Chapter 2: 2. House Of Broken Love
The grocery shop turned out to be a greengrocer, so lunch will be a green salad with olives, cherry tomatoes and rasped carrots, fresh orange juice to drink and yoghurt with strawberries for dessert, less than five minutes of work. It feels like a pity because the beautiful kitchen in Scarlett's big, fancy flat invites for cooking a seven-course dinner for twenty people.
I'm not a very good cook, not as good as my parents, who based the success of their butcher shop on their good taste for preparing what they sell, and not as good as my late grandmother who had her own restaurant, but I compensate my lack of culinary talent by our family traditions: the pleasure of preparing delicious meals and the joy of eating them together, as I experienced during my complete childhood. When I'm on a mission (which means: most of the time), I live in hotels and bed-and-breakfast rooms, with neither the time nor the place to cook, and when I do have the time and the place available, there's nobody around to cook for, but here, in this € 40.000, fully equipped kitchen, I feel like a chef. Scarlett's voluptuous full figure is proof of the immense joy that preparing food in this kitchen gives her.
"It looks like we have something in common.", I say when Scarlett shows up. I have set the table with the fine cutlery. With the fruit juice in king-size wine glasses, next to a fine selection of plates and bowls, my simple salad and dessert look like a five-star lunch.
Scarlett changed her office outfit for what she calls «casual Friday», probably not aware that today is a Monday: a pair of designer jeans, a white, silk blouse, and black sandals that cost more than my granddad's car (which says more about the car than about Scarlett's shoes).
"What do you mean?", Scarlett asks.
"I love your kitchen, your electric oven, your stove, your Treasure & Trendy plates, your kitchen knives… It's such a pleasure to cook in a kitchen like yours."
Scarlett sits down at the table and takes a sip of orange juice: "I don't know. I never cook. This is nice juice. I thought it would be sour, but it's rather sweet."
I could keep the conversation running and explain how the origin of the fruits and their smell can tell you about their sweetness or their rather 'mature' taste, or that you can mix a lemon to give a little 'body' to it, but my mind is fully occupied by that casual remark she dropped on the table before giving her opinion about the drink: "You never cook? You have a kitchen that cost more than my whole flat, you have designer plates and crystal glasses that envy every restaurant owner, and you never cook?"
"Well, I prepare coffee, and sometimes I put a pizza in the oven, but that's about it."
I don't know what to say. I serve the salad and wait for further explanation.
"You don't know what it's like to be a working mother. I don't have time to cook."
The question mark on my face encourages Scarlett to tell her story. Between bites, she starts to realise, slowly, that today is the first day of the rest of her life. An excuse like «I don't have time» is no longer valid. She's no longer a working mother.
"I work hard, I mean… I worked hard. If you enter the office every day at 8 o'clock, you have to get up early, to shower, make-up and dress for the daily battle of survival in a man's world. I never had time to sit down and have breakfast. I poured a cup of coffee and I grabbed a croissant at a bakery on my way to work.
» At the office, we have an hour for lunch. That's not enough to go home and cook. Usually, I had lunch at one of the little restaurants in the centre. It was more efficient to eat my most important meal at midday. After work, I ran home, changed, and went to the gym, for aerobics class or work-out or Tai Chi. I also meet most of my social contacts there. After working out, we drink and snack something together. That replaces what's dinner for others.
» The little time left is for shopping, washing, cleaning, and all those other things single mothers do to survive. And don't underestimate how much time I work outside office hours: overtime, study, business receptions, dinners with clients… But I guess that's all over now…"
I need to cheer her up, or her salty tears will ruin the salad: "At least, you know why you work so hard: you live in a fantastic house, you have stylish clothes, beautiful furniture, and this is a pleasant neighbourhood. You must be very happy here."
I must have said something wrong. Scarlett turns her head away to avoid me seeing her sadness streaming over her cheeks. She stands up and searches in her purse on the sofa for a handkerchief. It gives me time to think about my stupidity.
I try to imagine Scarlett in the morning, dreaming that she's free. Then, the alarm clock wakes her and sends her back to misery, to her real world of lies and suspicious eyes. She hurries to the office early and returns late. When the night falls, she leaves again. Every weekend, she goes away, while pain and sorrow are here to stay. This isn't a house where she feels at home. She gets no help or kindness from her neighbours from above. This is a house where she's alone. This is a house of broken love…
I clean up the table and wash the dishes. This mission is more complicated than I thought. Women have a different philosophy, a different set of values, a different toolbox to fix their problems. Women use tears to wash away the stains of sadness on their souls. I have to respect that. It's best if I leave her alone for a while. Besides, I have to prepare a mission: I need information, so I can make a plan.
If you don't know where to start, exploring the environment is always a good idea. I start with the cupboards in the kitchen, searching for some decent coffee. I find the coffee grinder, the coffee maker and three glass pots with instant coffee, but the real stuff, beans or even ground coffee, was not on Scarlett's shopping list.
Scarlett is still in tears on the couch, not paying any attention to my opening and closing doors. I decide to continue my search in the rest of the house and leave her alone; she has to get rid of all the tears she saved over the last twenty-six years and never let out.
The flat is huge. The bathroom is fully equipped, with a shower, a double wash basin, a bathtub, a washing machine, a dryer and several cupboards for towels and bath products. There are four bedrooms; two of them were the rooms of Scarlett's daughters, one is for guests (with a double bed and a bathroom included), and the last one is Scarlett's main retreat. Her walk-in closet is big enough to park a car, and her double bed is carefully made.
This isn't a house. It's a showroom. The only signs of personality are a few photos of the two girls, a forgotten lipstick on the nightstand, and a reproduction of a Mondrian painting on the wall in the living room. No dirty sweaty socks from yesterday's visit to the gym, no plants in the window, no half-read books on the table, no postcard from a friends' holiday destiny, no magnets with reminders on the door of the fridge… Even her abandoned office outfit lies neatly folded in the bathroom, waiting for its turn in the washing machine. Scarlett is organized like the pit crew of a Formula 1 racing team.
The front door of the flat leads to a little hall with one other door. I ring the bell, wait until a suspicious eye of an elder lady peeps through a chain-protected crack, and ask as friendly as I can, in English, if she has a little coffee for me. It's my fourth day in Krakow, but I've already learnt enough Polish to understand the lady perfectly: she'll call the police if I don't go away. With the key of Scarlett's front door in my pocket, I descend the three floors of stairs to street level, where I saw some shops.
Going out to buy coffee gives me something to do (the shop is a gold mine for special products, from imported wine and cheese to Polish sweets and sausages). It also gives me time to think. Scarlett needs help, that's clear. She's a grown-up woman and perfectly capable of making her own decisions, but right now, she needs a helping hand to guide her in the right direction. She has to make her own choices. I can't do that for her. My task is to help her avoid making mistakes. Sitting on a couch and cry will not solve anything.
The problem is that she's a woman. I know my mother, but that's about all the experience I have with women. I'm an only child, so I don't have sisters; my childhood friends were boys; when I reached the age on which others were interested in getting girls under sheets, I was finding out how to survive undercover… What I know about women comes mainly from books like «Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus» by John Gray. Men are simple. What you see is what you get. Women are complicated. They say one thing but mean something else. Men solve problems by doing things, while women prefer to talk about it so they feel better. The first step in this complicated mission is easy: talk, get information. The best tool for conversation is a fine, fresh, homemade cup of coffee, from Arabica beans, freshly bought in the deli around the corner.
When I return, Scarlett has given her sadness the chance to get out. She looks better, relieved. The smell of fresh coffee fills the house, a perfume of home, hope and hospitality, to foreshadow my planned hour of honesty. I hand Scarlett a cup and sit down next to her on the leather sofa: "Tell me about your daughters."
Distraction is tool number one for magicians, politicians and spies. It works splendidly. Scarlett's smile, although watery, slowly starts to shine again through the clouds of sorrow.
"Their names are—"
"No names, please. In the spy business, we put criminals behind bars. We can't risk that they arrange revenge on our loved ones. Just refer to them as «my oldest» and «my youngest». Okay?"
Scarlett nods: "My oldest is 23 and my youngest is 21. They both study, one in Warsaw and the other one in Gdansk. My youngest is in her second year and my oldest hopes to graduate next summer."
"You must be very proud. I've seen their photos. They are as pretty as their mother, and they seem friendly too. Do you talk a lot with them now they live so far away?"
"At the weekends. They always have a lot to tell, about school, about living on their own. The youngest has a boyfriend and that… changes her; she's more serious now, more planning her future, more aware that university is not a goal, but just a step towards the life after it. Suddenly, she's growing up fast. The other one, although she's older, is still at the stage of study and party, not interested in boys or a family or a job. She was offered a job already, you know. A big company noticed she was the best in her class and asked if she wanted to work with them. It would mean that she'd stay in Warsaw after graduating. She hasn't decided yet."
"And you don't have contact with their father?"
"He left me when the girls were 2 and 4 years old. A wealthy widow offered him a better position… on top of her… We've never seen him since…"
I curse myself for my impetuous question. She still misses him, but she works hard on improving her aim. Quickly, I change the subject, not allowing Scarlett to fall back into negative thoughts again: "Men are useless, Scarlett. I, personally, would not even think about falling in love with a man. Look at your daughters: women are smarter than men, they work harder, they are more serious about important matters like responsibility or future, and they are so much better to look at. Women take care of themselves and they take care of others. If I had the choice, I would definitely prefer to work with a woman as a partner. Too bad the LSD doesn't have any vacancies right now, but when worldwide crises develop like they've done lately and budgets go up, I'll send a message to my boss and recommend you for the job."
"You want me to work for the LSD?", Scarlett asks.
That's the cruel side of making conversation: you pay back a woman's confidence by telling them a few of your own secrets. That's how it works with women. They show you they trust you by telling you their secrets, and they expect you to do the same. A secret divided by two is no longer a secret. For a man, sharing a secret proves you can't trust the man who shares it with you. Women have a distinct style of logic.
"I work for the LSD, the Luxembourg Spy Department. We're a small group because we're from a small country. Our organization functions like the human body: The Boss, #1 (number one), is the brain that makes the plans and gives the orders. The Nerd, #2, is the nerve system that connects all the others with his network of computers and spiPhones and special applications. #3 is The Diplomat, the one I work for during this mission here in Krakow; he's the mouth that does the talking, to convince others to do what's important for us, and the ears that get the information we're after. #4 is The Agent, the hands that do the shooting, the fighting and the dismantling of atomic devices in the last second before they destroy the world. I'm #5, the feet, The Runner, the pizza delivery boy who runs errands so all the others can do their job."
"That sounds interesting."
"The interesting part is that I travel a lot and meet lots of people, but the shadow-side of the work is that I'm never at home and I don't have any real friends to hang out with. Like you, I'm lonely most of the time. But, like you, I know what I want and I'm prepared to pay the price: saving the world is a goal that is so much bigger than a few personal inconveniences. It motivates me to go on and it makes me enjoy what I'm doing. Do you want some more coffee?"
"My cup is still half full. What makes you think I'm lonely?"
"Was I wrong?"
Scarlett's silence is as good as a «no». Her cup is half full… She's an optimist… But she's disappointed that her dreams didn't come true. I tried to massage her feelings in the right direction, saying «like you, I know what I want…», but the result is the opposite. Scarlett is too smart for word tricks. I make a mental note not to do it again. She deserves an honest treatment, something that fits her intelligence. After losing her job so unexpectedly, she doesn't know what she wants. She'll need to think about a new goal. Her boss didn't just take her job away, but also her income, her social life, her security, her fulfilling pastime…
The best I can do is offer her an alternative: "If you want, you can help me with my current mission. We can save the world together. I don't think you have anything better to do, and it might lead to an opportunity you've never thought of. I think you'd make a great partner."
"And what would I have to do, exactly?"
"The mission itself takes place in the conference rooms of the International Climate Convention. The Americans came here to boycott the conference with their intentions to let Economy prevail Environment. #3, The Diplomat, needs to move people to the opposite side, telling them that Environment is an opportunity for the economy instead of a threat: factories for windmills and solar energy generate jobs and make us depend less on the handful of powerful tycoons who determine the prices of oil and fuel. Recycling creates jobs and saves on natural resources. We have to stop those economic terrorists; they are only interested in making more profit and don't give a damn about the world they leave behind. Future generations will condemn us for inaction. You have two daughters. You want them to grow up in a better world, a safer world, a healthier world. This is your chance to actually do something. What do you say?"
I finish my coffee with a triumphant smile: I'm happy with myself for picking the right words. Perhaps I'm not born to succeed The Agent when she retires, simply because my boobs aren't big enough [see: «The Swiss Suitcase», that exciting and funny novel with the best plot ever], but with a little extra training on words and communication, I might earn myself a promotion when #3, The Diplomat, shows up missing in action.
"Let me summarise this. So you want me, a 47-year-old woman, trained for noting but office work, to dress up as a UPS package delivery boy, so I can place bombs in the offices of innocent people, causing fear and damage to a peaceful world, while the only positive effect of that action is: work for local economy who get paid to repair the damage. That's what you call saving the world? I call that «do what your boss tells you, without even thinking about the consequences». For you, your personal economy is by far more important than the safety of the world and the environment, and it also raises one simple question: how much do you earn with that noble work?"
"2.500 euros per month, plus an extra month's salary in May for the summer holidays, and one in December for the Christmas holidays…"
"I got 18.000 zloty per month, about 4.500 euros, plus up to 10% bonus according to the financial results. They paid me that much for moving some papers from one side of my desk to the other side, for talking to people and sending them emails, without any risk of being killed in action. I didn't do any harm to anyone, and I didn't damage the environment. You try to turn me into a terrorist and you justify your own behaviour with arguments that are not convincing me at all. I have a better plan: you help me with my goal. We're going to find a criminal who declares an innocent and hard-working woman guilty of lowering his financial profit. He punishes her with the economic death penalty of unemployment, so he can save a monthly fee of 4.500 euros. This man deserves torture, followed by death, and you're going to help me find him. That's what you do, what you should do: you're a spy and you save the world. You save the good girls from the bad boys. He's the bad boy. I'm the good girl. You say you are my friend. Friends help each other. For free. If you want, you can help me with my mission. We can save the world together. I don't think you have anything better to do, and it might lead to an opportunity you've never thought of. I think you'd make a great partner."
Rostov! If The Diplomat would get a fatal heart attack right now, Scarlett would take his place without even a job interview, leaving me to do the dirty work for her. How do women always manage to get what they want and turn discussions upside down? Why are women so much better with words and language? If I want to survive in this business, I'll have to pay attention and learn as much as I can from this woman, who's my superior in every aspect of my profession. Without even training for it!
"Okay, Scarlett. I accept the mission and your conditions. I have only one tiny little problem: my boss expects me to keep my undercover job, so I will have to deliver several packages for UPS every day. If you agree to do it together, every morning, I will have the afternoon and the evening free to help you with your noble cause. I will even share my salary as a courier with you, 50/50."
Scarlett is good. She knows how to negotiate. I need something, and to get what I want, she knows, I'll give in on other, minor, points. She won't agree without a battle. She's having the upper hand here and that upper hand puts me in my place.
"Will you arrange for me one of those uniforms in my size?"
"I will."
"And we only deliver packages in the morning?"
"When we work hard and do the job together, we should be finished around lunchtime."
"And after all that work, you prepare lunch?"
"I do."
"And dinner too?"
"I do."
"And you pay for the food? I don't have an income, as you know."
"I'll pay for the food."
"And when we find the criminal who did this to me, you leave him to me so I can give him what he deserves?"
Men are cruel. Men did horrible things in every part of history, from wars and slavery to sexual abuse of women and children, and lots of other terrible acts I don't even want to think about. Women are warm, delicate, soft, friendly, kind, with a big mother's heart for everyone. What can go wrong? Nothing.
"I promise. When we have the criminal under control, you have the free hand to do whatever you want. I will not interfere, not with action and not with words, and I will not tell anybody else what you've done, not in confidence, not in court and not in CNN programs. Do we have a deal?"
"We have a deal."
"So what are your plans?"
"First, you're going to teach me how to handle all those knives and kitchen machines. I've never used them in my life. It's time I learn how to cook. Mister Kowalski will be on the menu."
Weekly Power Status
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