David Morrell - Assumed Identity

One night, while Buchanan was watching television, Juana had come in from buying groceries. The troubled look on her face had made him frown.

“Are you all right?” Concerned, he’d walked toward her. “Did something happen while you were out?”

Apparently oblivious to his question, she’d set down the bag of groceries and begun to unpack. But then he’d realized that she didn’t care about the groceries. She was preoccupied by a jazz-concert handout that someone had given her on the street. She removed it from the bag, and when Buchanan saw the small x in the upper-right corner, he’d understood why she looked disturbed. The person who’d given her the handout must have been their contact. The small x, made by a felt-tip pen, was their signal to dismantle the operation.

They were being reassigned.

At that moment, Buchanan had been terribly conscious of Juana’s proximity, of her oval face, of her smooth dark skin and the firm-looking outline of her breasts beneath her blouse. He’d wanted to hold her, but his discipline had been too strong.

Juana’s usually cheerful voice had sounded tight with stress. “I guess I knew we’d eventually be reassigned.” She’d swallowed. “Nothing lasts forever, right?”

“Right,” he’d answered somberly.

“So. . Do you think we’ll be reassigned together?”

“I don’t know.”

Juana had nodded, pensive.

“They almost never do.”

“Yes.” Juana had swallowed again.

The night before they left New Orleans, they’d taken a stroll through the French Quarter. It was Halloween, and the old part of the city had been more colorful and festive than usual. Revelers wore costumes, a great many of them depicting skeletons. The crowd danced, sang, and drank in the narrow streets. Jazz-some tunes melancholy, others joyous-reverberated through open doors, merging, swelling past the wrought-iron railings above the crowd, echoing toward the reflection of the city’s lights in the sky.

Oh, when the saints. .

Buchanan and Juana had ended their walk at Cafe du Monde near Jackson Square on Decatur Street. The famous open-air restaurant specialized in cafe au lait as well as beignets, deep-fried French pastries covered with powdered sugar. The place had been extremely crowded, many costumed partygoers wanting caffeine and starch to offset the alcohol they’d consumed before they continued their revels. Regardless, Buchanan and Juana had stood in line. The October night had been balmy with the hint of rain, a pleasant breeze coming in from the Mississippi. Finally, a waiter had guided them to a table and taken their order. They’d glanced around at the festive crowd, had felt out of place, uncomfortably subdued, and had finally discussed the subject that they’d been avoiding. Buchanan didn’t recall who had raised the topic or how, but the gist had been, Is this the end, or do we continue seeing each other after this? And as Buchanan had faced the question directly, he’d suddenly realized how absurd it was. Tomorrow, Peter Lang wouldn’t exist. So how could Peter Lang continue to have a relationship with his wife, who wouldn’t exist tomorrow, either?

Softly, their conversation impossible to be overheard in the din of the crowd, Buchanan had told her that their characters were at an end, and Juana had looked at him as if he was speaking gibberish.

“I’m not interested in who we were,” she had said. “I’m talking about us. ”

“So am I.”

“No,” she’d told him. “Those people don’t exist. We do. Tomorrow, reality starts. The fantasy is over. What are we going to do?”

“I love you,” he’d said.

She’d exhaled, trembling slightly. “I’ve been waiting for you to say that. . Hoping. . I don’t know how it happened, but I feel the same. I love you. ”

“I want you to know that you’ll always be special to me,” Buchanan had said.

Juana had started to frown.

“I want you to know,” Buchanan had continued, “that-”

Their waiter had interrupted, setting down a tray with their steaming coffee and hot sugar-covered beignets.

As the aproned man left, Juana had leaned toward Buchanan, her voice low but tense with concern. “What are you talking about?”

“-that you’ll always be special to me. I’ll always feel close to you. If you ever need help, if there’s anything I can ever do. .”

“Wait a minute.” Juana had frowned harder, her dark eyes reflecting a light in the ceiling. “This sounds like good-bye.”

“. . I’ll be there. Any time. Any place. All you have to do is ask. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

“You bastard,” she had said.

“What?”

“This isn’t fair. I’m good enough to risk my life with you. I’m good enough to be used as a prop. But I’m not good enough for you to see after. .”

“That’s not what I meant,” Buchanan had said.

“Then what does it have to do with? You’re in love with me, but you’re giving me the brush-off?”

“I didn’t mean to fall in love. I-”

“There aren’t many reasons why a man walks away from a woman he claims he loves. And right now, the only one I can think of is, he doesn’t believe she’s good enough for him.”

“Listen to me. .”

“It’s because I’m Hispanic.”

“No. Not at all. That’s crazy. Please. Just listen.”

“ You listen. I could be the best thing that ever happened to you. Don’t lose me.”

“But tomorrow I have to.”

“Have to? Why? Because of the people we work for? To hell with them. They expect me to sign up again. But I’m not planning to.”

“It’s got nothing to do with them,” Buchanan had said. “This is all about me. It’s about what I do. We could never have a relationship after this, because I won’t be the same. I’ll be a stranger.”

“What?”

“I’ll be different.”

She had stared at him, suddenly realizing the implications of what he was saying. “You’d choose your work instead of-?”

“My work is all I have.”

“No,” Juana had said. “You could have me. ”

Buchanan studied her. Looked down. Looked up. Bit his lip. Slowly shook his head. “You don’t know me. You only know who I pretend to be.”

She looked shocked.

“I’ll always be your friend,” Buchanan had said. “Remember that. I swear to you. If you ever need help, if you’re ever in trouble, all you have to do is ask, and no matter how long it’s been, no matter how far away I am, I’ll-”

Juana had stood, her chair scraping harshly on the concrete floor. People had stared.

“If I ever need you, I’ll send you a goddamned postcard.”

Hiding tears, she had hurried from the restaurant.

And that was the last time he had spoken to her. When he returned to their apartment, she had already packed and left. Hollow, he had stayed awake all night, sitting in the dark, staring at the wall across from the bed they had shared.

Just as he stared out at the darkness beyond the window of the compartment in the speeding train.

He had done it again, Buchanan realized.

He’d become catatonic. Rubbing at the pain in his skull, he had the sense of coming back from far away. The compartment was dark. The night beyond the window was broken only by occasional lights from farms. How long had-?

He glanced down at the luminous dial on his pilot’s watch, Peter Lang’s watch, disturbed to see that the time was eight minutes after ten. He’d left Washington shortly before noon. The train would long ago have left Virginia. It would be well into North Carolina by now, perhaps into Georgia. All afternoon and most of the evening? he thought in dismay. What’s happening to me?