the emissary
"But the thing is," the girl says, and now that I look at her, I believe it's not a mole on her cheek, but a rather small bug of some sort (perhaps it’s terrified by the pores in her skin; I wouldn’t be surprised if a girl with such a nasally voice would have pores the size of moon craters), “The thing is, it’s important to make sure that you ask the right people.”
I note to myself that in this interaction there is an instructor and a student, a primary and a subordinate, somehow coming to terms between their social differences and speaking to each other as equals. Or perhaps one is stooping down and patting the other on the head, giving easy life advice.
“Right,” the other girl agrees, and about what they are conversing I have not the faintest idea. “Important.”
Well, I encourage myself, it is about something important.
“Of course,” the mole girl hesitates, looking down at her computer (which seems to be the source of all of her knowledge), “it’s also important to check up on the situation. You know what I mean, right?” And there’s a slight lilt in the end of that question--the sort that doesn’t usually occur at the end of most innocent questions--that makes me wonder whether the other girl really knows. I certainly don’t, but I listen on.
“Right. then what should I do? I mean, I’ve tried talking to him, but--”
Oh. So there’s a third element in this picture (because I’m not really an element--I’m sort of an unobserved, unimportant object, like a pebble sitting there in the corner, praying to be unnoticed): a him. Perhaps it’s one of those problems, the ones that involve--
“Well you haven’t talked to her about it--”
And a her. The situation’s growing by the second. An affair of sorts? A love advisor and her client?
I steal a glance; all of this drama is much too enticing to tune in to without knowing the faces. I half expect melodramatic music to effuse from the floors. The mole girl, it seems, has removed the mole or bug or whatever it is from her face. She readjusts her glasses, and I notice that she, uncannily enough, resembles Angelina Jolie. Well, not really. But kind of, if you take a very cursory glance like I did--
“Besides,” Jolie’s nose says flippantly, and I’m so utterly disgusted by this grating of voicebox that I fleet my eyes over to her customer, or recipient, or conversation-taker of some sort. This girl is considerably thicker; her cheeks are rather round (plush, is that what plush means?). She’s wearing a horridly red woolen sweater.
I turn quickly to my book, afraid of discovery. I realize that I haven’t flipped the page in a while (perhaps they’ve noticed! they’re talking about some secret mission and they’ve mistaken me as a spy and they’re throwing me off track, thinking that I am a Russian agent of some sort), so with a rather unconvincing crinkle, I flip on to page three. (Should I skip to the middle of the book--risk being detected creating this sly cover in order to look utterly absorbed in this fantastic book about The Missing Stone?)
My franticly amateur thoughts as a spy is interrupted by yet another nasally burst of sound from the girl’s mouth.
“You know, I tried talking to Elaine about it--”
Elaine? Elaine sounds like a sort of sophisticated name. Perhaps Elaine is currently in London, traveling through Europe on a tour to display her--her--what is it--her art, yes that’s what it is. A renowned artist. Or perhaps a ballerina, a prodigy recognized from an early age (I’m sure I have probably seen her during one of my particularly bored ventures through YouTube). Perhaps she is an orphan raised under two loving adopted parents who have a slight English accent--
“Yes, hello?”
So the look-unlike of Angelina Jolie is on the phone now; clearly I’ve missed an integral part of this heart-to-heart. I pick myself back up, unharmed from this potentially critical miss. Perhaps eavesdropping one side of the conversation will enlighten me on this vague exchange.
“Yes, I’m checking on the availability of--yes, your bikes. I was wondering if they’re available for rent on the weekends?”
Bikes? Rent? The mission swerves into a completely unexpected direction. I’m thinking about dates in the park now; perhaps they’re going to rent a couple bike to ride in central park, let the wind brush their shoulders, with flowery one-pieces and cardigans and dress shirts and slicked-back hair and all--wait, bikes?
I steal another glance at the Jolie impostor--no, she doesn’t look like Angelina Jolie, she looks more like some sort of dog--a dalmatian, is it--because there it is! The bug, on her face again. It’s awfully still, on that cheek of hers, and I assume it’s only there for a break from an exhausting day of flying and dodging annoyed human hands.
“Yes,” she noses into her cellular device, which she grips in her hand with all five of her fingers like she is a tech newbie (but her age seems fitting for the type that crouches over the phone even during desperate hours, texting whoever-or-not). “Yes, alright. Thank you.”
She’s done with the call; I flip another page.
“Well,” she says with a sigh, and I hear a chair move in unease.
Oh, so there’s a problem? Tension rising? The bikes cannot be rented, that’s what it is--they only have motorcycles--Do you have a license to drive motorcycles? Our sincerest apologies--it seems that all of the matchmakers on the east coast have called us today--
So tech newbie is a matchmaker. I’ve seen those ads on the Internet--what with Christian Match or MatchMaker.com of some sort. I imagine they’ve settled this meeting weeks in advance and this is their first time meeting with a promise of a future husband.
“Yes, hello?”
Another call. Another critical miss. I grimace to myself (but only internally--externally, my professional agent skills display my good-humored stare at the sentence which reads absolutely nothing to me)--how could I miss yet another exchange of words?
“Yes. This is--ah. I’m asking if you’re hiring?”
Hiring. This is odd. First bikes, then hiring--but save colorfully divergent thoughts for later. I won’t miss anything now.
“Yes, yes.”
If only she could be clearer!
I grip my book with all five of my hands like a book newbie, unable to decide where to hold the book. My thumb covers most of the text and I realize that if the subordinate girl (who hasn’t said much for the past few minutes) had just looked a little to her left, she would have noticed that I’m actually a foreign operative because I can’t possibly be reading this book: it’s upside down and I’m covering the text with my fingers--by god, it’s upside down!
I stare at the text. I can read it perfectly. I sigh; so it’s not upside down.
“Yes, alright. That’s absolutely perfect. So the application is online?”
“Yes, thank you so much. Bye bye.”
I have absolutely no idea why people say bye twice--is it because they regret saying good-bye once?
“So it’s online?”
Behold, the second girl has spoken.
Tech newbie lets out a sigh. “Yeah.” (And my shoulders sag in sympathy; what a pity, I tell myself. What is? I’m not sure either.)
“I mean, we can try calling Bertucci’s,” the atrociously red sweater girl suggests. I flip the page. Momentarily, I contemplate standing up and putting the book back to find a more aesthetically pleasing book; my eyes are tired of looking at tiny Times New Roman font size 9 text while my head is trying to figure out the loose ends of this rather perplexing mission.
And then it hits me--Bertucci’s is an Italian restaurant across the street. So she’s a sort of job consultant or something--but what was that about Elaine? Who on earth is Elaine? Are they going to buy art pieces from her? Sweater girl is an aspiring art dealer, perhaps?
“Alright. I’ll do that.”
My eavesdropping targets are suddenly silent. One is probably typing on the computer, the other looking down at her knees.
Target Mole speaks up after a few minutes. Another phone call.
“Yes, I was just wondering about your job positions?”
“Mhm. Yes. Alright. Okay.”
“Of course.”
“Oh, and--and do you do interviews?”
“Ah, I see. Thank you. Thank you. Bye.”
I realize, suddenly, as I imagine Target Mole ending the call and giving another knowing but somehow smug grimace to her client of sorts, that my bladder is about to explode. It had originated, really, when I had bought a much-too-cumbersome drink from the vending machine. The pee was urgent just as I tuned into this enticing conversation and so I had postponed it to a later date. I guess my bladder couldn’t take the change in plans--an obsessive compulsive, I assume it is.
With an apologetic grunt (to myself, really), I throw down the book and rush off to the bathroom. It’s obvious that once I’m gone, they’ll suddenly start stating everything they’ve been talking about in a clear, straightforward way so that every eavesdropper may understand their conversation (“Well, you see, I, as your matchmaker and godmother, can’t seem to find any bikes for rent for your honeymoon--and oh, by the way, sorry about that--I’m looking for a job right now, you know…”). There’s also the possibility that I may have urinated in my underwear in the cafe bookstore while seemingly reading a dystopian teen novel about a missing stone written in ridiculously small text (“Oh my--the ending, though! It was preposterous--it surprised me so much that the muscles around my bladder gasped and forgot about their physiological duties!”). I decide that social humiliation will likely uncover my position as an incognito eavesdropper for the Russian government. In my wise judgement, peeing is the best option.
I appear from the bathroom with the horror of realizing that someone may have, very easily, taken my spot at that specific table. It’s a prime spot, after all--who knows if the Belgians are in on this mission as well--and my steps quicken as I near the cafe.
It’s still unoccupied. I take this chance, as I arrive at my assigned location, to flip open to page fifty four of The Missing Stone. A great cover for this newbie agent: a teen helplessly addicted to dystopian novels. I would go under the radar for any mission with this kind of disguise.
I listen, my ears perked for any more juicy conversation. Nothing occurs. Perhaps the mole girl is not a matchmaker, I venture. Perhaps a sort of meditating advisor. A yoga counselor. That’s it--a counselor. Perhaps they’re practicing the art of meditating--”Yes, that’s it. Sit in a bookstore filled with loud babies and gossiping people and eavesdropping Russian spies and close your eyes. Listen to the sound of the world--how irritating, you think, but also, how natural. This is life, this is life…”
Or, I think, perhaps they’re really government workers who are trying to save the country (or the world!) from a jeopardizing situation. They’re here to complete their mission, and they suspect that there is a spy here, a foreigner who is determined to undermine their valiant actions with a sly ploy of some sort.
Ridiculous. The former is probably much more likely, I think to myself. But I realize that I’ve been in the silence of my own speculations for much too long; I glance over at the table and--
aghast!
They’re gone.
The table is unoccupied, as blank as a sheet of notebook paper at the stationery store, as empty as… as my knowledge on this book. It throw it down in disgust. The table is empty! Empty. As if nobody had been there in the first place.
Upon (indignant) observation, I realize that one of the seats are slightly ajar--so they didn’t have time to push the chairs in neatly, I think to myself.
Aha! It’s too obvious. They thought I was a spy, and they felt tied to their spot. My bathroom venture had allowed them a hole through which to escape. I smile smugly at the chair. A wind has blown; a piece of paper falls from it.
A note!
Perhaps it’s a cynical note from the two government spies, perhaps something like “Saved the world now. Don’t try again. We’ll catch you someday,” or maybe “Don’t mess with us,” or maybe “You may have escaped now, but not next time.” What an honor! They’ve considered me a spy.
A baby two tables beside me cries out in protest. I am shaken to my senses.
No, I tell myself, shaking my head. It’s probably just a napkin. Spies are ridiculous. The matter’s settled: mole girl was a matchmaker setting up a honeymoon for the girl with a bad taste in sweater colors.