Sometimes he wondered why he even continued searching for her after the time that had elapsed between then and now.
The train finally lurched forward as he prepared to leave Germany, having made a quick trip to the fourth remaining address to ensure that she was not there. Of course, he had found nothing but an angry man awakened too early and unwilling to part with any information, not that he had anything to offer anyway. The romance of his search was beginning to lose its luster.
After all, perhaps it truly had been a favor to him that was done when she disappeared. Not just the sparing of his life, although most days he believed he was grateful to her for that, but the fact that her departure effectively ended whatever it was that had gone on between them for however many months it had been. She'd taken care to ensure that his last memory of her, of them together, was a good one. Perhaps she wasn't waiting for his arrival--not that he ever really thought she was, or at least that's what he would claim if the question ever arose. Perhaps he should just leave her alone, wherever she was, if she was anywhere.
Now it seemed he was only going through the motions, still searching simply because it was what he had done for so long. If she was alive, why wouldn't she have made her presence known? Had she simply abandoned her search in favor of total isolation? There were so many questions that would never be answered; even if he found her, he would not presume to ask them.
Even if he finally located her, what could possibly come of that? What would exist between them if she were not giving orders during the day and he was not following them, seeking to ensure her absolute approval almost every time? A smile flickered across his lips briefly as he imagined: in bed, Sunday morning, reading the newspaper; she would take the news section, give him the comics. Not likely, no. Maybe he didn't even need this anymore. He was older now, if not by much physically, then prematurely aged by the experience of grieving and hoping and failing to hope and endless, aimless travel.
And there were new marks on his body that did not belong to her.
(At this thought, he scratched idly at the edges of the square bandage taped over the evidence of the previous night's escapade. He couldn't quite remember what it was he'd consented to allow them to imprint into his skin, only that the man who'd done the honors had warned him at great length in broken English of the dangers of removing the bandage too early. A moment's discomfort seemed preferable to a lifetime's displeasure. He removed his hand from the area and resolved to be patient.)
So perhaps, he concluded, he should make good on what he'd told Sydney he intended to do the second time they met. Perhaps he should simply return to London, find some other employer to take orders from. But he'd come this far; he could have found her months ago and answered at least some of his questions already. Three more addresses.
He'd had trouble determining where to go from Germany. If Sydney remembered the next destination, even if she no longer had her list, she would proceed to Spain. Therefore, deciding upon his next move required figuring out his purpose: to avoid Sydney altogether, or to keep her from finding Irina before he did. As his belief in Irina's survival had finally begun to dwindle, it was a more difficult decision than it might have been on a previous occasion.
Morbid curiosity and the (possibly) illogical notion of loyalty led him to Spain at the end of his journey. This time he did not pause to deposit his belongings in a rented room before proceeding directly to the address she'd left for him, intentionally or not. Unlike most of the other locations he'd visited, this one was an actual home, as opposed to an unmarked commercial building or warehouse. A feeling of dread more intense than he'd felt anything for a long, long time pulsed through his veins. Turning back would be ridiculous, at this point. When he reached the door, he lowered his bag to his feet slowly. For the first time, he actually hoped she would not be found here. He cast a final glance over his shoulder to be sure Sydney was not approaching, or lurking, observing silently, waiting. Impossible; she would have been several hours behind him, if she had even decided to continue her quest.
The door was answered abruptly mid-knock by a tall, thin fellow wearing clothes a size too big for his body and glasses. Sark was tempted to apologize for disturbing him before even asking his usual question, but remained still. He had asked the following question in so many languages now it was almost amusing. Die Frau, wo ist sie? Où est la femme? He did not even bother with a greeting, much less an introduction. The man regarded him suspiciously, but he no longer appeared particularly threatening. "La mujer. ¿Dónde-"
"Who asks?"
He nearly stuttered, but held on to his cool. "Mr. Sark, please." The man closed the door and disappeared for what seemed like a very long time. He expected him to return with a confused girl; Rosario, the babysitter, perhaps. "I don't know you," she'd protest. Instead, he merely opened the door wider this time, and ushered him inside. "She says you're safe," he explained, in a tone that indicated he was not so sure.
He collected his belongings and stepped inside what was clearly a residence. Hers, now? Another husband? Long-lost brother? Secret collaborator? The man seemed more like an English professor than a revolutionary.
"I'm Eduardo," the man explained as they proceeded down a hallway into the back of the house. "I was just leaving."
And at the end of Eduardo's path, Sark still expected to find a confused Spanish woman.
"It's really you," she said, pushing her chair back from the kitchen table, setting her glasses atop the file she'd been perusing.
She nodded over his shoulder at Eduardo, and waited until the front door clicked shut to speak again.
"I'm surprised," she continued slowly, standing, approaching him. "I didn't expect you to make it this far. Unless, of course, you started with the last one first. But then it wouldn't have taken this long."
He wanted to speak, but felt reluctant to give too much away; how he'd given up on finding her, how he was relieved to find her alive, how he was almost certain he would have led a still-vengeful Sydney directly to her doorstep. So he swallowed, and smiled.
"I'm glad you're here," she said matter-of-factly. "I didn't expect you, but I'm glad."
And she kissed him, and the questions that had plagued him for hours, days, weeks blurred into an indistinguishable haze. Her hand on his shoulder quickly detected the presence of the white square, and she pulled back to investigate it further. "Have you been in trouble?"
Funny you should ask... "Not exactly."
"Can I take a look?" Her fingernails were already prying away the tape before she finished forming the question. Surveying the design, she smiled, perhaps amused by his youth. The familiar flicker of irritation subsided as she applied her mouth to the raised skin; he had not been in her presence for ten minutes and already she was reclaiming his body and everything else as her own.
He decided he would not complain.
The train finally lurched forward as he prepared to leave Germany, having made a quick trip to the fourth remaining address to ensure that she was not there. Of course, he had found nothing but an angry man awakened too early and unwilling to part with any information, not that he had anything to offer anyway. The romance of his search was beginning to lose its luster.
After all, perhaps it truly had been a favor to him that was done when she disappeared. Not just the sparing of his life, although most days he believed he was grateful to her for that, but the fact that her departure effectively ended whatever it was that had gone on between them for however many months it had been. She'd taken care to ensure that his last memory of her, of them together, was a good one. Perhaps she wasn't waiting for his arrival--not that he ever really thought she was, or at least that's what he would claim if the question ever arose. Perhaps he should just leave her alone, wherever she was, if she was anywhere.
Now it seemed he was only going through the motions, still searching simply because it was what he had done for so long. If she was alive, why wouldn't she have made her presence known? Had she simply abandoned her search in favor of total isolation? There were so many questions that would never be answered; even if he found her, he would not presume to ask them.
Even if he finally located her, what could possibly come of that? What would exist between them if she were not giving orders during the day and he was not following them, seeking to ensure her absolute approval almost every time? A smile flickered across his lips briefly as he imagined: in bed, Sunday morning, reading the newspaper; she would take the news section, give him the comics. Not likely, no. Maybe he didn't even need this anymore. He was older now, if not by much physically, then prematurely aged by the experience of grieving and hoping and failing to hope and endless, aimless travel.
And there were new marks on his body that did not belong to her.
(At this thought, he scratched idly at the edges of the square bandage taped over the evidence of the previous night's escapade. He couldn't quite remember what it was he'd consented to allow them to imprint into his skin, only that the man who'd done the honors had warned him at great length in broken English of the dangers of removing the bandage too early. A moment's discomfort seemed preferable to a lifetime's displeasure. He removed his hand from the area and resolved to be patient.)
So perhaps, he concluded, he should make good on what he'd told Sydney he intended to do the second time they met. Perhaps he should simply return to London, find some other employer to take orders from. But he'd come this far; he could have found her months ago and answered at least some of his questions already. Three more addresses.
He'd had trouble determining where to go from Germany. If Sydney remembered the next destination, even if she no longer had her list, she would proceed to Spain. Therefore, deciding upon his next move required figuring out his purpose: to avoid Sydney altogether, or to keep her from finding Irina before he did. As his belief in Irina's survival had finally begun to dwindle, it was a more difficult decision than it might have been on a previous occasion.
Morbid curiosity and the (possibly) illogical notion of loyalty led him to Spain at the end of his journey. This time he did not pause to deposit his belongings in a rented room before proceeding directly to the address she'd left for him, intentionally or not. Unlike most of the other locations he'd visited, this one was an actual home, as opposed to an unmarked commercial building or warehouse. A feeling of dread more intense than he'd felt anything for a long, long time pulsed through his veins. Turning back would be ridiculous, at this point. When he reached the door, he lowered his bag to his feet slowly. For the first time, he actually hoped she would not be found here. He cast a final glance over his shoulder to be sure Sydney was not approaching, or lurking, observing silently, waiting. Impossible; she would have been several hours behind him, if she had even decided to continue her quest.
The door was answered abruptly mid-knock by a tall, thin fellow wearing clothes a size too big for his body and glasses. Sark was tempted to apologize for disturbing him before even asking his usual question, but remained still. He had asked the following question in so many languages now it was almost amusing. Die Frau, wo ist sie? Où est la femme? He did not even bother with a greeting, much less an introduction. The man regarded him suspiciously, but he no longer appeared particularly threatening. "La mujer. ¿Dónde-"
"Who asks?"
He nearly stuttered, but held on to his cool. "Mr. Sark, please." The man closed the door and disappeared for what seemed like a very long time. He expected him to return with a confused girl; Rosario, the babysitter, perhaps. "I don't know you," she'd protest. Instead, he merely opened the door wider this time, and ushered him inside. "She says you're safe," he explained, in a tone that indicated he was not so sure.
He collected his belongings and stepped inside what was clearly a residence. Hers, now? Another husband? Long-lost brother? Secret collaborator? The man seemed more like an English professor than a revolutionary.
"I'm Eduardo," the man explained as they proceeded down a hallway into the back of the house. "I was just leaving."
And at the end of Eduardo's path, Sark still expected to find a confused Spanish woman.
"It's really you," she said, pushing her chair back from the kitchen table, setting her glasses atop the file she'd been perusing.
She nodded over his shoulder at Eduardo, and waited until the front door clicked shut to speak again.
"I'm surprised," she continued slowly, standing, approaching him. "I didn't expect you to make it this far. Unless, of course, you started with the last one first. But then it wouldn't have taken this long."
He wanted to speak, but felt reluctant to give too much away; how he'd given up on finding her, how he was relieved to find her alive, how he was almost certain he would have led a still-vengeful Sydney directly to her doorstep. So he swallowed, and smiled.
"I'm glad you're here," she said matter-of-factly. "I didn't expect you, but I'm glad."
And she kissed him, and the questions that had plagued him for hours, days, weeks blurred into an indistinguishable haze. Her hand on his shoulder quickly detected the presence of the white square, and she pulled back to investigate it further. "Have you been in trouble?"
Funny you should ask... "Not exactly."
"Can I take a look?" Her fingernails were already prying away the tape before she finished forming the question. Surveying the design, she smiled, perhaps amused by his youth. The familiar flicker of irritation subsided as she applied her mouth to the raised skin; he had not been in her presence for ten minutes and already she was reclaiming his body and everything else as her own.
He decided he would not complain.