At his words, Vera tilts her head up to look at Connie, staring for a moment in that quiet, contemplative way that she does when she is weighing up how much is safe to say. In the end, she opts for honesty. It is better to give glimpses of your true self, she has found, when you want people to believe that they trust them. It lulls them into false sense of security, allowing them to think that there is little else to uncover. “Like vultures to the carcass, picking it over for scraps.” She leaves him with that thought to dissect.
Connie offers reassurance, though it was not asked for, and Vera does not know how genuine the sentiment is. She does not question it further, though, nor does she allow it to visible effect her demeanour, simply nodding her own agreement. “Thank you. Though I’m not certain the Eastside delegation are in entire agreement with you.” The comments from Alina Rueng and Maxine Cutter serve as evidence of that, but it is Arthit who holds all the cards.
There’s something theatrical about Connie, a sense of grandeur that rings a little hollow, like an actor playing the part of a king. It leaves an unsettling feeling to their little chat, but Vera swallows it, because he is useful, because he has helped her, because she has no reason thus far to believe that the words that emerge from his mouth are not the complete and utter truth. “Of course,” she smiles, a placid, inoffensive thing. “You have been good to me, haven’t you? That’s not something I will forget.” It is perhaps one of the more honest sentiments to pass between them. She remains cautious with her trust, but rewarding loyalty is a different matter all together.
It seems to work how she intended. He offers a promise, a hope that their alliance will continue, and she bows her head as though in prayer. Faith is not an emotion one would expect in a woman such as Vera, and yet, she possesses it in spades, her spare hand reaching to touch the crucifix at her neck. But then, the offer of a cigarette is made, and the moment is broken.
“I would,” she confirms, reaching to slip one of the cigarettes from the packet. “How did you guess?”
“you shouldn’t trust new yorkers to have any sense,” connie says, and though he delivers it just as evenly as he has every remark that preceded it, this is the only time that he has been honest, or perhaps more specifically utterly without guile, in the whole conversation thus far: his show of honesty looking just the same as his shows of conceit, his small deceptions that never hurt anyone — but who is he to say, really? vera speaks of vultures feasting on a carcass, but who wouldn’t be a detritivore, if given the choice? far better to be a vulture than be the rotting carcass pulled apart for meat, connie thinks; but, he realises, with the self-satisfaction of a presumptuous man — which is to say, a self-satisfaction that borders on self-deception, on self-pity — that vera vincelli has never been a ghost come to haunt the earth, hasn’t been born dead and had to spend most of her life in a process of self-resuscitation.
“take it from me,” he continues, mirroring her smile, “who you say has been so good to you, and could be even better for you still, and you need only ask.” perhaps any other man would talk now of his achievements, of the fruits of their shared cooperation, of the promise of much more in the future based on the precedent of the past — and perhaps they are better men than connie, or perhaps lesser, or perhaps just altogether different, no value judgement assigned; but he has resolved within himself to be not like any other man, and so he leaves it at that. the talkative man not so talkative now, speaking only in hints and riddles — but then again, when has he not? every word always means something else: a lie, a truth, an omission, a confession.
it’s all the same in the end, isn’t it?
“and you know i always try my best to anticipate my partner’s needs,” is his glib answer: suggestive only in the content of his words, everything else about him as stoic as a marble statue, expression neutral, the smile even dropping from his face. his hands remain the only expressive thing about him, moving here and there: tucking the carton of cigarettes back in his pocket, to be replaced by a lighter, the movements like legerdemain. connie remembers — nasty habit — when he was a child, sneaking into dime museums, eyes resting on the swift gestures of those two-penny bit magicians whose acts, he realised even back then, were kind of shite but still worthy enough to be studied.
here: an ember quickly snuffed out, only for the lighting of a cigarette, gone as quick as it’s come.
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