THE PRIVATE PARTY

25

You are waiting, again, in a cafe, but this time a nice cafe, not in the Matador: you are inside the Cordon, dressed like a lady: you have a grey skirt and top that you just bought in a giant store with a name like Multinational, a store with three glass floors on a wide street lined with trees, actual living trees, and cafe tables where other ladies in high heels sat and talked. There are not many men around: they are all high up in their office towers, doing whatever it is they do up there, before they knock off and get in darkened cars for trips to the Club with no name. Or to Safety.

You have a real blouse, and it is buttoned almost to the top. It feels like just another fetish costume for the moment – you feel perhaps you need some librarian glasses to perfect it.

Instead you wear sunglasses, and you look like someone's assistant.

You are waiting for Vania Silva, the reporter, and you have never been as nervous. You are more nervous than before you first went on stage at the Club with no name. It took you an entire day to pick up the phone and call the switchboard at the newspaper and stutter out her name. You spent that day pacing your apartment and smoking until you were sick.

And then when you heard her voice on the line, the voice you knew from the television, it was dreamlike, as if you were speaking to a fantasy, a holograph.

And there she is, walking towards you, rapidly, talking on a cellphone. She stops at the entrance to the patio, still talking, looking around. She has dark glasses like you, and a business suit on like yours, You could be sisters.

You wave.

She puts her phone in her purse as she sits. She shakes your hand. She is not smiling.

"Thank you for meeting with me," you say.

"If you have something for me, it will be me thanking you."

"I'm really sorry about your dog. Wha an awful thing to happen."

She nods.

"Do you want to know something about me? Like who I am?"

Vania Silva shrugs. You wish she would take off her glasses so you could see the colour of her eyes. You know they are brown from the television, but you wonder gow close to yours they are. She says, "Why don't you tell me what you have first."

"Okay. It's kind of bound up in what I do though."

Vania's fingertips are tapping lightly at the tabletop, as if on an invisible keyboard.

"It's hard to know where to start."

You see her eyes gancing at her purse; you know she is thinking about her phone.

"I think I know," you say, "something about the Mayor. At least I know where to find things about the Mayor. That you want to find."

"M-hm."

"And I can get us in there."

She sits back, takes off her glasses. Her eyes are a dark nut brown. She is waiting. But she is listening.

"I have a word," you say, "that is useful. I'm wondering if you know it."

She shrugs.

You take a deep breath. "Safety." You watch her face closely for a reaction. There is none. She is blank. You sit back in relief. You know that you have something she does not. You say, "Does that word mean anything to you?"

She shrugs again. But now she is looking forward, staring you in the eye. You feel as if she is seeing right into your messy apartment.

So you begin . You tell her the story of the Club with no name. Of the Owner. Of James and his interrogation.

She stops you after a moment, asks you if she can record what you are saying. You shake your head no. She takes out a notebook and pen instead.

You tell her of your sister in her hospital bed. Of the men pursuing her and your sister. Of the night your sister was shot, and the sculpture was vandalized. You hesitate before telling him about the Owner's wife. It is his private trauma. You decide you cannot share it.

But you stop anyway, noticing something has changed about Vania Silva's face. She is not writing any more, just staring down hard at her notebook. Something about the set of her mouth tells you she is trying not to cry. She is blinking a lot.

You are silent for a moment. You have an urge to put her hand over hers, but you hardly kow her. Her hands and forearms look soft on the white cloth in the sun.

You don't ask if she is okay. You say, "This upsets you."

She nods. Her mouth quivers. She is still looking down. You know this feeling of fighting tears. You want to brrring them out. You say, "You lost someone too."

She nods. Then the tears fall from her eyes. "My father."

She uses the napkin to dab at her eyes, careful not to touch her eyeliner.

You wait.

She sniffles for a moment, then clears her throat. "He worked in construction. We're Portuguese. He worked hard. Long days. He was never mixed up in any trouble. Nothing. He also happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Did they ever... did they ever find..."

"Of course not. They don't bother. You get some money from a stranger to pay for the funeral. You don't ask. My mom's never been the same."

"How do you know it had anything to do with, with..."

Vania shrugs. "I looked into it. It was the construction site he was working on, my dad, it was under dispute. There was a gunfight one night. My dad was just packing up to leave. The building ended up on the mayor's brother's name. It's an office tower now." She has stopped crying now, She looks aound grimly. "Let's go," she say, standing.

"Go? What about the coffees?"

"Quick. You should always be moving." She walks through the tables and you grab your bag and follow.

You catch up with her on the sidewalk. You both put on your dark glasses and walk briskly.

"This was you know if you're being watched," she says. "You move, your watcher has to move too. Now we stop." She stopped suddenly. "And we turn around." You scan the sidewalk behind you. "No one you recognize. That's good. Let's keep going. Now. You don't want anyone to know that you've met me. That's why I didn't want you to come into the office. So you tell me what we're going to do."

You feel a rush of pleasure: you are talking like conspirators now. Almost like friends. You want to take her arm. Instead you just walk close enough that your sleeves are touching. You know that you are striking, the two of you, walking together. You are proud.

"There's a way we can get into Safety."

"We?"

"I have to come with you. It will be with my friend. But we have to pretend we are... well, we are going to have to dress a certain way and pretend we're the kind of people we're really not. A different kind of person altogether."

Vania turns and gives you a strange smile. "Maybe," she says, "I already am that person." She laughs and takes your arm. "Tell me about your friend. And what we are going to wear."