“My husband, he…” Her eyes glistened and she looked away.
Immediately he made the connection. She had days-old bruises when she arrived. She knew how to take the beatings in the sessions, as if habituated to them. And in their discussions, she was no stranger to violence. No, she wasn’t being unfaithful to her current husband. She was trying to escape him.
A flash of regret corrupted him. Perhaps he’d been too harsh. He searched for some words, but before he could find them, Flora turned to him, defiant and emotional. “Maybe I’m a liar, maybe I’m unfaithful, but at least I’m just.”
It was Mehta who now turned away from Flora. Of course she knew the importance of justice to Mehta. He’d told her as much only a minute ago. Her words were like an incision into the heart of who he was. That’s why she said it. She felt humiliated, and wished to cut deep with her words.
But what did she know? He was a man of justice. She didn’t know him. She didn’t know of how he was searching for her man, Granger. He couldn’t tell her, or she would blather on about it to Jeroen and Thorpe. Then his search would be all for naught.
If he wasn’t so charged from the discussion he would laugh at the irony of it.
He could no longer bear to look at her. She seemed to have a mutual sentiment. They walked the rest of the way to downtown Belmont in silence.
When they arrived at the Leaf & Twig Tea Shop, he found the harlot waiting for them outside, standing next to a horse. She wasn’t wearing anything sultry, but her makeup was heavy, and her hair smelled of some pungent Old World chemical.
“Hello Mehta,” she said with a teasing smile.
He didn’t return her smile. Mehta looked around her and couldn’t see anyone inside. “Is Master Euclid here?”
“No, he didn’t want to make the trip down on such an inclement day.”
Mehta opened his hand in a gesture of introduction, “Flora, this is Barbara. She’s employed by the New Founders of Seeville. I’ve been talking to her about a possible placement.”
Flora’s eyes widened and she looked back and forth between Mehta and Barbara.
“Come,” Barbara said, guiding them inside to a table where she already had hot mugs of tea waiting.
When they sat down, Flora eagerly nestled the cup in her hands and took a careful sip. Barbara watched her with a smile.
“A placement?” Flora asked.
“Yes, to help with the estate. I’m sure you’ve heard of James Euclid?” Barbara asked.
Flora slowly shook her head.
Mehta elaborated. “Euclid is a part of the New Founders movement, the current leader of the Seeville chapter. His estate is up in old Monticello.”
Barbara quickly jumped in. “He’s more like a historian, really. I know a lot of people think the New Founders are a bit funny in the head, but he’s really not that bad. He likes to keep to himself up there on the hill, but also likes to keep things quiet. He stays out of the way of those busy, fast-lane railroad folks.”
Flora nodded, absorbing her words like a dry sponge in water.
“So can you cook, with pots and pans like? Wasn’t sure what you SLS do nowadays.”
Flora nodded. “Yes. I can cook.”
“No diseases or nothing?”
Mehta answered for her. “No.”
“Okay, then,” Barbara said, and took a generous sip of her tea.
“That’s it?” Mehta asked.
“Not quite, you’ll need to go up to Monticello for the paperwork, but she doesn’t need to come. This was mainly to get a good look at her. She looks decent enough. Clean even. Better than Mutt and Scabby, that’s for sure. I think Euclid will like her. We’ll send a messenger to you when the snow melts.”
“Okay. Thank you for coming down in the snow,” Mehta said, standing up to leave.
Realizing that the meeting was coming to an end, Flora was downing her tea in quick sips.
Barbara stood up as Flora finished the last drop. “You aren’t lonely in that tower all day?” she asked Mehta.
“No. No, I’m not. Good day.” Mehta grabbed Flora’s arm and pulled her out the door.
QUEBEC CITY
“No, Francois,” Duncan said firmly in French. “You can’t take the torch outside for teaching your brother or for anything else. You shouldn’t even be thinking about welding or soldering unless you’re in the bunker. You know the rules.”
Francois grimaced and removed the torch from his bag. He placed it on a nearby desk, the sound generating a subtle echo in the bunker.
Francois was a young, newly minted engineer. He had a light mustache growing above his mouth, no doubt to make him look older. He had just recently transferred over from the Descartiers bunker. His youth and new position were valid excuses for not knowing the rules, but only to a point.
Duncan turned to Marcel next to him. “Beyond the retcher risk, we must try to institutionalize protections against all forms of obsession. This is why work time must be separated from free time. Do you understand?”
Marcel nodded and wrote something down on his paper. Marcel was quiet, but he was loyal. He seemed to understand the importance of his job.
Francois offered his bag back to Duncan. Duncan removed his canteen and examined it. He shook it in the air, listening carefully to the sloshing sound. The rest of the bag was empty save for some old, stained cloths. Duncan kneaded each of the cloths on the table in front of him and crumbs rolled out. They must have been used to wrap up his lunch.
“Every inch must be inspected, no matter what you see, no matter whose it is,” Duncan said to Marcel next to him. Marcel again wrote it down.
Duncan gave the bag back to Francois. “Have a nice evening, Francois,” he said.
Francois nodded, exited the heavy main door and closed it behind him with the usual resounding thud.
Duncan said, “and get to know these workers, Marcel. Ask them about their families, what they do for fun. You will be better equipped to know when something is wrong, or if they’re nervous. Plus if they know you, they will be less likely to break the rules.”
Marcel wrote it down. Duncan hoped Marcel wasn’t just going through the motions—that he would study his notes later to make sure he understood them.
There was no one else waiting to leave. Only a few workers toiled away. One man was working with spreadsheets on the main computer terminal. Another woman was testing the conveyor belt on the milling line. Another was repairing one of the big heating units in the corner. They were all veterans of the bunker. “I leave the gate in your capable hands, Marcel. I’ll stop by tomorrow morning to check in.”
“Thank you,” Marcel said, nodding with sincerity.
Duncan stood up, stretching his legs. Then he left out the main exit door.
He entered the first airlock and closed the heavy door behind him. It was already much cooler here. He zipped up his down jacket before entering the second airlock. When he reached the bunker lobby, Viola was still there, pushing one of two remaining carts full of milled grain. She threw her neck back so that her blue-streaked hair didn’t block her vision.
“Do you need a hand?” Duncan asked.
“No, thanks,” Viola responded, “You have a good evening, sir.”
Sir. Something about her tone bothered him, but he wasn’t sure what.
She began pushing the cart down the ramp way that led to the tunnels, but then she hesitated. “Do you want to go first?”
“No thanks, Viola. I want to get some air.” He always felt half-starved of oxygen after a day in the bunkers, whereas the young workers never seemed to notice.