I gave Bill a deep wai, pressing my hands together, raising the fingertips to my lips, bowing my head and bending from the waist. Bill returned my wai and smiled. I said, “Can I leave the announcement of my departure to you?”
“Of course you can. Don’t you worry about that — you go off and find happiness, Jonah,” he said, clapping me on the back with his hand.
I turned and walked out of his space with tears in my eyes, and strode swiftly past Dora and her enquiring glance so that she couldn’t see them.
I felt really grateful to Bill for not making a fuss about my leaving. His parting words were kind and I also felt a great sense of relief, like a huge weight had lifted from my shoulders. I clacked my way down the wooden stairs, too impatient to wait for the old style elevator that ran up and down the four stories of the shop house, and burst out of the building on to North Boat Quay.
Mariko was sitting where I had left her fifteen mins ago, drinking a beer at a white cast-iron table on the Quay. I walked swiftly over to her. She looked great. She must have changed at the UNPOL Complex before leaving, as the white cotton summer dress she had on was definitely not standard UNPOL issue.
She looked at me with those huge green eyes of hers and said, “How did it go?”
“Great. He took it like the true gentleman that he is and said some really nice things to me,” I said, smiling at her, looking to see how much beer she had left in the bottle. She saw my look and picking up the bottle drained it with one long swallow.
She stood, and taking my hand said, “Let’s go.”
We walked up North Boat Quay, through the gathering early evening drinks crowd settling themselves into bars around the quay. The evening sun reflected gold off the mirrored windows of the towers across the canal.
“Any regrets?” Mariko asked, smiling.
“No, none,” I said, smiling in return. In the evening light her color looked stunning, a deep gold sheen to her skin; her long black hair flowing out behind her as she strode up the hill. Since returning from the Moon, we had spent all of our time together except for when she had to go to her contribution at UNPOL. That had surprised me, especially when she’d told me of contributing in the Special Operations Executive, the elite operational arm of UNPOL. I pushed a bit harder to keep pace with her.
“In a hurry?” I asked. She laughed. We had established a slight banter in the week we had been together and this was a frequent question of mine. She slowed down, turning around, walking backwards.
“Well the sooner we get there the better,” and reached out with a hand for mine, her face scrunched up as she mimicked a show of pulling me along. A guy passing smiled at me. I sensed envy in his eyes and smiled back at him, trying to avoid feeling smug.
We reached the Lev port and joined the queue standing close, our chests touching. She looked up at me her hands around my waist. She bumped her waist against mine and gave me a cheeky grin that caused the dimples in her cheeks to show. I smiled down into her eyes and raised my eyebrows twice and grinned as if to say ‘yeah sure, let’s do it’, calling her teasing bluff. She pulled back immediately and gave me a mock glare, with a swift glance around to see if anyone in the queue had seen the exchange.
The queue in front of us cleared and we were able to get into the Lev port door set into the wall of Citiplex, the Ent headquarters for Citibank. The harsh bright aluminum interior of the Lev contrasted with the soft evening light outside. Orange plastic molded seats ran down each side of the Lev with the hand bar and red straps running the length of the Lev down its middle for the standing passengers. We held onto the same red strap, my hand enfolding hers. The door beeped three times and sealed shut with a loud hiss and then the Lev smoothly accelerated, giving us a good excuse to sway together. Again she ground her waist into mine and this time to more effect as I widened my eyes to let her know what had happened. The grin wrinkled around her eyes in full knowledge of what she had achieved and with an impish look she swayed away and looked down. I smiled and using my free arm pulled her into me again breathing deep the smell of her hair.
I lost track of the number of stops between the Quay and Changi but it was at least four or five and then she nudged me and I opened my eyes. We stepped out on the level five platform at Changi and I checked my Devstick.
“Come on, this way,” Mariko said, pulling me by the hand again. We walked over to a walky that was going up to level two, the sign for Bangkok Line hanging above the entrance. The Bangkok Line is a Vactube that runs along the coast of the Geographic of Malaysia until it reaches the major concourse hub in Bangkok. I looked at the time on the Devstick, fifteen minutes since we’d left the Boat Quay, and put the Devstick back in the pocket of my white cotton bottom outers.
The walky zigzagged its way up to level two, and we walked out on to the platform. Mariko said, “Hey not so busy. Less than three deep in most places — we won’t have to wait for another Lev.”
“No. I thought there would be more people traveling this line but it doesn’t look too bad, does it?”
“Let’s walk up to the far end of the platform. It looks like the queue is only one deep there and we may be able to get a seat.”
We strolled along the bright cavern of a tube. The domed ceiling, painted white, gave a sense of height. Along the walls, the Lev doors every ten meters were sealed shut to contain the vacuum of the Vactubes. In between the doors, Devscreens displayed suggestions. The volume of the suggestions was muted but increased and then faded as we walked past each of them, reaching the end of the platform. A woman standing by the Lev door smiled at us as we stood next to her. She wore a pink scarf covering her hair in the fashion of Muslim women and was wearing blue overalls with a Hitachi logo over the left breast pocket.
The Devscreen next to the Lev door we were waiting at changed color to sky blue and the words ‘Breaking News’ scrolled across the bottom of the screen from right to left. The image changed and the woman with the scarf gasped and held her hand up to her mouth. On the Devscreen an image of grey rubble, the remains of a building. At first I thought earthquake and then I read the text scrolling along the bottom of the screen. I had a sense of deja-vu but I often got that and didn’t say anything to Mariko. Her eyes were glued to the screen. I turned back and continued reading, part of the word lost as it scrolled, “…rist attack on main Lev port in New Manhattan. Casualties feared high. Bomb ripped through main Vactube at peak trav ho…”
I squeezed Mariko’s hand. This was the second terrorist attack in a week: the first had been the Paris bombing of the cafe. Still no one claimed responsibility and the rumors gave no direction, only added to the confusion. We hadn’t had this kind of violence for many years and the shock of it was profound. In some deep part of me there was a fear, a fear that happiness could be ripped away. As I watched the Devscreen, I saw a stooped-over fireman walking, his face a white blur under his black helmet, his eyes wide and his hands covered in blood and dust, held out at his sides, his yellow jacket open.
The Lev door opened and we walked in, our mood somber with what we had just seen. Mariko held both my hands in hers, our knees touching as we sat on the bright yellow plastic seats nearest the doors and looked up at the Devscreen inside the Lev. It was showing the same images as outside. The doors beeped their warning and closed with a hiss. The Muslim woman sat on the opposite side of the Lev and stared at the wall of the Lev beside Mariko. Mariko held out her hand and patted the seat beside her. The woman got up from her seat and, taking Mariko’s hand, sat down beside her. No one said anything.