August 18, 1998
Tuesday
5:00 p.m.
– Kann ich mit Ihnen sprechen? – the guttural speech pulled me back from my decisions.
I turned and froze. Not daring to blink, I stared at the woman who’d come close enough that my sense of smell exploded. I remembered that magical scent – hers, hers alone. Gray eyes, like a pair of partisan blades, hacked through my consciousness and scattered the pieces of my thoughts. She was directing, with gestures, a man standing off to the side, two or three meters away. The man, a camera on his shoulder, fussed and adjusted for the light. She spoke into the microphone with a slight accent:
– Excuse me, young man. German television, ARD. Might we ask a few questions?
What was she saying?
I couldn’t hear. I couldn’t understand.
What do you want, my soul?
– Young man, can you hear me?
What? What is it? Ah, yes.
I nodded.
– Would you mind if we asked a couple of questions for television?
– What questions?
– How do you feel about the default? – she asked.
– I don’t.
– A bad angle, – she muttered, and turned to the cameraman in a stream of German gibberish. He panned the camera off my face and onto the pompous building behind me.
– Can you explain?
I looked at her, devouring her with my eyes. I wanted to gorge myself on the mere sight of her. That alone would be enough for happiness. If only I could keep from looking away, keep staring, keep staring harder, layering her reflection onto my retina, image over image. Ah, if only I could stuff the entire space of my skull with her image, then plug up my eyes, ears, and nose, and live stuffed full forever!
– Hello? – she touched my shoulder.
The spell broke. I came back to myself
– Yes...
– Would you mind riding with us to the Kremlin? Not too much trouble?
– Me? No.
My soul! For you, anything you say.
