The Fabric of Our Lives

I had not expected to be thinking again so soon of marriage.

Yet here before me stood Lieutenant Commander Dax, arms raised, prattling happily. I finished marking up the waistline for alteration and gently tapped her shoulder to indicate that she could lower her arms.

'...Worf insisted, and whatever possessed me to agree I'll never know; some sort of brainstorm, although given my age you'd think I'd have acquired a bit of self-control by now...'

I smiled indulgently and let her chatter, turning my attention to the bright red skirt. The leather was a joy to behold and touch, but less of one to work with. I started the slow process of marking up the hem.

I had been married once: an arrangement which had suited Tain's strategic aspirations, my own craving for respectability and hers for power, and from which I had been summarily dismissed when none of these remained the reward for association with me. I had never intended to make the commitment again.

When Tain died, I experienced, initially, an extraordinary rush of elation which rapidly transformed itself into a deep depression. I could no longer deny the truth from which I had been shielding myself since our abortive attack on the Great Link. I finally admitted to myself that there were only two real eventualities in which I could return home: if Cardassia herself were to change beyond all recognition, or when I was an old man, who had outlived both his enemies and his usefulness.

For a little while it seemed impossible to imagine a way out of this impasse - but I have always prided myself on my creative facilities. In the end it came down to nothing more than simple arithmetic. I had been a spy for nearly thirty years; by this point, I had been a tailor for six. If I remained in good health - and the pace of life on the station was such that I was unlikely to die of anything other than boredom - I could expect to live at least another thirty years. In the improbable event that I would be called to account for my time, the balance sheet did not weigh in favour of my former profession. It appeared I had a simple choice: I could be an unhappy exile, or a happy tailor.

I am not by nature melancholy - nor, for that matter, easily suppressed - so it appeared I had negotiated for myself only one real option. Yet it was also outside of my nature to forsake Cardassia completely. Of all my loves, she is the most abiding. I would stop at nothing to release her from the Dominion - but with my enemies in power and my influence at the lowest it had been since I was a very young man, there was in practice little that I could do. And rather than dwell, fruitlessly and self-destructively, on my limitations, I began slowly, and very uncertainly, to believe that it was possible to reconceive the identity of Elim Garak, spy, assassin, torturer, and once the second most powerful man in the Cardassian Union.

The night before the station was to be evacuated, we ate together in my quarters. It was unlike the many other, more convivial, evenings we had spent together. She picked at her food, I drank rather more than was my custom. Conversation flickered briefly over the first course, but was nonexistent by the end of the main. As she stared down at her plate, I found myself gazing at her pensive face and, to the surprise of both of us, I asked Tora Ziyal to become my wife.

Her face initially registered shock, then slowly lit up as she gave her consent. Unsure of what to do next, I reached over somewhat tentatively to kiss her and was startled by the ardour with which she drew me towards her. As I took her carefully over to the bed, she burst into tears. I drew back, uncertainly, but she renewed her grasp on me, and it came to me in a flash that she was actually crying out of happiness.

I had not until that moment realized that it was possible for me to enable another person to experience joy, and that revelation inspired in me a sudden and profound conviction that, regardless of her comparative youth, my own defects, and the inevitable hostility with which the match would be received, it was truly possible for us to be happy together. Standing next to her body two months later, it was hard to recall what had persuaded me of such an uncharacteristically sentimental belief; it was even harder to imagine what had possessed her to acquiesce.

I realized that all I could see was a red blur, and that I was crying, very softly. I wiped my eyes, but now my hands could not touch the leather without ruining it. 'Please excuse me for a moment,' I murmured, and noted thankfully that my voice had not sounded in any way odd. In the back of the shop, I washed my hands and splashed my face with cold water, berating myself for such appallingly self-indulgent behaviour. Once more firmly in control of myself, I returned to the excited chatter of the Lieutenant Commander.

The following evening, the doctor and I met in Quark's. After the sudden withdrawal of the occupying Cardassian forces, Quark had found himself the disgruntled owner of a supply of first-rate kanar which he was resigned to selling to me at a gratifyingly cheap rate. I sipped appreciatively at a superior vintage which I had not tasted since leaving Cardassia, whilst the doctor, with relish, filled me in on the latest crisis to hit the forthcoming nuptials.

'...And now Dax is furious! She told me she was refusing to go through with it! Worf, of course, is biting the head off anyone who comes within five yards of him...'

I sniffed dismissively. 'I must confess, I find all this melodrama quite distasteful. I'm sure they should be able to conduct their personal affairs without reducing it to the level of a cheap holodrama with the whole station for an audience.'

He frowned. 'I think it's rather romantic.'

I smiled dryly. That was my Julian - completely superficial in matters of the heart. I turned my attention back to the excellent kanar, which was raising my spirits immensely. 'Quite frankly, doctor, I'm finding the whole business exceedingly tiresome. And as long as they settle their account at the shop, I really don't care either way.'

He scowled at me with irritation. I really had liked him rather more when he had respected me.

***

I stole into the temple a minute or so after the service had begun. It was packed out, a testament to the affection she had given to all, and in which she had been held. The front rows were filled, naturally, by Kira, Odo, and the senior Starfleet personnel. There seemed to be an empty seat and, being ignorant of the detail of Bajoran superstition, I puzzled over its theological significance - perhaps it was meant to represent the place where Ziyal was, given that her pagh was supposed to be always with us - but I could come to no satisfactory conclusion.

I pressed myself into a corner at the back and listened to the strange service. I wondered idly if Dukat had given permission for his daughter to be buried according to Bajoran tradition, and decided wearily I either didn't care or, maliciously, hoped he hadn't.

The service seemed to go on forever. The relentlessly monotonous chanting, the pervasively pungent incense, and the jarring of a profoundly alien culture all started to unsettle me, and after an hour and a quarter, I believed that I was going to start screaming.

Instead, I closed my eyes. The events of the past months came rushing back.

I had felt marooned on Starbase 375. Once the Defiant left me behind, I ruefully came to appreciate the extent to which the DS9 personnel had become accustomed to me. On the starbase, not only was I an unfamiliar face, I was also an alien from an enemy race whose own past was questionable, and whose reliability as an ally was dubious. Surrounded by strangers who were unable and, quite understandably, given the circumstances, unwilling to accommodate me, it proved an isolated existence.

The euphemistically-termed debriefing itself was not unpleasant - but it did cause me a certain degree of anxiety. An interrogation is an interrogation, no matter how courteously it is conducted. My manners towards my own subjects had invariably been flawless.

Of course I appreciated the need to question me, and I tried hard not to lie. Almost entirely, the information I provided about my former home was sound, if sometimes a little outdated. It was only occasionally, feeling either frustration at the propriety of the proceedings or a paranoia induced by being trapped in a small room on the wrong side of the questioners' desk, that I found myself fabricating wildly. The keen young lieutenant became rapidly annoyed at this tendency; the more solid commander showed a surprising degree of insight and would curtail an interview once it became apparent that he was no longer getting the truth from me. Eventually, I simply started to tell him when I had begun lying; we would stop for a break and recommence when it was clear that I was able to continue giving useful answers.

I was politely requested to remain in my quarters when not being interviewed. I tried leaving on a couple of occasions, but was followed quite blatantly by two security guards, and eventually gave up. Boredom soon set it. I missed conversation - my only interactions were with the officers assigned to question me - and my computer access had been severely restricted. I diverted myself for a little while by breaking through some of the barriers, but it seemed to distress my hosts, and I didn't see any point in increasing their anxieties about me.

I was not oblivious to the irony of the fact that eventually I turned to sewing to fill the hours. It seemed to be a metaphor for my life. The replicator in my quarters was able to create some basic tools and materials. At first I just played idly, keeping my hand in. Then it occurred to me that, should I ever return to Deep Space Nine, I would have a major and pressing project on my hands: a wedding dress. It was a relief to find a distraction which was sufficiently complex fully to engage my faculties, and which in no way felt trivial. I embarked on the task with enthusiasm, and it rapidly became my only other occupation beyond selling out my homeland.

I had made many dresses for her before and knew what she liked - in fact, I even knew her taste in wedding dresses: it seemed that our otherwise pointless sessions with Rom and Leeta were finally bearing fruit. Within a week I had decided on the design and was ready to start cutting the cloth.

The replicator would not let me recreate the appropriate equipment. Clearly it was including them under the broad definition of devices that could potentially be used as weapons, and could not appreciate the subtlety of the purposes to which I intended to devote them. The fact that I had once or twice managed to use some of the tools of my trade as weapons was beside the point.

It made for an interesting exchange at the end of one of our interviews. I presented the commander with a list of the items I needed and asked if he would procure them for me.

'May I ask what you want these for, Mr Garak?' His accent reminded me of the doctor's.

'Oh, I'm making a wedding dress,' I said ingenuously.

One eyebrow raised slightly but, to his credit, he said nothing beyond an impeccably well-mannered, 'I'll see what I can do for you.'

The tools arrived that evening, and I became completely immersed in the next stage of the project. It only struck me a few days later just how bizarre the conversation must have been from the commander's point of view. How frequently would he have been presented with a subject whose strategic knowledge was critical, who would lie for no rational reason, who was secretive about past activities which had obviously been both brutal and ruthless - and who wanted to make dresses in his spare time? It amused me to think of how this must have appeared from the commander's perspective, but I wisely decided I myself would not dwell on the extent to which all of these components were essential to my personality.

By the time the final preparations were being made for the assault on Deep Space Nine, there was a certain degree of satisfaction on all sides. There wasn't much more of value that I could tell the Federation. I had managed to avoid giving away too much detail about my activities before my exile. And I had a two-thirds completed wedding dress. Within seconds of being back on the station, I had registered that she was not there to greet me, and I knew in my heart that something was badly wrong. Overhearing Jake, my suspicions were confirmed. But nothing, nothing - and here I am including my own cynicism, which cruelly let me down on this occasion - had prepared me for the nightmare scenario that awaited in the infirmary.

'She will walk with the Prophets for ever,' intoned the vedek, and the rest of the congregation followed suit.

I snapped open my eyes realizing, in horror, that once again tears were coursing silently down my cheeks. With a muted snarl, I rubbed my hand roughly over my face. This lack of control was beginning to disturb me, and I hoped fervently that this was only a passing phenomenon and not an early onset of senility. The service was over and the congregation beginning to stir. The funeral party, consisting of Kira, Odo, Sisko and the rest, was following the body out.

Kira saw me and frowned, and I twisted my face away, shielding it awkwardly with one hand. I stayed in that position, breathing deeply to calm myself, until the temple was completely empty, whereupon I leaned forward to clutch the back of the bench in front of me.

I thought of sitting down for a few moments to regain my composure, but I saw that the vedek was watching me anxiously, and I realized that, most understandably, he was not happy having a sole Cardassian lingering in his temple. I wiped my hand across my eyes, took a slightly shuddering breath, smiled at him in a fair approximation of a friendly manner, and left.

I headed towards the shop, but heard a quick footfall behind me. I turned round to see the Major coming towards me.

'Why didn't you come right in?' she demanded. 'There was a seat for you at the front.'

I felt rather foolish and was momentarily lost for words. I cleared my throat and inclined my head. 'Thank you, Major; I appreciate the thought. Nonetheless, it seemed appropriate to limit Cardassian intrusion into your temple to just a few steps.' I was becoming acutely aware of the eyes of the rest of the senior staff - and most of the regular inhabitants of the Promenade - watching us with interest.

'But you are going to join us at the wake?' she pressed me.

I looked at the waiting group and my courage deserted me. 'Thank you, Major, but no.' My inventiveness failed me as well, and I offered no explanation.

She looked confused and almost angry, which in turn bewildered me, and I wondered briefly if she was mistaking my reserve for indifference.

'In the name of all the Prophets, Garak, she was going to be your wife!'

Her voice, raw and angry, resounded down the Promenade, and I heard the susurration of whispering which followed. I must have visibly flinched, because she suddenly looked horrified and her hand went to her mouth. 'I'm so sorry...' she murmured.

Of course she would have told Kira. That, I could accept. But I had not intended the information to become the property of the entire station. I opened my mouth, closed it again, swallowed, and then turned and fled into the shop, locking the door behind me and not coming out until I was sure that the Promenade would be deserted.

During the course of that prolonged, miserable afternoon, I screened three messages - one from an overwrought Kira apologizing profusely, one from a composed Dax confirming our appointment for a fitting for the next day and hoping that I was 'all right', and one from an uncomfortable Bashir asking me to join him for lunch the following day. I didn't answer any of them. Grief was bearable - just. Pity had the capacity to destroy me completely. I didn't want it.

***

I twisted round the mirror, stood back, and smiled at the valkyrie in front of me. 'How do you like it?' I said.

Dax span round in delight, momentarily lost for words. 'Oh, Garak, it's beautiful. Thank you, thank you so much.'

I nodded in acknowledgement of her appreciation, and watched as she admired the finished product from all angles. It had been a challenging piece of work and I was satisfied that I had done a good job.

Suddenly, she reached out and grasped my hand. 'I really am very grateful that you felt able to do this for me,' she said.

I raised her hand carefully and kissed it. 'Enjoy your day, my dear,' I said. As I started to withdraw my hand, she suddenly squeezed it and held it. 'It should have been you first,' she said frankly. 'I'm so sorry it's not.'

I swallowed, automatically dropping my gaze then, with a conscious effort, raised my head and at looked her directly. Very gently, I extracted myself from her grip and gave her a smile. 'I have come to the conclusion, my dear, that marriage is best appreciated by the young.'

She smiled back at me. 'Garak,' she said, 'I'm three hundred years older than you.'

I acknowledged this gentle, well-judged rebuke with a tilt of the head. 'That's a very good point, Commander. I'll try to remember it.'

She went to change back into uniform, then left me to the quiet of the shop. When I was sure she was safely gone, I drew out from under the counter the bundle that I had brought from the Defiant, and unwrapped the white dress. The difference between the two gowns was striking. I could just imagine what Ziyal's reaction would have been had I presented her with the outfit which had just given such pleasure to Lieutenant Commander Dax. She would probably have fainted. Ziyal's taste matched her personality: refined, subtle, understated - a mark of her Cardassian heritage. But this dress would not have presented her as a shrinking violet. It would not simply have reflected her qualities - it would have gloried in them.

I traced a reverential finger across the exquisite, hand-sewn embroidery on the bodice, one of the finest pieces of work I had ever done. In my mind's eye I could see it completed, and how lovely she would have looked in it. After a few minutes, I very carefully folded it up again. I would never finish it. Ziyal had inspired me to create something beautiful, but without her it could only be incomplete. I buried it, like treasure, beneath the counter.

I looked around the shop, reviewing my options. There were a few bits and pieces that I needed to finish before closing for the day. I thought briefly that I might contact the doctor and suggest we met at Quark's, then decided that I ought to stop putting off the inevitable and go and see the Major.

In broader terms... well, what, really, were my options? More limited than they had been, that was for sure, though in some key respects unchanged. Whatever turmoil I had been through over the past weeks, it still did not change the hard fact that Cardassia remained lost to me. Nor did it alter the fact that this was something I simply had to come to terms with. Without Ziyal, it would be more difficult. But it had to done.

I switched on the lamp on my desk, pulled out some work, and set to. Life goes on. As I worked, I reflected that it seemed unlikely that an opportunity would arise again so soon to make me a happy tailor. In the meantime, I was damned if I was going to be an unhappy one.