An Empty Lot (Log/Finished)
(Backdated before the Spring Masquerade and after this)
She had barely slept the night before, and had hardly taken a bite of food, but none of this slowed Mrs. Coulter down.
But if weariness she can shrug off, her uneasiness she could not. She would not be still, her speech would quicken and rise, until she would catch herself and attempt to be calm.
The golden monkey was another story altogether, he was a dark cloud in the midst of a thunderstorm. He wore an ugly grimace and was quite unsettled, easy to bare his sharp teeth and glower.
They arrived at the site where there was once a massive compound. A Church-funded experimental station that Mrs. Coulter herself had built in her world’s far North so its important work will be concealed. Mrs. Coulter should already be seeing an avenue of lights, at the end of which should be a high metal fence, leading to a row of connected low buildings.
But there was only a wide, flat, open space.
The golden monkey not gently leapt from his human's clutch to venture forth, and explore the second time around.
"I've walked this whole stretch of this land, and I found nothing." Mrs. Coulter said bitterly, facing her companion, "It's just gone, like a sand castle swept by the waves." Her eyes stared past the horizon, as far as her gaze could take her for an outline, a little sign, or a little interruption of that vacantness. "Not an evidence of debris, or a show of force, it was siphoned like a small thing. Like it never existed!"
He had his hands in his pockets, where he ran the flat of his thumb over the grooves of a poker chip, a habit of his which kicked up when the City was up to its tricks. He looked at Mrs Coulter from the corner of his eye.
Eames had the style of one of her own world's gentlemen explorers-- the tailored tweeds, the Cathay linens and the fine wool sporting coats, even the blue-blooded Jordianian swagger-- and like them, he tended toward the metaphysical, although his was the language of the mind, not the divine. And like those learned gentlemen before him... Eames appeared to have no good advice for Mrs Coulter.
“It might have moved,” he said, doubtfully.
The golden monkey did not go much farther. It could not. Dejected, its hunched figure grew back as he approached the two humans, his black face even darker.
"That is my hope, Mr. Eames," Mrs. Coulter said, squaring her arms, the fur on her collar bristling against the wind, "If it remains to exist, then it is ever elusive. I rode the coach, and tried to find an oddity mixed in an already a hodgepodge city, but it was fast becoming clear that I can't do this search alone."
Help, she did not use to need. How much more easily could it all have been accomplished with a pair of flies. They were always very thorough, and very efficient for a world that was so indecisive in where to put its places. Mrs. Coulter herself was an accomplished explorer and traveler, but it helped that she could hold things to her eyes and study them. That there was a pattern of culture she could follow and a history she could trace. The City resisted all of these, in its constant flushing.
She considered Eames, whom she had only spoken to a few times. He was an acquaintance that she had gladly welcomed, if only their fields of interest were more agreeable with each other. He was interested in dreams, which were really nothing more than wild tricks of the mind to her. She did not dwell on them, as doing so would be folly and unhealthy. The man was, until then, a folder in her file dossier that she might find useful later on. She certainly did not expect that time to come sooner.
“Well,” he said, his thumb pressed over the poker chip, “I’d love to help. But I think if it’s going to come to anybody’s call-- it wouldn’t be mine.”
Mrs. Coulter scowled, "And not mine either. It would seem that we are on the same boat. The station would not be summoned. The City would take me wherever I pleased. But it would not show me Bolvangar."
(But how can she summon something that no longer exists? A tiny voice whispered to her.)
Tired and increasingly bothered of her desolated surroundings, Mrs. Coulter veered away and kept her gaze at Eames, "Perhaps when reason fails, imagination should take over. I seem to recall you're the right man for the job. I would appreciate it if you happen to have any more insights.”
"I'm flattered," Eames said blandly, but he had turned a searching look towards the golden monkey, where it crawled through the dust.
"Have you seen an empty lot like this before? It’s not often that you find unconstructed space here, is it?” The City jittered and slid itself into place like so many pieces from a puzzle box, but neatly, so that you might wonder if your mind was playing tricks on you. Like a well-made dream.
"I’d ask myself, if Bolvangar has gone missing, why have you found the lot over and over again?"
"To mock me," Mrs. Coulter made no hesitation to reply, "To purposefully impede my progress and to make a fool out of myself." One stinging word came after the next as she loosened her arms. "The City is loathe to release its captives and detests the curious. That is what I think." She jabbed a finger. Eames nodded a bit, but looked uncertain.
The blonde woman started pacing, one gloved hand on her forehead, the other tight against her waist, "How do you fight this enemy Mr. Eames? An enemy that sees, knows, and does all. An enemy that could be the Authority Himself!"
The monkey struck her a glare. Mrs. Coulter herself was caught wide-eyed startled at the heathen words she had just spoken, but she realized she was too angry to care at the moment.
That tiny voice again. Would the Authority do that to her? Her, a hardworking, faithful Church servant? What was He doing in all this?
These were dangerous questions, but she too was in a dangerous mood. The monkey looked onto her, and-- despite himself--quietly communicated a head shake.
"Forgive me, Mr. Eames." Mrs. Coulter nearly whispered as she tried to collect her snapped composure, "I have been really, really upset, you can see."
"I think I might start off by finding myself somewhere to stay," Eames suggested gently. "You may be right. And if that’s the case it's not going to do you any good waiting here and worrying, is it."
He peeled back the sleeve of his coat to look at his watch. "We'll find a taxi, if you'd like another look around. And if we don't find it, you can go and get yourself sorted for the night at least. Sit down. Have a think over tea.”
Mrs. Coulter still wore irritation like she was in the midst of prickly summer heat, but she listened to Eames, and watched him as he laid out suggestions. She responded:
"I have spent every waking day in this City sitting down and thinking.” But when she was about to keep at her frustration, she conceded, “But you're right. What else is there to do? We have little choice."
She started to go the other way, back to buildings, mayhem, civilization. The golden monkey tailed her, his face unreadable, and Eames strolled after them, hands resting in the pockets of his tweed trousers.
"What would you do now, Mr. Eames?" She asked, "You will be missing a component."
"You're very thoughtful, Mrs Coulter." Eames smiled at her briefly-- but the smile didn't reach his eyes.
The search became very tiresome very quickly. The cabbie only looked at them with thinly-veiled irritation when they described Bolvangar, a great white complex which ought to have stuck out in the City like a sore; so they began a tour, sat facing each other in pensive silence, and watching from opposite windows. Eames made no pretense of hope, preoccupied with his own thoughts, except when he craned his neck to peer down side-streets which piqued his interest.
Eventually, Mrs. Coulter herself was no longer looking through the glass. She was mulling over the day’s events, how in one moment she had everything, and then nothing at one fell swoop. What was the use of a key without a lock? A matchstick without a fuse? Not that she already had the key or the matchstick.
The golden monkey, who sat upon his human’s lap, did not look at any windows. His beady eyes were straight as an arrow, and were what met the cabbie at each time he tries to glance at his passengers from the rear view mirror. It kept him silent.
When a few stores started opening their signboard lights and others closing shop, Mrs. Coulter decided to break the mute atmosphere.
"You'll keep at it, won't you? This project of yours?" She did not turn away from her view.
Eames scrubbed a hand over his forehead, and didn't answer immediately, but gave a long sigh.
"I should have enough for a few more hours. After that,” he shrugged-- perhaps he was resigned, having expected the worst from the City anyhow, “it’s back to the starting board... again."
Mrs. Coulter made no hint of approval or affirmation of having heard what Eames said. She seemed too far deep into her thoughts. The woman would not budge or make a sound, not even of her own breathing. Though the golden monkey changed his mind about intimidating the cab driver, and was now observing Eames keenly, if not a little too invasively. But what would a dumb ornamental monkey know?
She replied later with another question, "What do you miss most about your home, Mr. Eames?" And this time, she turned to face him.
He gave her a queer look. "Why do you ask?"
Mrs. Coulter averted her gaze, as though suddenly embarrassed to have asked a rather personal question.
"I wanted to know how far you are willing to go. If you would risk much to flee this place." She said in a low tone, as a gloved hand idly brushed on the golden monkey's glistening fur, "Will the City break you into submission or will you struggle no matter what it takes? Perhaps it is too early to ask, but I’ve been sore from waiting. The City has worn my patience thin.”
Eames, who lounged with his arms stretched out across the back of the taxi seats, drummed his fingers and tipped his head in subtle warning towards the cabbie, whose attention seemed to have been driven off by the monkey.
"You know how to pick your fights, Mrs Coulter. I haven't even made up my mind what this place is."
Her gloved hand paused in its motion. The golden monkey spun to meet her.
A cork held her words on the verge to burst. She yearned to reveal the truths that she had painstakingly collected of the City brought by her fairly long confinement. But even she must agree that the City existed in multiple definitions. She might hold her views as absolute, but not the next person, or another.
Mrs. Coulter smiled wryly, "I suppose it's only fair that you find out yourself, Mr. Eames. The last time I tried to instill my findings in someone, it did not go well. Come to think of it, she was quite like you. A ‘mind specialist’. She thought this world was all a figment of her imagination. Myself including. How condescending is that? I'm not certain she was convinced when I told her otherwise. I hope you are not the same stubborn and self-assuming sort, Mr. Eames."
Now she'd really caught the whole of his attention. "That's news." Eames leaned forward, and fixed her with his gray eyes. “What went wrong?"
The lady smirked, a roguishly handsome sight he was, but she coyly chose the common view of the City over his, "I knew that would warrant your attention.” She laid a soothing hand upon the golden monkey anew, finding him growing restless and fidgety the longer they spend time in that cramped space, “I told you, she didn't think I was real. Granted, she was only newly arrived when I met her. She mentioned being a therapist of some sort. You can look her up if you like. She goes by the name of 'Chiba'. If she is still around."
Eames was shaking his head, sinking back into his seat again. "Well-- we agree that the City seems to have a malicious streak.”
"I'm relieved to know," Mrs. Coulter replied with a nod.
"I think we're ready for that cup of tea."
He rapped his knuckles against the plastic pane between themselves and the driver. "The Manchester, please," he said.
The golden monkey relaxed at that instruction, his shoulders loosening up. Mrs. Coulter watched as the scenery changed in an almost instant, towards the more affluent surroundings of the residential complex. It was proof enough that the City was not broken and worked as it was expected to, only Bolvangar was lost. Her eyes hardened.
"I hear the upkeep can be quite steep," She remarked as they made a turn to better paved roads, where columns and statues would soon come to perspective. Her heart wrenched in longing, "How do you manage it?"
"Is it?" said Eames. "I'll keep that in mind."
The faint twinkle in his eyes diminished when he looked at her again. Were she anyone else, he might have reached across and given her hand a pat; instead he cocked his head toward the window.