Sharon Shinn - Gateway

“Sure,” said Daiyu, already on her feet. “I’ll go get us sandwiches.”

When the doors to the elevator opened, there was already one woman inside. She appeared to be in her late forties, stylishly dressed in a gray business suit and pink shell, with white-blond hair pulled back in an elegant chignon. She wore tiny, glittering studs in each ear, some kind of gems that looked like they might be opals crossed with rose quartz.

“Hi,” Daiyu said. “I like your earrings.”

The blond woman smiled back. “Thanks,” she said. “So this is my first week of work here, and I have no idea where to go to lunch. I just want soup or a sandwich. Any place you’d recommend?”

“There’s a great place called Edible Difference just a few blocks away. That’s where I’m going, in fact. You can walk with me.”

“I’d really appreciate that,” the woman said, following Daiyu out into the lobby. “I have a feeling I’m going to be working through dinner, so I’d better get lunch.”

“What kind of work do you do?”

“International law. I travel a lot.”

“That sounds glamorous.”

The woman laughed. “Like most jobs, more work than glamour. But I always enjoy a chance to visit different cities and live in different places. What do you do?”

“I’m a summer intern at an employment agency,” Daiyu replied. “I’ll only be here a few more weeks.”

“I’m glad I met you while you were still here. My name’s Dawn, by the way.”

“I’m Daiyu.”

They chatted easily during the short walk, then parted at the lunch counter of Edible Difference. Dawn stayed at the restaurant to eat, while Daiyu headed back to the office with the carryout bags in hand.

Right outside the doors to the Met Square Building, an itinerant musician had begun to perform, a guitar strapped over his shoulder and a case open at his feet. He was African American, older than her father; his short gray hair was a vivid contrast to his dark skin. His fingers coaxed a strange, syncopated melody from the strings, and Daiyu paused for a few minutes to listen. She thought she almost recognized the tune, but she couldn’t place where she might have heard it before.

She dropped all of Isabel’s change into the guitar case alongside a few one-dollar bills he’d already collected. “That’s pretty,” she said. “Did you write it yourself?”

He smiled at her, his fingers never pausing in their intricate motions. “No, but this is my own arrangement,” he said in a deep and surprisingly beautiful voice. “I call it ‘Sunshine and Shadow.’ My name is Shadow,” he added.

“I like that. I’m Daiyu. Pleased to meet you.”

“Pleased to meet you as well.”

She rode the elevator up to the office, her feet tapping out the steps to a dance she made up on the spot. For the rest of the afternoon, she found herself humming Shadow’s melody and occasionally smiling.

The next few weeks flew by. July somersaulted slowly into August-which was, impossibly, even hotter than July. The agency continued to be so busy that Isabel rarely had time to take a lunch break, although once in a while Daiyu convinced her to leave the office long enough to eat. These outings were always entertaining but a little exhausting, since Isabel would spend pretty much the entire hour ranting about the excesses and mistakes of the current crop of politicians. Twice Daiyu had lunch with Dawn, which was a little strange. They had nothing in common to talk about, so conversation was somewhat stilted, though filled with goodwill.

More often she would bring her lunch and eat it outside. On these days, she found herself drawn to the riverfront by a longing she couldn’t understand. She would sit on the top step of the stairway that led from the Arch down to the Mississippi, situating herself so she could see the monument swooping skyward on one side of her and the river sparkling southward on the other. She always felt excited and hopeful as she hurried toward the Arch grounds, as if expecting to meet an old friend or see some rare treasure on display. She always felt a little lonely and depressed as she walked back, as if the endless unrolling of the water had carried away her last, most precious dream.

By mid-August, Isabel was bemoaning the fact that Daiyu would soon be gone. “I know you have to go back to school, but please tell me you’ll come work for me next summer,” Isabel said one afternoon when Daiyu stayed late to finish typing up letters. “You’re the best intern I’ve ever had.”

“I’d like that,” Daiyu said. “If I get into St. Louis University, I’ll be able to work here part-time when I’m in college, too.”

“Excellent!” Isabel exclaimed. “And if you’re open to weekend work during the school year, I know I’ll have a lot of projects you could help me with.”

“Sure. Just call me.”

“And if you have any time to do volunteering,” Isabel added, “I’m trying to find workers for the Carnahan campaign.”

“Mmmm-I don’t think so,” Daiyu said.

It was as if Isabel hadn’t heard her. “We have to defeat Charles Lee,” Isabel said. “If that man is the next governor of Missouri, I’m going to have to move to Illinois. Or move to Canada! I don’t know that I can live in any country that would elect a man like him to any office.”

“What’s he done that’s so terrible?” Daiyu asked.

“What’s he-Well, here, let me just give you a little literature,” Isabel said, disappearing into her office. She reappeared a moment later with a stack of magazines and what looked like photocopies of articles from a dozen more. “You can take these home and read them, and then tell me why he’s so terrible.”

“Great,” Daiyu said, flipping through the pages of the Time magazine on top of the pile. Maybe there would be a good movie review toward the back. “Something to read on the bus.”

“If you wait five minutes, I’ll give you a lift home,” Isabel offered.

“That sounds good,” Daiyu said, and settled back into her chair.

Isabel vanished into her office again. Daiyu sighed and turned to the political section of the magazine. It seemed like the proper payment for the gift of the ride.

The article that was marked with a yellow Post-it note was titled “ America ’s Next Governors” and featured a rundown of promising candidates in ten states. Daiyu skimmed until she found the section called “ Battle for the Heartland: The Carnahan Legacy or the Upstart Lee?” She tried to concentrate on the pros and cons of both contenders, but the arguments didn’t really register with her until she turned the page and saw a photo of Charles Lee.

She just stared at him.

She couldn’t have said why, but she had an immediate reaction of dislike so strong it was almost panic. He was a handsome biracial man, with strong Chinese features partially molded by a Caucasian heritage. His hair was as black as hers, except for a sexy streak of gray that waved back from his forehead, and his eyes were bright with intelligence. Even from the printed page, he exuded an intensity that was almost electric. In the photo, he was smiling as he extended his hand to a crowd of wellwishers. Everyone in the mob surrounding him looked worshipful and awed.

Isabel came bustling out, her purse over her shoulder. “What did I tell you? He’s a horror, isn’t he? He fails on every single issue!Theenvironment,theenergypolicy,nationaldefense,immigration-”

Daiyu closed the magazine, disturbed by her strange antipathy toward a man she’d never even heard of until five minutes ago. “I guess I should read about him a little more,” she said.

“Him and every other candidate!” Isabel agreed. “Your best defense in an uncertain world is to arm yourself with information.”