“My mozer,” begins Mirabelle, “say zis to me. Zat maybe we are relative to Louis Antoine de Saint-Just.”
Section B stare at her blankly.
“You know Maximilien Robespierre maybe?”, she asks hopefully as she taps her cigarette over the small ashtray.
Their expressions morph into ones of puzzlement.
“La Révolution française? ‘ave you ‘eard of zis?” she inquires, gnarling the English portion with slight irritation.
Brock recognizes the name and responds, “The French Revolution? Wasn’t that a long time ago?”
“Over two ‘undred year,” she acknowledges. “Ze men are famous because zey ‘ave kill many people in” — she makes a chopping motion with her cigarette hand — “ze guillotine.”
“They were executioners?” inquires Elvis with a serious frown.
“No,” replies Mirabelle, “ozer people kill but zey give order. After ze révolution, zey ‘ave become big government official. If you give zem problem, zey cut off your ‘ead. If zey do not like you, zey cut off your ‘ead.”
“I see,” notes Elvis with a slightly more grave expression.
“Anyway, I do not know if it iz true,” she continues. “It iz just somesing my mozer say.”
With a mischievous smile Brock asks, “Do you feel like chopping people’s heads off?”
She stares into Brock’s eyes as she takes a long drag on her cigarette. Holding the smoke casually and unhurriedly in her lungs she finally exhales and allows her pucker to slide into a sly grin.
“Usually, ” responds Mirabelle at last, “no.”
Turning back to the group she resumes, “So maybe zis is my ‘istory. It iz a little like to learn zat maybe I am relative to ‘itler.”
“That seems extreme,” doubts Dominic, head held at an angle.
“Maybe,” she responds meekly. Then, shrugging away his analysis she continues, “It does not matter. I am not like zis. I do not want to kill anybody.”
With upturned eyes Mirabelle pauses to reflect on her last statement. After a moment of consideration she corrects herself, “Almost. But do you know? Ze Révolution inspire bose fahzers of America and … ‘ow to say … les Soviétiques. Now ze country are enemy.”
“American fathers?” asks Dmitri, waiting intently for an explanation.
Mirabelle raises her eyebrows, takes a drag, and explains as she exhales. “You know, Jefferson, Franklin, men like zis.”
“Oh,” realizes Dmitri, “you mean the Founding Fathers.”
“Yes,” she acknowledges tersely.
“Okay, yes,” he responds with a pensive smirk, “but we can read about them in history books. I think we’d rather hear about your mostly homicide-free life.”
Looking around the table he’s met with tiny nods of agreement.
With the attention now back on her, Mirabelle acquiesces.
Gazing downward and resting her thumb against her lower lip she begins, “Zere is not many sing to say. My fahzer leave my mozer when I was young girl. I stay wis her and after zat we argue for long time. One day I say no more, I am finish, and I leave. I travel in Europe for a little time and zen travel to Nors America. After zis I meet Dominic, I meet you all, and end of story.”
“Whoa whoa,” rebuffs Dmitri with an upraised hand. “You’re leaving out a couple of things aren’t you?”
“Comme quoi?” she responds.
“Like where were you born? How did you grow up? Where did you travel in Europe? Why did you go there and what did you do?” he says pointedly.
“So many sing,” responds Mirabelle, visibly taken aback.
Holding up her hand, thumb tucked and fingers extended, she begins, “One, I am born near Paris. Number two” — she uses he other hand to hold down a finger — “normal, maybe, like everyone. I go to school, I have some friend, sometime we are in trouble. Number sree” — she holds down another finger — “I go to Belgique, umm, Beljeeom … Germany, and zen Czechia. Finally I like Prague so I stay. Number four” — another finger is folded over — “I go to many party, talk wis many people. Some of zees people are … maybe I should not say exactly … zey ‘ave business to sell product for party.
“One time somesing ‘appen and I must use ze special dance. Zey see me and zey want to give me job. It is somesing like security for delivery. I say yes and so I ‘ave more money. But after some time I feel ze ennui so I say I want to ‘elp wis ship for Nors America. Zey say yes and I go. But I do not ‘elp. I feel I am finish so I leave. I travel many week, see interesting sing, eat interesting food, sometime talk wis interesting people. Zen I see Dominic fight in ze gymnase and suddenly I feel I must go inside. ‘e is surprise when ‘e meet me, I sink?”
She looks to Dominic expectantly.
He responds with a nod and then states, “Surprised is one way to put it. Couple of guys were watching us and accused me of rehearsing it like some kind of practical joke. I’d probably think the same thing If I was in their shoes.”
“It iz true,” adds Mirabelle. “After zis Dom tell me many sings about ze agency. Strange sings, I sink. Zen ‘e show me” — she makes circling motions over her chest –“ze Sou-mah-teeks, and I sink, yes, it is pretty cool, I want to try.”
Signalling his intention to talk, Elvis raises his hand. The rest of Section B silently turn to look at him, faces frozen in anticipation. As the deep wrinkles between the brows of his lowered head relax, Elvis angles his gaze upward to meet Mirabelle’s.
“I just want to make sure I understand this correctly,” he begins, an agitated nervousness stiffening his neck, “you were running security for drug dealers? Am I getting that right?”
“I do not say drug dealer,” responds Mirabelle indignantly.
Dragging his head upright Elvis retorts, “No, you didn’t say it. But, I mean, what other kinds of party products would require security and secretive overseas shipping?”
Pulling a corner of her mouth back, Mirabelle shrugs.
“Well isn’t it possible that some of your old associates are who’s been coming after us?” proposes Elvis, eyebrows raised to accentuate the obviousness of the question.
Mirabelle squints and purses her lips as she ponders his suggestion. After a few moments her eyes widen and with a resolute shake of her head she replies simply, “No.”
“It seems like something we should consider,” continues Elvis. “Maybe it’s not even someone you knew directly, maybe a riv–“
She cuts him off assertively, “Maybe it iz Rebekah mozer and fahzer, or maybe it iz you?”
“M-Me?” stammers Elvis. “I don’t … what do you mean?”
“Some sing in your life,” she explains. “Maybe some people. Maybe you do some bad sings and now ze people want ze vengeance.”
The French pronunciation of the final word takes a moment for Elvis to decipher. When he finally does, an involuntary look of astonishment splashes across his face. “Vengeance? Against me?” he blurts out, the absurdity of her statement contorting his features.
She cocks her head gently forward in wordless confirmation.
“No way!” counters Elvis emphatically. “No. I never hung out with drug dealers or ex-KGB casino guys. I mean, you guys all had colourful lives and, you know, props and all, but my life wasn’t like that. I’m a first gen Vietnamese kid. And an only child. I know it’s kind of a cliché but there were expectations on me. Between helping my folks in the restaurant, studying, and sports, I didn’t have much time to get into trouble. Mostly. I got arrested in high school for trespassing once. Stupid drunken prank.”
“That’s more than I ever accomplished,” interjects Brock solemnly, his mouth extended into a tight and mirthless smirk.
“I’m not proud of it!” exclaims Elvis, rejecting the intimation with upraised hands. “And my folks were really disappointed. That’s worse than if they were mad.”
Gazing attentively at Elvis, Rebekah leans forward and asks, “So how were you able to peel yourself away to join our happy little expedition?”
“I was having a really hard time trying to figure out how to tell them that I didn’t want to study medicine,” he recalls wistfully. “They wanted me to be some kind of doctor so bad. I sorta caved. I couldn’t stand to disappoint them. But then thinking about doing that for the rest of my life I’d start to panic. I just didn’t know what to do so I went online for help.”
A few members of Section B groan audibly.
“I know, I know!” acknowledges Elvis. “Ninety nine percent of the advice sucked but if I hadn’t posted anything then I never would’ve met Dmitri.”
“And Dmitri’s one percent helped?” asks Rebekah with interest.
“No,” replies Elvis, turning to Dmitri and shrugging apologetically. “I mean, maybe. The things we talked about got me to think about the problem differently. And he helped to back the cover story that I eventually came up with.”
Dmitri accepts the recognition with a gentle, closed-eye nod.
“I told my folks,” continues Elvis, “that I was being interviewed for a paid internship with a medical equipment company. I created fake business cards, letterhead, a whole dossier. Dmitri donated one of his burner numbers and a P.O. box.”
“It didn’t bother you to lie to them?” asks Rebekah, still engrossed in the conversation.
Elvis raises his eyebrows and replies, “No. It didn’t bother me at all. I figured I could always burn the whole thing if I thought I was going down the wrong road, tell my folks the offer fell through somehow, and get back to becoming a doctor. At least I would’ve tried. Then Dmitri offered me a free apartment and some … what did you call the money?”
He turns his head inquisitively toward Dmitri.
“Walking around money,” replies Dmitri dryly.
“Hang on!” interrupts Rebekah sharply. “Is that why you wanted me to get an extra safe house? And all that extra cash? That was for Elvis? You told me you needed it for some secret agency mission.”
“Yup,” replies Dmitri calmly. “That was true. I just didn’t provide all the details.”
Rebekah lets out an exasperated sigh. Then, changing her demeanour to its previous state she turns toward Elvis and asks, “So you were already living in the city when Shindan hit us?”
“Umm,” replies Elvis unsteadily, “yes, and, I guess, thank you. The place was great. It’s a shame they trashed it.”
Rebekah replies with a flat, affectless smile.
“Okay,” chimes in Mirabelle, “we ‘ave know a little more about everybody. But maybe not so much Brock Muhdeek.”
Taking the cue Brock takes a moment to collect his thoughts and then launches into his own story.
He talks about his sister, his ageing parents, his dead cat, his lackluster life, the feeling of squandered opportunity and passive surrender. He describes his long and steady descent beyond the borderline of mediocrity, right up until the moment he first encountered Section B.
He pauses to formulate a summary to his narrative and then slowly concludes, “I had my doubts about Section B, the agency, all the stuff I’ve been hearing. I think you all know that. And I suppose that a secret agent should have a healthy dose of skepticism.”
The other agents of Section B agree with varying nods.
“But,” he finishes, “I can’t deny what I’ve experienced in the past few weeks. It’s been scary, thrilling, intriguing, weird. Rebekah was right when she said that my old life was over. At the time I thought it was some kind of a threat and now, well, I have no idea where this is all heading but it’s definitely not the shitty dead end I was on track for. Whatever happens, wherever this ends up, I’m glad to be here and now with you guys.”
The group returns soft, genuine smiles. Even Mirabelle appears to be mildly touched by his words.
As the breakfast conversation peters out, napkins are placed onto the table and chairs are pushed back. While preparing to disperse Mirabelle and Elvis exchange a shared admiration for French baguettes, hers with butter and brie, his as a base for bahn mi sandwiches, and they walk off discussing Vietnam’s French connection. Dominic and Rebekah leave in the other direction talking about Shindan’s possible connections to her parents. Mirabelle, Dmitri, and Brock head silently toward the sleeping quarters to fetch the pod.