Lovers

22

Signal Flare

“Ah, I thought it’d be boring to just bring coffee, so I brought this.”

Judging the atmosphere to be good, I offered a flowerpot. It was a rather small pot with a common indoor air-purifying plant. The important thing wasn’t the plant, but the robot spy camera planted in the pot.

Riegel made a thoughtful sound and picked up the flowerpot, examining it from different angles. He won’t be able to detect anything that way. This spy camera is a masterpiece from the Security Bureau, a kind of robot that settles into position by itself after being placed inside the pot. Though only half the size of my pinky finger, the robot checks the surrounding light levels with a thin antenna that protrudes from the soil. When it’s completely dark, it can be controlled by a human to move and find a safe spot. Of course, even if discovered on a bookshelf, it would look like nothing more than a thin stick that makes you wonder, “What’s this?”

There was just one problem.

“The water is already…”

Riegel poured the water that was on the table into the flowerpot.

Ah, ah, ah, ah. I smiled, hiding my dismay. That’s right. Our masterpiece spy camera is vulnerable to water. I know it’s only somewhat water-resistant, so that kind of dousing probably killed it.

“I’ve already watered it,” I said.

I laughed awkwardly, and Riegel smirked.

“It’s fine, it likes water.”

“I see.”

“If you didn’t want me to water it, why didn’t you bring a cactus or something?”

We had considered that, but it was decided that robot traces would be too noticeable in cactus soil.

“I heard it’s good for air purification,” I said.

Riegel shook his head at my words. His expression looked like an adult smiling at a child’s antics, which made me sigh.

No, why do you smile like that every time I do something? It’s unnerving.

“By the way, there’s a mark on your face.”

I pointed to my right cheek as I spoke. Riegel said “Ah” and rubbed his cheek with the back of his hand. He oddly missed the marked spot, but let’s consider it rubbed since it was close enough.

“I just woke up.”

“Ah, don’t tell me you were lying down until just now…”

“I was sleeping. It’s my hobby.”

Sleeping is your hobby? What kind of hobby is that?

Building plastic models, traveling by yacht, brewing your own alcohol, those are hobbies. Sleeping is just lying down with your eyes closed.

My eyes must have shown disapproval.

“Don’t you have any hobbies?” he asked.

“No.”

“Why? Life is boring without hobbies.”

“No, I’m busy.”

The life of a security agent doesn’t allow for leisure. It has the characteristic of having to pour your life into it in exchange for a high salary. But it can’t be helped. I need to earn money. Being an orphanage sibling means there are always more coming. Of course, my team members did have various hobbies. They’re more energetic than me, and above all, they have extra money to spend on hobbies.

Well, it’s not like I particularly wanted to do something but had to tearfully give it up. I didn’t really have anything I wanted to do.

By the way, isn’t the hobby of sleeping similar to just letting time pass? At first glance, it seemed like a hobby that might stem from a somewhat depressing life, as if escaping from something. Maybe I stared too obviously, because Riegel seemed to guess my thoughts and waved his hand.

“I just sleep because it makes me happy.”

No, that’s exactly what seems like escapism.

Feeling like I might have touched on a sensitive topic, and having achieved my primary goal of gifting the flowerpot (with the spy camera inside), I thought about leaving.

“I should go. I got permission to be late for work, but I need to head in.”

Riegel nodded compliantly at my words. He stood up and said, “I’ll see you out,” walking with me.

As we were about to leave the room, the door opened. I could tell without looking now. The staff members were sitting next to the door, opening it very politely with both hands while kneeling.

Doesn’t this give you goosebumps? Or is this level of thick skin necessary to be a tycoon?

I held back the inappropriate question that was about to rise to my tongue and walked on.

The inside of this building seemed like it had been transported from some ancient Asian country, yet it was terrifyingly modern. The fact that the air was warm but not stuffy indicated that an impeccable air circulation system was installed. A subtle fragrance wafted everywhere, but it was consistent throughout. Usually, fragrances have a source. The scent should be stronger at the source and fade as you move away. But here, the fragrance was uniform everywhere.

I remembered what Layer once told me when he took me to an expensive restaurant and bought me a meal. He said that the real money goes into invisible details. I didn’t understand it well then, but now I think I can.

I’m not sure if you could call it an entrance. We reached something very grand and antique that didn’t seem like it could be called an entrance. When the door opens, my shoes will be there. Standing there, I was about to utter another canned thank you for the onion soup when Riegel asked,

“You really don’t remember me?”

Riegel’s black eyes were staring at me intently.

Could we have met somewhere before? I had been reflecting on my life last night too. Had I ever met a man like Riegel? I searched through my life, making assumptions: what if Riegel had been fat, or young, or had a scar on his face?

But no matter how much I thought about it, I had never met Riegel. Yet if we had never met, Riegel’s kindness towards me was bizarre.

“Have you seen me before? If you tell me where you saw me, I promise to answer truthfully whether it was me or not, with all sincerity.”

He had offered me alcohol when I was floundering in despair. And the next day, he came with onion soup.

I remember his frozen cheeks as he stood in front of my house the night before last. Even if there were unfavorable points for me, I swore to God that I would answer this truthfully. With the sincere and devout heart one has when entering confession.

Then Riegel said seriously,

“In a dream.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

When my face contorted, Riegel laughed out loud and then suddenly frowned. He reached out and caressed my cheek. At that moment, something stung.

What’s this? I instinctively tried to turn my head away, but Riegel held my chin and didn’t let go.

“You’re hurt.”

“Huh?”

“It bothered me yesterday too, but you really are hurt. …Berendt.”

When he called out “Berendt,” the man who had been kneeling to open the door jumped up.

This is unexpected… I thought Riegel was using people instead of installing automatic doors. Because he had too much money, or was crazy, for various reasons. In fact, the media had reported several times about wealthy people doing things they shouldn’t do with their money. So I must have unknowingly held prejudices.

That Riegel was using people like consumables, that he wouldn’t know their names.

The staff member named Berendt disappeared. He seemed to have gone to fetch something. In the meantime, Riegel asked,

“Don’t you have any questions for me?”

I do.

“Ask. I’ll answer everything.”

It seemed like a response to my promise to answer sincerely earlier.

In fact, what I wanted to ask most was about his relationship with Canaris. If I could get an answer about what kind of relationship they have, many things would be resolved. But that’s not something I can ask. To ask that, I would have to reveal my own identity. It’s not my right to gamble on the possibility of this entire operation being overturned. That decision lies with Department Chief Volkari of Department 2.

“Why are you growing your hair?”

So I asked the second thing I was curious about. By then, I could already see Mr. Berendt approaching from afar.

“To become a certain kind of person.”

“Like a role model?”

But do people usually grow their hair to imitate a role model?

Riegel nodded at my question, saying it was similar. He didn’t seem to want to say more. Or perhaps it was awkward to talk about. Maybe he didn’t know well himself and found it difficult to explain.

While I was thinking, Berendt approached and offered a first aid kit. It was the most luxurious first aid kit I had ever seen in my life.

Mother-of-pearl, is that what it’s called… They maintained the concept even for the first aid kit. Surely there isn’t like, medicinal plaster and such inside? If they’re going to use that, I’d better say I don’t need it, I thought, but surprisingly, the contents were ordinary 21st-century first aid supplies.

Riegel applied ointment to my cheek and asked, “Anywhere else?”

He probably meant he would treat me if I had injuries elsewhere, but I didn’t even know I had a wound on my face until now. And I’ve never treated this kind of minor injury before.

“I think I’m fine.”

“That sounds like a lie.”

“No, really. This kind of thing heals if you put saliva on it, right?”

At my words, Riegel smiled brightly and leaned his face in.

“Should I have done that for you?”

His tone was friendly, but there was something menacing about it.

“I’m sorry. Thank you for treating me.”

When I quickly apologized, Riegel clicked his tongue. I felt like I was being treated like a disobedient puppy, but let’s move on.

Even when I lived in the orphanage, I often got scolded by Father for this. Father didn’t mind if I acted like a wild child, but he wouldn’t forgive neglecting injuries. He always gave me the punishment of copying Bible verses, and I copied 1 Corinthians the most. There’s still a verse I remember.

Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you, whom you have from God? You are not your own.

It was a phrase I had to recite whenever I got hurt. This is how hard it is to have a priest as a father.

“If you’re sorry, then let’s go on a date next time, at night.”

Riegel’s eyes had taken on a seductive gleam. It was such a powerful signal of temptation that even I, who had never dated, could feel it.

That’s how signal flares are. They’re so bright that people can’t miss them. And the moment you see it, you have to choose. Will you respond, or not? Most of the time, of course, you respond, but sometimes you don’t for tactical reasons. Very rarely.

This might be a signal flare I shouldn’t respond to.

But I can’t not respond. Because my kids are there. They might be dead. But even if they’re dead, I need to bring back at least their bodies.

“Sure.”

I responded with a smile.