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From the balcony of her city apartment, Mona can see 6 skyscrapers, a glimpse of a tiny park where people like to bring their dogs, and a dark back alley. It is unlike anything where she’s from.
They say that guardian angels used to exist, and that the divine guided every human on their right and proper path. Here, she believes it completely.
~
She first sees Scaramouche at a party. He looks inhuman in the bright lights, the harshness somehow making his edges go all soft. He looks at her and smiles like he knows something she doesn't.
She turns, and leaves. He does not come after her.
~
She's known of him for a very long time. They used to warn her about boys like him, when she was younger.
Now that she's seen him, she knows why.
There is no point in trying to prevent anything. It is already too late. She knows this better than anyone– it is, after all, why she's here.
~
He is in math, and she takes astronomy. They happen to share an elective. Then, and only then, do they meet.
"I'm Scaramouche."
"I know."
"You do? Well then, Mona- I'll see you around."
~
She wonders if he chose his program because he liked the risk of misspelling that particular word in geometry.
~
He does see her around. They happen to meet on the subway. He laughs when he sees her, and pats the seat next to him. Against her better judgment, she takes it.
"Funny meeting you like this," he says.
"Funny meeting you at all," she replies. She's lying.
A few minutes pass in blissful silence.
"Do you believe in God?" He asks.
"Does he believe in us?"
~
Scaramouche is not his real name. Everybody knows it. There is another name, one she suspects he prefers, but it is unknown to all their peers. By all the rules of common propriety, it should be unknown to her as well.
Her name is Mona. In Old English, it means moon. In Persian, she's told it means she who will last forever.
She quite likes it. She does not allow herself to dwell on the sound of it in his mouth, imagine how it would sound if-
~
He sits next to her in class. The professor is talking about Milton. Doré's Satan Descends Upon Earth is projected on the whiteboard. She thinks that the image, Satan's dark silhouette as he falls into the abyss, is trite and overdone. Scaramouche writes his number on the corner of her notebook.
~
You've always struck me as the kind of person to steal hotel bibles
I wish you'd told me that sooner. I could have had a whole collection by now
Would you like to come to a party with me later?
~
She would.
He takes her to somebody's house– she doesn't know the owner and she doubts he does either– and leads her to the basement. The floor is sticky and the music is loud. The people dancing look more like one amorphous creature than a group of individuals. This image, incomprehensible, is all people can understand of angels.
He approaches her where she leans against the wall and hands her a can of warm red wine. To her surprise, he joins her.
"You come alive in places like this," she tells him, because it's true.
"What? Bad house parties?"
"Dens of vice."
He throws his head back and laughs. She thinks he could be a renaissance painting– or perhaps not. The style then could not have captured him, not the way he really is.
"Would you like to come back to my place?" She asks.
~
They ditch the party and head to her apartment. She pours him a glass of cheap white– refrigerated, like how all the fancy magazines say you're supposed to serve it. They drink it on her balcony.
"I thought you weren't into this kind of thing," he says, gesturing at the mess of star maps and astrology books inside. He looks disappointed.
"I believe in a higher plane, but not necessarily God." It's not true, strictly speaking, but it seems to satisfy him and so it is justified.
He sets his wine glass on the ground and kisses her. He's clearly practiced. Foolishly, she hopes she's different from all the rest.
(She knows she is. The question is, does he?)
~
How do you kill an angel? She'd asked once. She does not remember who’d answered, but she will never forget the reply.
~
He traces circles on the bare skin of her back, their legs tangled together. She stares at the moon and he stares at her.
"I would have fallen for you," he says.
"Shouldn't you say 'I'd fall for you?'"
He laughs again, just like he did at the party.
"Don't worry too much about things like that. You're too beautiful to stress yourself out."
She stares at the moon and he stares at her. Slowly, thoughtfully, she extricates herself from his embrace just enough so that she can roll over and face him.
She kisses him.
"I might say the same for you."
~
Her bed is empty the next morning. He is cooking breakfast. She hadn't known he could, hadn't assumed he would. This, for some reason, is what turns her stomach.
He thumbs through her copy of Paradise Lost, carelessly flung on the counter.
"Lovely poem," he says. "Shame none of it's true."
~
Farewell happy fields
Where joy for ever dwells; hail horrors, hail
Infernal world, and thou profoundest Hell
Receive thy new possessor: one who brings
A mind not to be changed by place or time.
The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n.
The lines hang on the board, crisp and dark. The professor rambles on about unreliable narrators and historical context.
She does not look at Scaramouche. He does not look at her.
He reaches to take her hand under the table.
~
She tosses a blanket over her scryglass, not wanting to see it sit unused.
~
She goes to his apartment. It is a penthouse suite with black marble countertops and an open concept.
"Where do you get the money for this place?"
He smiles, the way he did when she first saw him. It is somehow kinder now, or else sadder.
"My mother, and some investments made in my name when I was younger," he says, the lie rolling through his mouth like butter.
She does not care.
She kisses him. He tastes like blood and blackberries.
~
The stars, as they truly are, are the most sublime sight. Only through viewing the milky way unencumbered by any human light pollution does she think that humans can come to understand the divine.
In this city, when she looks up, she can’t see a single star. Scaramouche meanders out onto the balcony and hugs her from behind, resting his head on her shoulder.
“Come back to bed?”
She does.
~
Before she came here, this university, she was at the top of her class. They said she was their greatest mind. They said she could find any truth, anywhere.
She remembers being called to the high office. She remembers walking there, how utterly bored she'd felt. She remembers opening the door, and remembers someone saying Mona, we have a very important job for you.
~
"What's the worst thing you can imagine?" She asks. They are on their way to class. It snowed for the first time all year yesterday, and there are children throwing snowballs in the park. It is a very pretty imitation of war.
He does not answer for a minute, distracted by the cold and the question.
"Being what somebody else wants me to be."
I understand, she wants to say.
~
They go to the lake together. They have been like this for a while now. The rumor is he hasn't seen anyone else in all this time. Sometimes, Mona gets jealous stares.
It is not a particularly nice beachfront– none of them are, downtown. Hand in hand, they stare silently and happily into the wine-dark water.
Anyone else would say they are lovers. She is not sure if it's her or him who's most hesitant to apply the label to themselves.
~
There is a certain character known as "Kunikuzushi."
Such characters are often schemers and usurpers of nations…
So read her notes. She does not know why she'd written it down. She is very familiar with him.
~
He takes her to the rooftop lounge of a very nice hotel. They have steak and caviar and complimentary cocktails.
She feels just as happy as when they ordered pizza last week. This is when she knows she's lost.
When she gets home, for the first time in a very long time, she dusts off her scryglass.
She still cannot bring herself to use it. She does not want to know if she was doomed from the start.
~
They are at her place. He is in her bed.
"Mona," he chokes out between kisses. "I-"
She kisses him to cut him off.
~
“Camus’ The Myth of Sisyphus,” he says. “Have you heard of it?”
They are at a popular coffee shop. She has a latte and he has hot chocolate. He used to get black coffee he’d never finish when she first knew him.
“One must imagine Sisyphus happy,” she replies.
“Do you think he’s right?”
She pauses, considering. The conceit of the book is that only in struggle can one find fulfillment.
“I think you would know better than me.”
~
The easiest group of people to take advantage of is grieving parents, or so Scaramouche had told her late one night watching a documentary about TV psychics.
He was not wrong, per say. He was simply under informed.
The second easiest group of people to take advantage of, and it is a very close second, are people who love you. The trick is not to love them back; Abel would not have shown vulnerability had he not loved Cain, Adam would not have eaten the apple had he not loved Eve, and she–
~
A very long time ago, guardian angels used to exist, and the divine helped guide every human into their proper path. Fate stayed all in one beautiful line. Everything, or so she has been told, was perfect.
And then Kunikuzushi, the destroyer, had fought for free will and lost, taking half the angels down with him in the process. The remainder had been forced to cultivate a new generation in order to regain their lost numbers, and human fate was left unguarded.
Mona had been the best and brightest astrologer of that new generation. There was nothing she could not see, no disaster she could not foretell.
Mona, we have a very important job for you. We've located Kunikuzushi. We need you to kill him.
Why me?
He won't recognize you, and you'll be able to see through any traps he tries to set. You're the only one who can do this.
And then–
How do you kill an angel?
A sharp smile. Something that did not belong in a perfect world.
You make him fall in love with you.
~
She holds a kitchen knife. It feels unusually cold in her hand. Anything will do, so long as he loves her.
And he does. He loves her.
He's in her bed, fast asleep, still curled around her outline. She raises the knife. Her hands tremble.
He starts to stir, blinking up at her, reactions muddled by sleep.
"... Mona?"
"Kunikuzushi."
The name shocks him fully awake. He freezes, then his eyes go wide, and then he takes a deep breath and smiles.
"I don’t care if I die," he says. "I’ve already got what I want."
She is not brave enough to ask him to clarify what he means.
A long moment passes. Then another. Time has never meant much to her (until she met him).
"You told me once that you would have fallen for me," she breathes. He looks at her, at the knife still in her hands.
She tosses it to the side, and it disappears somewhere in the clutter of her bedroom.
"Did you ever consider that I would fall for you?"