Page 72 of The Circle

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The four of usremain clustered by the exit as the train pulls into its final resting place at Vienna Central Station. Although I reckon it’s not the train’s final resting place. The train will turn and head off some other where to pick up some other someones. I suppose it’s more apt to think that Vienna might be our final resting place. Best not to ruminate over that too much now.

The hiss and chunk of the mighty, arcane vessel pulling to a stop signals that our time has arrived. The door slides open and the afternoon’s Viennese sun bouncing off the metallic, remodeled, decidedly twenty-first-century architecture pulls me from whatever fantastical Orient Express-induced reverie I might have been enjoying back into reality. Although any fantasy I allowed my brain to toy with was not that great or, indeed, effective. No amount of gold-flecked bedding or just-drawn-from-a-glacier spring water could wipe away the foreboding unknowns of our situation.

What are Danny and Christine keeping from me?

The thought enters the Chunnels of my brain as swiftly and unexpectedly as this whole adventure unfolded before us. What are they not saying? It’s possible they have forgotten that it is impossible for us to keep secrets from each other. Whatever secrets we have all attempted to keep have never remained secret for long.

Watching them sleep, sprawled across one another, their entangled limbs forming a kind of seductive geometry, I noticed that it felt different than it has in the past. Less erotic, perhaps? Maybe somehow more eternal? More enduring. More… infinite. I don’t know the precise right word, but I don’t need to assign it a definition to know what I experienced.

There is something. A pact maybe. Some decision they have made between them, unifying their bond and assuring that whatever happens, they will care for one another first? They will forfeit the three in favor of the two?

Preposterous. I very nearly slap myself across the face for entertaining something so absurd. I don’t—slap myself—because given how taut the moment is, the last thing everyone needs to think is that I’ve turned into some kind of nutter, but I somewhat more internally give myself the slap I deserve. It must manifest physically to a minimal degree because Eliza asks, “You all right?”

“Aces. Why?”

“You jumped.”

“I… jumped?”

“Started. A bit.”

I look to Christine and Danny, who nod in tacit confirmation that I did, indeed, “start a bit.” It is wholly unlike me to do anything of which I am not consciously and acutely aware. But there seem to be any number of changes finding their way into my reality of late, so perhaps this is some other new thing to which I shall have to become accustomed. Inadvertent “starting” when notions of slapping myself across the face enter my thinking. Fok de kak, man.

I’ll allow a lot of things into my life, but allowing myself to turn into some type of jumpy fokker is not one.

“Mr. van den Berg,” I hear spoken politely by a voice I have come to know over the last thirty-six hours.

Looking to the side, we see him approach. The oke from the phone. The one with whom we have been communicating. He wears a smart three-piece suit. Wool and cashmere, by the sheen of it in the afternoon sunshine. Dark blue. His hair is brown and his eyes are blue. He’s thin. Clean-shaven. He dons circular, wire-frame eyeglasses.

In other words, the oke looks almost comically like a stereotypical Austrian bad guy from some movie crafted by an unimaginative filmmaker with a particular xenophobia for Austrians. Had he also a tiny moustache, trimmed to perfection, I might be inclined to believe that this has all been some elaborate joke designed as part of a hidden-camera show or some fokken thing.

I see Christine’s brow furrow out of the corner of my eye and I lean in to her to whisper, “Do you recognize him?”

Her brow furrows like she’s trying to recall something that does not want to be easily summoned. “Maybe?” she says. “I think… maybe?”

“Mr. van den Berg,” he says again, striding closer, his hand extended to shake. I do not reciprocate. Fokken obviously. He appears to take no umbrage to the snub and merely continues politely addressing us all. “Ms. Watson. Mr. Fortnight. Ms. Keene. Very good to see you once more. And welcome. I trust the accommodations were satisfactory?”

“Fuck you, bro,” Danny blurts out before I can say anything in response. There isn’t much I could offer that’s more appropriate than what Danny volunteered.

“What happens now?” I ask him after Danny’s justified retort settles.

“Now,” the comic book baddie says, “we will bring you to meet and discuss the terms for the return of the young Ms. Alexandria Watson.”

A cold chill rustles through all four of us. Bracing our flesh and rattling our bones.

I can hear Eliza’s breathing begin to accelerate in and out through her nose.

“Terms?” she asks, sharply.

“I recognize that sounds a bit… transactional,” the cartoon-come-to-life Austrian says, “but rest assured, we are confident all will be resolved to everyone’s best satisfaction.”

I have so many questions I want to ask. So many things that deserve answers. Who the fok are you? How long have you been watching us? What’s this all about? What the fok do you want? But if there’s one thing I have learned, it is to never allow anyone to know that you are uncertain or curious. One should always strive to project an air of unbothered disinterest and indifference. When people talk of others having a “magnetism,” it simply means that they don’t exude a thirsting neediness. And while I find myself parched and in desperate need of information right now, that is no one’s business but mine own. So…

“All right then, man,” I say to our new friend, “then let’s get about satisfying everyone.”

“Excellent,” he replies in his unrelentingly obsequious way. Then he gets an almost apologetic look about him and adds, “Do you mind if I please may collect whatever weaponry you might be concealing? I am sorry, but I’m sure you understand.”