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are your friends really your friends?
are you still waiting for the end of the day? hey, hey –
when will you learn to love what’s sent from up above?
* * *
The thing that amuses him most, really, is that he’s found his most effective camouflage in flamboyance.
Here, in this spinning prison, in this cold, overly-bright pinpoint floating in endless darkness, he is one of only a few hundred permanent residents. Most of the others dislike him, rather more cordially than he probably deserves, and so he needs to be careful, needs to protect himself while he waits for this situation to resolve itself in whichever way it’s going to.
The logical thing to do, it would seem, would be to seclude himself, to avoid public places and large gatherings, to dress in blacks and greys and fade into the background. It would only take one moment of visibility for an assassin’s dagger or a beam of light to strike at him, unexpected, and steal what little life he has left to him. Indeed, public places aren’t even really required; even someone calling themselves a friend could laugh and smile and strike, and being in public would be a liability for that kind of tricky business.
If he can think of it, someone can do it, and so traditional doctrine would dictate that he should hide himself away, keeping to shadows.
He’s never been much for traditional doctrine.
Instead, he dresses himself in the brightest colours he can find. He tailors his clothing to shout, to laugh mockingly, here I am, here! He chatters endlessly to anyone who will listen about anything at all, and he cultivates a reputation as a bit of a nattering nag, really quite harmless, Cardassian, yes, but look at him; clearly he’s no danger to anyone.
And this charming, effusive harmlessness gets him everywhere he needs to be, lets him walk unharmed through the corridors of an enemy stronghold, his only shield his smile. It’s delightful, how effective it is, and it’s darkly amusing that one of his most powerful infiltration techniques has only been developed long after it could ever be of real service to him. Ah, Tain, you will never know what you have thrown away…
Well, and perhaps one day his talents will be of true use to him once again; for now, he waits, and every day is very much the same, and lately, to amuse himself, he has taken up a hobby:
He is studying the difference between flamboyance as camouflage, and flamboyance as enticement.
* * *
just a little bit of snake oil, tin foil
it takes so little charm to keep you hanging on
but it’s a façade like the sky, like the moon, like your eyes
* * *
“Doctor, it has been a trying day, let me tell you: if I ever see another yard of Terrumethi cold-silk, it will be too soon.”
“Oh, Garak,” and the young man laughs in slightly mocking sympathy, “busy day at the shop?”
“You have no idea.” He takes a delicate bite of his meal, widens his eyes as he chews and swallows. “Completing this commission is taking all of my time—”
“Clearly not all,” and the doctor gestures at the table, at their food, “you’ve still somehow found time for lunch.”
“Well, one must keep one’s strength up, after all,” and he rolls his eyes to the heavens, and Bashir laughs—
Dancing, dancing, flashing his colours, singing a chirping call, look at me, watch me, never look away; really, it is more fun than it has any right to be. The young man seems to be fascinated by Garak, and Garak is pleased to fascinate. No one has looked at him in so long; he’s done his very best to be looked past on all occasions, to be dismissed as pleasant scenery, colourful and unimportant, and he’s been very, very good at it.
And really, that was what he wanted, wasn’t it? To be ignored? To be dismissed as harmless? Insignificance was safety, now—
But Bashir seems to take a positive delight in trying to unmask Garak as something more than the foolishly fashionable tailor he seems to be, in trying to find something dangerous, and his interest is so clearly harmless that Garak finds himself playing along. It’s fun to fence, to parry and deflect Bashir’s clumsy verbal thrusts; they come nowhere near the heart of him, they clatter harmlessly on armour Bashir doesn’t even know is there, and as hobbies go, it’s really quite diverting.
“And why is this commission so important?” Bashir sips his tea, eyes glinting over the rim of the cup.
“Ah, Doctor, every commission is important to the humble businessman—”
The young man brushes that away impatiently, waiting for a real answer, and inside Garak, delight is welling, caught you, caught you again.
“If you must know,” and he affects mild irritation, “the ambassador’s party will be leaving in two days, and I simply wish to have this done before he is gone.”
Bashir pulls his head back, surprised. “The ambassador’s party is here indefinitely, Garak, as is the ambassador; it’s an ongoing posting.”
He lets his eyes widen. “Oh! Truly? I must have been misinformed, then; how embarrassing.” Another bite of his meal. “Well, I suppose I can relax, then. Let’s talk about something more conducive to digestion than my work; have you finished reading—”
And Bashir interrupts him, how marvelous, “Wait, Garak, wait – misinformed? Who are you talking to about the ambassador?”
“Oh, idle chitchat, Doctor, one must pass the time…”
“Leaving in two days… Two days? Why would his posting be cut short?”
He’s frowning, puzzling, worrying at this, and Garak is outwardly apologetic, inwardly gleeful, “Really, Doctor, let us change the subject.”
Bashir’s brow wrinkles, and the hook is planted, and ah, such fun, and in two days when the Purtep ambassador’s dalliance with the Meroven intelligence services is revealed and he is unceremoniously yanked from his posting, Garak catches Bashir frowning at him from across the Promenade, and responds with his most charming smile.
Harmless, delightful fun—
After all, it can never be anything more.
* * *
who would want you as you are?
what can you give they couldn’t get from someone else?
what life of ease, what wedding bells, what pretty stones, what precious wealth?
* * *
Sometimes, as he sews, as he runs the knitter gently along the tightly held alignment of two pieces of cloth, he entertains himself idly with fancies. He justifies this to himself as a reasonable occupation for his mind; while his body is busy, while his hands work, it is pleasantly difficult to hold other possibilities in his mind, other nows that could be. It keeps him sharp, to ponder multiple possible presents and the futures that could branch from them, and so he lets his mind spin…
Sometimes he hears a familiar voice on the Promenade, an echo of booted feet, and Enabran Tain approaches, slowly, arms wide. Many possible futures sprout from this one. In some, he is disdainful; in others, he smiles; in at least one, a disruptor pistol is involved, and his mouth tilts at the thought.
Sometimes he hears the clatter of feet, the angry shouting of voices, and he knows they’ve found him out at last, and now they’re coming, and in a strange way, it’s really rather a relief. Now, where would he hide – up into that vent, and then down through the ductwork, and he could be at landing pad A within ten minutes—
He hums, and the knitter whirrs.
And sometimes, sometimes, rather more of late, and this is not a permissible possible now, this is not something he should entertain –
Damn, he’s misaligned the seam; he’ll have to go back and rip it out. He sighs to himself, starts again.
It is undisciplined and disappointing, how much he likes to imagine a now that brings Bashir to his shop, smiling. Again, he finds many possibilities in this tiny seed, many ways it can grow and unfold its petals:
A banter of words, a coy discussion, a rueful smile and dismissive wave of Bashir’s hand—
A betrayal, an angry shout, hands wide, eyes narrowed, you are nothing like I thought you’d be—
A sudden, soft approach, lean body unfolding, long arms opening as hands find his face and lips part, eager for his own—
Illicit and stupid, and really not worth considering, not even for the time it takes to sew a seam. He is all display and no substance, these days, and he has nothing real to offer someone like Bashir, whose life is just unfolding in front of him, a tapestry of promising colour. Garak’s own life recedes as he watches, his most vibrant days behind him; what lies before him now is softly unravelling into browns and greys and pale, faded hints of brightness, tattered by time.
Ah, but he knows how to repair a tattered garment, he knows how to embroider to please the eye, and so he holds up his beautiful life, flashes folds of it to their best advantage, a memory here, a story there, and it catches Bashir’s eye, charms him, holds him spellbound—
For how long?
There, done; with a bit of a flourish, he shakes out the half-completed garment, admires his work thus far. This will be lovely when it’s done, will catch the eye and draw attention, but with subtlety, with discretion. Suitable for elegant nights and sparkling conversations, made to attract and to do nothing else at all, really; one certainly couldn’t build a wardrobe around this piece, or use it to protect oneself against the cold or the rain. Its only purpose is to support a fiction, an image of loveliness, a dream that only needs to last a night.
It’s a pretty little bit of nothing, really, but it will suffice; now, he really should be moving on to something more plausible, something with a bit more substance—
* * *
don’t be lonely, why don’t you call me?
it’s called a come on, come on, come on, baby
does your heart echo like a hall ‘cause there’s no one there at all?
* * *
“Doctor, I am not at all certain that you are not designing these scenarios simply to place me in increasingly ridiculous costumes.”
“It’s not a costume, Garak, it’s still a tuxedo. It’s just a more formal variation.”
He reaches behind himself, feels the fabric, pulls the tails of the coat out to each side of him. “It looks like something Quark would wear.”
“Perish the thought,” and Bashir grins up at him from where he’s sprawled on his holographic couch, his own rather ridiculous tuxedo rumpled under him.
“Don’t you find it all a bit… ostentatious, Doctor? Subterfuge is perhaps not best attempted when dressed to impress.”
“Oh, I disagree, Garak,” and those hazel eyes shine at him, “I think that a spy should always look his best. Every spy I’ve ever known has followed that guideline.”
“And have you known many spies, Doctor?”
“Just the one,” and that smile, that damnable smile—
Later that night, when he is alone again, his quarters hot and private around him, he sips kanar and lets his mind wander, lets his body warm, one hand sliding low, remembering that smile, predicting its next appearance, and imagining it here with him now, ah, now—
He uncoils himself on his bed, languorous and mildly self-congratulatory. He’d managed to make those eyes flash interest several times today with hints of what he’d been, with genial suggestions on how best to proceed in their little spy holodrama, and each time the doctor had nodded, had laughed, had looked at him, really looked at him...
What have I become, dancing for attention this way?
He is a preening velial, displaying its leathery wings, red-scaled and stretching. He is a suCh’bey, bristles quivering to fullness. Really, it is very obvious of him, nothing like the subtlety that takes so much more skill, and if anyone was around to see him who mattered in any way, anyone who could judge with any degree of Cardassian morality, he might be quite embarrassed.
Ah, well, he himself is hardly a shining display of Cardassian morality, and if he chooses to carry on like a sUt’tert in the main plaza of Torr Sector, all three Chu’en painted brightest blue, draped in the lightest fabrics and scented so that any passers-by know he may be claimed for the right price – what is that to anyone but him? It’s both pleasant and pleasurable, it occupies his time, it warms him, here in this cold place…
And considering that he is alone in his quarters, with no smiles to be found here in past, present, or future, well, perhaps he can be forgiven for taking his pleasures where he can. There is no one else here to condone or disapprove; his only moral judge is himself, and really, he doesn’t count.
It is rather empty in his quarters, sometimes, considering that the only person there doesn’t exist. Sometimes he wonders, foolishly, if his shouting voice would echo. Does the voice of an illusion really make a sound? He mocks the doctor for his holographic games, but the ones he plays with himself are far more imaginative and far more ephemeral, pretending, dreaming, waiting for life to give him something real to be again…
One day perhaps he will fade away into nothingness, vanish completely into his flamboyant display; he will become the strutting, preening creature he pretends to be, and perhaps then it will all be a bit easier. He might do well to emulate one of the doctor’s play-people, built of forcefields and light; a hologram, after all, is never concerned by thoughts of what it was before it was summoned, and it doesn't fear the program’s end. It seems simpler to imagine himself that way: created to play a part, wound up and set to walking like a child’s toy—
And when the child tires of the toy? When its simple, repetitive games wear thin?
He sighs, and looks down at himself, half-dressed and rumpled and really rather foolish.
One day, perhaps sooner than he knows, the doctor will become bored with him and move on to better things, things with substance, things with meaning. Truth is always more alluring than pretense, in the long run; flirtatious, hinting glamour has its charm, but simple honesty holds a beauty that makes the gaudy games Garak is best at look halting and dull. And, sadly and rather amusingly, the simplicity of honesty is the one thing that plain, simple Garak can never offer: the honest truth of who and what he is would drive the doctor away, and so in the end he will be alone no matter what his actions.
Better, for now, to continue the dance. Better to preen his wings, to bristle invitingly, to paint himself brightly, hoping that the man he is dancing for will accept his invitation, will engage his services, if only for an hour, so that he can be real again, can briefly be someone else, someone fascinating, someone to envy, someone worth being—
He tsks at himself, and pushes himself up into a sit. Too much kanar, too much day, and tomorrow he must open early if he wants to get anywhere at all with that maddening gown and its damnable sleeves before the customers come.
The fact that this matters to him at all makes him laugh. Perhaps his transformation is beginning. Perhaps, tomorrow, I’ll really be no more than what I seem.
A final, amusing irony: if he somehow did become nothing more than a foolish, nattering tailor, there would be nothing left to him to draw the doctor in. Too much honesty and too little honesty; really, the balance is so difficult. He wonders, sometimes, how others walk the line.
I’ll never know. I’ll never have to.
Honesty is unimportant, when all he has left is charm.
* * *
--the weepies, “riga girls”