Magenta

(working title

 

II.

Lontano, Mancando

***

He meets her again for dinner. Francie has sent delicious-looking spinach and ricotta agnolotti from the restaurant, knowing full well that she won't make it before midnight, but wanting to keep Sydney entertained. Entertained, she says on the phone. But Sark hears the concern in her voice, the growing worry about Sydney's well-being. So Francie must have noticed, too. It is hard not see. Syndey Bristow is falling apart and is trying to cover the traces of it like a good agent should, but not quite succeeding.

Sark sees most of it when he is alone with her.

She opts for red wine again, a Syrah this time. Dinner is quiet, but he enjoys it. He isn't much of a conversationalist over food, thinks talk destroys the perfection of a good meal.

She uses at least three napkins over the course of the meal, one of her so ghastly typical American habits which amuse him and drive him mad at the same time. He prefers starched linen napkins. She only has tissue ones.

But he doesn't mind tonight. He is content just to watch her slowly enjoy her agnolotti and sip her wine.

The dessert is sinful, and he knows it without having to try it himself. White mousse au chocolat, one of Francie's best inventions. It is sweet and creamy and wonderfully rich. He swallows when he sees her lick a bit of mousse from her lower lip. Heat coils in his stomach, but he quenches the feeling.

She flashes a small, grateful smile in his direction and, for a moment, their liaison seems almost normal.

***

She loves bubbles baths, he learned that quite a while ago.

The water is already filling the bathtub, a soft sloshing sound that indicates the presence of a lot of foam.

She sheds layers of clothes - black clothes. Silk blouse and knee-length skirt, stockings and camisole.

His throat is dry again, terribly dry. Something has changed tonight, he can feel it in the air, in the way she moves. In the way she doesn't think about donning a robe and walks around, just clad in her lingerie. She is at her lowest. Lower even than after Taipei. He can feel it. This could become dangerous for the both of them.

But he knows she will not appreciate his concerns, so he doesn't voice them.

She moves between the bathroom and her room a few times, bringing in candles, then coming back for matches. Matches, he notices, not a lighter. Old fashioned again, but pleasantly so.

She turns on her stereo, searches for a CD. Normally, she listens to something light when she takes a bath - light Jazz, R&B or something equally obnoxious to his ears - but apparently not tonight. Nothing is quite the same as during the other nights he has spent here.

He shivers when he hears the first notes glide through the room. Brahms. And not just any piece of Brahms's music.

Strings create an ominous calm. The choir adds an eerie touch.

It's a requiem.

Suddenly he can't breathe. He sees her walking past him, almost, but not quite brushing him.

"Sydney." His voice is barely above a whisper. His eyes are glued to the small package in her hand. The one saying: Razor blades.

The air rushes back into his lungs, painfully quick. She cannot. She will not.

His whole body becomes tense, making his dress shirt stretch uncomfortably over his back. He hears his heart hammer in his chest.

The music swells. Drums roll, a deep inauspicious pounding that sends shivers of trepidation down his spine.

Never before has the German language sounded so alien to his ears. Never before has he wished he couldn't understand a word of what he hears. It might help to push back the rising panic he feels.

She is on the way to the bathroom again, clutching the package of razor blades in her left hand and a glass of the ruby-red Syrah in the other. Her hips don't sway. Her body suddenly isn't a dangerous weapon anymore. Her face is set. Sad, tired and with something lurking in those dark eyes he knows far too well: Resignation.

He rises in a fluid motion.

Denn alles Fleisch, es ist wie Gras.

He has to stop her, immediately.

Und alle Herrlichkeit des Menschen wie des Grases Blumen.

His hands reach out.

Das Gras ist verdorret, und die Blume abgefallen.

He touches the screen.

Energy sizzles into his fingertips, numbs them for a second. He feels as though he has run into a solid wall at full speed. His heart pounds painfully.

Then everything goes utterly dark.

He hears the blood pulsing through his veins. His breath is lodged in his throat, the need to breathe becomes painful.

A power cut. A bloody power cut.

His hands shake as they touch the diminishing imagine of Sydney Bristow on the surveillance monitor in his bedroom.