Work Text:
Embankment
I do not know much about gods; but I think that the river
Is a strong brown god
—TS Eliot, The Dry Salvages
London, 2383
After the performance finished, they walked down a narrow street until they reached the river. An embankment had been built here; they walked along it for a while, until they came to a spot where they stopped to lean against the railings and look out. Strings of lamps connecting metal posts cast orange light. The river lapped quietly before them. London was a very different city from Paris, Parmak decided. Not so much love and light – more secrets, perhaps, and lies.
Beside him, the ambassador was murmuring. “Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song…”
“What’s that one, Elim?”
“Oh, just a few lines about this old river…”
“I don’t know the source.”
“Well, I only know a little really…”
They watched the water glide slowly past.
“Have you been here before?” said Parmak. “To London, I mean?”
“Yes, once, during the war,” the ambassador said promptly. “I got beaten up by a peace campaigner.” He peered upriver. “Not far from here, actually. We should go and take a look." His lips twitched. “For old times’ sake, if nothing else.”
Parmak didn’t believe a single word he’d just said. Still, he was happy to run with it, as far as the ambassador was willing. “Did you come here with anyone particular?”
“Oh, a man I used to know. Nobody significant.”
Which man, Parmak wondered. “Local?”
“No, he wasn’t from around here either. Although I did know someone who came from this part of the world…” He looked out at the water. “Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long…”
“Was he a friend?”
“He, Kelas?” The ambassador turned his head to look towards the spot where he had probably not been beaten up by a peace campaigner.
Once, the ambassador had loaned Parmak a book in which a character was drawn so strikingly, so precisely, that he would have sworn he’d read scenes in which the young man appeared. It was only later, when they were talking about the book together, that he realized it was all done through hearsay. The character never appeared. He existed only when others discussed him, described him; when they talked about how he looked and behaved, how he might react to the situations unfolding around them.
Sometimes, being with the ambassador was rather like this. From the fragments, the allusions, the half-truths, and the blatant lies, one assembled something approximating a life story, and the characters that had passed through. Some were drawn very strongly, very vividly. (His mother was one of those, rather touchingly.) Others were kept firmly off the page. Amongst these was Julian Bashir.
Over the more than two years of whatever-this-was-exactly-they-were-doing-together, Parmak had listened attentively (you always had to listen attentively); naturally, he’d also done a little digging round on his own initiative. Akret had been prevailed upon to supply a few files; she, too, was plainly curious. And then there were, of course, the fragments, the allusions, the half-truths, and the blatant lies… Whatever was given, bit by bit, piece by piece, and the gaps around those pieces from which a figure had emerged, in silhouette. The upshot was that by this time, Parmak had a pretty good idea of what had happened with Julian Bashir. Or, more precisely, what had not happened.
“Or she,” said Parmak.
“Yes,” said the ambassador, looking back at him with his bright blue eyes. “A friend.”
He reached out to take Parmak’s hand and Parmak took what was offered.
“How are you getting on with the Dickens?” Parmak said.
“Excuse me?”
“Our Mutual Friend, isn’t it?” Parmak tapped his ear. “You were listening to a reading all the way through the performance earlier.”
The ambassador gave him the most beautiful smile. “It’s good,” he said. “It’s a good reading. He do the police in different voices.”
“I don’t know that quotation either, Elim.”
“Yes, well, there’s still a lot you don’t know about me.”
“I hope so. I wouldn’t want to get bored.”
The ambassador, smiling, reached out to place his hand against Parmak’s cheek. Under the lamplight, he was half visible, half shadow, and completely compelling. Not likely, that, is it, my dear Kelas? Parmak, turning his head ever so slightly, was able to kiss the other man’s palm.
“How tired are you?” said the ambassador. His thumb was gently stroking Parmak’s face.
“Not very,” said Parmak.
“Good,” he said. “Let's go for drinks at the Ritz.”
21st March 2026