Work Text:
I don't remember
lighting this cigarette
and I don't remember
if I'm here alone
or waiting for someone
— Leonard Cohen
One of Trant's side hustles has provided him with two tickets to an art show opening in Le Jardin. It’s called ‘The Allure of Destruction’ and looks to be the type of event where the public oohs over graffitied urinals.
"You’ll have an excellent time there," Trant says as he attempts to bestow the invites upon Kim.
Kim raises a skeptical eyebrow.
"It's a good place for a date," Trant adds with a wink. "They'll have free appetizers and drinks."
As if Kim can be bribed by food. "Officers Torson and McLaine are more likely to enjoy those. And they could both use an educational opportunity."
Trant’s face breaks into a sunny-yet-nervous smile. "The curator is a good friend, and I'd rather not subject her to any hijinks. Please, take them. Consider it a belated welcoming gift from yours truly." He's still holding the tickets out, impervious to Kim's Eyebrow of Authority.
AUTHORITY: You’re on your own here. This man sees himself as independent from power structures and other societal constructs.
After a tense half minute, Kim relents. The smile grows wider.
"Welcome to the 41st, Lieutenant."
***
Harry is seeing friends in Martinaise the day of the opening, and there are few remaining options for a plus-one. Kim could ask Alice or even Richard, neither of whom he has seen since the transfer, but… well.
"What kind of question is that?" Jean says when Kim inquires about his feelings on art. "I'm a total dullard and I only like gym and hemp." He clears his throat. "Why do you ask?"
"I wanted to invite you to a show at RMMCA this Saturday."
Silence on the phone line. Kim dreads whatever mental gymnastics are happening in Jean's brain.
"Alright," Jean says. "I'm in. Is it a date?" His deep voice is carefully neutral. "Should I bring flowers?"
Kim's stomach does a fearful little swoop. "That won't be necessary. It's a friend date. If I ever decided to take you on a real date I would let you know."
There's a huff on the other end: maybe a laugh. "I'm just messing with you. Let me guess, special consultant Artfreak gave you two tickets and you need a partner in misery. And I'm the lucky bastard because Harry is seeing that phasmid woman. Am I right?"
"Lena," Kim says. "And yes, that about sums it."
BEHAVIORISM: Harry and Jean are re-learning civil communication, so it makes sense that they now discuss weekend plans.
RHETORIC: But Jean doesn’t seem to know about Lilienne. Best to keep it that way.
"You know, you could have told Trant no. But now you're gonna be on his little list of gift receptacles till the end of time. Why aren't you going with Harry? Don't wanna hear people yap about the purple ape?"
"Green ape," Kim corrects on autopilot. "No, it's not really my scene." He could stop there, but something makes him add, "Also, Lena is racist, so I try to minimize our contact as much as possible."
"Putain." Jean’s tone has turned serious. "Shit, Kim, I'm sorry. I mean, she's old and senile, so it makes sense, but she — she seemed nice."
"Nice people can be racist."
"Shit. Do you want me to fine her for disorderly behavior? Or jaywalking? Jay-wheeling — I don't know what the fuck you call it. I'll think of something."
For a second, Kim allows himself to imagine it: the old woman getting slapped with a ticket every time she calls Seolites a separate species. "An enticing offer, but I'll have to pass."
"Well, it’s your call." A long awkward pause, again. "Wait — does Harry know that about her?"
Kim chuckles. "He does. He thinks if he extols my virtues long enough, she will let go of her bias."
"Ah," Jean says. "The water and the stone, right? Drop by drop, it shall erode. Good luck with that."
***
Jean is working on Saturday: a night shift at the precinct, then two classes at the RCM Academy. Kim takes pity on him and offers a ride to the museum, as long as Jean can make his own way to the garage lot by Kim's building.
VISUAL CALCULUS: Like many other buildings in G.R.I.H., the garages are repurposed from old shipping containers.
VOLTA DO MAR: Despite their unseemly appearance, their presence in this weedy lot is familiar and comforting. They've been a landscape fixture here for as long as you can remember. As a child, you loved climbing onto shed roofs and jumping down: an imitation of flight.
HALF LIGHT: An acquaintance of yours once landed on a rebar and died. He was nine years old. It was one fewer mouth for the group home to feed.
Kim has given Jean his garage number, but he needn't have bothered. The lot’s guard dogs let him know when Jean arrives: there’s a burst of angry barking, followed by a squeal of tires and colorful cursing.
"A little warning next time?" Jean is short of breath: scared, winded or both. He has apparently biked the entire way from the Academy. Jamrock cops and their legs of steel.
PERCEPTION: He has trimmed his beard and ditched the black suit for a flannel. He wanted to look nice for this.
INTERFACING: His jeans have a rip at the bottom where they got snagged in the chaining. And the shirt needs tailoring. It was made for someone with a less exciting waist-to-shoulder ratio.
"Désolé." The dogs never bother Kim, and he forgets they are a factor at all. "I didn't know you had a bike."
"What, this beauty?" Jean pats the frame like it's the flank of a horse. "I pawned my winter coat to buy it. It's not winter anymore, and I can't bum rides off Judit forever, so." He takes a theatrical bow. "My new trusted mount, ladies and gents. All thanks to Harry Du Bois and his drunken decision-making."
VOLTA DO MAR: Their Coupris 40 lies at the bottom of the sea: wipers paused mid-wipe, electrical components corroded. Over time, a carpet of algae will grow on its blue surface. Schools of small fish will move in, eels will slink into the wheel wells, and the promise of a snack will lure predators closer.
INLAND EMPIRE: A whole new habitat formed out of something man-made and man-broken.
KINETIC DRESSAGE: This is a reminder to never lend your Kineema to Harry, no matter how much you like and trust him.
"Speaking of, we are holding a funeral for the 40 on Thursday," Kim says. "You should come along. It's a good bonding opportunity, and it could help you find some closure."
Jean's expression sours. "Closure, my ass. Ooh, poor little motor carriage, so dead, boo hoo. Who fucking killed it, huh, Harry?" He folds his arms. "I always hated that thing and now I pay for its carcass out of pocket."
"Forty-five thousand reál," Kim mutters. Overpriced, for an older model.
Jean pulls a face. "It's forty, I was just being a dick. Not like there's a big difference. Harry and I are getting our wages docked for years to come."
ESPRIT DE CORPS: This is how partnerships work: shouldering everything in equal measure.
COMPASSION: That doesn't make it fair. Jean earns less than Harry: a sergeant's salary for a lieutenant's workload.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: This corner-cutting is why the RCM employs the satellite system.
"In a different universe you wouldn't be in debt, since you weren't involved in the crash."
"Eh." Jean shrugs. His irritation has fizzled out as fast as it appeared. "I was sort of involved. It was our shared MC and I left him with it while he was batshit crazy. I don't know if that's bad enough to pay for half, but c'est la vie. And I'm already indentured to the RCM, basically, so what's an extra twenty thousand? At least now I know they won't fire me." He brushes a stray lock of hair out of his eyes. "Can I leave the bike here? I don't want anyone to steal it. It's new."
VISUAL CALCULUS: It's not. He bought it second-hand at one of the city markets.
BEHAVIORISM: He has a tendency for mild exaggeration: looking for more sympathy points, maybe, as if you could only accept a new bike in your sacred garage space.
VOLITION: Careful — if you agree, you will have to drive him back here from the museum.
"Of course," Kim says. "Let me get it settled for you."
***
The Revachol Metropolitan Museum of Contemporary Art is nestled in the lush green hills of Le Jardin: a bold glass building among quaint mansions that pretend to be pre-war.
"Have you been here before?" Kim asks.
Jean is speeding his way through a smoke before they go indoors. "I work with Trant," he says, taking a jittery drag of the cigarette. The cherry is reflected twice over in his giant aviator sunglasses. "He pisses himself every time he imparts a bit of culture on us. Of course I've been here. Have you?"
"On several occasions. I enjoy exploring this area of town, and the view from the museum roof is stellar."
"Harry never went in all the time I knew him. Dora trauma, I think. He didn't do museums in general, because art." Jean punctuates the last word with ghost noises, hamming it up for Kim's benefit. "Even though she taught about old paintings — saints, royal portraits, etcetera. Nothing like what RMMCA has."
The museum's permanent collection can be generously described as "curious," but the art show goes above and beyond, into a folded M dimension. There is an all-blue painting with a red squiggle in the middle, an interactive small guillotine, a portrait of Dolores Dei created out of porno mag cutouts, and a string of lights that slithers up the wall from a garbage bag.
"What the fuck am I looking at?" Jean points with both hands at a yellowed, smudged sheet of paper in a thin gold frame. "This is inanity. This is an asswiper’s reject. This is what happens when you let liberals loose in art spaces."
Kim squints at the label. "This is… 'Daan Kolkman's "Erased de Graaf Drawing," '23. The artwork is considered a centerpiece of Oranjese conceptualism…’ Some biographical information on Kolkman… ‘He tried erasing one of his own drawings… wanted a drawing by an artist of recognized significance… approached de Graaf…’ Here: ‘Kolkman set to work reversing the masterful draftsmanship. The laborious process took time, patience and multiple erasers. This act of iconoclasm doubled as a creation out of nothingness, embedded in the knowledge of the process of making. The understated inscription by Jasper Hagen, Kolkman’s lover at the time, is the sole indicator of the idea behind the piece. Only once the artwork was labeled and framed did the paper, and the act of erasure it represents, become something more.’ Well, more is debatable, but at least we got an explanation."
"What the fuck," Jean croaks. For a second Kim thinks he’s play-acting again, but no: the distress looks and sounds genuine. "Is this a metaphor? About how the fucking pale purifies us or whatever? Or about — about memory loss?" He turns to Kim, large-eyed. His voice is barely above a whisper. "Do you think Trant chose it because he saw it and thought of Harry?"
VISUAL CALCULUS: The sheet isn’t actually blank. Faint pencil marks are visible in its middle and lower left: places where the graphite settled in so deeply that it couldn’t be erased without ripping the paper.
"I can see the relevant symbolism, but I doubt that. Big art shows take longer than a couple of months to plan. And Heidelstam doesn’t have an emotional stake in Harry’s amnesia." Kim leaves the unlike you unsaid.
Jean must read the implication because he is quiet after that, shoulders drooping more than usual. He only perks up once they reach a chunk of unvarnished dead tree titled ‘Enigma No. 6: the Desolation of Love.’ "Okay, this one has Trant written all over it for sure. Some jackass fished it out of the bay, Trant saw it and was all: ooh, a love forever lost! Cause it's dead wood, if you catch my drift. Both puns intended."
VOLTA DO MAR: Harry and Lilienne may find something similar on their stroll today. The fishing village is falling apart; there’s bound to be stray lumber out and about.
INLAND EMPIRE: In several of the infinite universes it is you, and not her, who’s walking along that coast.
"You know," Kim says, faux-serious, "I do feel a sense of desolation when looking at this. A certain je ne sais quoi in my soul."
"Oh, that’s gotta be hunger. I know I can't wait. Those hors d'œuvres better be good."
***
Half an hour later, Jean is glued to the buffet table, shoveling food into his mouth in a manner that suggests he hasn't eaten since yesterday. Knowing him, he probably hasn't. Kim keeps a careful distance, unwilling to be associated with the spectacle.
"Well, someone has a healthy appetite," a familiar voice says to Kim's left.
It takes all of Kim’s willpower to not tense up. "Hello, Richard. Fancy seeing you here."
PERCEPTION: It’s not your fault you didn’t notice him before. He blends into the crowd, especially in this upper middle class space.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You used to think him rather handsome, but now his mien reminds you of Charles Villadrouin.
HALF LIGHT: He is standing uncomfortably close. The fact that you've been sleeping together doesn't give him any right to act like this in public.
Richard disregards how Kim's body arches away from him. "I could say the same about you. I didn’t take you for a fan of modern art."
"I’m very multifaceted." Kim wishes he hadn't taken any of the finger foods. He is now stuck holding a plate in front of himself, because he would rather pull out a tooth than eat during this conversation.
Richard has no such qualms. He chews on a crostini, eyes fixed on Kim's face. "Apparently so. You haven't called in a while."
"I've been busy."
"Oh, believe me, I've noticed." He throws a pointed look in Jean's direction. "You know, I didn't think you liked them young… but I can see the appeal. At least from the back I can. Too bad about the face."
An invisible hand squeezes Kim’s lungs, then releases. "Please don't be crass. And he's just a coworker."
"Really? A fellow mechanic? Come on. That's an undercover cop if I ever saw one."
Kim sighs. "He's not undercover. He's off duty, these are two different things."
Richard's lips thin into a smile. "Huh. This keeps getting better and better." He cocks his head to the side. "How does it feel, porking a pig?"
BEHAVIORISM: You've never heard him speak like this in the ten months you’ve known him. Something about the situation has left him unmoored.
"I wouldn't know," Kim says. "You tell me." Then, because no comprehension dawns on Richard's face, he explains, "I actually am a cop."
"Ha ha." At least Richard isn’t smiling any longer. "Good one, Kim." He eats another crostini, shakes the crumbs off, and holds his hands up in a placating gesture. "Alright, I can tell when I’m not welcome. Take care. Call me so we can make plans for later this month." And with that, he fades into the crowd.
Almost immediately, Jean sidles up with two flutes of champagne, batting Kim away when he reaches for one of them.
"Go grab your own! These are mine."
"I'm fairly sure the invite said one glass per guest."
Jean shrugs. "I've been violated by weird art metaphors. I'll take all the drinks I can get." He downs a flute in two big gulps, exposing the long line of his throat. "Also, I need to de-stress from my job."
"We have the same job."
Jean grins above the rim of the glass. "And here I thought you worked as a mechanic."
"You heard that?" Kim’s cheeks grow hot. So what if he keeps Richard in the dark about the finer details of his life? It’s merely self-preservation.
"Your lovers’ spat with Mr. Beige? Yes, I have two functional ears." Jean guzzles down the second flute. "Thank you for defending my nonexistent honor, by the way. That was very unnecessary."
PERCEPTION: He seems pleased as he says it.
"De rien." Kim takes off his glasses and rubs his forehead. "We should head out, if you're all done. The metaphors are getting to me, too."
***
Jean nods off in the Kineema and wakes up in time to see Kim struggle to park near Stalker Central. "Where the hell are we? Did you kidnap me?"
"We’re grabbing food," Kim says as he looks behind himself to avoid hitting the curb. "There’s a place nearby that’s good value for money."
"I’m not hungry."
"I am. Do you have somewhere to be? This won’t take long."
Côte-Vertu Passage, better known as Stalker Central, is G.R.I.H.’s answer to Boogie Street: a winding road lined with eateries, bars, food stalls, and small shops. People pulse in and out, their faces lit by the artificial glow of neon signs and convenience stores. Peddlers hawk wares of questionable origin. A teenage busker wails out a tune last popular twenty years ago; an older woman sings along, swaying to the beat.
Kim steers Jean into a small artery off the thoroughfare. An enigmatic graffito on a brick wall reads: THROW A ROCK IN THE SEA AND SEE IT SPILL OVER. Below, a different person has added, also in all caps: NOTHING NEW!!
VISUAL CALCULUS: This was not here last time, so it is, ironically, new.
PERCEPTION: Otherwise, DUCK DUCK PIG is business as usual. Two cooks are taking a smoke break by the door. The OPEN sign is experiencing voltage problems, blinking on and off.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: The eatery’s name pokes fun at the food it offers. They only sell one kind of dumpling: "mixed meet," as the spelling-challenged menu calls it. The noble duck is unlikely to be actually involved.
"This is secretly a command," Jean says as they enter. "Duck, pig! I would react if I heard it on the street."
"What an original joke. A table for two, please."
RHETORIC: You love this place, even though you shouldn’t. The walls are painted an unfortunate shade of pea soup green. The booths are small and cramped. Every once in a while, people will address you in Seolite. Yet these inconveniences are offset by the low prices and good quality of the food.
INLAND EMPIRE: Your repressed ancestral memories draw you here. Many years ago, on the other side of the world, your grandmother brought a boy to a place similar to this. As they ate, she told him she would attempt the crossing to Insulinde. They both dripped tears into their bowls.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: There is nothing inherently Seolite about dumplings. Cultures from Graad to Samara have variations on the dish. Only the colonizer Sur-La-Clef is an outlier, preferring its ground meat unwrapped.
RHETORIC: The humble dumpling is the most Revacholian of all foods: practical, hearty, international.
VOLTA DO MAR: Yet in this particular establishment people eat it with chopsticks. Who are you trying to fool, Kitsuragi? And why?
After Kim offers to pay for the meal, Jean glumly peruses the one-page menu and orders a cup of broth — the cheapest item available. Kim gets a portion of "mixed meet" for two, which comes with about a dozen side dishes. "It’s their best deal, but too much for one person to eat."
Jean stares at him across the tiny booth. Half his face is bathed red from the flickering sign outside the window. "Okay," he says, expression unreadable. "I’ll help out, if you can’t finish it."
***
"Fuck me," Jean proclaims between bouts of spirited chewing. "These are great. Super juicy." He swallows and licks his lips. "It’s the best I’ve eaten all month outside of Jude’s and Trant’s. I've been subsisting on potatoes, like a tragic Ubi peasant." He picks up another dumpling. His grip on the chopsticks is off, but that’s a lesson for another time. "I have to re-budget if I want to survive. Do more overtime, or move into a section house. Maybe quit smoking. How did you do it?"
"I didn’t. I still smoke. I have exactly one cigarette every day."
VOLITION: Your little self-imposed test of will.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Your little tango with serotonin, you mean. The waiting and wanting make the eventual surrender so much sweeter.
"Oh," Jean says. "That would work, too, I guess. Not that I could pull it off. I’m very — I get attached to things. And I always want more than what’s offered." He props his chin on one hand and looks out across the street, where three girls huddle around a payphone. All are dressed for summer weather, in strapless dresses, tank tops, and sandals.
The caller hangs up and hugs her friends; they stumble away, giggling. A muscle twitches in Jean’s jaw. "I’ll be right back." He walks out to the vacated payphone and spends the next five minutes engaged in conversation, slouching and running a hand through his hair. At one point, he looks directly at Kim, or as directly as throngs of passersby allow.
"Well," he says as he plops back into his seat, "you’ll be happy to know that Harry is home and sounds alive and sober."
BEHAVIORISM: You’ve borne witness to these check-in calls while over at Harry’s. They always have some inane work-related pretext. Harry humors them, but you think they betray a lack of faith on Jean’s part.
"I didn’t have any doubts about that, and neither should you."
"Easy for you to say. You don’t know how it is. You don’t have an addictive personality."
"Harry has been managing well, personality notwithstanding."
Jean cringes. "I meant myself. I know we’re not friends anymore, but I can’t — I can’t quit. I already fucked up once. Twice, if you count the tribunal. I worry about him all the time. It’s an ingrown thing, at this point. I can’t put it away in a box and seal it. I can only minimize it." He turns to the window again and starts fixing his hair. His face is a ghostly smear in the darkness of the glass. "And I had an actual good reason today. Martinaise has those damn alco-hobos and — other perils." In the reflection, his eyes lock with Kim’s. "By the way, the date with Lilienne went well."
The motor of Kim’s lungs stutters, then starts to work again.
"It wasn’t a date. How did you know about it? Did Harry tell you?"
Jean makes a big production of rolling his eyes. "Don’t worry, our revenant partnership is nowhere near that stage yet. But I noticed, uh, 'clues.' He bought some froufrou tackles earlier this week, and borrowed a fish atlas from Jude. Who else would he go fishing with? Plus I saw them go out during THE HANGED MAN case."
"You… what?"
"Hm. Through the binoculars on the pier." Jean pretends to be engrossed in the menu. "I was keeping tabs."
"Stalking, essentially."
Jean, scandalized, whips up his head to look at Kim. "Oh, right, so sorry I was looking! You were literally there with them! You were fucking cockblocking him!"
"We were working a case together, and she was a potential witness."
"Fine," Jean says. "Whatever helps you sleep. I’ve seen how you look at him. I stand by my initial diagnosis. You’re totally bewitched."
COMPASSION: Harry is the most important person in your life at the moment.
INLAND EMPIRE: You were infatuated with him in Martinaise, but the raft of a nascent crush got stuck in the reeds of pedestrian concerns.
Kim clears his throat. "He’s a fascinating man that I’m lucky to call a friend." It’s not a lie. "That doesn't mean there's a romantic component involved. At any rate, it's not prudent to put all the eggs in one basket."
"Wow. Thank you for this incredible piece of wisdom. How’s it working out for you? Your beige money man looked like a pretty empty basket, if you ask me."
Kim levels him with a stare. "We are not discussing my personal life. Or Harry's, for that matter. It's good for him to expand his social circle beyond the workplace. And he needs to get himself together before pursuing any romantic prospects. I agree with Miss Carter on that point."
Jean's posture has loosened, possibly at the mention of prospects, plural. "You've met this Lilienne character, right? What is she like?"
"She's a widow and a mother of three." Kim hasn't thought about her beyond those basic facts, and he pauses to come up with a longer description. "A smart, confident woman with healthy boundaries."
"So the opposite of me in every way."
"Cut the bullshit," Kim says evenly. "You don’t really believe that about yourself."
This, for some reason, tips Jean from annoyance into rage. "Oh, so you’re an expert on me all of a sudden? Did Harry infect you with mind-reading?" His accent grows thicker, some of the words garbled. "I clearly am a cretin. I keep treating this" — he motions between himself and Kim — "as a two-way conversation. Except I’m always debasing myself and you’re always deflecting."
"Or you’re oversharing to guilt me into doing the same."
Jean blinks rapidly and drops his eyes. "Fuck you," he mumbles, fishing a pack of Drouins out of his breast pocket. His hands tremble as he lights a cigarette. "Is that what you think I’m doing? Shamelessly manipulating you?" Tendrils of silvery smoke swirl upward, obscuring his features.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: Astras are the go-to choice for the lower and lower middle classes. Drouins are similar, with the added negative of extra cost.
VOLTA DO MAR: Tioumoutiris are for old men and communists. Royals are for alcoholics, and Quinteros are for middle-aged loners who pretend to know what they’re doing with their life.
On a whim, Kim plucks the stick out of Jean’s fingers and takes a puff. "Well, I wouldn’t say shamelessly."
Jean leans back. His face and neck glow red from the neon; the rest recedes into shadow. "I’m sorry I keep roping you into this. I don’t have anybody else to discuss Harry with… That whole era got erased. Nothing is left of it. Except me, I guess, and whatever I remember. But when I tell you about those things, it makes them real again. It reminds me they actually happened." His gaze keeps flicking to Kim’s mouth, then cutting away, then snapping back, like a magnet. "Will this be your one cigarette today?"
"Probably not." Kim takes one final drag. "I’m cheating a little here." He gives the stick back to Jean. It hovers between them as it changes hands: a weighted breathless moment.
***
The drive back to the garage is short, but made complicated by the cramped streets and late hour. At dusk, the deficiencies of Kim’s eyesight feel more acute. All around him, city lights stretch out into starburst shapes, weighed down with glares and streaks.
INLAND EMPIRE: Harry has said that he sometimes sees a halo around your head.
VISUAL CALCULUS: It's probably a literal halo — from the sun, or from a lamp. Similar to the ones you’re seeing now.
BEHAVIORISM: But if it were a metaphor, it would be terrifying. You don’t want to be another Dora-made-Dolores. Pedestals are for the dead, not the living.
Jean is asleep, again, or pretending to be: the awkwardness from his earlier outburst hasn’t dissipated. In the absence of conversation, Kim’s mind wanders. Images from a recent past flood his head, unbidden, like pale interference. A cold room with a warm bed. A sliver of weak winter light in the crack of the curtains. Jean’s face, peaceful in slumber, dark eyelashes fluttering.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: And you, mortifyingly hard, sneaking into the bathroom to take care of things.
CORPUS SANUM: You were pent up from a lack of sex. It was a normal biological reaction.
VOLITION: Or maybe you’re a perverted old man with inappropriate thoughts about a younger coworker. Who also happens to be your best friend’s sad, angry ex. He’s not even that attractive. Control yourself.
Kim rolls the window down to let in a gust of fresh air, only to realize it’s a little too fresh. Something wet lands on his cheek and his neck, and then he’s rolling the window back up to avoid the sudden onslaught of a May downpour.
Jean stirs. "Lovely. I thought I smelled ozone before."
"It’s a spring shower," Kim says. He squints at the windshield, where the city lights wink and blur. "It should clear up in the next ten minutes."
It doesn’t. In the garage lot, Kim idles in the Kineema before giving in and venturing out to open the container door. Inside, the bike taunts him. What is he supposed to do, keep it until further notice and bundle Jean onto a tram?
Jean must be thinking of something similar. He flings an arm over his forehead and feigns swooning, looking at Kim out of one pale eye. "Please don't kick me out into the rain, Mr. Officer, sir — I will catch the death of me!"
PERCEPTION: He’s smiling, but there’s something vulnerable in his face. He truly believes you are going to make him bike home in his weather.
BEHAVIORISM: It's bizarre how one person can be so overconfident and so insecure at the same time.
The metallic roof over their heads amplifies the rain’s patter. "I don’t know what that impression was supposed to be. But yes, you can wait chez moi, of course."
VOLITION: I warned you about this.
***
A single umbrella is no help in warding off diagonal sheets of rain, and they are both soaked by the time they reach the apartment. Inside, Jean undresses down to his trunks, completely unselfconscious. "Pardon the striptease — I don’t want to drip on the hardwood. Do you have something I could borrow?"
Kim tries to keep his eyes on Jean’s face. "Not in your size, no."
"Shit." Jean takes a sweeping glance around the living room-slash-kitchenette. "Uh, désolé, can I —" He climbs onto the couch, drawing up his knees and curling under a throw blanket that fails to cover his feet. He has bony ankles and long, hairy toes, one of them purple with subungual bruising. At the sight, Kim feels an irrational swell of tenderness.
"This should work. I can’t believe you own a knitted throw." Jean’s tone is perfectly level, but his lips keep twitching upward. "And a full-length mirror. And an accent rug. Do you have coquetiers, too? Aerators? I’m trying to think of chic stuff off the top of my head."
“No egg cups, and I prefer decanting." Kim goes into the bedroom to change into dry clothes, raising his voice to be heard. "Chemical processes take more time than an aerator can offer."
"Aha! I knew you’d be a wine guy. You’re a total Vachy stereotype. Baguette, cigarette, baïonnette."
A pleasant warmth prickles the back of Kim’s neck. Forty-three years in Revachol, and it’s still a rarity to be considered her citizen. "Says the man with a hyphenated name."
"My father had delusions of grandeur. And my mother likes birds. From that unholy union, voilà! Marie-Chouette and Jean-Héron."
Kim joins Jean on the couch. "I didn’t know you had siblings. Are you and your sister close?"
"Not really. She’s ten years older than me and lives in Faubourg. She more or less had to raise me, so she resents me for butchering her youth. We see each other a couple of times a year."
"That sounds" — Kim wrinkles his nose — "like a difficult history. I always imagined that, if my parents were alive, we would have been a happy family. But the truth is, I will never know. And what I’ve seen in my time at Juvenile Crimes… The statistics are not in my favor."
INLAND EMPIRE: In multiple parallel universes, you did grow up in a model Vacholiere household, with loving parents, two younger sisters and a cat.
"But enough of that. I’m not being a very good host. Would you like" — to stay the night — "a drink? Or a cup of tea? I could turn on the radio in the background."
Jean lifts one shoulder in a shrug. "What do you do when Harry comes around?"
"Suzerainty, typically, or films from the local rental. I haven’t yet picked one for tomorrow." He is watching Jean’s face so closely that he doesn’t miss it: a minute flinch at the mention of tomorrow.
"Suzerainty? Is that the board game with the king and the coke?" Jean’s brow furrows. "And Harry, what, enjoys it?"
"He’s the one who found it and made me play it. I thought it had jogged something in his memory, but I take it he was never a fan?"
Jean shakes his head. "He used to think it was for children and, uh —"
RHETORIC: He’s trying very hard to find a polite synonym for the word binoclard.
"— intellectuals. Sorry. I was with him on that. Which is — not a great opinion, I’m realizing."
"Do you want to give it a try? We don’t have time for a full session, but I can tell you the gist of it. I also have The Viticulturist, for a shorter option."
BEHAVIORISM: You bought it to have some variety, not because Harry won at Suzerainty the last four times you played.
"No, it’s okay, it can be your thing with Harry. It’s nice to have friendship rituals." Jean lets out a pained-sounding exhale. "By the way — I wanted to ask you something. It’s personal, which you hate. But I need to know, and then I swear I’ll drop it forever."
"An intriguing start." If intriguing meant horrifying. "I will do my best to answer, but only if it’s an actual question and not vaguely worded hints."
Jean rubs the back of his neck, eyes downcast. "Okay. Am I cockblocking you?"
"I’m sorry? ‘Cockblocking?’" Kim fails to keep the incredulity out of his voice. "What are you talking about?"
A dull flush is rising in Jean’s scarred cheeks. "Well, you’re — you’re kind, and you always try to do the right thing. And maybe you feel sorry for me. And you think if you started something with Harry, I would be — upset, or, like, never get out of bed." When Kim stays silent, he hurries to add, "I also dredged up his sex history. I didn’t make it sound super flattering. I, I don’t know, badmouthed him? But I’m obviously — we were never together, so what the fuck do I know? He thought Dora hung the moon. And he thinks you hung the moon, too. I wasn’t part of that same relationship pattern, so."
"There’s nothing to cockblock, as I’ve told you already." Kim stands up and moves to the kitchenette; Jean wraps the throw around himself and follows. "I’m getting myself a glass of wine. Would you like some?"
Jean, red-faced, glares at the floor. "Look, this is humiliating for me, okay? But I’m trying to do the mature thing here. If you want my blessing for some reason, or for me to tell you he’d be an amazing boyfriend, you can have it. And I do want wine, except I thought it needed ‘time’" — his voice changes to what must be an impression of Kim’s — "and ‘decanting.’"
"We can slum it tonight." Kim fishes one of the better bottles from the back of the cupboard. He hid all his alcohol after seeing how Jean’s apartment was organized — no drink or drugs where they could be noticed by a recovering addict. "Has this really been bothering you? You shouldn’t fixate on other people’s relationships."
Jean’s face is a mask of misery. "I don’t understand what you’re waiting for. Or why you didn’t — why you let him go off with Lilienne."
Kim pours each of them a glass. He should learn proper sommelier techniques and get rid of the decanter for good. "I will say this once, and it stays between us. You are correct. I am a little bewitched by Harry. But in an abstract, theoretical way. I’ve thought about it, more than is normal, but however I look at it, the timing right now is off."
RHETORIC: The elusive intersection of desire, mindset, and availability, in all the parties involved.
INLAND EMPIRE: In a different universe, you met five years ago and hit it off immediately. You now share a one-bedroom in a better-maintained building.
"He is healing. He’s discovering what he wants and likes. He needs a stable presence in his life, which I can provide as a friend. But as a lover… I’m not exactly a saint or a tour guide into the land of gay." Kim cringes as he says it and takes a sip to cover it up. "Sorry, that came out meaner than I meant it. I really do like him. But I’m a selfish man, with my own selfish desires."
Jean looks doubtful. "You mean the banker boyfriend?"
"He is not my boyfriend. And he’s an accountant, not a banker."
"Same difference." They return to their places on the couch, bringing the glasses and bottle with them. "Big money clown, thinks he's such a hotshot."
Kim ignores it. "He's actually quite nice, most of the time. We are both adults about our arrangement."
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: There’s a lot to like about Richard. He has a good memory for TipTop trivia, enjoys bottoming, and never throws his socks on the floor.
"He looks like he suffers from hemorrhoids."
"Well, he doesn't. And I would appreciate it if you stopped it with the comments."
Jean stares at Kim in sullen silence, then turns away. "You know he’s not happy about this ‘arrangement’ you have? I’ve seen him once and even I could tell. He’s obviously into you, and you’re stringing him along."
Kim is calm, like a dead man’s heartbeat. His hand doesn’t shake where it’s holding the glass. "Yes, Jean, I’m aware. Believe it or not, I can read social cues. I know it’s not ideal… But I wouldn’t call it ‘stringing.’ I’m deferring decision-making until I’m sure of what I want."
INLAND EMPIRE: You will be deferring forever. A void cannot know its own shape.
"For what it’s worth, he wouldn’t suffer if we parted ways. That’s another thing about Harry — if we began something and it didn’t work out, I would be fine. I have excellent psychological armor. But he doesn’t, and I’m too pragmatic to date without a fail-safe."
ENCYCLOPEDIA: Many organs are capable of repairing themselves. Bones mend; skin scars; liver regenerates. Yet lung tissue doesn’t grow back. If it’s gone, it’s gone forever.
Jean’s brows knit together. "So you, what, always expect relationships to fail?"
"This is Revachol. Everything here fails eventually."
"Does it?" Jean rubs his face in frustration. "I mean, I guess it does, in my experience. But does it matter? ‘We ourselves may be loved only for a brief time. Even so, that will suffice.’" At Kim’s lack of recognition he gives a small lopsided smile. "It’s an Etenniers quote. They were Harry’s second favorite band. The Whirling is named after one of their songs, actually... At the time I thought it was fate."
"I would call it a fateful location if asked."
"Oh, it is, just not for me.” Jean snorts. “It’s stupid, how I keep seeing signs when nothing is there. Like with Harry. I thought it was so cool that we both have bird names. And we entered the force the same year, and we both survived epidemics as kids. So it’s like we had this connection, even before we met." He downs the remainder of his wine. "What a load of bull."
INLAND EMPIRE: A child believes he can hear the ocean when he holds a seashell to his ear. However, it’s only the rush of ambient noise, given form by the power of self-deception.
Kim refills both their glasses. "I had something similar happen to me once. As a boy, I wanted to be a pilot. There was a book on flying aces at the local library, and it had a page on this Seolite war hero, Kim Kum-Sok. That was the first time I felt good about being a Kim. My uncommon name, shared with a real-life ace… It had to be destiny. Of course, later I learned that Revachol no longer has an air force, and that I’d need better vision to fly a plane. And that Kim is a popular last name in Seol, equivalent to Martin or Jones."
"Last name?" Jean is slumping against the back of the couch, eyes half-lidded. He and Kim started out sitting on opposite ends but have since both crept towards the middle. Any closer, and their legs will touch.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You two should fall asleep here, like this. Your head on his shoulder, or vice versa.
CORPUS SANUM: I dare you to try it. Enjoy a day of back pain tomorrow.
"In Seol, the last name comes first, yes. Different language conventions."
"Oh," Jean says. "Interesting. So you would be Kitsuragi Kim, if you lived there. And your orange jacket, is that…?"
"A concession to a childhood dream." Kim remembers seeing the bomber in the back of a clothing store and being swept by a wave of need. He ended up buying three, in different colors. The price tag was a nightmare, but, in hindsight, it’s the best fashion purchase he’s ever made. "I’m not immune to sentimentality. Or wishful thinking. I like to imagine that in a different dimension I do have a pilot’s license. Maybe the air force was never disbanded, because the war is ongoing. Or maybe they use airplanes for commercial purposes… Passenger flights, or cargo handling. In Seol, I’ve heard they do crop dusting, so there could be agricultural uses, too."
"You wouldn’t love it on a farm," Jean says. "Farms are super boring. But all other options sound cool." He rubs his ear on a shoulder and fidgets with the throw. "Now I wonder what my parallel universe would be. It’s hard, because I only ever wanted to do what I’m doing."
"Sit on a couch in a blanket and trunks?"
"If it’s this couch, sure. No, I mean police work, obviously. I was a morbid child — I loved the Incidents section of La Presse. I read it daily and imagined myself solving all these crimes."
ENCYCLOPEDIA: "Incidents" is a misnomer. It’s a dispassionate-yet-lurid digest of kills, mutilations, and other atrocities.
Jean tilts his head back. "So if I had to make something up… Remember how last spring, they kept finding body parts in the Esperance?"
ENCYCLOPEDIA: One severed head, an assortment of feet, and at least half a torso. The media had a field day. A RIVER A CUT ABOVE THE REST and THE SALAD DAYS OF REVACHOL were two of the choice headlines.
"Well, in a parallel universe it wasn’t a bunch of random people getting violent with axes. It was a whole-ass sequence killer. And Harry and I caught him and ended up on the front pages of all Revacholian newspapers."
Kim plays along. "JAMROCK DETECTIVES HACK THE CASE OF… What would your killer be called? The Piecemaker?"
"Oh, that’s good. I was thinking Torso Chopper, but I like yours better." Jean has turned to face Kim, cheek pressed into the fabric of the couch. "Ten years ago I would have come up with a more exciting scenario. I had all these silly little dreams. I thought they would sustain me, emotionally. But they only ravaged me and made me hungrier."
COMPASSION: You, too, have felt homesick for places you’ve never been to and nostalgic for nonexistent relationships.
INLAND EMPIRE: These are cracks in reality where your alternate selves bleed in.
Kim swirls the wine in his glass. It’s fuller than Jean’s by a large margin. "It’s human to be dissatisfied with one’s lot in life. Being hungry is what keeps us going."
"I don’t know," Jean says. "I hate that about myself — how much I want things." His tone turns mocking. "I used to wait for a great big life to start, but by now I’m pretty sure that all of existence is this. One long wait for something that’s never going to happen. I just have to accept it and live in the moment, whatever the fuck that means." He closes his eyes. "You can turn the radio on, if the offer is still on the table."
Kim finds the sports station, and for the next fifteen minutes they listen to a rundown of the day’s matches. Jean has his eyes closed the entire time, and Kim wants to — what? Stroke Jean’s hair at his temples, rub his dick through the trunks, kiss his bicep, slump bonelessly against him. Instead he sits there, paralyzed by the closeness, and sips at the wine.
***
"The rain’s over," Jean says. "I should get going." Kim can feel the full weight of his searchlight stare. "You haven’t had your cigarette yet, right? Wanna have a smoke on the way to the garage?"
Kim stands up and reaches for his boots. "Will you be okay biking home?"
Jean shrugs. "I’m a big guy. There are easier targets for muggers, or whatever dangers you mean —"
HALF LIGHT: True. Lucky him.
"— and it’s not like it’s deserted out there."
Also true. Even at this hour, Revachol is alert and alive with activity: a city-state living rambunctiously on borrowed time. In the courtyard of Kim’s building, a rowdy group of teenagers has occupied the decrepit gazebo. Everything else — benches, swings, the lone metallic slide — is wet with rain. No sitting down for them.
"I did come up with another parallel universe," Jean says as they both light up. "Except it’s extremely stupid. Worse than the one with the Piecemaker."
"I’m a cop. I think I can manage."
"Don’t be so sure." Jean takes a long drag. "This is all — it’s hypothetical, right?"
"Yes, of course."
"Well then. In a different universe, Jean never had measles — obviously. And he didn’t, uh, fail his psych eval for seven years in a row. And he has never slept with married people, or addicts, or while drunk. He’s had, like, very boring, bourgeois relationships." It’s hard to gauge his expression, not only because it’s dark, but because he’s put the aviators on: at night, like an asshole. "And today, in that universe, a super nice man took him out. To — to the movies, or a footie game, or, you know. A museum. And they had dinner after that, and the man paid. Or maybe — maybe this other Jean paid, because in that universe he has normal amounts of money. And the man, he, uh, he liked this other Jean. Or at least didn’t think he was a sack of shit. And he invited him over, and let him stay the night." Jean ashes the cigarette and tilts his head to the sky. "Like I said, stupid."
COMPASSION: It is, and uniquely so: a narrow human longing, an echo of ocean waves heard in a conch.
HALF LIGHT: In no dimension is this a good idea.
VOLITION [Fail]: Ah, fuck it.
"It’s not stupid. Merely lacking in imagination."
What is visible of Jean’s face goes through a series of twists, then shifts into neutral. "Right. Sorry we don’t all want to fly crop dusters."
ENCYCLOPEDIA: Birds can sit on power lines because their small bodies are bad conductors. As long as they perch on a single wire, they aren't in danger of electrocution. Only a closed loop and a difference in electric potential will get the current flowing.
"What I mean is…" Kim coughs; his lungs are too full of smoke. "What I mean is it could happen here, tonight. There’s no need for a parallel universe. I don’t know any nice men, but maybe a selfish man could have you over, instead."
"Really?" Jean takes off the sunglasses. His eyes are big and glazed. An imprint of couch texture is visible on his right cheek.
"Really," Kim says. "And we can go get coffee in the morning. You just need to leave before Harry arrives."
ENCYCLOPEDIA: Electricity is all about the connections you’re making. So the moment a bird stretches out its wing to touch a second wire — or, better yet, another bird —
INLAND EMPIRE: Sparks, everywhere.