Authors: Violette Malan
I
LIKE SUBWAYS. The more crowded the better, as far as I’m concerned. Having all those people around mutes my awareness of them, makes it less acute, until all their psyches, their truths and untruths, their fears and worries and lies, just become so much white noise in the background of my mind. Like the sound of a freeway on the other side of a hill. It’s always there, but after a while, you don’t notice it anymore.
Today there weren’t many people in the car with me, but fortunately any city large enough to have a subway, even Toronto, is populated enough to make me feel comfortable. That is, until the couple that got on at Broadview decided to sit down on the bench seat that was at ninety degrees to mine.
She
felt safer sitting close to another woman.
They
were avoiding the two teenagers who were doing their best to look hard as nails as they hovered around the door in their oversized clothing, their studs and plugs, and their tattoos. I’d brushed against them myself when I got on at Woodbine. [The taller one was worried that someone—his father?—had been acting strangely lately, quiet, distant, and apathetic, not at all like his usual raving drunken self; the shorter one was having an imaginary conversation
with his girlfriend in which he was getting the upper hand. For once.]
I shifted in my seat, but just enough that the woman’s knee stopped touching mine. I’d had to learn not to overreact to casual physical contact. We were crossing under the Bloor Viaduct and almost everyone in the car automatically looked out the window at the Don Valley, as if even the few minutes we’d spent in the tunnels had starved our eyes for greenery.
I hadn’t moved far enough. The woman’s knee kept bump, bump, bumping against mine as the car swayed along the track, slowing as it entered Castlefrank Station. I shifted again, and focused my eyes on the headline I could see across the aisle. I could have sworn it said “High Park Vampires Claim More Victims,” but that couldn’t be right. The
National Post
wouldn’t print something like that. Besides, there aren’t any vampires. Other things, maybe, but not vampires.
Not even that distraction was doing much good. With direct contact any distance I had was gone and, white noise or no white noise, I learned more about the woman than I wanted to—and about her boyfriend too, since
they
were touching. Really strong emotion blanks out what I read, but the woman had been living with her worry long enough to get some distance on it, so I was getting good clear images, continuously, almost like watching a movie. She believed her boyfriend was having an affair, and she was honestly grieving. That’s rare. Most people would have been angry, and trying to figure out how they could turn their belief to their best advantage. You know. Revenge. Payback. A new living room suite.
I could set their minds at rest, I thought, and the idea made me smile. I glanced at the subway map over the nearby set of doors.
I probably shouldn’t.
Oh, but I wanted to. Indecision made me grit my teeth. Sherbourne, and then the big station at Yonge and Bloor where the east/west line connected with the original north/south one. I was going past it, to the junction at St. George, to go south on the University line. The announcement came, that neutral female voice: “Arriving at Sherbourne. Sherbourne Station.” I stood up and took a good grip on the nearby pole.
“He’s not cheating on you,” I said. I hitched the strap of my bag more firmly onto my shoulder as I stepped away. “He’s lost the
money for your engagement ring and he’s working a part-time job to save it up.” I turned to the guy, as open-mouthed as the girl. “The money’s in the—” [running shoes?] I shook my head. “In a box, a blue box. Hall closet.”
I moved quickly past the teenagers. I felt the whoosh of the doors as they slid shut behind me, but barely heard the noise of the train as it started moving again. That’s how loudly my heart was beating. I could feel my lips stretched out in a grin so big my teeth were drying, and I was closing down my face fast before I remembered that I didn’t have to worry about that kind of thing anymore. I didn’t have to control the expression on my face if I didn’t want to. I was buzzing with adrenaline, exhilarated and guilty at the same time, shifting my feet in what were almost dance steps. I’d done it. No one was going to be mad at me, and no one was going to punish me for reading someone I wasn’t asked to read.
Hey, maybe I should have told the tall kid his father wasn’t ever going to be a problem for him again.
I took a few steps farther away from the edge of the platform, but though I turned to face the train, my couple was already out of view. We’d been sitting in the front car, and the last car was just passing me as I turned. A man was standing at the door at the end of the car, a dark silhouette against the lights behind him. Suddenly all my half-guilty giggles were quenched and I was left shivering, icy cold. I caught a whiff of rotten meat, far stronger than the usual garbage bin smell you sometimes got from a subway tunnel. The man was leaning forward, pressing his face against the glass so hard his features distorted into a twisted rubber mask. He was still standing like that when the train disappeared into the tunnel.
Suddenly my fear melted away as a rush of hot anger swept through me. I was
done
being frightened—been there, and not going back. Not for some squirrely guy on the subway, not for anybody. I actually took a step forward, my hands forming fists, even though the train was gone.
He’d been trying to catch my scent. As stupid as that sounds, that’s exactly what he was doing. I realized that no one else around me had felt the cold, smelled the old meat. I squared my shoulders, but decided not to wait for the next train after all. I headed for the stairs, and the sunlight and taxis I would find on the street. Always
have cab fare; that was something Alejandro had taught me in Madrid.
As soon as I was up out of the tunnels I pulled my mobile from the outer pocket on my shoulder bag and hit the speed dial.
“Soy yo,”
I said when Alejandro answered, as if he wouldn’t know. “I just saw something odd on the subway.” I described the man I’d seen as well as I could. “He seemed to be trying to pick up my scent.” There was silence on the other end of the phone.
“Stay where you are, I will come.”
I smiled and rolled my eyes at the same time. He was bored, and I should have known he’d want to come to the rescue—again. Still, I hesitated, looking around me for the taxi rank.
“We talked about this,” I reminded him. “I need to start doing stuff on my own. If it’s someone who works for the Collector,” I said, using my private term for the man who had taken me from my parents, “he might just have been trying to figure out what I am, without knowing it’s
me
.” I cleared my throat. “I got the feeling he was curious, not that he was tracking me.”
“But if he sees
me
with you, and he does come from our friend, then he will know for certain who you are.” I knew Alejandro would understand. “Still, I do not like it. If he were entirely human, you would not have read so much from him.”
“I’m getting into a cab now,” I said, as one pulled up in front of me. I tried to sound confident and secure, but maybe there was a little pleading in my voice. I needed to do this job alone, and he knew it.
“Good luck,
querida
,” he said. “Call immediately if you should need me.”
I used the taxi ride to push the subway man and his strange behavior to the back of my mind. I had to focus on the job I was heading for. By the time I got out in front of the glass-walled Christie Institute on University Avenue, I was calm again. I’d been able to check my hair and makeup in the cab, and changed out of the flats that were sensible subway wear into the Stuart Weitzman pumps that went better with my Nuovi Sarti suit. The flats went into a little felt pouch and joined two impressive looking folders in my shoulder bag.
There was a security desk masquerading as an information kiosk across the spacious terrazzo floor of the lobby. I already had the
room number I needed, but the uniformed guard “helped” me find the office by phoning up and making sure I was expected. The place was air-conditioned, but only just. Or maybe it wasn’t warm enough outside yet to make you really feel it. I’d been under the impression that this was a medical facility, but I was fast figuring out that it wasn’t the kind where patients had appointments.
I was met at the elevator by an older blonde woman in a taupe slacks suit with a matching cami top and red, mid-heel, open-toed shoes, who showed me into an empty office and took my order for a glass of iced water with a slice of lemon.
After waiting twenty minutes past the time of my appointment, an olive-skinned man with a nose almost as big as Alejandro’s came in. He stopped short in the doorway, seemed about to frown, and then came forward with his hand outstretched to take mine. His hair was black—real black—and still had some curl even though it was cropped short enough to show off his beautifully shaped head. His shirt looked like silk, and his suit cost at least twice what mine did.
Alejandro had taught me a firm, short, handshake for business purposes, to minimize actual contact, but this time the images I got from the man were more fragmented than usual, and I held on for a second longer, concentrating to get everything I could. [A long life; the suit was made for him; someone named Harry was dying, but not of the disease the Institute researched; he knew about a lot of dying people.] At least here in North America I wasn’t expected to kiss people on both cheeks.
“Good morning, Dr. Martin,” he said. “I’m Nikos Polihronidis, counsel for the Institute.” I’d expected something Mediterranean, but his accent was pure second-generation Greek Canadian. This wasn’t the Human Resources person who’d contacted me, and I wondered if I should be worried. He looked at me pretty narrowly, even though his dark eyes now twinkled a bit, as he took the chair behind the desk and glanced at the cleared surface with faint surprise. I wondered if I had better get another work outfit, especially if I had to come back here. This guy would know my suit if he saw it again.
And he
was
worried, now that he was seeing me, about whether I could do the job.
“I was expecting someone older.” He leaned back in his chair,
right leg crossed over left, elbows propped comfortably on the armrests. “Though, of course, you come with impeccable recommendations.”
I should have, considering all Alejandro’s work, and all the people he knew in high and useful places. I smiled as though I thought I’d been complimented. Alejandro had made me up to look older, literally painting an older woman’s face on top of mine. Even close up, all anyone could really tell was that I was wearing makeup. I lifted my left eyebrow, but kept the rest of my face neutral. “This isn’t your office,” I said. “You’d never have that print in here if it was.
Your
office is…something more traditional, but not conventional, if I had to guess.” As if I was guessing. “And I’d put money on a corner office. Your firm acts for the Institute, but you donate your time pro bono.”
His smile made the temperature in the room drop; the twinkle completely disappeared from his eyes. I was relieved to find my hands steady, and my heart rate calm. Apparently I didn’t find him intimidating. Unlike the last person I worked for, Nikos Polihronidis couldn’t starve me, or lock me in a closet. Or take away my teddy bear.
“I suppose that was a demonstration.”
I tilted my head to the side. I certainly wasn’t going to explain. They’d wanted a psychological profiler, and according to my curriculum vitae, that’s exactly what they got.
“Please don’t profile me again.” He looked at me in silence for several minutes, eyes narrowing once more. I imagined this was how he looked at clients when he was deciding whether to take them on.
“How much were you told about this case?” he asked finally.
“You have a candidate for a senior research position,” I said. “He looks very promising on paper, but several of the current employees have gotten a ‘bad vibe’ from him.”
He inclined his head a couple of centimeters and brought it back up.
“Also, the HR person who contacted me has heard some disturbing rumors.”
“And were you…”
“No. I specifically asked
not
to be told. Psychologists can be just as susceptible to finding what they’re looking for as the next person.” Again the shallow nod. It looked as though that was all I was going
to get. Finally I asked what stage of the application the candidate had reached.
For a minute I thought I was going to get the freezing smile again.
“All of the senior people have given their opinions, some in writing.” He raised his eyebrows at me.
I held up my hand. “No, I didn’t read them and, again, I’d prefer not to be told.”
Again with the cold smile, as he glanced at his watch. I’m sure Alejandro would have been able to tell exactly what kind of very expensive watch it was.
I stood up when he did, and followed him down the carpeted hall and into a wide conference room with a floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall view of downtown Toronto, complete with CN Tower, and the blue expanse of Lake Ontario. Even from here you could tell the water was cold. Even in June.
There were three people standing in the room when Nikos Polihronidis and I came in, helping themselves to coffee and pastries from an elegant wheeled tea table off to one side. It didn’t go with the room, and I wondered where it came from, though I wasn’t curious enough to touch it. I was introduced as a consultant, and there were handshakes all around.
I sat where the lawyer indicated, diagonally across the table from the applicant, back straight, knees together, ankles crossed, my eyes looking at the notes I was taking with Alejandro’s Montblanc fountain pen. The notes were because, as Alejandro put it, “verisimilitude is the watermark of reality.” In other words, if I wanted to be mistaken for a psychologist, I should do the things people expected psychologists to do.
Oh, and I should probably avoid real psychologists.