Mireille in Japan, Chapter 10
A slight jolt and a few cheers roused Mireille out of a dead sleep. Someone had already pulled her seat up to the upright position, but hadn't bothered to waken her. She pulled the window cover up and looked outside. It was already evening here in Paris. She was home.
The passengers filed off the plane in a single line, often stopping and waiting for other people to pull the bags from the above compartments. Mireille was impatient but said nothing. She just wanted to get home to a good cup of tea.
She was anxious to get out of the plane and walked quickly through the walkway. When she entered the airport, her first instinct was to run towards the exit, but a childish voice behind her called, "Goodbye, Miss Mireille!"
Mireille turned in surprise. The mother's face was plum by now with embarrassment. "Goodbye, Ki-Anna," she said. The little girl's face contorted with confusion, tipping her head to the side, but Mireille smiled and headed on.
She had parked her car outside, under the trees, and walked to it under a glowing blanket of red and orange sunset. It was so nice to be back in her own car and her own new life, away from the past. Mireille started the engine and backed out of her parking space, paid the toll, and was soon driving down the highway. She took down her braids at a red light and let her long blonde curls fly in the wind. The sun shone in her eyes and kept her half-blinded all the way home, but she didn't care.
Mireille parked her car and stepped out of it, slinging her bag over her shoulder. She walked around to the front of the apartment building and in turning passed a young girl, thinking only of a nice cup of tea as her hand swept across her face in a motion to sweep back her hair. Then the girl's image flashed through her mind again.
A young Asian face with wide brown eyes framed in a spiky black haircut.
Mireille whirled around, her lips forming the name, but the girl was already past her and rapidly becoming lost in the sea of people. Not knowing what to make of it, Mireille stood on the sidewalk and didn't move, her mind racing.
It couldn't have been her. Why would she have randomly come to France? And if it had been her, though Mireille reassuringly to herself, she would have noticed me and would have stopped. If it had been her we would be talking now. A smile worked its way onto Mireille's face as she realized one more thing. Kirika would never have worn those clothes. Tight hip-hugging jeans with flares and an off-the shoulder summer type just didn't fit her.
Or did they now? After all, they hadn't met in five years.
It was too late to wonder anyway, decided Mireille. It had probably just been another Asian girl that had looked like Kirika to her.
Wondering if there was any of her favorite tea at home, Mireille stepped into her apartment building and automatically reached for the handle to her mailbox, then paused. It was crooked. Her hand hesitated as Mireille wondered whether or not she was being silly to think someone had opened her mailbox-and if they had, her mind reasoned, what could they have done? It wasn't as if she was receiving any mysterious letters from Soldats anymore. She pulled it open, then clanged it shut again after noting that it was empty.
The feeling of intrusion grew stronger and Mireille grew more and more suspicious until she reached the point at which every few minutes she would stop and look around her, knowing there was nothing. Her eyes narrowed in annoyance and her fingers tightened around the handle of her bag, though her gun wasn't there. Mireille hesitated, then continued up the stairs.
There was no hesitation as she threw open the door, knowing fully that she had nothing to protect herself with save a duffel bag filled with clothes. In the doorway she hovered and waited for her intruders to show themselves.
There were none.
Confused now, Mireille entered the apartment and shut the door behind her. Everything was exactly as it had been; no furniture was moved, nothing was stolen. Even the potted plant was flowering-but Mireille didn't remember it flowering. How could it have flowered after having not been watered for a week? Mireille walked through the kitchen and saw nothing askew. Her plates and pots were carefully washed and sitting in their separate cupboards, as she had left them. Had the flower mysteriously bloomed on its own, or was she dealing with something more complicated?
Mireille stepped into the main room and let out a gasp. There, propped up on her chair, leaning against the edge of the pool table, was a beautiful painting of a classic French setting, one that Mireille recognized. She had taken Kirika to this very spot when they had discussed their next target, Cressoit, so many years ago.
There were trees beside a little stone path with remarkably detailed people walking back and forth. To the right, there appeared to be a little outdoor restaurant, with separate tables and chairs, each with an umbrella shading the occupants. People sat eating and chatting, and one little boy appeared to be chasing a ball. Two young maidens sat at a table near the actual stand of the restaurant. One was dark haired and wore a T-shirt with the French flag on it, while the other was blonde with long hair, wearing a pale lavender shirt. She appeared to be browsing a magazine.
As Mireille studied in the still-wet painting in shock, she noticed a tiny word written in between the colored stripes of the girls' umbrella. Squinting her eyes, she could barely make out the word "Kirika".
Kirika had been here.
While she had been in Japan.
Kirika had come, and she hadn't been here. Mireille felt faint with the shock of it. And-she extended her fingertips out to the painting again-it was wet. Apparently the painting had just been completed, and Kirika had just left. Mireille wanted to scream with the irony of it, only to gasp in shock again when she realized that the girl walking by her apartment-had most likely been Kirika.
She ran back to the kitchen and tore open cupboards and drawers, looking for anything that Kirika might have left her. Everything was neat and perfect, the dishes dry as a bone. Mireille tore open the cupboard under the sink and looked in the trashcan, suddenly slowing her actions. There was food of every kind in there. Someone had been living here. Kirika.
Mireille raced to the potted plant and lifted it up. There were no letters. She ripped the sheets off the beds, tossing the pillows to the ground, all to no avail. Only the painting had been left as a sign that Kirika had been here; everything else seemed to be gone.
Slowly she made her way back to it. She had made a trip to Japan, found Kirika's old school and apartment, only to return and realize that Kirika had taken up temporary residence in her own apartment in France. If only she hadn't stopped to say goodbye to that annoying little girl in the airport, thought Mireille ruefully. If only she'd taken an earlier flight. If only she hadn't gone to Japan in the first place. . .
Mireille reached out to touch the painting again, noticing the pains Kirika must have taken to paint it. She had done such an elaborate job that even the expression of the little boy who was chasing his ball was clearly visible. Examining it closely, Mireille could even see rings on some of the women's hands.
She picked up the painting, being careful not to touch the wet oil, and saw jars and brushes stacked up behind it. Her eyes widened at all the supplies she had bought. Kirika must have spent a fortune to buy all this, she thought, to paint this painting for me.
Filled with regret and emotion, Mireille closed her eyes. Outside, the sun sank slowly and was gone.
A slight jolt and a few cheers roused Mireille out of a dead sleep. Someone had already pulled her seat up to the upright position, but hadn't bothered to waken her. She pulled the window cover up and looked outside. It was already evening here in Paris. She was home.
The passengers filed off the plane in a single line, often stopping and waiting for other people to pull the bags from the above compartments. Mireille was impatient but said nothing. She just wanted to get home to a good cup of tea.
She was anxious to get out of the plane and walked quickly through the walkway. When she entered the airport, her first instinct was to run towards the exit, but a childish voice behind her called, "Goodbye, Miss Mireille!"
Mireille turned in surprise. The mother's face was plum by now with embarrassment. "Goodbye, Ki-Anna," she said. The little girl's face contorted with confusion, tipping her head to the side, but Mireille smiled and headed on.
She had parked her car outside, under the trees, and walked to it under a glowing blanket of red and orange sunset. It was so nice to be back in her own car and her own new life, away from the past. Mireille started the engine and backed out of her parking space, paid the toll, and was soon driving down the highway. She took down her braids at a red light and let her long blonde curls fly in the wind. The sun shone in her eyes and kept her half-blinded all the way home, but she didn't care.
Mireille parked her car and stepped out of it, slinging her bag over her shoulder. She walked around to the front of the apartment building and in turning passed a young girl, thinking only of a nice cup of tea as her hand swept across her face in a motion to sweep back her hair. Then the girl's image flashed through her mind again.
A young Asian face with wide brown eyes framed in a spiky black haircut.
Mireille whirled around, her lips forming the name, but the girl was already past her and rapidly becoming lost in the sea of people. Not knowing what to make of it, Mireille stood on the sidewalk and didn't move, her mind racing.
It couldn't have been her. Why would she have randomly come to France? And if it had been her, though Mireille reassuringly to herself, she would have noticed me and would have stopped. If it had been her we would be talking now. A smile worked its way onto Mireille's face as she realized one more thing. Kirika would never have worn those clothes. Tight hip-hugging jeans with flares and an off-the shoulder summer type just didn't fit her.
Or did they now? After all, they hadn't met in five years.
It was too late to wonder anyway, decided Mireille. It had probably just been another Asian girl that had looked like Kirika to her.
Wondering if there was any of her favorite tea at home, Mireille stepped into her apartment building and automatically reached for the handle to her mailbox, then paused. It was crooked. Her hand hesitated as Mireille wondered whether or not she was being silly to think someone had opened her mailbox-and if they had, her mind reasoned, what could they have done? It wasn't as if she was receiving any mysterious letters from Soldats anymore. She pulled it open, then clanged it shut again after noting that it was empty.
The feeling of intrusion grew stronger and Mireille grew more and more suspicious until she reached the point at which every few minutes she would stop and look around her, knowing there was nothing. Her eyes narrowed in annoyance and her fingers tightened around the handle of her bag, though her gun wasn't there. Mireille hesitated, then continued up the stairs.
There was no hesitation as she threw open the door, knowing fully that she had nothing to protect herself with save a duffel bag filled with clothes. In the doorway she hovered and waited for her intruders to show themselves.
There were none.
Confused now, Mireille entered the apartment and shut the door behind her. Everything was exactly as it had been; no furniture was moved, nothing was stolen. Even the potted plant was flowering-but Mireille didn't remember it flowering. How could it have flowered after having not been watered for a week? Mireille walked through the kitchen and saw nothing askew. Her plates and pots were carefully washed and sitting in their separate cupboards, as she had left them. Had the flower mysteriously bloomed on its own, or was she dealing with something more complicated?
Mireille stepped into the main room and let out a gasp. There, propped up on her chair, leaning against the edge of the pool table, was a beautiful painting of a classic French setting, one that Mireille recognized. She had taken Kirika to this very spot when they had discussed their next target, Cressoit, so many years ago.
There were trees beside a little stone path with remarkably detailed people walking back and forth. To the right, there appeared to be a little outdoor restaurant, with separate tables and chairs, each with an umbrella shading the occupants. People sat eating and chatting, and one little boy appeared to be chasing a ball. Two young maidens sat at a table near the actual stand of the restaurant. One was dark haired and wore a T-shirt with the French flag on it, while the other was blonde with long hair, wearing a pale lavender shirt. She appeared to be browsing a magazine.
As Mireille studied in the still-wet painting in shock, she noticed a tiny word written in between the colored stripes of the girls' umbrella. Squinting her eyes, she could barely make out the word "Kirika".
Kirika had been here.
While she had been in Japan.
Kirika had come, and she hadn't been here. Mireille felt faint with the shock of it. And-she extended her fingertips out to the painting again-it was wet. Apparently the painting had just been completed, and Kirika had just left. Mireille wanted to scream with the irony of it, only to gasp in shock again when she realized that the girl walking by her apartment-had most likely been Kirika.
She ran back to the kitchen and tore open cupboards and drawers, looking for anything that Kirika might have left her. Everything was neat and perfect, the dishes dry as a bone. Mireille tore open the cupboard under the sink and looked in the trashcan, suddenly slowing her actions. There was food of every kind in there. Someone had been living here. Kirika.
Mireille raced to the potted plant and lifted it up. There were no letters. She ripped the sheets off the beds, tossing the pillows to the ground, all to no avail. Only the painting had been left as a sign that Kirika had been here; everything else seemed to be gone.
Slowly she made her way back to it. She had made a trip to Japan, found Kirika's old school and apartment, only to return and realize that Kirika had taken up temporary residence in her own apartment in France. If only she hadn't stopped to say goodbye to that annoying little girl in the airport, thought Mireille ruefully. If only she'd taken an earlier flight. If only she hadn't gone to Japan in the first place. . .
Mireille reached out to touch the painting again, noticing the pains Kirika must have taken to paint it. She had done such an elaborate job that even the expression of the little boy who was chasing his ball was clearly visible. Examining it closely, Mireille could even see rings on some of the women's hands.
She picked up the painting, being careful not to touch the wet oil, and saw jars and brushes stacked up behind it. Her eyes widened at all the supplies she had bought. Kirika must have spent a fortune to buy all this, she thought, to paint this painting for me.
Filled with regret and emotion, Mireille closed her eyes. Outside, the sun sank slowly and was gone.