He did not see her again for some time, but after that night he always kept an eye out for her face in every crowd.
Deciding how to handle her persistence would be difficult, he knew, provided that she didn't just return home as an acknowledgement of her defeat by Irina, by himself, by the universe at large. But to what home had she to return? If Bristow wasn't dead yet, he soon would be; someone would surely see to that. Her friends who were left would be unable to relate to Sydney, so devastated after having her life stolen at another's whim. So he kept an eye out, but when she found him again six months later in Paris, he didn't see her coming until she sat beside him and demanded an answer.
He suspected she was following him merely because she believed or hoped he would lead her to Irina. With that in mind he had changed his itinerary, moved around more than he'd initially intended. He thought maybe she would have lost interest, gone off on her own. If she had, her independent search had been as fruitless as his own, because here she was now, older and harder than she'd been six months ago, or a year before that.
Fresh wounds had made her soft the last time they'd met. Now they had become calluses, made her impenetrable. This almost reminded him of Irina, except that she was still too angry to be amused. She was not yet ready to strike back, no matter how badly she wanted him to believe she would do so if given the opportunity.
He was almost relieved to see a familiar face after so much time spent staring at strangers, speaking to few. It would not be long, he was sure, before his voice would simply atrophy; then the rest of him would follow, fade into the hollow body of a guiltless tourist. No one would notice, no one would care.
(Unless his suspicions were true; then perhaps one person might care. Perhaps.)
"What are you drinking?" he offered pleasantly as she sat across from him, a familiar stranger in this crowded bar.
"Where is she?" she asked in a tone clearly intended to remind him she was armed.
He suppressed his first response, swallowed it with so much vodka. Then: "I wouldn't be here if I knew," in a tone intended to remind her he didn't care.
"Why are you doing this?" she demanded, genuinely distraught, as if perhaps he were doing something painful to her by leading her in circles or meaningless zigzag patterns for weeks.
"I don't know what you mean," he said impassively, scanning the dance floor as though he was looking for tonight's companion.
"Where is she?"
"I don't know! Jesus." Too much, maybe, but he needed to convince her.
She was quiet, then, and he almost felt like he should apologize for snapping at her, knowing what he knew. But what had happened wasn't personal, at least not for him. He didn't feel responsible. He hadn't known, and if he had it wouldn't have made much difference, or any.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked again, softer this time. "Wandering around. Looking for her. You are looking for her, aren't you?"
He did not say: I am looking for her because she has been waiting for my arrival, and every passing day is a disappointment to us both. It wasn't entirely what he believed when he was honest, but considering the prospect that perhaps sparing his life was not her formal farewell made hours spent staring at repetitive landscapes somehow sweeter.
He did not say: I am looking for her because every day that passes during which I don't arrive at the place I should have known she would be for all this time is one more failure.
She nodded as if he had spoken. "At first I thought you were headed right for her, that it had been planned. Then I began to realize that you're looking for her, just like me." She paused. "So, why? How?"
He shrugged, finishing his drink. "Nothing better to do."
"I don't believe that."
"I don't really care." He stood up, tossed some bills on the table, and walked away.
"How do you know she isn't dead? I mean, for a while I thought she was, until you started moving around."
She was prodding him, clearly, waiting for the precise moment when her fingers would strike the dark center of the bruise. He simply remained silent. After all, perhaps it was true; he had no proof to the contrary, merely a quest that kept his mind occupied with thoughts that did not include that one. But to admit anything would lead to further questions, and he was already beginning to tire of her company.
"Why don't you just go home?" he asked suddenly, turning to face her.
"I will," she said. "When I'm done."
He stretched his arms out to his sides. "Do it, then. Fucking get it over with."
Confusion passed over her features before she said, "Not you." A pause, then, as if to reassure him of her detachment: "Not yet."
He dropped his arms, turned away. "You might as well. You'll never find her."
And he honestly hadn't meant for her to hear his own defeat in those words, not like before, but he suspected she did, because no obvious retort was forthcoming for several minutes as he began to walk away again, and she to chase after.
"What I don't understand is why it matters to you. You said she took something of yours. How could it possibly be worth all of this?"
"You're right. It isn't."
He was surprised to hear disappointment. "You're giving up?"
"That's right," he said calmly. "Your only lead."
"I'm staying," she replied, in a tone that clearly indicated: I'm not fooled.
"Good luck, then."
"That's it?"
He turned to face her once more. "What more could there be?"
"After all this time--"
"After all this time," he repeated, "I am returning to London, where I will remain until the next employment opportunity arises." He paused. "I hope you find what you're looking for," and if he was speaking more to himself than to her, she did not notice.
When he walked away this time, she did not follow.
Three hours later he boarded a train to Germany. Five addresses remained on the crumpled paper he'd found discarded in an Austrian hotel room. Five more chances. And he'd successfully removed Sydney from his trail; he had watched her enter the airport bound for some unknown destination which could not possibly be the same as his own.
Later it would occur to him how naive he had been to believe she would abandon her own quest so easily. He would be forced to blame it on the vodka.
Deciding how to handle her persistence would be difficult, he knew, provided that she didn't just return home as an acknowledgement of her defeat by Irina, by himself, by the universe at large. But to what home had she to return? If Bristow wasn't dead yet, he soon would be; someone would surely see to that. Her friends who were left would be unable to relate to Sydney, so devastated after having her life stolen at another's whim. So he kept an eye out, but when she found him again six months later in Paris, he didn't see her coming until she sat beside him and demanded an answer.
He suspected she was following him merely because she believed or hoped he would lead her to Irina. With that in mind he had changed his itinerary, moved around more than he'd initially intended. He thought maybe she would have lost interest, gone off on her own. If she had, her independent search had been as fruitless as his own, because here she was now, older and harder than she'd been six months ago, or a year before that.
Fresh wounds had made her soft the last time they'd met. Now they had become calluses, made her impenetrable. This almost reminded him of Irina, except that she was still too angry to be amused. She was not yet ready to strike back, no matter how badly she wanted him to believe she would do so if given the opportunity.
He was almost relieved to see a familiar face after so much time spent staring at strangers, speaking to few. It would not be long, he was sure, before his voice would simply atrophy; then the rest of him would follow, fade into the hollow body of a guiltless tourist. No one would notice, no one would care.
(Unless his suspicions were true; then perhaps one person might care. Perhaps.)
"What are you drinking?" he offered pleasantly as she sat across from him, a familiar stranger in this crowded bar.
"Where is she?" she asked in a tone clearly intended to remind him she was armed.
He suppressed his first response, swallowed it with so much vodka. Then: "I wouldn't be here if I knew," in a tone intended to remind her he didn't care.
"Why are you doing this?" she demanded, genuinely distraught, as if perhaps he were doing something painful to her by leading her in circles or meaningless zigzag patterns for weeks.
"I don't know what you mean," he said impassively, scanning the dance floor as though he was looking for tonight's companion.
"Where is she?"
"I don't know! Jesus." Too much, maybe, but he needed to convince her.
She was quiet, then, and he almost felt like he should apologize for snapping at her, knowing what he knew. But what had happened wasn't personal, at least not for him. He didn't feel responsible. He hadn't known, and if he had it wouldn't have made much difference, or any.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked again, softer this time. "Wandering around. Looking for her. You are looking for her, aren't you?"
He did not say: I am looking for her because she has been waiting for my arrival, and every passing day is a disappointment to us both. It wasn't entirely what he believed when he was honest, but considering the prospect that perhaps sparing his life was not her formal farewell made hours spent staring at repetitive landscapes somehow sweeter.
He did not say: I am looking for her because every day that passes during which I don't arrive at the place I should have known she would be for all this time is one more failure.
She nodded as if he had spoken. "At first I thought you were headed right for her, that it had been planned. Then I began to realize that you're looking for her, just like me." She paused. "So, why? How?"
He shrugged, finishing his drink. "Nothing better to do."
"I don't believe that."
"I don't really care." He stood up, tossed some bills on the table, and walked away.
"How do you know she isn't dead? I mean, for a while I thought she was, until you started moving around."
She was prodding him, clearly, waiting for the precise moment when her fingers would strike the dark center of the bruise. He simply remained silent. After all, perhaps it was true; he had no proof to the contrary, merely a quest that kept his mind occupied with thoughts that did not include that one. But to admit anything would lead to further questions, and he was already beginning to tire of her company.
"Why don't you just go home?" he asked suddenly, turning to face her.
"I will," she said. "When I'm done."
He stretched his arms out to his sides. "Do it, then. Fucking get it over with."
Confusion passed over her features before she said, "Not you." A pause, then, as if to reassure him of her detachment: "Not yet."
He dropped his arms, turned away. "You might as well. You'll never find her."
And he honestly hadn't meant for her to hear his own defeat in those words, not like before, but he suspected she did, because no obvious retort was forthcoming for several minutes as he began to walk away again, and she to chase after.
"What I don't understand is why it matters to you. You said she took something of yours. How could it possibly be worth all of this?"
"You're right. It isn't."
He was surprised to hear disappointment. "You're giving up?"
"That's right," he said calmly. "Your only lead."
"I'm staying," she replied, in a tone that clearly indicated: I'm not fooled.
"Good luck, then."
"That's it?"
He turned to face her once more. "What more could there be?"
"After all this time--"
"After all this time," he repeated, "I am returning to London, where I will remain until the next employment opportunity arises." He paused. "I hope you find what you're looking for," and if he was speaking more to himself than to her, she did not notice.
When he walked away this time, she did not follow.
Three hours later he boarded a train to Germany. Five addresses remained on the crumpled paper he'd found discarded in an Austrian hotel room. Five more chances. And he'd successfully removed Sydney from his trail; he had watched her enter the airport bound for some unknown destination which could not possibly be the same as his own.
Later it would occur to him how naive he had been to believe she would abandon her own quest so easily. He would be forced to blame it on the vodka.