"…Is that of a normal woman her age," he finished.
"How?"
"We don't know," he said. "We've been studying her for a quarter of a century and still don't know what's wrong. She was a beautiful young woman. In her late twenties she found she wasn't aging facially. For a while she was delighted, but as the years passed the implications seeped home. She wasn't growing older. In fact she was actually getting younger. She was a woman in her thirties but with the face of a teenager. She was cursed to never look her age.
"She lost her mind. She cut her face, thinking to scar herself beyond recognition. It didn't work. The skin healed in a matter of days. It has something to do with her unique DNA structure. I don't know all the ins and outs-I tend to her mind, not her form. She had a breakdown, the first of many. Later she painted her face to look her age. But she couldn't maintain the pretense. After several hard years, she left her face alone and went the other way. She looked like a teenager, so she became one. She bought youthful clothes, discarded her adult raiments, and began to act like a child. She convinced herself she was a girl, gave up her old life, her friends, her husband, her-"
"Husband? " I stared at him. "She's married?"
"Yes."
"But you call her Miss Kubekik."
"Part of the pretense. There could be no place in her fantasy for a husband. To become a teenager she had to discard and forget him. She blanked him out, denied his existence, refused to look at him when he tried to see her. She took her maiden name and acted like she'd never lost it."
"Christ." I was glad I was sitting down. "She mentioned him to me. Ferdy. That's him, isn't it?"
"Yes. She hasn't been able to wipe him from her thoughts as completely as she wanted. The memories return, remind her of the truth and plunge her into fits of despair. She's not exactly happy as a child but she's content. But when the fantasy breaks down and she remembers…" He shrugged helplessly.
We were quiet for a while, reflecting. Then a thought struck me. "She wasn't desperate tonight," I said. "She talked about him, discussed him openly. She told me her age. She was sad but calm, in control of herself."
"Yes." He rubbed his chin slowly. "That would seem to suggest a new phase. Perhaps she is coming to terms with her disease at last. She didn't actually tell you she was married, did she? Just mentioned his name. Still, it's a step forward. And admitting her real age. We weren't sure she still knew. We'll have to examine this carefully. I'll need to consult with my colleagues."
"What do I do?" I asked. "Do I let her come to my room?"
"Hell, yes!" he grunted. "Turn her away now? You might destroy her. Let her come, Mr. Raimi. Treat her like you did tonight. Be her friend. God knows, it's been long enough since she had one of those."
aimuari
Conchita visited almost every night. She'd be there when I got home, curled up on the bed, glued to the TV. She watched only happy films. She'd had enough misery. She said movies should be for escaping the gloom and hardships of life. We played games but nothing too taxing. Conchita loved games of chance, where the toss of the dice decided all. She absolutely hated chess.
She talked freely about her illness and her past. She could remember everything but it hadn't always been so. At times she'd forgotten who she was, believed she was really fourteen, her whole life ahead. When reality intruded-as it always did-she hated herself all over again. That's when she tried to commit suicide.
She'd made attempts to accept her cursed condition a long time ago, but had failed and given herself willingly to illusions and lies. Now she was trying to be her real self again. She was scared and there were days when she felt she couldn't bear it, but she hadn't succumbed to fear as she had in the past. She said I gave her strength, that she wanted to stay sane for me. I never felt more honored or more worried than when she said stuff like that.
I urged her to meet Adrian. She was reluctant but I sweet-talked her persistently and finally she agreed. They got on great, as I had known they would. I didn't tell Adrian about her disease. As far as he was concerned, she was just a strange little girl. Adrian didn't come every night but popped by a couple of times a week, played games and watched old movies with us.
"There's nothing underhand between you, is there?" he asked one day. "You aren't doing her on the sly?"
"No!" I was shocked. "What do you think I am?"
He shrugged. "We move in dirty circles. You've kept yourself relatively clean so far, but we both know the day of reckoning isn't far off, that sometime soon you'll have to prove yourself to The Cardinal, show your ruthless streak. I hope never to hurt anybody as long as I live, but you're going to have to kill people one day. A man who'd do that… well…"
"I haven't touched her," I said quietly. "There are some things I'd never do, lines I'll always refuse to cross. I won't hurt innocents. Conchita's safe with me."
"I hope you always feel that way," he said softly.
We arranged a trip to the movie theater one afternoon. It was the first time in years that Conchita had ventured outside the Skylight. She walked the streets slowly, awkwardly, like Neil Armstrong on the moon. I suggested calling in to Shankar's but she'd been there years before and feared people might recognize her.
Casablanca was playing. The best film ever. I looked around several times and almost everyone was mouthing along to the lines, like groupies at a concert. But for Conchita the best bit wasn't the classic movie-it was the simple walk in the open air.
The only part of her life Conchita wouldn't discuss was her marriage. I tried broaching the subject a few times but she made it clear she didn't want me prying. I asked her doctors and it turned out she'd been married to a mobster, Ferdinand Wain. I asked where he was but they didn't know. He used to visit but had given up on Conchita long ago. The doctors hadn't seen him in ages. But the checks kept coming, so he must be around somewhere, and not doing too badly if he could afford a suite on the top floor of the Skylight. I kept meaning to ask Leonora or Y Tse about him, whether he was in the city or not, and if he was any relation to Neil Wain, the man who'd killed Uncle Theo. But I kept forgetting. It wasn't important. I was just curious.
Ford Tasso called one day, told me to go home and get ready-we were going out that night. He didn't say any more. I rushed back to the Skylight, showered and changed clothes. I was nervous-I always got the jitters when Ford called-and spent the time surfing the TV, wondering what lay in store. The trademark green fog of the city began to creep across the skyline as I waited. I studied it anxiously, afraid it would mean a cancellation, but then the phone buzzed and a receptionist told me a car was waiting. I expected Adrian but the driver was a stranger. "What happened to Adrian?" I asked.
"Who, sir?"
"Adrian Arne. My regular driver."
"I'm afraid I don't know him, sir. I only started a couple of months ago."
"Who sent you?"
"The company, sir. Mr. Tasso requested a driver. I was available. If you would rather another…"
"That's OK. Drive on… what's your name?"
"Thomas, sir."
"Drive on then, Thomas."
He negotiated the murky streets with great skill. The fog was growing heavier all the time but he took no notice. He drove to a building site where Ford and Vincent were waiting by their own car, shrouded in green vapors. Vincent wasn't glad to see me. "You sure we should be taking him along?" he pouted. "He's still a beginner. What if he-"
"He's coming," Ford snapped. "If you don't like it, complain to The Cardinal."
Vincent made a sour face. "I was only saying. "
"Don't."
"So," I said, trying to smile as if I weren't nervous, "what's the deal?"
"Get in." Ford opened the door. When we were out of the damp fog he outlined the night's mission. "We're after him," he said, laying a stack of papers in my lap. "Aaron Seidelman. Owns a stack of factories by the waterfront. We've been trying to buy them for years. He won't sell. We've been waiting for him to die-he's old as fuck and his kids would sell in a second flat-but he's a tough fucker. We can't wait any longer. The Cardinal wants those factories. We haven't come down heavy on Seidelman so far but he signs tonight, one way or the other."
I scanned the papers while he talked. "I'm going along to see how it's done? Another lesson?"
"No. You're going to make him sell." I looked up. Ford was staring out the window.
"And if he won't?" I asked quietly.
"Your call."
I was about to question him further when Vincent hissed and drew a gun. "Ford! We're being watched!"
Ford's head swung round. Through the rear window I glimpsed a figure nine or ten feet behind the car. The muscles in Ford's neck tensed, then relaxed. "You're a dumb fuck, Vincent," he laughed.
"The fuck?" Vincent snapped.