Page 9 of Salt in the Wound
Father touched the edge of the picture frame lightly, hesitantly, and then pulled his hand back.
“She wouldn’t want me to do this either, you know,” I said. My voice had lost its quaver—it was cold and clear.
But my father surprised me. “I know,” he said, and then he sighed. “I know that better than anyone. But her death changed more than her not being here, Isolde, and I think it’s time you knew how much.”
“Changed what? Us? The bank?”
“We have to think about the future differently. We have to think about this family differently, ensure our survival in more creative ways. Did Ms. Flores-King tell you what Mark Trevena used to do?”
“You mean before the sex club?” My voice had a bite to it that I rarely allowed, but my father seemed to expect it.
“Trevena was CIA. Special operations.” My father paused, seemed to decide on a different way to start. “His club, Lyonesse, is different from its competitors in many ways, but the chief difference is this: he doesn’t accept payment in money, only in information. His patrons are politicians, diplomats, celebrities, royalty. All of them have to pay in knowledge exclusive to their positions.”
I absorbed this.
“So in a way, Mark has never left the field of intelligence,” my father continued. “Andintelligenceis a generous word for what he used to do, anyway—he was the devil they sent in to scourge the other devils. And he was the best in the world at it.”
I knew immediately what the appeal was for my father without being told. “So he knows things. Things you think could help the bank.”
“He knows things. He knows people.”
I looked down at my hands. “And that knowledge is worth me. My future.”
“Your future is Laurence Bank, Isolde, and united with Mark Trevena’s hoard of information…there is nothing the bank couldn’t do. No place we couldn’t reach, no person we couldn’t sway. We would be unstoppable.”
I didn’t respond.
“This request isn’t arbitrary,” my father said as he came to his feet. “It’s not meant to be cruel or to torment you or whatever else your teenage mind is telling you right now. It is the best step toward your future and the bank’s that I can take.”
I hated him just then. I hated that he was taking my reaction and making it seem as if I were the unreasonable one, the foolish one for having a plan for my life that didn’t include him abruptly announcing that I was going to marry a stranger.
“I’m not doing it,” I told him. My voice was shaking again, and it made me even more upset. “And you can’t make me. You certainly can’t convince me that this is the best thing for my future when I’ve already pledged it to God.”
He didn’t bother arguing with me; he must have known he’d get nowhere.
“Good night, Isolde.”
* * *
I avoidedhim for the next week. Which wasn’t that difficult; though he made a point to eat dinner with me whenever he was in the same city as I was, he traveled enough that those dinners were very infrequent. After that, it was only a matter of spending as much time at the dojo as possible—hardly a sacrifice when I loved being there anyway.
I was running through my forms when the bell above the door rang. I turned, expecting to see another student or a delivery person, and then felt a boost of happiness when I saw my uncle standing there instead, grinning his gap-toothed grin, his pectoral cross and the gold ring on his finger winking in the cheap, flickering lights. He wore his black simar as always, red skullcap tucked tightly against his head.
“Mortimer!” I said and jogged over to give him a hug.
He patted my back fondly. “I had the feeling my favorite niece needed me. So here I am.”
I pulled back and studied his face, which was pointless, since Mortimer’s face never revealed anything he didn’t want it to.
“Did Father tell you? About what he wants me to do?”
“Yes,” Mortimer allowed with a sigh. He looked around the dojo and then back to the door. “Let’s take a walk, you and I. Let me hear how you’re feeling.”
There were only two cities in the world where Mortimer could walk in his simar and skullcap and no one would bat an eye: New York City and Rome. And so we were completely ignored as we walked to the High Line and climbed its stairs, me in my gi and Mortimer in his cardinal vestments, our heads bent together as I told him everything that had happened.
“And then,” I finished as we reached the path and started walking, “I told him that he couldn’t make me do it. I’m eighteen, I don’t need his money. My future was already in consecrated poverty, anyway.”
The sun was bright and hot up here, and the lush greenery lining the path only added to the cloying humidity. Below us, I could see the creep and crawl of traffic, not so bad today, but still constant, incessant. Like blood through the city’s veins.
