Driving back to the dungeon

 

“You know the way you can remember every detail of a song that you listened to over and over as a kid or a teenager on the radio? ....every pause —even a jingle of a bell of a Christmas song all the way back from childhood....? How you can go for years without ever hearing it even once and then —someone plays it.... and you remember the whole thing all by heart....?” I turn to look at him with his profile to me, “....Jörn.... ? —you know what I mean?”

“Yes....” he says and then glances at me

“So .... why.... ? I mean....” 

“Why don’t you remember how to play your piece?” he finishes what I started to say

“I mean, I won two awards, Jörn, which means I had to play that piece over and over! You’d think— I mean .... I remember .... I do—sometimes....sometimes....I mean, I can remember .... sort of—like—I can hear it ....echoing in my mind.... like it’s right there on the edge of my memory .... when I’m waking up from.... a dream....a bad dream ....I can never remember—”

He glances at me again but only just taking a moment away from watching the road before looking back. 

After another long moment in silence he says,

“I think we both know why that is. It’s not so unusual. It shouldn’t seem so to you,” he says

“How do you mean?”

Shrugging, 

“you have a degree in psychology....” and here he pauses again looking ahead at the darkened highway before us, then makes a thoughtful sound from within his throat as he pauses to say, “well then—you would have studied about repressed memory.... it’s not so unusual given what —you went through in your childhood.”

And I think maybe it is the tone I hear in his voice as he says this that catches me off guard....as it should have been obvious to me but— now, hearing it in his voice

And now ....I welcome the car’s darkness as I think. And turn to look out into the cover of night with the reassurance of the warmth that falls with the weight of my hair and search in the obscure noir shades of night ....where lies escape. 

Where lies escape. 

It lays and it hides 

and hides truth, even though it can set you free

After another silence he says,

“I think it would come back to you. Once you heard it again. Duva.... and I think your old psychiatrist Dr. Rothschild had begun to .... ”

I find this seems to make me only anxious as I suspect he is right.... as I know what we both know.... there is and has always been a reason for the codes. the rhymes. the Easter eggs of emotions. the dictionary, with its trail of crumbs. and it was never just about Cold War secrets to the one who lost those crumbs

“but Jörn—we might not have that luxury for such a chancy occurrence.... I mean—I think I realize now that .... you need the evidence of the safe—I mean.... to prove you are not some double-crossing terrorist—that the safe they think the other guys have is not the real one and the one down in the underground ....is — and so by opening the real one....would solve a lot of problems, right?”

“Well....” he concedes, still looking ahead at the road, “that isn’t what I’ve been counting on—not altogether. I’ve been working on another angle.... something I’ll tell you about later —but, I have other evidence. And I’m not exactly ready to hand over that safe just yet....” and I hear something else in his voice 

and only confirming concerns of what —exactly—we are heading back to

“so....” and then I think of something else suddenly, “Jörn— remember last summer?” I ask, “that really hot day? ....we were out hiking, do you remember that day? and I got dizzy?— and then I passed out —but....I think— weren’t we talking about the safe—? yes.... we were—and wasn’t that when you told me —it was back in Sweden?—wasn’t it? What was it you said?.... something.... what was it? —like.... you were really angry, I remember— and you were saying how this was to do with your case —and— you felt it wasn’t for them to take it and that it should belong here with you but.... you know, it just doesn’t make sense—and it didn’t to me at the time either....I mean— so.... What was the real reason you didn’t want your government to have the safe?”

When I search his profile now in the darkness of the truck I see the smallest tension in his jaw and then that slight flair of his nostrils as he grips the steering wheel and sort of smiles —or.... is it a grimace?

“It wasn’t that exactly....” he says

“Then what? Because you implied it—you said something like ....I don’t remember now....”

Only he seems to withdraw himself and only stare straight ahead so I decide to let it go

But it is almost when I have forgotten my question that he says, 

“it is that I didn’t want it to get in the wrong person’s possession.... I knew it was safer to get it away from there then to allow it to end up in the wrong hands.”

and suddenly I realize,

“So, you mean—you think there’s a mole?” 

With a quick glance at me he says,

“I do....”

“....and you know who it is, don’t you?”

“Yes.... and .... right now he’s very near.”

 oherwydd eu bod i gyd wedi fy mradychu i

 Adeiladais fy nhŵr ifori

 i gadw'r byd i ffwrdd oddi wrthyf

 ~ ond mae wedi dod yn grypt i mi

 ydy hi mor ddrwg fy mod i dy angen di?

 does dim cywilydd ildio i drechu

 Rwy'n gwybod ichi ddweud.  a cheisiais fod yn berffaith.  ac mae'n ddrwg gen i nad oeddwn i ddim

 mae'n ormod

Roeddwn i'n meddwl erbyn hyn y gallwn ei gario, ond mae'n dod yn fwyfwy trwm o hyd.

making scenes noir/the question remains (jmmuse)

 

And so, by the time we find where part of Willem’s team are stuck, it is about eight o’clock and now dark. 

We find them, on a darkened side street, the silver Chevy van parked in a small lot off the quaint main street. I see that all the shops are closed and as we pull up behind the van in the parking space behind it, I say to Jörn,

“I wonder why we never came here, it’s so pretty.”

“Hmm, likely the times we are living in?” he lightly says and shrugs, “I don’t think they’ve been open for business for months. Remember? —we came up just as everything hit.”

And as he says this, I look around and notice how deserted the quiet, picturesque town looks ....and then try to imagine this place during other times, crammed with people during the Olympics and find it somehow so impossible to.

“Well....” I say regretfully, “it’s too bad we didn’t think to bring your parents here,” as he reaches to open the door to get out

But he doesn’t answer that, instead he says,

“stay in the truck and keep it running. I’ll need the light.”

And as he gets out, he slips on a mask, and then, I see two get out of the silver van to meet him, while another one had already been standing outside smoking a cigarette as we had pulled up— and now I watch him first glance at me and then at Jörn as he walks straight over to him and say, 

“Deiter—“ but the rest of what he says is lost in the stillness of the town’s cloak of night, absorbed in the buildings acoustics.... 

And I look around again to see a walled cluster of surrounding buildings of small and sundry ski and souvenirs shops along with other outdoor sporting gear shops

At first they gather to chat briefly but Jörn keeps a safe distance and gestures to them as he does this. Then Jörn comes back to the truck to get another spare tire and then proceeds to change the rear flattened one, and while he does this, he keeps talking in low tones to them, as one of the others steps up to lend a hand, then takes away the other tire to put it in the van.

It is always cold at night up in the mountains and I watch their breath escape in the darkness and find —the shock of this makes me think, how harmless this once seemed....

and think —what a different world it is

but one day, let us hope that, this too—shall pass. 

And wonder if this is something like what it was like during the world wars.... some dark and scary enemy.... the devastation that leaves no one untouched, the protesters and the nonbelievers, the senseless deaths and the troubles around the globe everywhere

It seems to make me wonder over what really matters

 ....but then I find I wonder even more over this world’s fascination ....seen so clearly in the entertainment industry and its evident audience ....this fascination ....with such luster ....of murder, rape, gruesome crimes, blood and war —and played— in games .... and is the majority of all you ever see streaming in shows and movies. Is it any wonder what the world has become .... 

this is often what I have wondered.... and wonder ....dare to change the dialogue.... would that I could inspire; replaced by substance more life sustainable; more intellectually challenging; would that I could dare to dream

So this I think about as I watch them with Jörn and wonder about each of them.... 

and wonder over 

what are the necessary.... ? ....evils

When Jörn returns to the truck, he reaches for the hand sanitizer, then gets in, slamming the door and starts the motor 

At first in silence he drives, and I watch them in the rear view following behind 

“We’re stopping somewhere to get something to eat, they’re starving,” he says, “there’s not much open around here but there’s a fast food place we passed I saw that is still open.”

I don’t answer, just watch the darkened scenery, still lost in my thoughts 

When we come up to it, Jörn waves them on but he pulls up further down to park the truck; he watches them get out and I realize he wants to be on look-out 

“Do you want anything?” he asks me

“From there?” I ask him shaking my head

“Well, I thought I’d ask,” and looks at me. “You’re so quiet,” he says 

“Don’t you want anything?” I ask

“No....” he says and I see he’s distracted with thoughts

“So what exactly is the plan? You said the others of Willem’s team you expect around midnight?” I ask

“Yes.”

“And then what?” I ask

“Willem’s watching what they are up to at the barn house from the monitors. We’ll wait for the others and decide whether to make a move tonight or....” Jörn stops to think and then after a moment, lets out a heavy sigh, “or wait.”

“Wait for what?” I ask him

He looks at me,

“whether Smulagan shows up.... or....”

“That’s what I thought,” I say watching him; trying to read his face

And after a deep breath, he lets it out and says,

“which .... would be better....” Jörn turns his eyes to me, narrowed, ice-cold steel heat, sharp blades of kryptonite and with the deep crease between his brows, “when we get back .... or there abouts.... first the rest of Willem’s guys need to show up and then..... Willem would have switched on and downloaded the program to send the live footage of the hidden security cameras in the barn house to— them....”

“To ‘them’. You mean the FBI?” I ask

“I mean .... everyone....” he raises his brows and stares dead-center at me, “central intelligence, my government— Stina....”

and suddenly I feel my pulse begin to race

“So when we get back?!” I almost gasp 

“We have time—“ Jörn puts a hand on my arm

“How can you be so calm?!” I ask him

“Duva, this is my work. It’s all planning and strategy. Most of the time it all goes as planned,” he says and looks back out towards the parking lot

“Most of the time....” I repeat

But he just stares out ahead deep in thought

“So—how much time do you think?” I ask him

He turns to look at me.

I say,

“you said ‘we have time’”

“Oh— well.... after they see who’s assembled in the barn house.... Willem will alert me first —so.... I think it would be a matter of minutes before they gather their own team together— once they recognize everyone who’s here and....that will be enough to get everyone into action—these aren’t just your everyday assassins, they’re all well known.... so, well— then I’d say— if he’s back in DC—Smulagan— he would have a crew in less then— well, at most two hours ....but I’d bet sooner,” Jörn says simply with a shrug 

....and it is something I see in his manner....

That strange and familiar thing and ....with it the strange and now familiar chill that I so well recognize

—and a face overlaid in the gray, chill blustery gale, half obscured by the long gold hair, caught on the wind.... 

and with it the memory of there, that glow within the kryptonite of vampire eyes, looking back at me from dreams, so long familiar, and so much.... a part of me

But accompanied now by that other chill. So often described by some as someone walking over their own grave

But I don’t recoil from it. No. Instead, I feel almost drawn.... like some foolish moth to a flame ....and move over to him, reaching for him now —as if partly from that more than dream, which feels so deeply etched and so indelibly within the retinas of a soul. I touch his face....having known and memorized every line and shadow, every crease.... as if I put it all there myself and move over to him

I put my fingers to outline his eyes, drawing with my fingertips and stare inside ....there—then move my fingertips over his lips and move to climb over him and wrap around his hips and press my mouth on his and loose his hair with my hands, in the silk of his hair,

“why do I stay?” I say against his ear