Chapter 5: Everyday Life

"It's fate, of course."

"Baah, don't give me that, Cosette."

"It's true and you know it, Toulouse," she said. "And what a beautiful thing it is. Two complete strangers meet in the land of the rising sun, overcome their differences, discover their common past, and, at last, surrender to the bonds of love!"

"It was planned from the start by their handlers," replied Monsieur.

"Nonsense. It was romantic destiny, plain and simple!"

"It's Jennifer Lopez and Dennis Rodman, for goodness sake!" said Monsieur. "I can't believe you actually read this garbage," he added, handing the tabloid back.

"It's a well-written publication with insightful social commentary about our modern world," she said, in all seriousness. She meticulously counted out her change for the newsman. "And has quality photography, to boot."

Monsieur shook his head in disgust.

The afternoon sun peeked its way through a break in the gathering clouds. The old couple hobbled through the commercial riot that was Place de Palau on market day, weaving their way between hagglers and hucksters and their colourful conversations, as money and merchandise exchanged hands both over and under the tables. Madame Trousseau fluttered from stall to stall, sifting through dubious fruits and vegetables in search of the one true bargain, as Monsieur trundled behind with the trolley, its mended wheels creaking under the load.

"What is this, anyway?" asked Monsieur, pointing to a ball of spikes.

"It's a durian, Toulouse, from Asia. Monsieur Golgo gave me a little recipe for it before he moved out last week. He said it would make a darling dessert."

"Did he?"

"Well, no, actually he said, '…' but he was very enthusiastic about it."

"Never trusted him. Too quiet. Shifty eyes, too. Ugh, this stinks," he mumbled, in regards to the fruit.

"You just never took the time to talk to him," she replied. "If you'd taken the time to get to know him a little better, like you are with Miss Bouquet …"

"Yes, but she's different. A real neighbour. Trustworthy. Kind. And, heh-heh, and one hell of a —"

"Hmmmm?" said Madame, casually brandishing a banana.

"— Conversationalist," he finished, lamely. "Have, ah, you met that guest of hers, Kirika, yet?"

She nodded. "Strange girl. Did you know she shaves?"

"What?" he said, in disbelief.

"It's true! I met her in the hall last Thursday night and she had this sort of pink line near her throat. And when I asked her about it, she said —"

"Shaving accident," said Mireille.

"Eh?" said Madame.

"Eh?" said Kirika.

"She gets the strangest ideas sometimes," said the blonde, with a completely straight face.

"Huh. Strange people, those Japanese," said Monsieur, shaking his head.

"But very polite."

"Hm."

"Thanks."

"Just remember," said Mireille, "don't use too much foundation, and spread it around the edges so it blends in. You might need a bit of concealer too. There," she said, stepping aside. "Take a look."

Kirika did. The thin, red weal from the garrotte had vanished, but was still there, beneath the surface. She could still feel the wire around her neck, digging, cutting, crushing, choking, killing her, still hear the terrible rattle-wheeze of her desperate breaths, still sense her arm moving of its own volition, reaching, grabbing, breaking, stabbing, shooting —

"And next time," said Mireille, stepping into the living room, "keep your back to the wall, even if you think you're alone. Next time, you might not be so lucky."

She touched the scar, wondering if it would ever heal.

"Nasty looking spot here; why'd you bother with this one?"

"It was all he had," said Madame, "and I need it for dinner tonight."

"Chaudrée again?"

"If you don't like it, you can cook your own." Monsieur growled unintelligibly. She cherished her small victory. "What's wrong with squid? Peter likes it."

"No he doesn't. Practically gags on every bite."

"That's you, Toulouse."

"'Like father, like son.'"

"And if he doesn't like it, how come he's never said anything?"

"He doesn't want to hurt you, that's all!"

"And you do?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

They hobbled through the arts and crafts section. Monsieur muttered something along the lines of "devious she-fiend," and Madame made another mark on her personal scoreboard.

"And, and don't try and act all Miss Perfect on me," he said. "You'd do the exact same in my situation."

"Never will, and never have," she replied.

"Ah HA! What about that horrible orange hat Madame Duceppe got you from Australia, eh? The one you 'wear all the time'?"

"I do wear it; she's seen it with her own eyes."

"The one I found in the gutter last week?"

"…Must have slipped off in the wind," she said.

The wind howled in the night. Its tears ran rivulets down the windowpanes.

Mireille, lit by the ghastly glow of the flat panel, listened to its lament as she typed up a terse message of success to her contractor. Nearby, her young partner watched as the all the detritus of city life washed into the gutter.

"You all right?" she asked her, after sending the message.

Rain spattered against the glass like blood.

"Listen, you had a close call tonight. You're probably a bit shaken up right now. That's normal."

"Normal…" whispered Kirika, feeling her neck.

Her partner sighed. "Well, as normal as things get in our line of work. But you did well, extremely well, actually. You followed the plan, did your job."

"And now he is dead," she said.

"Yes. And it's no more than what he deserved." She slid closer to her side. "This is the life I live, Kirika. It is a life of death and deception, but maybe it's the only one right for this world I live in."

Kirika thought this over. "That old woman, the one in the hall…"

"Madame Trousseau? What about her?"

"Is she a part of that life?"

"She's a deep thinker, that girl."

"Who?"

"That girl, that Kirika, the one staying with Miss Bouquet."

"She's so very shy," said Madame. "Hardly said a word when I ran into her yesterday."

"Sign of a deep thinker, that," affirmed Monsieur. "You can see it in her eyes, too. Such strange eyes…" He trailed off.

"You see it too, then?" He nodded, slowly. "The Fates, they be strange ones," said Madame, as she examined a florist's wares by an outdoor café.

"Bit of a coincidence, certainly, that she'd choose to come here."

"What do you mean?" asked Mireille.

"When you told her that story…"

"It was all I could think of, sorry. But she believed it, so —"

"My name is not my own. My life is a lie. And now I have made others a part of that lie. Was there no other way? Must I always live like this?"

"Kirika…"

"If a lie is big enough," she asked, looking out into the dark night, "does it become true?"

"She's adjusting to life here well enough," said Madame. "I'll take some of those darling white lilies, Yvette."

"Belladonnas? Sorry ma'am," said the florist, "fresh out of them."

"Oh dear."

"Two ladies bought up my whole shipment in just three days. I'll have some more in next week."

"Why do you want those?" asked Monsieur. "Why not some violets? You like violets."

"Miss Bouquet had this lovely arrangement of them yesterday," said Madame. "And the colour would really brighten up the room, don't you think?"

"Hmph. Fine the way it is."

"Some flowering reeds, then. Wrap them up please."

"I hope she'll be okay," said Monsieur, as they left the marketplace. "Bit intimidating for her, being foreign and all."

"Miss Bouquet's a very worldly individual," said Madame. "I'm sure she'll help her find her way."

"You've been through a lot," said Mireille, after an interval. "You should get some sleep."

Kirika nodded. Outside, the rain fell.