joachim never tried to get more money from Jeffrey than was his due, according to the terms of their working relationship. He was even, in some sense, trustworthy in a personal sense.

Oh, Joachim was the best analgesic Jeffrey could ever have hoped for.

When Joachim stepped out of the bathroom, his hair and lipstick were immaculate once more. If there was emotion ­shining in his dark eyes, well, Jeffrey pretended not to see it.

“You’re a damn fool,” Joachim said.

“I’m aware. But I want to keep on living.”

Joachim’s eyes were tinged with pity, as if he was seeing himself in a mirror.

Jeffrey stood up and slapped his pockets. “Well, that’s that. Sorry to kick you out, but do you mind if I call you a cab? I’ll be in touch later.”

“Aye-aye, captain. I had fun tonight. The dinner was lovely, too.”

“Shoot me a message if you find any more accessories you like.”

Joachim waved him off like the gesture was a chore and turned to leave—before abruptly turning and coming right on back.

“What’s the matter?” Jeffrey asked.

Joachim tapped his right index finger against Jeffrey’s lips. “You better stay alive until I see you next. I’ll tell you ‘good job.’ Understand?”

“…Can’t wait.”

Now, with a fluttering wave, Joachim departed for real. He never looked back.

The sole occupant of the room once more, Jeffery diligently checked the phone calls and messages which had piled up in the interim. When that was complete, he placed an international call. There was a crackle of static before a young man picked up. Jeffrey smiled as widely as he could and made his voice that of a jovial celebrity. When he spoke it was, naturally, in Japanese.

“Hey there, Seigi! You doing okay? No harm if not. How’s hotel life treating you? You need anything? I’ll be back to see you soon. …Oh no, I’m not calling for any specific reason. See, I’m staying in a hotel tonight, too, so I was wondering how my other hotel buddy was doing. I say that as if I don’t stay in hotels year-round!”

His call with the young, depressed Japanese man complete, Jeffrey entered the bathroom and burst out laughing. All the free toiletries were gone.

Jeffrey avoided encounters with Joachim for a while afterward. Joachim didn’t need Jeffrey popping over constantly, either, so periodic emails with styling tips and attached clothes photos were plenty for both of them. Really, Jeffrey was so busy jetting back and forth from Japan to London to New York that he didn’t have the time for anything else.

It was late Wednesday night when his schedule miraculously opened up and he happened to think of Joachim. Jeffrey caught a cab to that once-frequented part of New York on the border of Queens and Brooklyn. The club was closed for the night when he arrived, but Jeffrey knew his favorite dancer wasn’t far. He slipped around to the back of the trailer house and knocked on the door.

“Yes?” Sure enough, Joachim was home.

“Surprise! Know what day it is, Chi—?”

Jeffrey’s tongue stilled before he could complete his sentence.

The unlocked door swung open to reveal Joachim crying silently. The upper half of his face was deathly pale where it wasn’t mottled with dark bruises. Blood oozed from a cut at the edge of his mouth.

It took ten seconds before Joachim, listless and defeated, and Jeffrey, dumbfounded, could meet each other’s gaze.

“…What happened to your face?” Jeffrey asked.

“Oh, I can’t believe it. Why now, of all times?”

Swearing a curse at God, Joachim rose and attempted to push Jeffrey out, but that was when a sharp crack resounded in the distance. Joachim pulled Jeffrey into his arms and bundled him inside, fast. Next thing he knew, Jeffrey was shoved into a small storage space in the back of the Ritz. Joachim forced him to his knees.

A purple cloth thudded over Jeffrey’s head. “Stay hidden. Don’t you dare come out of there. I mean it. If you break this promise, I’ll kill you.”

There was no time to respond. A stampede of footsteps pounded into the trailer, and some inarticulate—drunk—but unmistakably masculine voice shouted for Joachim.

“How many times do I have to repeat myself?” Joachim screamed back. “I don’t have any more money! I’ve already given it all to you. There’s no more here.”

The drunk man growled like a bear and slurred some words Jeffrey couldn’t make out. The walls of the trailer house shook as something slammed against it, hard. Had he tripped? That was one nasty impact, whatever it was.

There was a series of “You’re fine, you’re fine,” from Joachim as he presumably tried to pick the man up.

Then, more growling. Jeffrey could only make out one word, but even under the cloth, he had no trouble telling what it was: Money.

There was a cry of pain, and something slammed against the floor. Joachim.

“Stop hitting me! If you touch me again, I’m calling the cops!”

More growling, then two pairs of feet lumbering out of the trailer.

And then silence. It stretched a minute or more before a set of footsteps told Jeffrey someone had returned.

“…You can come out now.”

Joachim sighed in relief when Jeffrey poked his head out of his hiding place.

“Oh, you gave me the fright of my life. What were you thinking, showing up here to surprise me? I swore I was going to be killed.”

“If that had gone on thirty seconds longer, I would have called the cops.”

“The cops you know don’t come to neighborhoods like mine, hon.” Joachim shook his head and spotted the blood on the back of his hand.

There was a cut on the corner of his mouth, too. Joachim made an exasperated face and opened a trapdoor in the kitchen floor to access the storage space beneath. Out came a first aid kit stuffed with bandages and ointment—and, Jeffrey noticed, especially thick foundation and concealer.

He watched this scene play out from a few paces away, his arms folded across his chest.

“Who was that, if I might ask?”

“My boyfriend and life partner. We’ve been together for years now.”

“Does he live here, too?”

“No. Two blocks down in a place with his wife.”

This relationship made no sense to Jeffrey, but he managed a half-hearted nod and walked over to kneel on the floor next to Joachim. He lifted Joachim’s chin and made him look into the mirror of Jeffrey’s eyes.

“I’m taking you to the hospital,” Jeffrey said.

“It’s not that serious. A little foundation, and you’d never know the difference.”

“Foundation doesn’t heal split lips.”

“But it can make it seem like it never happened.”

“I’m worried about your mental health, too. It can’t be good to take a beating like that.”

“Are you going to break our promise? I thought we weren’t going to make each other happy.”

A threatening edge crept into Jeffrey’s voice. “A fat load of good happiness is when you’re dead. Don’t you want to live?”

Joachim bit his lip, but, when Jeffrey did not move, finally nodded silently.

Jeffrey helped him into a cab which sped off for the hospital. He ignored the one that saw a steady stream of car crash victims, the one for low-income folks. Instead, he picked one where those who were—well, if not celebrities, financially comfortable—could seek help in the middle of the night.

Jeffrey didn’t have long to wait before Joachim came out of the exam room with a square of gauze taped to his cheek. The payment had already been taken care of, so he stood up from the waiting room’s bench, escorted the taciturn Joachim out, and called for a taxi to the Empire State Building. It was only when they were seated beside a window in the ESB’s restaurant, surveying the city lights below and sipping on the smoothies New York was known for, that Joachim spoke up.

“…I was eighteen, and my boyfriend and I were high on pot. I was the driver. We were speeding down the highway when I looked up and saw a cop on our tail. I thought I was done for. So I tried to shake him, and I lost control of the steering wheel. Drove us right into a wall. I passed out, and the next thing I knew, they were telling me my boyfriend was dead. I murdered him.”

Manslaughterer, technically—but Jeffrey kept that thought to himself. Either way, Joachim didn’t seem to agree. His dark eyes were fixed on a single point in his reflection in the glass, the city below completely ignored.

“So, who was the guy from earlier?”

“My boyfriend’s younger brother. He’s as much of a lowlife as I am. Always hurting for money, and lately cash runs through his fingers like a bucket with no bottom.”

“Ah.”

Now it made sense. Joachim felt he owed a debt, indirectly, to this man. It also explained the mystery of why Joachim, a man who should have had enough money to rent a small apartment in Queens, couldn’t seem to afford restaurant-going clothes.

“So you’re stuck forking over tribute to him for life.”

“…It’s not tribute.”

There was a pointed silence. Sure seems like it.

“Well,” Joachim relented, “there are some things that can never be undone, and I just don’t want to forget that, criminal that I am. That’s what keeps me living. That man may be gutter trash, but he’s a handy reminder that I belong in the gutter, too. Convenient, wouldn’t you say?”

“A reminder, huh?”

Jeffrey smiled, looking out at the reflection of his face superimposed on the city lights. Social media, tabloid, and newspaper star Jeffrey Claremont wasn’t looking so hot. Kind of run-down, in fact. Once again, Jeffrey thought, God, I hate this man.

He carefully reached out across the table and squeezed Joachim’s hand. Joachim looked up, startled, but Jeffrey didn’t meet his eyes. He spoke to the window instead.

“I should preface this by telling you I don’t have strong feelings of any kind for you. I could live without a stylist, and we don’t have that much of a personal connection. But sometimes, when you’re here, I get this huge rush of relief. Today’s one of those days. So let me stay here and hold your hand for a few more minutes. Once I get my fix of relief, I’ll let you go.”

Silence.

“Oh, don’t think I’m trying to make you feel better. I’m just telling the truth. Your outfits and your dancing seem to have this effect on me, and I think that must be why I keep coming back to see you. I’ve always wondered why I feel so calm around you. I used to think, maybe it’s because you don’t like yourself so much. Maybe it’s because you’re one of those people who lives for a reason. Now, I know.”

Joachim lifted his forehead from where he had rested it against the window glass and turned to stare into Jeffrey’s eyes. Jeffrey gave him a little smile back.

“You hate yourself, but you refuse to die. You need to stay alive to atone for what you’ve done, isn’t that right? That’s a shitty way to live, but it also takes real backbone. It takes the kind of fortitude you need to let your bones be broken and your flesh carved from your body. It takes guts.”

More silence.

“I’m rooting for you, you know.”

Jeffrey smiled his politest, most impersonal smile, as if Joachim’s bruised and battered face was a business partner’s he’d seen hundreds of times. Then, after pressing a short kiss to their entwined hands, Jeffrey let Joachim go.

For a moment, Joachim studied Jeffrey’s face in silence before a smile of defeat reached his lips.

“…Wouldn’t it be nice if there was an easier way to live?” he said.

“Are you talking to yourself?”

“But of course I am. Still, if someone who’s just like me happens to hear this, maybe this will resonate with him, too. Life is so hard. If only we could all have an easier time of it.”

“Truth is, life’s not easy at all.”

“Amen to that, brother.”

Jeffrey and Joachim shared a smile. It was so sunny, it was almost as if Joachim hadn’t been brutally beaten just a handful of hours ago. God. The horror of it all made Jeffrey sick to his stomach.

He gave Joachim another shallow grin. “Say, are you free after this?”

“…Sorry, hon. Not tonight.”

“It doesn’t have to be anything big. My place has good room service.”

“Find someone else to bait the paparazzi with, love. I’ll pass.”

Jeffrey did not want Joachim going back to that trailer tonight, but he knew his feelings paled in comparison to Joachim’s courage. It took real guts to ignore everything that had happened and turn Jeffrey’s offer down.

The taxi cab was quiet, a box for Jeffrey’s thoughts. This is the wrong choice, he realized. He thought it’d been the right one, given how badly he wanted just minutes ago to make a different bad decision. But whether this was truly the right wrong choice or merely a diversion, well—Jeffrey didn’t have the confidence in his own ability to tell.

As it so happened, the thing Jeffrey couldn’t tell a soul had been discovered entirely without his knowledge.

I see. One of those situations, Jeffrey thought as he quietly absorbed this new reality that didn’t feel real at all. His secretary, the very person who had assisted him in numerous covert operations in the wake of Richard’s flight, was a turncoat who’d betrayed his master without a second thought. He sold out Jeffrey’s secrets to the Claremont servants planning their insurrection.

After receiving a long video addressed to him from a girl named Octavia, and, for good measure, acquiring the ones she sent to Henry and Richard, it dawned on him that Octavia’s song-and-dance of a revenge plot was all part of the servants’ bigger scheme. Maybe Octavia even knew that. Maybe she was happy to let them pull her strings.

Every time he watched his video, he drew the same conclusion: Octavia didn’t hate Richard. Not truly.

“I understand you care for Mr. Richard dearly. Therefore, you sided with your elder brother so that you would be hurt worse than either of them. What self-serving rubbish! You got what you wanted, but what good has this done for Mr. Richard? Or his health? His emotional state? Moving to Japan and making new friends may have finally solved the problems you caused, but you’ve still left him with a wounded soul that will never heal for as long as he lives.”

A spot-on assessment, Jeffrey thought. Now that it was all over, he could finally see the light. Maybe his decision had been about what he wanted all along.

He no longer knew if, deep inside his mind, his eyes were open or shut.

Laurent, the butler who had played back the videos for Jeffrey’s benefit, had contacted him while Henry was too busy working through Leah’s old files to pay much attention to what the butler was up to. As Jeffrey was the one to suggest they meet face-to-face, Laurent complied with a servant’s stately nod, neither a refusal nor an acceptance. It was so blatantly an act that Jeffrey snorted in amusement.

He reclined on the leather sofa as the aging butler, his salt-and-pepper hair more salt than pepper these days, came in.

“I wish to speak with you about the matter of the heir,” Laurent said. “A necessary requirement to lay our current, ah, situation to rest. Of the young masters, Richard has shown no sign of seeking a wife since his student days, and we are a tad worried Henry’s current medication may affect his fertility.”

“Watch your tongue, Laurent. That’s my brother you’re talking about.”

Laurent, the chief butler of the household, was a man of few words who could find his tongue when the situation required it. He peered at Jeffrey like an insect in a specimen box.

“I’m afraid, sir, that no one retains their youth forever. It is vital that we have an heir, and fast.”

“Well, run down to the supermarket and buy one. They’re on sale.”

“Young master, please.”

Jeffrey’s skin crawled. He was already in his thirties, but whenever Laurent called him by that title, he felt like a good twenty years had been stripped away.

Laurent’s eyes were calm but authoritative, matching his tone. “If I might submit a question—a question, not a suggestion or a warning: How do you intend to live the rest of your life? It is not my place to pry, as I am only a servant, but I do wonder—should your secret come to light, are you not all but guaranteed to be a plaything of the tabloids until your death?”

“Probably. They’d probably heckle me just like you’re heckling me right now.”

“No, sir. I am not heckling. I am merely asking questions.”

Jeffrey’s mouth formed the shape of a smile. It didn’t reach his eyes. He waved his hand, an imperious command to carry on, and the butler bowed before skipping further questions in favor of an actual proposal.

“If you would, I would recommend starting by taking a woman to wife. From there you may live however you please. Consider married life in the nineteenth century. As Balzac espouses in Letters of Two Young Brides,true love forms after marriage.”

“Please spare me the sales pitch. You just want a child from our bloodline.”

“Am I correct in assuming, then, that we have an understanding?”

Jeffrey’s smile was wan. As far as this agreement went, Laurent was the one calling the shots. After all, Jeffrey feared nothing more than the possibility that Henry and Richard would discover his sexual orientation, and the pressure to get married would instead come to rest on their gentle shoulders. Henry had only just begun recovering from his illness, all while attempting to balance the weighty responsibilities of his imminent earldom. Richard, on the other hand, was in Japan and finally enjoying the youth that had been robbed from him via the diamond affair. They were both happy, but that happiness was as fragile as their own gentle kindness—a fact Laurent knew just as well as Jeffrey did, and as such, Jeffrey had no bargaining chips.

He fell silent, prompting Laurent to remark in an offhand fashion, “You look quite sharp today, young master. You’ve developed the most impeccable taste in clothes since moving to America. A superficial affair at best, I’m sure. The heart is what matters most. No doubt such superficial things can soon be replaced.”

“Are you really going to go that far in meddling with my personal affairs? Now that’s what I call bad taste.”

“Taste is a subjective matter. It cannot be the determining factor for such negotiations. Of course, I only bring this matter up incidentally…but one cannot know what a scrupulous seventeen-year-old young lady may choose to do with such knowledge.”

Jeffrey knew who Laurent was alluding to. Octavia. The girl Richard used to tutor.

“How curious, Laurent. It almost sounds like you think I’m in love. Think, please. Do I really seem like I would need the warmth of another human being around the clock? Any ‘love’ between my employee and me is all in your head.”

“Forgive me, young master, but I have been in your service for over twenty years, and I have a not-insignificant knowledge of how you treat those you care about.”

Jeffrey laughed. “Brilliant! You understand how I love, Laurent?”

“Understand is a strong word, sir. Yet it is quite possible that I can make an informed hypothesis.”

“And what hypothesis is that?”

“In frank terms, you never tell the objects of your affection how much they mean to you. Those you treat in the most rotten fashion—why, as if you don’t care a whit about them—are those you hold most dear.”

Jeffrey scowled at the elderly butler, who merely offered an unperturbed smile in response. After what felt like an eternity, Jeffrey smiled at him. If only everything could be brushed away with a smile, he thought. “Very well. I accept.”

“Pardon me, sir, but I do not know what you are agreeing to.”

“Anything. I’ll do whatever you want. You must have some inkling of what’s going on, but to be honest, I just don’t care anymore. All I need at this point is to keep on living.”

“A splendid attitude. Your loved ones will be most pleased.”

“So, what’s next? I won’t settle for just any woman. I’m not that nice. Make sure you pick someone good.”

“I shall. Let us speak of this again once the current situation has resolved.”

“Sure. Can’t wait.”

The moment Laurent left, Jeffrey’s thoughts began to race. He felt like he had just signed his life away.

The rational part of his brain was telling him that he ought to be relieved, but the emotional part was wrestling with a violent tempest of passions. Now he had to meet a complete stranger, whisper a few perfunctory sweet nothings in her ear, have a couple of kids with her, and raise those kids like he’d wanted and loved them all his life. He could treat it like business, just like all his past relationships. He prided himself on that—he could do anything if it was business. But this required the willpower to weather the agony of continuously ignoring the little voice in his head asking if this was really the right thing.

And then death.

A peaceful death at the end of it all.

If only his life was a video he could play at 4× speed, just like how he watched boring TV shows on his subscription services. That was his go-to method whenever he had an obligation to review the piece of media prior to talks with the individuals involved in its production. He couldn’t help but think how much easier it would be if he could do the same for his life, if he could just wheel around and around like a paper cutout and fall to the ground all the faster.

Sounds like I have a death wish, Jeffrey thought, and that made him smile. What punishment was more fitting for a man who had given his favorite person, his best beloved little brother, the kind of wound that would never heal? The problem was, he had to concede, he’d never considered that this punishment—this “business”—would ever ruin someone else’s happiness in the bargain.

Once he’d pulled himself together enough to walk straight, Jeffrey staggered out into the main part of the mansion, where he bumped into Henry, dressed in work clothes—a casual white shirt and brown vest. The one-day earl looked Jeffrey straight on with a gaze so steady it was like the man who’d been in the throes of depression had never existed.

“…Jeff? Whatever is the matter?” Henry asked.

“Nothing at all. I just felt like dropping by for a spell. How are things with you, Harry? Did I catch you in the middle of work?”

“I was going through our grandmother’s records. Curiously enough, I’ve noticed the individuals who have negotiated with Octavia tend to be linked to these gemstone transactions.”

“Yeah? You don’t say.”

“I wonder why that should interest Octavia so.”

Probably because the Claremont butlers were scheming in the hopes that Leah’s shady business dealings wouldn’t weigh down future generations of Claremonts, but Jeffrey didn’t say that. He was the only one making deals with the butlers, and that was fine by him. All he needed was for Henry to buy him a little time.

“Jeff?”

“Hm?”

“Get some good rest tonight. You don’t look well.”

“Right-o. Will do.”

He tacked on a thanks before heading to the room he stayed in on his rare visits to the Claremont estate. For Jeffrey, who had begun living in dorms and flitting around the world in the transitionary period between no computers and universal internet access, his old room was less a nostalgic haven and more a collection of relics of the past, a metallic cookie cutter of a room. It felt like the estate itself was declaring a traditional existence for its occupant, a certain Jeffrey Claremont, a man who would be permitted no wild deviations from the norm.

He lay on the always immaculately made-up bed, thrashed around until the sheets were a wadded-up mess, and then groped for his phone. His fingers moved on autopilot and called a number on speed dial.

The phone rang twice before the person on the other end picked up. “Hello? What’s up, Jeffy?”

Jeffrey’s mouth quirked at the mention of his nickname. The boy who had grown up in this room had never, not once, been called by that name. He ran a hand through his hair and forced himself to sound casual. “Not much. Just wanted to check in and see if you’re doing okay.”

“I should be asking you if you’re doing okay. I could tell from word one that something’s wrong. Poor little bunny boy’s ears are drooping.”

A response died in Jeffrey’s throat. You know, I think I might be in love with you, he might have said. But he didn’t. A crush was only simple and wonderful in childhood, but Jeffrey had reached the age where love walked hand-in-hand with numerous responsibilities. Personal feelings—love, hate—were nothing more than obstacles to living a rational, systematic life.

“What’s the matter, hon?”

“It’s nothing. It’s… Chim?”

“Still here.”

“Is there…anything you want in life?”

“My oil field.”

“Besides that.”

“A mountain full of gold.”

“Or that.”

“A happier you.”

A happier Jeffrey trailing in the wake of oil fields and gold mountains made no sense to Jeffrey. It was so grotesquely comical that it made his head spin like he’d been caught up in a cat and mouse chase, like something from a pre-WWII American cartoon, like a drawer with an incongruous jumble of larger and larger objects popping out, like a man cut in two who kept on walking.

Jeffrey cleared his throat in an attempt to pull himself out of his confusion. Staying quiet would only give Joachim more clues to work with, something he didn’t want. “If you had a happier me, what would you do with me?”

“Pat him on the head and tell him I’m glad he’s feeling better.”

“Bit of a downgrade, after an oil field or a gold mine.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“…Chim?”

“Yes? Keep it short, hon. I gotta get to work soon.”

“No, don’t hang up on me. My plan today was to hang up on you.”

“Oh? Ooh, Jeffy, please don’t hang up on me. It’s been sooo long since I’ve heard your voice. I miss you!”

“…Oh.”

“What? I was playing the part. I thought you wanted to hang up on me.”

“…Uh…”

“Oh boy. You must really be tired, hon.”

“Uhh…”

The noise that came out of Jeffrey was halfway between a groan and a scream. For some odd reason, Seigi Nakata—the young man rapidly becoming Richard’s significant other in every sense of the term—flashed through Jeffrey’s mind. As an outsider to Seigi and Richard’s relationship, Jeffrey didn’t know what Richard truly made of Seigi, but he felt like he had finally come to understand some part of their dynamic. A person that made one want to stay on the line.

If he chose, here and now, to not let go of Joachim’s hand… then…then…

…then, in all probability, Richard would let go of the hand holding Seigi.

A cruel smile grew on Jeffrey’s face. He laughed, like Joachim had made a joke.

“Just messing with you. Call me when you have more outfits to show me. I’m eager to see what you’ll do next.”

“…Stop getting weird ideas.”

“What do you mean, weird ideas? I’m not asking you to tie me up, for Pete’s sake.”

“Enough with the jokes, Jeffy. I mean it. I know you too well for these games.”

It felt like a manicured nail had reached out and plucked Jeffrey’s heart like the string of a musical instrument. Jeffrey almost threw his phone at the mattress but checked himself in the nick of time. Try as he might, though, he couldn’t stifle the low groan that came from his mouth. Nor could he hold back the words.

“…Now you’re the one making jokes. What makes you think you know anything about me?”

There was a low intake of breath on the other side of the line. Calmly, Jeffrey thought, He must like me a lot if that actually shocked him. Everything felt as far away as if this was all just some story that had happened long ago.

“I gotta jet. See you.”

“…You do that.”

Jeffrey’s thumb pressed the End Call button before he could give one of his usual cheerful farewells. He flopped back on the bed and stayed like that, thinking, for a good fraction of a minute. Then he began to laugh.

Hadn’t he wanted to break things off with Joachim once and for all? Didn’t he have good reasons for living his life like this? Didn’t he live purely to punish himself for a crime that could never, ever be forgiven?

If he was almost ready to throw in the towel for something like this, he was going to be in for one hell of a ride later, he thought. And with that, Jeffrey Claremont laughed at himself.

Joachim stopped calling after that. Everything was over, it seemed. Done and dusted.

Jeffrey was happy about it—well, only at first. He rationalized it to himself—it had to happen, he said. Once in a while he’d dream of the dear old strip club or Joachim in his Chanel suit, but no matter when and where the dream took place, Joachim’s handsome face was always marred with bruises. There was no light in his eyes, no smile to be found on his face. Jeffrey reminded himself over and over that these dreams were nothing more than manifestations of his self-pity or escapist desires, but as the days went on and everything in the world seemed to be trapped in deadlock, the dreams increased in frequency. At times, Joachim appeared crying. In his lucid dreams, Jeffrey always asked him, Can’t you just be anyone else? but the director of Jeffrey’s slumber was evidently fresh out of replacement actors to cast in these nighttime visions.

What were Jeffrey’s options? Face a reality he wanted to avoid or witness dreams he couldn’t bear to see? There was no escape for him, either awake or asleep. As the days dragged on, Jeffrey was haunted by the notion that the face in the bathroom mirror was slowly but persistently peeling further away from himself. His hair—dry as grass in the desert—his eyes—staring and lifeless like a corpse’s. None of it felt like it belonged to him. More and more often, concerned officemates asked him if he was all right, and even if he tipped them a wink and a “Of course!” their reactions were only that of alarm and horror.

Nor did he receive any further compliments on his wardrobe, but this had a simple explanation: He’d stopped wearing Joachim’s outfits in favor of whatever he could find in his wardrobe. Now, for the second time in his life, Jeffrey appreciated just how much clothing could shape a person’s image. The first time had been when Joachim had started working for him. Jeffrey soon gave up trying to dress himself on his own, as all it did was distressingly remind him of someone else. So long as he didn’t go stark naked, he figured he was fine on his own.

And still the dreams kept coming. By the time he began to miss seeing Joachim’s face without tears streaming down it, dark circles had long since set up permanent residence under Jeffrey’s eyes. Hazily, he wondered how he was supposed to show up in such a sorry state in front of his brother, his younger cousin, and the young man Richard had taken under his wing.

His fingers fired off a text. “You doing okay?”

A single sentence, but Joachim always responded to short messages. Yet he didn’t. This was out of character for him, as Joachim was obsessive about texting back immediately, but it was even odder when no reply came the following day. Nor the day after. He couldn’t have blocked Jeffrey. Could he have?

Jeffrey feared the worst. Maybe Joachim was dead. The premonition traveled through Jeffrey like a serial killer’s knife. Jeffrey hadn’t tried to reach Joachim once in all this time. If something had happened, how would Jeffrey had known? Now he had no recourse to find out. Joachim was a dancer who lived in a trailer behind a seedy strip club in a bad neighborhood. Was it such a shock that he could die as easily as snapping a pencil in two?

God, Jeffrey thought. He really might be dead.

An old Japanese idiom might have called it a mallet swung long ago. In English, he might have said it was just like riding a bicycle. He breezed through the necessary preparations. Just a few days later, he was flying to New York. He spent one night putting everything in order before hailing a cab. His smile was stretched thin across his face by nerves, the same anxiety an actor might feel before taking the stage for their final performance.

The club was open on Saturday, but Joachim was nowhere to be found. Jeffrey went around back to the trailer and rested both palms and an ear on the door. It felt like he was holding a certain someone in his arms. There were small sounds of life inside—not a person alone, though. He could hear a conversation.

The door wasn’t locked. When he opened it, there was Joachim. Crying. He sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by scattered scraps of paper and shards of glass. The Ritz was a shell of its former self. Now, it looked more like a dumpster piled high with recyclables. A man towered above Joachim. Short hair, face flushed with alcohol.

Something had clearly gone terribly wrong. But, putting everything aside for a moment, Jeffrey sighed. “Guess my dream was right.”

He was surprised—and disgusted—how calm his voice sounded. His shoes crunched shards of faux chinoiserie with every step forward he took.

“Are you all right, Chim?” he asked.

“…What are you doing here?”

“On a Saturday, you mean? Well, I just found myself wanting to see you.”

Joachim’s disheveled face told Jeffrey that was not at all what he meant, thank you very much. Jeffrey returned the look with a strained smile of his own while the man behind Joachim looked on in confusion. Still, the disorientation did not stop him from growling, “The hell’re you?”

“Good heavens! Your commoner pronunciation is too vulgar for my lordly ears to understand,” Jeffrey exclaimed, Hollywood gangster style.

The man, startled, took a half step back but showed no signs of leaving the trailer.

Jeffrey knelt and offered Joachim a hand. A portrait of a ­beautiful noblewoman creased under the knee of his suit.

“It’s too good to see you again, Chim. I’ve missed you. Dearly. Terribly. I missed you so much I dreamt of you every night. Every time I closed my eyes, there you were. I must sound like a fool, but it’s true. The human brain is a mysterious thing.”

“Hey! I’m askin’, who the hell do you think you are?”

Jeffrey turned, and the man took another half step back. The whole room reeked of booze. Jeffrey cooly sized him up. Not so drunk he can’t tell what danger he’s in, Jeffrey judged.

“You don’t know who I am? Really?”

He made his smile unsettling. The man, startled by the cruel sneer on the face of this mysterious figure, retreated further. Now, Jeffrey took a step forward.

“Very well. Let me introduce myself,” he said. “Sorry for giving you such a nasty fright. I’m afraid I’m a bit of a tease. Incidentally, do you have a favorite news outlet?”

“Wha?”

“Any you frequent will do. The B—? The N—Times?”

“Y-yeah. What about it, huh?”

“Excellent.”

Jeffrey beamed and reached into his pocket. The man flinched, expecting Jeffrey to pull out a gun, before Jeffrey waggled his phone in the man’s face. The lack of weapons seemed to disappoint the man, which amused Jeffrey.

In the interim, the call he placed went through. “Evening, Mighty! Sorry for calling so late at night, but I was hoping to run an ad in the Times. Have it say, ‘Thanks, Charlie Eggins! I love you like hell.’ I’ll send you the funds in a jiff. Run it for a month; there’s a good lad. …It’s how much? Sure. The money will be in your bank account momentarily.”

“Wha? Wh-why’re you usin’ my name?”

“Oh, I’m just messing with you. That phone call was just for show! I had the same conversation with that gentleman long before I got here. Here, see this.”

Jeffrey passed his phone to the man, one Charlie Eggins. Eggins nervously rubbed his fist on the butt of his jeans, presumably to hide Joachim’s blood that was staining his knuckles, and gave the screen a terrified look. There the message was, just as Jeffrey said, displayed in bold white type on a red background with as much fanfare as the results of a presidential election. Ads for specialty supermarkets, pornography, and PC parts crowded around it in a boisterous dance, the single, incomprehensible message floating in their midst like a cryptic code.

Jeffrey’s smile never faded as Eggins backed away in horror.

“…Chim, you told this guy about me—”

“No, he didn’t. But I know everything about you, Mr. Eggins. Oh yes. I can do anything, you see. I never go easy on people, and nothing scares me. Why should it? I have nothing I want to protect. It’s not wise to make enemies of a man with nothing to lose. How have you been lately, incidentally? Sad because the cash flow from Joachim dried up with no warning? Is that why you started drinking more? Even went to the hospital? I hear you and your wife are attending couple’s therapy. That’s smart; I imagine it’s hard to hide this from the woman you share your life with. Speaking of her…I’m well aware you two have been bleeding my paramour dry.”

“Jeffrey. Stop. Stop this right now,” Joachim snapped.

“Nope. Not unless you call me Jeffy.”

“Jeffy!”

“Sorry. I’m not stopping.”

Jeffrey’s smile was cheerful, all business, and that seemed to tell Joachim everything. His sweetly colored eyes, gripped with despair, stared holes through Jeffrey’s pleased grin.

Meanwhile, Joachim’s “boyfriend and life partner” stood rooted to the spot, sweating like a pig. “What…what do you want? What do you want from me? Who the hell are you?” He sounded like he was about to cry.

Jeffrey’s smile turned sadistic as he leaned into the man’s ear and whispered, “Whenever you feel stuck, whenever you’re in more pain than you can handle, whenever you feel like life has lost all meaning, know that I am right behind you. I’m like an evil eye stuck to your back, always watching from a place you’ll never find. I enjoy it. I have so much fun doing this. With my whole heart, I love watching you squirm.”

“A-am I gonna die?”

“Who knows? I sure don’t. It all depends on who sees that ad and gets the right message.”

“…What right message?”

Jeffrey chuckled. “You naive fool. What, did you think I was sending you a thank-you card?”

It took several seconds of silence, but Eggins finally cottoned on to the implications. He gasped and froze. Jeffrey gave him a sweet smile to pour salt on the wound before Eggins turned tail and bolted from the trailer. On his way out, oddly enough, he paused to close the door politely behind him.

Jeffrey chuckled under his breath as he watched Eggins go and turned with a smile still on his face. Joachim sat there, stunned, with the backdrop of the wrecked Ritz behind him.

The pasted-on smile didn’t drop from Jeffrey’s face as he reached into his pocket, pulled out a wad of bills, and let it fall to the floor. Another joined it. Then, a third and final bundle. Joachim winced as each hit the ground with a heavy thud, like the thump of a well-laden bag, and Jeffrey’s smile waned in its blinding intensity.

To Joachim, eyes heavy with unfallen tears, he enunciated each syllable with care: “The End of the Affair.”

Joachim’s eyes widened, and Jeffrey smiled. He knew the message had been conveyed. And understood. In his head, his eyes remained shut fast, allowing no entrance to anything from the outside world.

“It’s a good book. You should read it if you ever find the time.”

“…Jeffy.”

“I’m glad I got a chance to see you. Make sure you go to the hospital now, all right? Take care now.”

His fingertips fluttering like a pianist as he waved, Jeffrey turned and walked away. A cry—“Jeffy!”—chased after him, but by then he was already secure in the backseat of the waiting taxi. “Let’s go,” he said, and the taxi started up immediately.

“…Look at what you’ve done, Jeffy,” he said to himself. “You broke your promise.”

The promise to not make each other happy. The unspoken promise to not meddle in each other’s lives. Now that he’d broken every line of that agreement, Jeffrey thought with a self-mocking smile, he might as well have never made the promise to begin with. His clothes reeked of alcohol; his shirt was stained with sweat.

His heart, though? His heart felt free. Free of the weight of his sense of self.

This really was “the end of the affair,” Jeffrey realized. Now that everything was coming to an end, he knew that he had to force himself into action, but his body felt too heavy to move. Soon, he would have to accept that great sphere of light had sunk behind the mountains, never to rise again.

As the taxi drove Jeffrey to his hotel, he called his British butler back home. In the Claremont mansion, his father lay ­dying. He’s not the only one, Jeffrey thought, but those were only his feelings, which—in the grand scheme of things—didn’t matter much at all.

“Hey there, Laurie boy. Just checking in about the you-know-what. How goes it? Once you find a good candidate, let me know. I’ll hop right on this whole dating thing. You know, I’m starting to feel excited about it. Well? What do you have for me?”

Laurent listed off several individuals with whom he had made prior arrangements and these young ladies’ respective schedules. A few seconds later, the details arrived in Jeffrey’s inbox. Jeffrey responded with a bright “Thank you” and ended the call.

He wanted to vomit but stifled the impulse and leaned his head against the car window. In Japanese, so the driver wouldn’t understand, he murmured, “I don’t want to die yet. I can’t. I just can’t. I don’t want to die.”

Because of the crime he had committed. Dead men couldn’t repent for their crimes.

Funny how telling himself that only served to make him think of the trashed and despoiled Ritz.

Jeffrey felt like he had puked his guts out in the hotel in Sri Lanka. He vomited up everything, even the things that could have stayed bottled up, and by the time he had finished, he was as shaky as a flopping piece of paper. Why, oh why, was it so easy for some people to spill other people’s personal business? He felt like he had been decked by a powerful uppercut from his younger self. It was all over. And, at the same time, it was the start of something new.

Back in London for a change, he spent two days in bed before a visitor came up to his hotel room.

“Room service!”

Jeffrey recognized that voice. He wobbled to his feet and opened the door in wrinkly pajamas.

The person on the other side was someone he had never seen before. That ash-grey hair, yes. That lustrous skin, of course. But the face free of makeup had no match in his memories.

You? Is that really you? he beseeched with his eyes.

Joachim’s own misted up. Teardrops rolled down his smooth, bruise-free cheeks. He mustered his best haughty voice. “…So? Where did it all go wrong?”

Then he pulled Jeffrey into a hug. It wasn’t the most intense of hugs. It was almost like Joachim was asking for permission—was it all right to hold Jeffrey like this? A smile tugged at the edge of Jeffrey’s lips. After tumultuous days of being battered by storms of emotion or knocked sky high, Jeffrey couldn’t have asked for a better person to show up on his doorstep.

He let Joachim into the room. It was as neat as when he booked it, by virtue of the fact he’d had no energy to make a mess. Only now and rather suddenly did he notice the small blue flowers in the wallpaper pattern. It felt like a vase that really ought to have held flowers was finally blessed with a bouquet, a lonely record player finally gifted a record. Anything and everything looked new in Jeffrey’s eyes, and that was when he knew there was no more fighting the inevitable.

He scratched his head. “All my life plans just blew up in my face, so I’ve been taking a break from life here.”

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

“Thanks.”

Silence filled the room. After a few moments of mutual pity and trying to gauge the other’s next move, Joachim spoke up. “Let me get this out of the way. Your brother sent me here, but that doesn’t mean I’m on his side.”

“In what sense?”

“I heard he did something awful to you.”

“…Can I ask who told you that?”

“The man himself. Your brother.”

“Oh, blast. So he knows just what he’s done to me.”

“What are you two to each other?”

“I don’t know. We’ve put that question on hold for too long, and I think pretty soon we’ll be forced to find out.”

Jeffrey shrugged.

Until now, Henry had been Jeffrey’s older brother. The future earl. Someone Jeffrey needed to lift up and, in the same breath, someone Jeffrey needed to protect. This was the relationship they were supposed to have, as had been written in stone since the moment of Jeffrey’s birth. Those “need”s and “supposed”s were the bricks with which their relationship was built, and the love was the mortar filling the gaps in between. The plot that drove Richard from England might have seemed to strengthen their brotherhood, but all it did was add another layer of bricks.

What kind of older brother was Henry? What kind of younger brother was Jeffrey?

Jeffrey had a feeling the time had come to decide these things that had never been worth figuring out before. Both men had completed a good fraction—a half and a third, respectively—of their lives already. It wouldn’t be easy, Jeffrey knew, but there was also no escaping it any longer.

His smile was bitter. “Chim, I know you had some sort of function…a dinner?…with them, but you really have no idea who my brothers are or how we get along. As much as it pains me to say, they only think of you as an emergency nursemaid with a PhD in Jeffrey. That’s why they reached out to you.”

“Oh, hon. You really don’t have any friends, do you?”

“‘Yes, please do mend your business partner’s broken heart. But fear not! We are not asking for this to be a permanent arrangement.’”

Joachim did not look away from Jeffrey. His eyes, the same color as the night sky, shone with sincerity. He looked to Jeffrey like he was about to cry. Joachim tried to tilt his head teasingly—You got me there—but his face didn’t play along.

“Was it something weird, like that?” Jeffrey said. “My brother and cousin are a couple of smooth talkers. We may be British men in the era of third-party diplomacy, but it’s shocking how well they can wheel and deal. It’s no wonder they got you to agree to play along.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t take this any longer.”

“Huh?”

“I can’t stand us playing these games any longer.”

Jeffrey realized, belatedly, that his face was stuck fast. The tiny pilot in his chest jerked on the robot remote control joystick—Smile, smile, damn you!—and pounded on his chest, but a smile refused to appear. Joachim’s sentence lodged in Jeffrey’s heart like a spike made of ice, and now none of his robot components worked as they should.

Joachim crossed to Jeffrey, placed his hands on either side of Jeffrey’s cheeks, and smooshed that pliable face—a face that could transform itself oh-so very well, even without makeup.

“Jeffrey, listen carefully, because I have something important to tell you. I’ve decided that I’m going to be happy.”

“…Okay? Good for you. Go be happy.”

“Don’t give me that! Jeffrey, please.” Joachim, his face warped with pain, spoke slowly, like he was reasoning with an emotionally stunted child. “Listen, Jeffy. Every person on Earth deserves happiness. That includes me. And you.”

“…I don’t know what you mean by ‘deserves.’”

“It means I’ve chosen to put down this hangup I’ve held on to for years. No, that’s not quite it. I’ve given up. I’ve given up on constantly whipping my own heart to soothe my guilty conscience. You see, there was no point to it. What’s done is done, Jeffy. My boyfriend is dead because of me, and he’s not coming back. There’s no point in paying reparations to his scumbag of a brother, either. You knew, too, didn’t you? You knew I was ­being a fool, but you went along with it anyway. See, that’s where the point is. That’s what matters. Jeffy, I would rather have the kindness you showed me by going along with my silliness than my old self-serving guilt.”

Silence.

“I’ve chosen happiness. Or, no—because of you, Jeffy, I’ve come to want happiness. I want to see photos of myself living a happy life and hit the ‘like’ button on every single one.”

Joachim finished. In the silence he left behind, Jeffrey nodded his head the barest of degrees. Once. Twice. Several times more, and by then Joachim was returning the gesture.

“Please, Jeffy. Give up with me. Abandon your decision to deprive yourself of happiness.”

“…But why?”

“No reason! None! I’m just asking you, Jeffy.”

Jeffrey could imagine a thousand reasons. Because Joachim couldn’t be happy without Jeffrey’s happiness. Because it was wrong and unnatural for Jeffrey to force himself to stay unhappy. Because, because, because. There were no end of reasons he could conceptualize. There were many and more reasons to justify the pursuit of happiness, which Jeffrey knew, of course. He understood quite well that he was smart enough to create rational counterarguments for any of them. But how was he supposed to turn down someone who was “just asking”? That, right there, was the one thing he didn’t know at all.

As he struggled with the problem, he reached for Joachim’s cheek and wiped away a glistening droplet of water with his fingertip.

“…Don’t cry.”

“How can I not? I’m a crier, Jeffy. More than you, at any rate. Oh, I knew I’d end up like this. This is why I didn’t put on makeup today.”

“Because you’re more beautiful without?”

“That too.”

Jeffrey cracked a smile as Joachim joked through his tears. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t manage to make it look cruel. Not while he was as shaky as a piece of paper.

“Well, since you’re just asking…how can I not?”

Like shutters cracking open. Like air bubbles spewed out on the sea floor, now rising to the surface.

Joachim caught that tiny whisper and let a small smile of his own spread across his face.

“And that’s the long and short of it.”

“I see.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“By all means.”

“How have things been since? You been doing okay?”

The two men sat and conversed on a porch overlooking a sprawling grassy quadrangle large enough to accommodate several tennis courts. The day was sunny and bright, but the antique table rested in the shade under the mansion’s eaves. It was set for two with black tea in bright pastel China cups.

In one chair sat Jeffrey Claremont, wearing a rather casual yet still tasteful blue outfit. Across from him, cloaked in black from head to toe like a figure straight from the nineteenth century, was Henry Claremont. Until their father’s mourning period had passed, the new earl was to dress all in black like Queen Victoria herself.

Compared to his younger brother, Henry looked a tad on the pale side. He sighed, before forming a stiff smile.

“Looking out for me as ever, are you?”

“Not at all.”

“Good. It’s best you don’t.”

“I’m compromising. Joachim told me to punch you, but I figured that would make it seem like I forgive you for ruining my privacy.”

Jeffrey was referring to the Sri Lankan incident. The time Henry disclosed what was a rather personal matter for Jeffrey without his consent. Not to Henry meeting Joachim without even telling Jeffrey…but Jeffrey would overlook that for the moment, as he told Henry.

“Listen, it kills people. Outing someone can be deadly. It’s psychological murder, not to mention illegal in places like Japan. I could take you to court and win, and you would have to pay me for damages. Capiche?”

“Yes. I am aware.”

“You were aware, and yet you still did it. Were you trying to kill me?”

“…No, that was not my goal. Nevertheless, it appears that was the unfortunate result.”

“Hmm.” Jeffrey pursed his lips and tapped a finger to them like a housewife engrossed in her shopping. Eventually, the movement stopped, and he glanced at Henry. “I don’t forgive you.”

Henry did not respond.

“I have no inclination to ever forgive you. Not one little bit.”

“Yet you’re still willing to speak to me, and for that, I am very grateful.”

“That’s exactly why I flew in from Paris, actually. Thank you for making the time to see me.”

Birds twittered and flitted through the trees of the vast woodland on the Claremont estate. Henry looked skyward, watching the clouds drift along as if they were time itself flowing by.

Jeffrey shrugged, exasperated. What was he going to do with this brother of his? “You’re not going to ask me what I wanted to talk about?”

“…Should I? I would imagine you’re more interested in hearing what I have to say.”

Jeffrey took a sip of his tea. “Admittedly, yes. But if you know that, get on with it already. Spit it out.”

Calmly watching the clouds cross the sky, Henry eventually said, “You know, I always wanted to be your brother.”

“I don’t follow.”

“…I suppose you wouldn’t.”

“But I think I get what you’re trying to say.”

Henry met Jeffrey’s eye with a smile. “This is quite some time ago now, but I once felt like a plum in a basket of two apples. Yes, a dirty, bruised plum next to a pair of shining apples. If only you or Richard could have been the earl, I thought. I wasn’t good enough for the role. Even as a small child, this complex consumed me. I envied you both until I couldn’t tell the difference between jealousy for you and hatred for myself. That was how I fell ill. Eventually, I recovered, and next thing I knew, I was the earl.”

“Keep going.”

“Thank you. I shall.”

With one graceful gesture, Henry took a sip of his tea and resumed his quiet monologue. His voice was soft, but Jeffrey could sense the steel it took to bare the tender red flesh of Henry’s heart. It made him shiver.

“Now that I’ve stepped into my new role, I’ve come to the realization that there was never much point to that jealousy or hatred. Being an earl has nothing to do with talent. Anyone could be an earl. This position is simply a matter of birth, no different than a birthday. These days, it’s not the sort of role that will send me off on a horse to fight the French, eh? Nevertheless, that phantom apparition from childhood has haunted me all my life. I was convinced that the title of earl was something special, and, in some sense, I suppose I was right.”

“I guess. There aren’t too many earls out there, when it comes down to it.”

“No, there aren’t. I mean also in the sense that it is my duty to support the Claremont family.”

“I can handle that part just fine.”

“More than financially, Jeffrey.”

The stern tone in Henry’s voice made Jeffrey’s eyes widen slightly. Once again, the birdsong from the woodlands washed over the brothers in the ensuing silence. Clouds cast light shadows over the grassy park at the woodlands’ edge.

Henry’s eyes never left Jeffrey’s. “Now that I have become earl, I have only two options left to me. One, I forsake the responsibility now resting on my shoulders. Two, I choose to take up my burden.”

Jeffrey said nothing.

“That is all I had to say.”

The birdsong stopped. As quiet filled the verdant quadrangle, a breeze blew through without disturbing the silence.

Eventually, Jeffrey clapped lightly. “Well, look at you. You’ve conquered your old demons, and kudos to you. But don’t you think what you’re saying and what you’re doing are two different things?”

“Indeed, they are.”

“You’re not going to apologize?”

“…I can offer you an apology if you’ll allow me to be insincere about it. But I will not flip a metaphorical hourglass and let everything return to how it was.”

“What do you mean?” Jeffrey asked, his tone light and teasing. The question didn’t need to be asked, but he just wanted to make sure.

Henry gave him a tired smile and a long look. “I hope you’ll never forgive me for so long as I live.”

“…Hmm. But you’ll protect me?”

“But of course I will. Whatever trouble you manage to get yourself into, whatever problems you cause, I’ll find a way to free you from all of them. I will do my best to remove every obstacle in your path without you ever noticing. What’s done is done, Jeffrey, and I cannot take back nor make up for what I’ve done to you. It was idiotic and irreversible to expose your secret…just as it was to cling to the childish notion that you had to choose between Richard and me.”

Jeffrey almost wanted to tell Henry he didn’t care about it anymore but stopped himself. He knew Henry didn’t want to be shaken from his conviction, and besides, he doubted his words would make a difference. Instead he employed his favorite facial expression: the one and only cruel smile.

“Even if you tell me that, I’ll never forgive you.”

“…I see.”

“Nope. No forgiveness here.”

“Very well.”

Henry sighed, pleased with that answer, and nodded. Oh, for the love of Pete, Jeffrey groaned inwardly, but he continued on with that same evil grin. “You can feel sorry all you want, but it doesn’t undo any of the pain I felt. Nothing you do will make a difference. From now on, I’m going to be downright nasty. I’m going to say all the things I’ve been too nice to say for years.”

“By all means. I would like to hear them.”

“If you insist. First off, learn the difference between Twitter and Instagram instead of wasting money hiring hackers. It’s the twenty-first century! Act like it! I know you stream music online, so you can’t be that clueless.”

“A younger friend of mine introduced me to the platform, and I’ve managed since…”

“‘Managed,’ he says. Fine, good for you. It was still dangerous. Next time you run into a problem you can’t solve without throwing money at a stranger, call me first. Got it? Good. Remember, I still won’t forgive you.”

“Of course.”

“And I won’t forgive you for inviting my boyfriend to dinner without telling me. He says he was so nervous he almost died! I demand an invitation next time. Boy, my throat’s dry from all this talking. Can someone bring us more tea?”

“Let me call for a maid.”

Henry rang the bell on the table, a well-practiced gesture, and smiled. Jeffrey’s cheeks were tiring of his own sinister grin. He massaged the life back into them, then in a voice lower than the wind whistling over the lawn, he whispered, “Harry.”

“Yes?”

Henry turned, and Jeffrey shook his head.

“It’s nothing. I just wanted to say your name and see if you’d answer.”

“…Thank you, Jeff.”

“I’ve done nothing worth thanking you for,” Jeffrey lied. Then he shrugged, took his time enjoying his fresh cup, and stood up.

“Are you leaving already?”

“Mm-hmm. I seem to recall my dear older brother giving me the okay to take as long of a leave from work as I want. The Americans back home will be shocked. They thought I was taking a sudden leave of absence for illness, and it turns out I was meeting an earl for business.”

“A sort of public debut for the new earl, perhaps. What lucky timing.”

“Yeah, luck is one word for it.”

“How are things with you and…? Well. Pleasant, I hope?”

Henry’s question made Jeffrey smile with embarrassment. “I’m not sure how to describe it…but, well, it’s relaxing.”

“That is all we can ever ask for. Please give him my regards.”

“I’m not giving him nothin’.”

“A shame.”

“You tell him yourself. You have a hotline right to him.”

Already turning away, Jeffrey stepped into the house and departed with a final wave thrown over his shoulder. He walked slowly over the carpet, out toward the front door, exchanging greetings with the new serving staff as he went.

The famous hilly English countryside stretched out before him under an unbroken expanse of blue. Far, far to the south across the Strait of Dover lay another land—a land of liberty, equality, and fraternity.

“…Well, it’s about time to head home,” Jeffrey said.

Home, to Jeffrey, was a hotel in downtown Paris, a treasure chest of a residence in the line of jewelry shops on the Place Vendôme. He sent off a quick text, I’m on my way home, and his obsessively fast responder of a partner sent a kiss emoji back. Joachim must have been in a good mood.

Funny how that alone could make Jeffrey feel so warm inside.

Ça, c’est Paris

Ça, c’est Paris - 09

“ÇA, C’EST PARIS!”

Or, in English, “This is Paris.” The stock phrase from the old-timey chanson made Jeffrey voice his displeasure.

“I can’t help but notice your ‘r’ is wrong. Try saying it again without using your tongue. It’s more like an ‘h.’”

“Your inner linguistic geek is showing, hon. La, la, la, not listening.”

“Linguistics geek? That’s my cousin’s nickname.”

“You and he both. Aah, ça, c’est Paris! Paris, and I get to see it in person!”

“Yes, you do.”

Under the gaze of Napoleon atop his column, Joachim danced through the Place Vendôme in the western end of Paris’s first arrondissement like a girl in love. Paris! Jeffrey, grown tired of his hotel in London, had seized upon the idea of Paris, called the manager of the Ritz to check if the penthouse apartment was free, and booked it for a month. Then, feigning insouciance, he invited Joachim to join him for a casual get-together only to reveal their exciting new lodgings. Joachim was overjoyed, squealing in delight and pretending to faint. It started to worry Jeffrey once it reached the point where Joachim insisted he really just might up and die of happiness. Regardless, Joachim was fun to have around, Jeffrey reflected. Just being near him was a treat.

“Paris, oh Paris! I can’t believe I’m truly here. I have to do something. Yes, Joachim, you must do something! But what? Oh, I haven’t the beginning of an idea! Going to Paris has always been on my bucket list.”

“We can do anything you want. I’ll show you around. Interested in visiting an art gallery that specializes in nineteenth century paintings?”

“Really, now! You take me there and I’ll die of excitement. Use your head, Jeffy.”

“Sorry. How about Maxim’s de Paris, then?”

“That’ll kill me, too!”

“You’re too hard to please. Well, how about just a walk for now?”

“That’d probably be best.”

They left the square and began strolling down the stylish streets.

“Don’t you want to take any photos, Chim?” Jeffrey asked.

“I can do without. You only get one first trip to Paris, you know. I don’t want to waste it behind a screen.”

“That’s fair.”

“Stop agreeing with me all the time! It’s weirding me out. Are you still tired?”

“Can’t you tell? I’m dead on my feet.”

“You don’t look so bad to me.”

“Fine. Maybe I should enjoy myself, too.”

Jeffrey smiled, a smile that fell somewhere in the middle of his work smile and personal grin. There was an eye-catching, handsome quality to it.

“It’s my first time with you in Paris,” he whispered as he slid his hand into Joachim’s. “Why not enjoy it? And you look beautiful, Chim.”

“…You’re babbling. Do you have a fever?”

“Huh, what kind of reaction is that? This is the city of love, so I thought whispering sweet nothings would be just the thing.”

“Please. You, sweet nothings? Your form of love is much more roundabout and messy.” Joachim’s shiny lips quirked into a smile of his own.

“I meant it, though,” Jeffrey huffed, trading his other look for an exasperated grin. “You really are gorgeous.”

“Jeffy, how many times have you been to Paris?”

“I’ve lost track. I come here pretty often for work.”

“I imagine some of the enchantment wears off as you get used to it.”

“Not really. Big cities are the same everywhere, so they all tend to blur together for me. Paris, though, just has that special Paris something about it.”

“Ça, c’est Paris.”

“Your pronunciation of the ‘r’ is killing me…”

“Oh, give it a rest!”

Their first destination lay behind the Ritz upon the Place Vendôme. The front windows of this historical building, still in use to this day, displayed dazzling suits, dresses, and handbags. Joachim let out a little cheer of delight.

“Chanel! Chanel in Mademoiselle Chanel’s own hometown. How wonderful. Can I stop and take a photo? The display in the window is perfect dance inspo.”

“Don’t you want to go inside?”

“No, I’m all right. There isn’t anything I want to shop for.”

“But we’re here. Why not take the opportunity?”

“I’m happy just looking. Besides, I don’t have any room for new clothes.”

“You could always move into a house with a nice walk-in closet.”

“Jeffy.” Joachim stopped and looked Jeffrey square in the eyes. Jeffrey felt nervous and stood up a little straighter; it was like he was about to be chewed out by an imaginary older sister.

“Hon, you and I come from two vastly different worlds,” Joachim explained.

“I know.”

“So do I. Well, I think I know, but in the end, it’s never really felt real to me. This isn’t the kind of difference we can wrap our minds around overnight. Paris is the symbol of all my dreams and longing, but to you, it’s nothing more than a place for work. It’s like how savings are just another dream for me, whereas you have more assets than you know what to do with. I’m not complaining, baby. It’s just one of those differences we were born with, like the color of our skin. With that said, I won’t let this difference ruin me. I don’t have the mental energy to keep up with you and your high-end ways, and I also don’t want to force you to eat off the one-dollar McDonald’s menu all the time.”

Joachim brandished a finger at Jeffrey, as stern as a general in battle.

“This is a fight that will take years to win. If I’m going to stay with you for good, then I’ll need to acclimate myself to your different lifestyle. It will take time. You and I are two creatures raised on a very different sort of water, but we both know that doesn’t mean our relationship is doomed. Our trouble will be in keeping it a good relationship. It’ll be a difficult mission, but I’m just the man for the job. That’s how we’ll win. We’ll win through our hard work. Just don’t ask me to do the impossible out of the blue, all right?”

His eyelashes, heavy with mascara, fluttered when he blew Jeffrey a debonair wink. It made Jeffrey smile, if a smile could be a sigh of defeat, too.

“…You’re strong, you know that?” he said.

“If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be alive.”

“And if we couldn’t ever be gentle, we wouldn’t deserve to be alive.”

“Why’s that now?”

“Hm? You mean you weren’t quoting Chandler?”

“Who’s that? Another one of your authors?”

“Yeah. I’ll lend you some of his books sometime. I’m a pretty big fan of his work.”

“Is that a bookstore on the corner? You should buy me something of his.”

“Would they have anything in English?”

They did. Raymond Chandler’s Playback wasn’t in stock, but Joachim came away with The Long Goodbye and a spring in his step. Jeffrey felt a twinge of regret that he’d bought a book with such an inauspicious name but kept pace with Joachim as they walked. The paparazzi made themselves scarce. So did the passerby, giving them a wide berth as they sauntered along the streets of Paris in all black with slicked-back hair and sunglasses like characters out of a movie.

“Do you really think this looks good on me, Chim?” Jeffrey asked.

“You want my honest opinion?”

“Please.”

“You’re slaying it. Could not be better. You’re so cute, I could eat you up, Jeffy.”

“Oh no…I’m dating a man with awful taste.”

“Mm-hmm. Bit late to complain about that, hon. You have a whole closet filled with my awful taste. Oh hey, let’s get ice cream at that little stall over there. We simply must!”

“All right, but if they don’t have pistachio, we’ll go somewhere else. The only two flavors I eat are pistachio and vanilla.”

“Really? I never knew. I’ll have to store that one away for later.”

It was a secret that he’d never shared with anyone before, but Jeffrey didn’t say that. He simply prayed that, through the process of opening up to one another, they could reconcile their two very different lives in time. Why, Seigi was only in his late teens when he met Richard, Jeffrey recalled. People that young were sponges unconsciously soaking up the world around them. Whether that was a good thing was not for Jeffrey to say; the future course of Seigi’s life was up to Seigi to decide.

Jeffrey and Joachim walked south from the Chanel store and took their ice cream to eat on the grass of the Tuileries Garden. The sun was delightfully warm, and the man in black next to Jeffrey was just as cheerfully bright.

“Hey, Chim?” Jeffrey asked.

“I already know what you’re about to say. You want to go clothes shopping? Pick any store you want, hon. I can make you look good in anything.”

“Ah ha. Was that your angle all along?”

“Maybe so.”

It went without saying that Paris was a city of fashion. Jeffrey usually opted for brand new clothing, but today he chose a secondhand shop of vintage clothing and brought Joachim along. Just as he’d expected, Joachim’s eyes grew wide. He wandered through the store, calling out, “Oh, this one’s perfect! Oh, and that!” like a buyer at a bargain sale. In Joachim’s hands, Jeffrey was a mannequin. Joachim’s first picks were conservative, but as he got into his groove, some of his choices took on a punk flair: black leather everything, sunglasses, ripped jeans.

“Dang,” said Jeffrey. “I look like a TV singer on Throwback Thursday. Those hems are falling apart.”

“I’ve seen worse. These are revival threads, not true ’70s punk. It makes you more mature, from my point of view.”

“I can’t tell the difference. This style isn’t for me…”

“Not at all. You look lovely. At the very least, I know you don’t hate them.”

In the back of his mind, Jeffrey recalled a time he picked out clothing so audacious it made his father cry. This event marked the end of his childhood, because it was the moment he had felt both guilt and disillusionment toward his father, and he’d never told anyone outside the family about his punk phase since.

Jeffrey blinked a few times in surprise in that dusty store and cocked his head. “Did I ever tell you about…?”

“About what?”

“My thing for punk.”

“No. But your eyes lit up every time I picked out clothes with an edgier style, so I figured you liked it. It’s not up to me to decide your style. Everything comes down to fashion sense and taste! I’m not asking you to cover yourself in piercings, but you need to let loose and have a little fun sometimes.”

“…Is this part of us discovering each other’s worlds?”

“It is.”

Joachim smiled, finished dressing Jeffrey for the moment, and began to choose articles of clothing for himself. His eyes slid over the expensive shelves marked “vintage” in favor of inspecting the one-euro bin for unexpected treasures. Jeffrey watched him from behind. And watched. And waited. And watched.

Finally, he spoke. “Chim, can I make a little suggestion?”

“Hm? What, do you want to get ice cream again?”

“Let’s go back to the Chanel store.”

“…This place isn’t that rundown and dusty, Jeffy.”

“No, not at all. I like the clothes you picked out for me. That’s why I want to go back.”

Joachim looked confused.

Jeffrey took off his sunglasses and said, “Let me show you my world. You buy me these clothes, and I’ll take you to Chanel to buy anything your heart desires.” With a slight head tilt, like a prince in a fairy tale, he added, “Well? Would you give me the honor?”

Joachim didn’t move. If anything, he snorted in disapproval. “…You can’t ask me to play the snooty rich girl with the ‘Oh ho ho!’ laugh. I haven’t learned my lines. I can’t wear Chanel when I’m still playing the bit roles.”

“I doubt Mademoiselle Chanel was an ‘Oh ho ho!’ girl. I always took her for one of those characters with the daring grins. Anyway, you don’t have to wear any of it. Just let me buy it for you.”

Joachim fell silent. Jeffrey hadn’t meant to cause him discomfort, so he decided to drop the subject if Joachim pushed back again.

But instead, Joachim said, “You know that Seigi Nakata boy?”

Seigi’s name was the last thing Jeffrey had expected to hear. What about Seigi? He was about to ask where Joachim was going with this, but by then Joachim had finished paying for his purchases and cramming the punk revival threads into worn-out plastic bags. They exited out onto the street, and a group of children ran past them across the cobblestones.

“We met at your dad’s funeral,” Joachim explained. “Didn’t do much more than swap names, but the kid gave me some advice. Do you want to hear it?”

“…A part of me says yes, and another part says no way.”

“He told me to spoil you rotten.”

That gave Jeffrey even more pause. “I’m almost inclined to call him up and ask what he’s playing at, saying that to you.” It was only half a joke, too.

Joachim laughed, but his laughter was a mask, and he no longer looked Jeffrey’s way. “You may have played the doting older brother role for him, too, but he was still worried about you. You’re a pillar of support for others all the time, but you have no one there to support you.”

“Every businessman has a support system in case something fails. That’s what insurance and good management systems are all about. Are you interested in hearing more about the insurance policies my company offers?”

“I’m talking about support on a personal level, hon.”

Joachim refused to play along with his joke, and Jeffrey had no choice but to smile awkwardly back. He could try to deny it as had been his habit for years, but Joachim had a way of thrusting Jeffrey’s attempts at deception back in his face. It was like Joachim was a mirror. After Joachim had chosen happiness for himself, Jeffrey hated the thought of forcing him back into his former lifestyle.

Joachim leaned in closer. Jeffrey’s eyes fastened on those glittering lips. “We’d never survive if we weren’t strong, but being gentle’s optional. That’s how I see it, at least. Life would be too cruel, otherwise.”

“…Sure would be.”

“But that doesn’t have to be the case for you. You’re aware of how privileged your upbringing was, and I like that about you. It also makes me worry about you, and I know I’m not the only one. Even that sweet boy wants to take care of you, in his own roundabout way, asking me to pamper you silly. People pick up on your emotional ignorance easier than you think, love.”

“How does pampering me translate to me buying things for you?”

“What, you mean you aren’t more comfortable fussing over other people than the reverse?”

Jeffrey couldn’t even gulp. He let his head droop in defeat—have mercy, please don’t read me for filth again—and Joachim laughed.

“I’ll smother you with more attention than you’ll know what to do with, but you’d better pay me my stylist’s fee. I’ll pick out the best clothes ever, even in the middle of our awful fights.”

“The best clothes ever, huh? Sounds great. We might need to have ourselves an awful fight.”

“I didn’t mean it like that, silly.”

“Too bad. I’m itching for a fight. Because,” Jeffrey said, “that just gives us a chance to kiss and make up.”

The corners of Joachim’s mouth slid upward into the smallest of smiles, like a mother watching her unruly child. Jeffrey returned that with a grin of his own, and this time, Joachim’s smile grew to fill his whole face.

“All right, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. I’m gonna tear you to shreds.”

“Perfect. Chim, have I ever mentioned how much I love you? You mean the world to me.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Give a guy a warning before you start laying it on thick.”

“I’m just picking my fight. You mad yet?”

“Okay, let’s settle down.” Joachim patted Jeffrey on the back. “That’s enough.”

His cheeks had a slight flush. Jeffrey felt a stirring of something akin to happiness, and that was when the recollection hit him.

“Topic change, but when you mentioned Seigi a bit ago, you called him a kid. How old do you think he is?”

“Hm? He can’t be older than eighteen. Right?” Joachim’s lips formed a sour shape. “I mean, I thought he was much younger, but then he showed up wearing a suit.”

Jeffrey had to stifle his laughter. When he divulged just how old Mr. Seigi Nakata really was, Joachim placed a hand against his forehead and mimed fainting on the spot like an actress from an early 1900s film.

“His skincare routine!” he moaned. “My kingdom for his skincare routine!”

This time, Jeffrey laughed out loud. “Is it that much of a shock?”

“I can’t believe it. I’m pretty darn good-looking at my age, too, and you know how much effort I put into it. But that skin? How can it be? Oh, to be in your early twenties! Is this a scam? Ohhh, goodness gracious. Joachim here has had a bit of a nasty turn.”

“Hey, Chim, look. Here’s Chanel. Buck up.”

“I only agreed to come along because you asked me, you know!”

“You sure did.”

The scent of sweet perfume assaulted the two as they entered the Chanel flagship store in Paris’s first arrondissement. An hour later, they walked out with numerous bags and a groaning Joachim.

“I’m exhausted… I’m more worn out than the night I picked up a shift for a girl with a stomachache and danced all evening…”

“That’s clothes shopping for you.”

“Just get me something to eat, anything… A hamburger, whatever…”

“I’ll look up where the closest McDonald’s is.”

“…Are you sure you’re fine with McDonald’s?”

“I’d eat anywhere so long as it was with you.”

Jeffrey bent over his phone’s map app until Joachim laid his hand across the screen. His nails were painted the deep blue of the night sky and glittered like the stars. Jeffrey’s eyes traveled up Joachim’s arm to his face.

“Yes?” he asked.

“…I just wanted to say, me too. I’d go anywhere, eat anywhere, so long as I’m with you.” The statement was delivered slowly, haltingly, and ended with a smile. “You know, I think I want to pop into Maxim’s de Paris after all. Care to join me?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then I want you to take me to that art gallery.”

“Whatever you say.”

“And then…well, I haven’t decided that yet. You think of something good.”

“Will do.”

Jeffrey’s grin was evil, but the smile Joachim offered in return said Bring it on.

Fifteen or so minutes later, a herd of Chanel employees left the store with a staggering number of paper bags and began hauling the bulk of Jeffrey and Joachim’s purchases to the Hotel Ritz.

The Shards of a Sparkle

The Shards of a Sparkle - 10

“WHAT ARE YOU READING, Seigi?”

“A blog by a science club at a junior high school in Okayama. It’s a student-run thing.”

“A science club, you say.”

“The one Tanimoto advises.”

“Ah. I see.”

The blog post came with photos of the school and the science lab and had an upbeat, happy, childish feel. It brought an involuntary smile to my face. Richard came up behind me and put down his phone, which he’d been using up until a minute ago to send off a burst of rapid-fire texts. I’d told him I’d handle all his business correspondence, but he always brushed me off with some excuse like “This is a personal matter.” Even now that I was his private secretary, he still managed most of his own mail. Whatever floated his boat, I supposed, so long as I could offer support in other ways.

After a healthy dinner of fish and vegetables seasoned in the fashion of Singaporean Nyonya cuisine, I enjoyed a brief break relaxing in the company home.

By work, I was referring to my role as Richard Ranasinghe de Vulpian’s personal secretary. The duties weren’t much different from what I was doing before, but achieving this level of comfort with my job had taken quite a journey. I wanted to thump a fist against my chest and swear, as his personal secretary, to take on anything and everything, 24/7. But Richard just gave me disappointed looks and said, “Expending all your energy at the start is not sustainable,” or “Know your limits.” This, of course, only riled me up more. I helped Richard with everything from the shop to his schedule, his appointments to reflexology massages; I even learned every kind of gourmet cooking I could.

Surprising no one, I burnt out after two weeks.

It wasn’t the work itself that was the problem. It was my inadequacy. My help—or lack thereof—never seemed to affect Richard’s performance at all. What assistance could I give a man who was perfect in every way? It wore me down to constantly feel like I was adding unnecessary lines to a beautiful drawing. Worse, and I hardly think I need to spell this out, I was only his personal secretary because I demanded he take me on. I had promoted myself hard to this flawless jeweler under the premise of being useful help. If I wasn’t useful, then what was the good in hiring me?

Just as I felt like I was losing all confidence in myself—or, as it might be more appropriate to say, losing my entire reason for being here—I got an unexpected phone call from Vincent in the US. He hadn’t said a word to me since I texted him the news of my new job.

I had a faint hope he would let me vent, but before I could say hi, he said, “How goes it? Feeling nice and depressed yet?”

I almost threw my phone at the wall. How dare he talk about depression to someone currently sliding into its depths? There was such a thing as being too topical.

When I said nothing, Vincent chuckled like a sexy anime villain and said, “I knew it,” in bone-chilling Japanese. He saw right through me. “Let me tell you something, Mr. Nakata. You aren’t the first person to go through this.”

“Sorry, what?”

“All that remains is to sell out Richard, and your transformation into my young apprentice will be complete.”

“Uh, I would never, but okay…”

“Right, because there’s no market for his secrets anymore. What a shame.”

“Vince, what are you talking about?”

It was then that I heard a kid crying in the background, and Vincent grew flustered. His son was just a bawling newborn back when I first saw a photo of him, but I would have bet he was a lot bigger now. Vincent wasn’t all that older than me, but he was already a dad. On the one hand, I admired that—on the other, how dare he.

The “how dare he” feeling won out as he left me with a final piece of constructive, if sort of dramatic, advice. “You’d better talk to someone about it. Trying to sort through these feelings on your own will kill you.”

Words of wisdom, I’m sure, I thought. But he had a point. If I wanted to talk to someone, apart from my dad, I could only really think of one suitable candidate: Richard. My boss. The übermensch who was, in some sense, the source of my woes.

I broached the subject with so much enthusiasm I almost got down on the floor and begged. “I’m so sorry to ask, but could I talk to you about something that’s bothering me?!”

My beautiful boss looked pleased, almost relieved. He made me a cup of tasty royal milk tea and served it with a side of my favorite desserts, before saying, “To be frank, I was wondering when you would come address this with me.”

Which meant what, exactly? Had Seigi Nakata just made a fatal mistake? I blanched in horror at the thought, but Richard shook his head in a reserved no. His golden blond hair swung from side to side with the movement. The most delicate and ­finest of chains made by a master goldsmith couldn’t have swayed with such elegance.

“You are doing a fine job, Seigi. A very fine job.”

“I’m waiting for the ‘but.’”

“Your presence alone is the greatest help of all. Managing my schedule and offering me massages are also noble tasks, but they do not constitute the chief purpose of your role.”

So, did that make me his personal secretary in name only? Was I more of a mascot cheering Richard on? And was that a job worth paying for?

When I started to look alarmed, Richard sighed, as if he’d known I’d react like that.

“Perhaps you should go away for a few days, so that I shall be working alone. That should make it quite clear, I would think, that my performance with you present versus you absent is quite different. Unfortunately, I fear Saul would never let me make a deliberate decision to lower my productivity. You are not a mascot, Seigi. You are the fuel for the engine that drives this whole operation. Chin up now. Be proud of yourself. Do not set yourself going down the wrong path.”

I looked pleadingly up at him with the eyes of an abandoned dog. So does that mean I’m helpful? Am I helping you? Richard nodded, and I pulled Jiro and Saburou into my arms for a hug.

He let me have a bit of petting therapy with them before he raised a finger and said, “With that said, I propose we further clarify the nature of your job for our mutual benefit.”

“Clarify?” I repeated.

“Yes.”

“…I mean, my goal is to be kind of a jack-of-all-trades of a secretary.”

“You are not a college student anymore. You are too old to be saying such nonsense.”

Strict-but-efficient Richard turned on his computer right then and there and made a list of all my duties. It was basically everything I’d been doing over the past two weeks, but he added a set schedule for all of them. He also specified periods of time off for me. Then, with a bit of fine-tuning—“I’d like to do this,” “I could live without that”—ta-da! We had a contract drawn up by the both of us. My eyes lit up with joy; Richard, on the other hand, sighed.

“Deplorable. As odd as this might sound coming from me, it is lucky you did not approach anyone else with your personal secretary sales pitch. I have no doubt you would be exploited and burned out long before the end of your contract.”

“I’m not that stupid,” I protested. “I wouldn’t work this hard for anyone but you.”

“I don’t know if I would call that a good thing.”

“You know, you could just say, ‘Wonderful!’ and be done with it.”

“Wonderful it is, then.”

That was how our relationship gained more definition, I began to absorb my precisely delineated duties, and work began to run smoothly. As obvious as it seems in hindsight, I realized I couldn’t give my 100 percent to everything. In fact, to achieve high performance across the board, I needed to restrict my list of duties to the bare minimum. It felt like Richard could handle everything with brisk efficiency, given his scrupulous personal schedules. I had known him for years, but I still had a lot to learn from him.

In accordance with an agreement to eat together as often as possible to save time on meetings, we ate dinner together and relaxed after work. There wasn’t anything important to discuss for work, so the rest of the evening was mine to put on pajamas, check out my favorite blog, and listen to the latest song from a guitarist friend of mine.

The Okayama Higashi Public Junior High science club’s blog was a secret oasis for my soul.

“Isn’t it great? My junior high didn’t have a science club, but I bet it would have been fun to be in one.”

“For a science club, it appears much of their activities concern geology and mineralogy.”

“They say they also do stuff like meteorology and astronomy. That’s the sky, not rocks. Besides, this is just junior high. Science isn’t that specialized yet. It said in the first blog post that Tanimoto wants everyone to have fun with science. When you were a kid, did y—oh. Never mind.”

“Why did you stop?” Richard cocked his head.

Why? Well, it went without saying, right?

“Your childhood…wasn’t anything like mine or these kids’. It’d be weird for me to ask you to share your stories. Sorry. How long have we known each other again, am I right?”

“You needn’t be so concerned. In fact, if I may offer you a word of advice, these frequent exercises in restraint you show me are completely unnecessary.”

“Yeah, but…it’s hard not to. Oh, just FYI, I wouldn’t bring this up when we’re in suits.”

“So you save it up for the times when you lounge around in long underwear. I see.”

“I mean. Yes? It’s called a sarong, though. It’s a Sri Lankan thing.”

“Who, pray tell, do you think you’re lecturing?”

He had a point. I smiled in embarrassment, but Richard didn’t notice. He was looking right through me, and I could see in his eyes that he was walking down memory lane.

“…I was much more childish in my teenage years than you imagine I was.”

I wanted to say “What?” but that felt too awkward. Richard the teenager, in my head, was Richard at junior-high age. I had only ever known Richard from the age of twenty-eight, so I ended up picturing his kid form as adult Richard, just smaller. Was he telling me that was wrong? Well, yeah, of course it was.

“…Probably way less than when I was a teen,” I said.

“I wouldn’t be so sure if I were you. You really can’t imagine what I was like.”

“I don’t know. I’ve seen photos, if that counts.”

“Pardon?”

“You know. The ones Jeffrey showed me.”

“When was this?”

“On the plane, the first time I went to your uncle’s house. Oh, and he sent me copies later. They’re still on my phone.”

“…Has that fool lost his mind?”

“Huh? Oh, I’m sorry! I never got your permission! I’m really sorry… I loved them all and never showed them to anyone else, but I’ll delete them if you want me to.”

“I won’t ask you to destroy your prized possessions. They are nothing but a few fleeting records of the past. I will, however, need to give a certain gentleman a piece of my mind.”

“Please don’t be too hard on him.”

“As you might imagine, I do not have particularly pleasant memories associated with having my photographs distributed behind my back.”

“Sorry! A thousand apologies!”

“One is plenty.” He turned to his phone. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to make a phone call.”

Richard pressed a couple of buttons. Jeffrey must not have been on his speed dial. He turned on speakerphone, set his phone to rest on a wooden stand, and sat down in a chair facing it with his arms and legs folded. He was trembling slightly, a fight-ready frown on his face. He was being his true, authentic Richard self, which excited me…even if Jeffrey was in for it now.

Jeffrey picked up on the fifth ring. “Hey there! It’s your older brother with the smile that goes a mile!”

“Kindly spare me the unsettling salutations.”

“Hi, Jeffrey,” I chimed in. If I hadn’t interrupted, Jeffrey might have thought it was just the two of them, which could have caused problems.

“Oh?” It sounded like he had just woken up “Hey, Seigi. Long time no talk. Sorry, I’m a bit tied up right now, so I’m going to hand the phone over to someone else. One sec.”

That was sudden, I thought. Behind me, Richard was fuming, flaring his nostrils like a bull. I could feel him ready to explode with sarcastic comebacks.

The next person to take over the phone had a low, gentle voice.

“Hell-oo? This is Joachim. Mr. Claremont is not avail—”

“Hi, Joachim. This is Seigi.”

“Oh? Well, if it isn’t le bébé from Japan. It’s lovely to hear your voice.”

“Where are you guys right now?”

“Tahiti. Lucky us, no?”

Le bébé. That was French for “the baby.” I didn’t know the full story, but apparently Joachim and Jeffrey were on vacation. After all the events in Sri Lanka, Jeffrey decided to take about half a year off as a “burnout recovery break” to jet around the world and stay at fancy resorts. Whether he was nose to the grindstone or in vacation mode, Jeffrey was a world traveler. In that sense, I felt like he had a lot in common with workaholic Richard. I just hoped he was getting some good rest.

After I inadvertently learned his secret in Sri Lanka, I met him in his hotel room and went down on my knees to apologize to him. He just laughed and waved it off, saying there was no need for all that. It wasn’t my fault, after all. That was true, but it was too true. Just like how Jeffrey was strong—too strong. I figured he’d had to become that way in order to survive. All the more reason, in my mind, for him to spend time with someone he could share his weaknesses with.

“Jeffy’s fighting the ketchup bottle right now. It doesn’t want to open.”

“Sorry, the what now?”

“So we’re having lunch, and Jeffy says he wants to order french fries through room service, right? Well, you can’t have french fries without ketchup. This hotel is fan-cy, so they don’t bring up a dispenser. They gave us a whole bottle, but it’s stuck fast! No one’s opened this thing since the Ice Ages.”

“Hey! I got it open! Look, Chim, I got it open! The conquering hero returns to the phone now.”

“Good for you, Jeffy. We’re all sooo proud.”

“Thanks for getting the phone. Here, I’ll take over. Go eat.”

We were evidently interrupting their lunch. I shot Richard a look—maybe we should call them back later—but he ignored it. His voice dropped so low he could have been crawling over the ground. “Good for you, Jeffy, indeed. We are all so very, very proud.”

“Uh-oh. I didn’t even know I was supposed to be walking on eggshells. What’s the matter?”

“I am told you gave Seigi a photo of me in childhood. Good for you in doing so. I am, of course, very, very proud.”

“And it only became an issue now? Please stop saying nice things in such a creepy voice. You’re sending such chills down my spine, I feel like I’m in the tundra!”

“You are no brother of mine, Jeffrey.”

Jeffy, called a singsong voice in the background, I’m taking the last french fry. I figured Joachim could hear the anger in Richard’s voice from where he sat. Fortunately, he didn’t sound concerned at all.

From there, Richard laid into Jeffrey so hard Joachim could have polished off all the french fries—heck, even the main course—in the time it took for him to finish. He was like a ­mafioso, snapping, “You get one last chance, wise guy. There ain’t gonna be a next time” before he hung up with a huff.

Richard took a deep breath, as if he were doing mental exercises to put himself back together, before muttering to himself, “Ridiculous. Him and his ketchup.”

“Hm? What’s the backstory here?”

“It…is a story I might have difficulty telling without resorting to sarcasm.”

“I don’t mind. Hit me.”

So he did. He told me the story of how ketchup was treated when he was growing up in the Claremont mansion. Apparently, ketchup wasn’t a common ingredient in British food. This made sense to me. I always thought of ketchup as more of an American thing. Besides, the British tended to say “tomato sauce” anyway.

As a result, ketchup did not appear on the Claremont family dining table. Again, that made sense. On the rare occasion that ketchup was served, it arrived out of the bottle in a small dish like the fancy little tureens of curry at Shiseido Parlor. Even after Jeffrey moved out of the Claremont estate, no part of the life he had been railroaded into took him near anything that would require opening a ketchup bottle. Richard had never seen Jeffrey open a ketchup bottle in his life.

Huh, I thought. I guess some people live like that.

“…Just to double-check, have you opened a ketchup bottle before?” I asked.

“Yes. Just the other day, I challenged myself to cook an omelet.”

“Ohhh. Right. That was a thing that happened.”

He sure did open it. Not correctly, maybe, but he opened it. The whole kitchen got covered in bright red goop. Sweet ketchup went everywhere, and the dogs were so happy they almost wagged their tails off. The experience was still fresh in my mind.

Even condiment lids could have personal histories for people.

“Your omelet turned out well,” I told Richard.

“…I hardly think it was classified as an omelet.”

“Your, uh, omelet-ish thing turned out well.”

“It was more like the carcass of scrambled eggs tossed into the watery abyss before washing ashore days later.”

“You don’t need to be that poetic about it… By the way, how does a late-night snack sound? We have sangria jelly.”

“I will respectfully decline. More pressingly…” Richard said, and he pointed to my laptop. The blog was still open in my browser, and I saw that there was a new post.

“Huh?” I said. “Isn’t it a little late for kids to be at school? That’s odd.”

“I would imagine they are scheduled posts. Evening posts tend to receive the most traffic.”

“Kids these days are something else.”

I bent over my laptop and scanned the latest update. It wasn’t written in the excited childish style I expected. The grammar was so good it made me sit up a little straighter, too.

The post announced the club had gained new members during a recent bismuth experiment. The same experiment had been run last spring, so the club performed it again this year in lieu of a welcome party for the newest members. Kind of a hardcore initiation process, I thought.

In this post, the three newest members introduced themselves. They didn’t use their real names since anyone could see their blog posts. All the kids had special nicknames—they called it their “science club name”—used just for the blog. These new members’ science club names, or online handles if you will, were…

Oh wow.

“…That’s surprising.”

“What is?”

“They wrote about me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

The newest members called themselves Ruri, Hari, and Shako—lapis lazuli, quartz, and seashell—three of the Buddhist seven treasures. Gold, silver, pearl, and coral made up the other four. Pretty cultured names for junior high schoolers. The blog post went on to say they matched a second-year club member’s name. The three new girls described her fondly. She was very helpful to them.

“Housekirei.” That’s what she called herself.

A bit of an odd name, I thought, but it sounded pretty. I assumed it was a portmanteau of houseki (jewel) and the kind of bird called a sekirei, but the blog post said it came from houseki and kirei (beautiful). Housekirei explained that she chose it because she thought being a jeweler sounded like a glamorous job. The blog didn’t disclose the personal information that their advisor, Ms. Tanimoto, had a friend in the jewelry business, but anyone within our circle of acquaintances would pick up on the implication.

Housekirei herself closed out the post by saying she hoped her three new clubmates were just as excited as she was a year ago when she first joined the club. She wanted them to discover lots of new worlds and share in the feeling of amazement with their classmates. The post ended with a sign off from the editor, Ms. Tanimoto. A perfect school story cliché—the teacher advisor looking over the work.

“…Huh. People outside the blog can’t react to it.”

“An appropriate safety measure for a blog run by minors, I should think.”

“Yeah.”

I couldn’t leave a comment, but there was a like button on each post and a likes counter. Each one felt like a whisper of “How beautiful,” like people might say when encountering a gemstone.

I clicked the like button, just as I always did, and sent a little wish along with it. It wasn’t much, but I wanted to give back. Whenever I read these blog posts, I always felt like I’d been given a little shard of a sparkle.