A/N: Just a bit of a technical note: I normally don't use this choice of a casual diction in vignettes, but I'm experimenting with a technique of writing by focusing on the stream of consciousness of the speaker. Of course, the challenge here would be to make my Mireille think as realistically as possible as the Mireille we are all familiar with (hence, not too much melodrama, lolz). It's a little difficult to explain, but I think you'll get what I mean. ^^ Not my best work ever, but I hope you enjoy the show.
Don't you fret, Monsieur Marius,
I don't feel any pain.
A little fall of rain
Can hardly hurt me now.
You're here, that's all I need to know,
And you will keep me safe,
And you will keep me close,
And rain will make the flowers grow.
-Eponine, "A Little Fall of Rain," Les Misérables
The rain simply isn't going to stop. And the view here from the sofa to the little window is the perfect vantage point to watch Paris virtually drowning in the Second Great Flood. Apparently, that new blouse would have to wait.
I looked at the little clock on the mantlepiece. Four o'clock. It had been raining for hours.
There was a small, muffled sound as Kirika slid the shower door and fumbled for her clothes. Then she quietly stepped out of the bathroom, hair towelled, and took her seat by the window on the straight-backed wooden chair, chin nestled on the palm of her unmoving right arm placed serenely on the window-sill. Now she's staring out at the dirty weather without so much as an expression.
I shifted my weight, the humidity making my skin stick. How typical. She can stare just like that until Doomsday and wouldn't budge an inch unless someone's holding a gun on the back of her head or something. Mon Dieu, I would bet my last Euro she wouldn't even have to move to kill the poor fool holding the gun. I wouldn't hold it past her; she's quite creative. Some way or another, he's going to drop dead, just like that.
I wonder if she knows to do anything else aside from killing people?
Well, that's a terrible thought...and I should be one to talk. Besides, she does have a hand in drawing after that little encounter with that Czechoslovakian fellow, nasty as it may have ended. And she shares a fetish for forks with that strange Chloe, which, I think, is beyond all planes of reason. And I've seen her in the kitchen wielding the knife...it's a little eerie watching her chop carrots. It's terrifying how everything she touches turns into a potential murder weapon. One day I think I'm going to see her kill someone with a hat.
No, wait, that would be too easy. You could suffocate someone with a big-enough hat. Even I could do that. But she -- she'll have to do it with a little spark of perverse ingenuity, even with a hat. Maybe she'll jam it into his throat and let him choke...
"Mireille?"
I turned my eyes from the potted plant to face her, still thinking about Kirika and the hat and someone on the floor turning purple in his dying moments. "Yes?"
Really, it's not completely true that Kirika's face is unreadable. For example, she actually does have an expression on her face right now - the expression of being expressionless. It's the sort of face that I call Her Tea Face.
"Would you like some tea?" she asked.
I think she's bored. When she's bored, she goes tea-ing. I've noticed. Perhaps there's something about preparing tea that entertains her; she is, after all, from Japan, and they have that tea ceremony where everyone sits and just drinks tea. Fancy having a ceremony just for drinking tea! It's unbelievable.
"Sure," I heard myself answer. "I'd love a cup."
I watched her walk away. She looks so ordinary. Sometimes I think she could have been a florist. When I look at her, she does look like florist-material to me, all demure and quiet. Or maybe a milliner. I've seen her with a sun-bonnet that matched her dress perfectly; of course, does it matter that she was carrying a sub-machine too when she walked out into the porch with that get-up and completely wiped out the Soldat squad that was after us? Not really.
I guess you really can't take away the gun image from her. Sometimes I think the gun is part of her, like an extension of her arm. Or it could be the other way around: maybe she's just an extension of the gun, what with all her perfect aim and scientific accuracy.
Like I said, she terrifies me. And it takes quite an effort not to show it.
And now she's back from the kitchen, with a pot of tea and two cups on the little lacquer tray. Just look at her laying them down on the table in front of me; you wouldn't have guessed those pale hands of her are the hands of what could be the most accomplished assassin of practically the entire world.
My, she really does have this tea-pouring business down pat, doesn't she? I've never quite noticed it.
Maybe that's the problem. Maybe I've been too bowled over by her combat skills that I never thought she could be actually good in something as trivial as pouring tea.
Now I'm getting too serious for my own good.
She's looking at me with those soulful eyes of her again. I swear, sometimes I think she's looking straight into my soul. It makes me feel rather edgy.
She took a small sip, her eyes never leaving me. And when she does that, it means either she's about to say something profound or she's staring straight at the enemy behind me, marking him.
"Mireille," she began.
I've often thought about the way she calls me. It sounds like "Mireiyu"...it's the lingering Japanese accent, I know. I've never had anyone call me that way before. It's kind of nice, I suppose. Rather cute, actually. I suppose she thinks the same way with how I call her "Kirika" with a French accent. It must be amusing to her, although she never shows it. Well, at least we're even.
"Mireille?" she repeated, with a little more urgency.
It's funny -- Kirika would never continue unless you give her a sign of acknowledgement that you just heard her. Which is completely unlike me -- I'm so used to Kirika being so deadpan that I can just plow through with my words like a tank running into tissue paper. So yes, I nodded and asked, "Something on your mind, Kirika?"
She nodded back, setting the cup of tea down. She hesitated. Then, "We need to talk."
I think my eyes dilated for a moment there, and I almost dropped by cup. Did I just hear that correctly? Warning red flags started waving in my mind's eye and I could feel a growing panic rising into my chest and exploding coldly into my arteries and veins. You would think that after all those times of silence from Kirika, I would actually appreciate a chance like this. And here I am, feeling this horrible apprehension because Kirika's staring straight at me again with that indescribable look on her face. And if she actually says that "we need to talk," I can only imagine the gravity of the situation.
"Of course," I managed to say unfalteringly as I braced myself, telling myself not to lose my wits no matter what happened. "Feel free to shock me."
Kirika looked a little puzzled at my remark but she continued nonetheless, "I've been thinking, Mireille --if it isn't too much of a bother, I'd like to go to Japan."
Oh.
I suddenly felt pleasantly drained. Was that all? And here I was, having delusions of Kirika revealing another terrible tidbit of her already traumatic past. I felt the heat of my face slowly subside as I silently exhaled a sigh of relief. "Of course, Kirika, why not? We need a little break now and then. I know the air fare for Japan is scandalous, but I think we have enough for a bit of a vacation, n'est pas?"
"Eto..." she murmurred, averting her eyes from me.
I stiffened. Eto was never good if it was said without direct eye contact, as I had found out. I forced myself not to think; it was making my head hurt. "Kirika, you're making me very nervous," I couldn't help saying, emptying my cup to get rid of the adrenaline being pumped into my system. The rain was pounding even harder outside.
She gave a small bow from her head and said cautiously with what I think was very a Japanese attempt to be tactful, "This isn't going to be a trip for...for the both of us." Yes, there was a small break in the middle of her breath.
But that merely meant that she would be the only going to Japan. Well, there's nothing wrong with that, is there? She certainly was an odd potato. I chuckled, although with a little reservation, "If you're worried that you think I would assume that you're slacking off, it's nothing like that. You could have been a little more casual, Kirika; I think I can handle myself alone for a week." But I did appreciate the thought.
"It's going to take more than a week," she replied evenly.
I looked back at her with a quick flick of my eyelids from the leaves in my teacup and to her eyes, alert. "A month, then?" I prodded, trying to block the ominous thought that was looming in my mind.
She didn't move. "I'm not sure how long."
There was a pause as I let the implications of that sentence register.
So. Kirika was finally leaving. The indefinitness of the time made sure of that. Ah. How silly of me not to have foreseen this. Of course, some time or another, we would have to part ways. We couldn't go on living like this, like fugitives, making money out of the deaths of people. She just wanted to find out who she was; I dragged her into this mercenary business. But that really doesn't matter now. This scene had long kept me awake for many nights; I had even prepared a little speech for myself in case this would happen. No, wrong words...not "in case." This was inevitable, and now I've forgetten that little speech and I don't know what to say. I think my mouth has gone dry. I think I need another cup of tea.
"Mireille?" Kirika looked a little concerned. "You're turning a little pale."
"Am I?" I replied almost immediately, the calmness of my voice shocking me, as if the strange tightness of my chest didn't matter. My voice grew robotic. "I feel fine. Maybe it's just the effect of the weather. You were saying?"
"I'll have to go away to Japan for a pretty long time," she said slowly, as if giving me time for its meaning to sink in. "Alone."
I chewed my lip thoughtfully, trying to control the gaggle of questions screaming to come out of my mouth. I felt chilly inside; my stomach was turning into an icicle. I think I was going into a slow shock. "And I'm assuming there's a reason for that?"
"I'll be searching for my roots," she said, her voice distant. She was like a statue, with only her mouth moving. She continued, "I'm sure I had parents, blurry as my past was, and if there is a place where I could find a clue as to who I am, that would be in Japan. I'm certain I had a family too, Mireille, and if there's one thing certain about me, it's that I'm Japanese."
I took the pot and poured the contents into my cup, saying nothing. I didn't want to think. I just wanted her to keep talking and talking while she was still here. I didn't want to make a decision. I didn't want to know. I didn't want to have anything to do with this. I didn't know why. I drank the cup I poured.
Jasmine tea. Chinese.
Then I swore silently. Why was Kirika always so obssessed with her past? Why couldn't she accept that the present is all she had? What use would it be, hunting the entire Japan for her family tree? She didn't even know her real name; this would be a doomed enterprise from the very start. She would be so much better staying here with --
Something caught at my throat and I almost crushed the dainty, porcelain cup in my hand, frustrated with myself. I closed my eyes, tensed my muscles, let go, breathed, and tried to relax.
When I opened my eyes, Kirika was looking at me with a great deal of anxiety. She started, "Maybe this isn't the right time -"
"What are you talking about?" I cut in abruptly, keeping my voice mild as I placed the cup back on the tray as delicately as I could. "There's nothing wrong, Kirika. Of course you have every right to find out who you are. Please, don't let me stop you." A thunder rolled violently outside.
"Then it's all right with you?" Her voice sounded a little queer. I wasn't sure whether she was happy or not. Her face wasn't helping either: one, it was blank, and two, looking at her made it worse. But I trained my eyes on her, maybe just for the masochistic pleasure of it, as much as it was crushing me.
"Why shouldn't it be?" I remembered to answer, measuring the intensity of my voice before it could turn into a shout. "That was the whole point of you coming to me, right? You just need to wrap it up by looking for your biological family."
I think she missed the sarcasm in my voice because a small smile made its way to her face, making her glow a little. "Thank you, Mireille. I knew you would understand. Merci beaucoup."
I felt hurt, for a reason I was not willing to acknowledge. Look at her, she seems so happy. Shouldn't I be too? Not really; I shouldn't actually be feeling anything because this doesn't concern me. Well, for one thing, there's a tight knot in my stomach and there's a strange lump in my throat. How did those get in here anyway? But she's a grown girl, and she can certainly fend for herself better than anyone else. So obviously I'm not worried about her safety. I'm worried about something else; I don't know what, but I'm glad I don't. She's a grown girl, and this really is none of my business. Kirika is leaving for Japan indefinitely, and it's not a big deal. It had been an experience being with her, but it had to end.
It certainly had to.
"Alors..." I drummed my newly-polished fingers on the seat of the sofa, watching them steadily as I crossed my legs, "when will you be leaving?"
"Maybe two, three days from now," she said a little absent-mindedly as she rose from her place. She glanced at the lacquer tray glistening under the light and my empty cup. "More tea?"
"Thank you, no, I've had enough," I said politely before she bent over to take them away. It was hard to imagine not having her mysterious presence around the apartment anymore. Once I almost sat on her at the sofa in broad daylight because she had been so quiet.
For goodness' sake, I had to say something. I raised my voice to defy the roar of the horrible weather outside.
"Kirika?"
"Yes, Mireille?" she answered a little eagerly as she straightened up, looking expectant.
I wasn't sure why she looked like that, but I proceeded, despite the growing need to escape. "Are you sure you want to do this?" That was the most I could utter without sounding resentful.
"I've given it a lot of thought, Mireille," she replied, not missing a beat, not even blinking, but the strange eagerness still there. "I need to find out who I am."
I nodded intermittently, hoping I looked convinced. I wished she wouldn't keep repeating my name so much with that little accent of hers.
"That's...good," I finally said after an awkward silence. It was my turn to hesitate. "It's just going to be awfully quiet here without you. Well, actually you're already very quiet by yourself, so there really isn't going to be much difference..." I stopped, at a loss, then gave a faint smile, not sure how much to reveal. "I supposed I'll have to get used to singing solo again during contracts."
She looked at me a little sadly, perhaps looking lost herself. Then she put down the tray without a word and stretched her arm, giving me a tight little squeeze on my arm. "It's going to be different without you too, Mireille."
I felt something moist on my cheek as she reclaimed the waiting tray and made her way towards the kitchen. Bien, I thought, as I heard her rinse the cups and I wiped my cheek dry; now even I'm leaking.
I remember the poet and novelist Theophile Gautier writing, "Only a Frenchman could understand the fine and subtle qualities of a cat."
I stared at the tawny cat in front of me sitting on its haunches on the pavement, its graceful form slinked into a regal posture, green orbs of its eyes staring imperiously at me as I tried to finish the baguette on my plate.
I've noticed that Kirika had always had a fondness for cats, un-French as she may be. She's generally kind to animals, but she's scandalizing when it comes to the feline species. Any little furball which makes the slightest "aeiou" is enough to melt her heart and have her sitting on her ankles, spoiling the thing and murmurring in rapid Japanese smack on the middle of the road. You would think that an assassin would have a little more poise.
Oh. Wait. I forgot. She's not going to be an assassin anymore, God forbid, no. She's going back to Japan to "find her roots."
I stabbed the half-eaten baguette murderously with my fork. My stomach twisted and my appetite had gone.
I lifted the piece of bread with the untensil and sullenly threw it near the little white feet of the cat. It stooped down and sniffed it distastefully. Then it looked up and gave me a catty Look, and deliberately padded loftily away near the gutter, sheltered under the striped awnings of the café.
It's rained for two days already, this being the third.
I surprised myself when I inadvertently gave a small sigh and stood up to pick the baguette myself and toss it into the trash receptacle nearby. Then I went back to my table and called for the bill. My half-drained coffee had turned tepid.
Kirika would be leaving tomorrow morning, at early dawn. And I think she had noticed that I had been deliberately avoiding her by frequently shopping in the streets and isolating myself in cafés - generally staying away from the apartment as much as possible - as she packed for her trip. This morning she asked me if I was sure about this entire matter and I nearly lost my temper.
I replayed the scene in my head as I picked up my thick cup by the handle and drowned myself in the heady smell of Colombian expresso.
We were by the pool table; I had been checking my mail in my laptop, still wearing my robe, when she came in, tying her apron around her. She asked how I wanted my eggs and I said I was going to have my breakfast outside. Then she asked if she could come along with me, but I told her, wasn't she too busy packing? I guess she picked up the poison in my voice because she asked me if everything was all right. I didn't answer, partly because I was busy deleting some junk mail from my Inbox, and mostly because I didn't want to. Anyway, whichever reason she thought it was, she asked me again and added that I had been gone virtually the entire day yesterday from the apartment; did she need my help?
I couldn't help retorting. I didn't raise my voice, but I knew it stung badly. I answered that she was going to be gone from France for goodness knows how long; I didn't go meddling in her business, asking if she needed my help, did I? Couldn't she pay me the same respect?
The look on her face nearly broke my heart; I was close to tearing up myself. I just stared back at the laptop's LCD screen to compose myself. After a frightful silence, she asked if I was sure it was all right for me that she was going away.
To be completely honest, now that I think of it, I suppose I was hoping that she would add that she wouldn't leave if I didn't want her to, or something similar. But she didn't and I guess I felt cheated. So I stood up, closed the laptop, and told her that she had some nerve thinking that everything I did had something to do with this trip of hers. I stormed to my room to change my clothes, saying that now if she pleased, I had a breakfast to attend to. When I came out, she was gone from the living room. I think she was frying something in the kitchen.
"Your bill, mademoiselle."
The arrival of the waiter broke my train of thought, and I was grateful. Somehow, everything I saw brought only memories that were only better off unearthed, and the more I indulged on them uncontrollably, the more I was being dragged into the empty cavern in my stomach. I concentrated on rummaging for my wallet in my purse.
"Terrible weather, isn't it?" the waiter commented.
"Just lovely." I paid the bill and drank the last of my coffee without relish.
Yes, I think she's noticed that I had been avoiding her, this being the second day. And here I am now, unable to go back to my own house for fear of seeing what my idiocy had done so early in the morning.
I stood up and opened my umbrella as I left the café.