Our Memory Like Dust by Gavin Chait

Author:Gavin Chait [Chait, Gavin]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Tags: Science Fiction, african mythology, energy politics, climate change, refugee crisis, 3d printing
Publisher: Qwyre
Published: 2017-07-27T06:00:00+00:00

24

‘Is it done, Gregor?’ asks Pazanov, a cloud and hiss of steam from the espresso machine obscuring his words. ‘I am not comfortable with the way Adaro is staring at us.’

‘Yes,’ says Valuchkin, sweat stubbling his cropped skull as he delicately re-stoppers the vial and palms it back into his pocket. A wide man, Gregor Valuchkin, his shoulders almost as broad as he is tall, and temperamentally nervous in the work as assistant to an assassination.

They are meeting Simon in La Fleuve, a café in the north of Saint-Louis Island buried in amongst the renovated hotels popular with expatriate contractors here for the building boom.

The two are standing at the bar near the entrance to the café, Pazanov watching Simon, who is sitting towards the back of the room, and ensuring he blocks Simon’s view of Valuchkin. Near the door, the young owner is lifted off her feet as she embraces an older man arriving for an early lunch. Pazanov can hear her husky laugh over the oblivious everyday conversations of the other patrons.

With Achenia’s announcement that they are giving up the energy route to Europe, Pazanov contacted Simon offering to meet and end their hostilities. His enemy must be weakened and distracted, for why else would he refuse the opportunity of running his cable across a desert he has risked so much to clear?

Observing him in person, he is less certain. The other man seems unusually alert and confident. Too aware. He wishes Valuchkin did not sweat so, for he can smell him even with the humidity and nearness of the kitchen and the tepid smell of food waste in the alleyway outside.

‘Watch everything you say and do nothing to attract attention,’ says Pazanov, turning to Valuchkin. ‘Assume others are listening and watching.’

‘You have told me this already. If he drinks, good; if not, we say nothing and leave. I know.’ The man’s shirt is damp. ‘It is the humidity,’ he says, seeing the other’s scowl.

Pazanov turns from the bar and leads the way towards Simon’s table. Valuchkin is carrying a tray on which are three white coffee cups, a steel pot of filter coffee and a small jug of milk.

‘Mr Adaro,’ says Pazanov, extending his hand.

Simon stands, beaming, his face the epitome of guileless innocence. ‘I’m so glad we could finally meet,’ he says.

Valuchkin nonchalantly places the tray on his side of the table, just sufficiently out of Simon’s reach, and pours carefully from the pot into each of the cups.

‘A peace offering,’ says Pazanov, ‘but not so expensive as to be taken for a bribe.’ His smile at his own joke never reaching his eyes. ‘This is Valuchkin, here for our –’ choosing his words deliberately ‘– protection.’

Valuchkin nods and puts his hands around the cup closest to Simon. His entire body communicates that he will shortly pass it across the table.

Simon, seemingly ignorant of him, stretches inelegantly and picks up one of the other cups before collapsing back into his seat. His smile is of childlike sincerity and genuine gratitude.

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