Douglas, Nelson - 2Golden garland

"To hear you tell it, he is, or weren't you being absolutely frank?"

"I was, and he isn't. Can we talk about. . . Uncle?" She giggled, thanks to the martini. "Remember that old show that's on in reruns, like Mary Tyler Moore. The Man from Uncle. That's what we can call you. The man from Uncle Walter."

"Glad you're enjoying yourself." Max picked up the table knife, which was oddly oversize, like all the silverware. He cut along the padded white tablecloth, a phantom incision with a dull blade, but precise nevertheless.

"Uncle suggested that it may be necessary to work with... Matt. No full disclosure, of course. And he agreed that you will have to be kept informed, might even turn up something on your own, as a liaison between myself and Matt."

"Me, in the middle? And no full disclosure for me either, right?"

He nodded. "Can't be. Trust me."

"Ah, you must be working for the government, after all. In Max we trust."

His warm fingertips touched her cold ones on the foot of the martini glass. "Look into my eyes. What do you see?"

"They're so different. That color. You don't look like yourself."

"Sometimes the truth is less attractive than the illusion."

"It's not that blue doesn't become you ... it hasn't become you yet. Do you know what I mean?"

His fingers tightened on hers. "That I'm a stranger, again. I'm trying to be as honest as the laws of survival allow me."

"If things are as dire as you say, then you shouldn't have anything to do with me, for my own sake."

"That's true. That's why I want you to keep going to the mat with Father Matt. Get good at self-defense, Temple. Take it seriously. I suggest a pistol range too."

"What do you want? A mini-Molina?"

"I want you as tough on the outside as you are on the inside. If we're to be together, you'll have to be."

"Together?"

"That's another thing I've tried to work out. We can't... live together as we did before, but we can come darn close. I want it back, Temple. I want back everything we had before I had to leave. I'd never had that before, and I don't want to give it up."

She sighed, and gazed at her half-empty martini glass. Or half-full, as the popular philosophy insisted on looking at it. The gin had slightly blurred the edges of her senses and sensibilities. A murmur of voices around, the warmth of the encroaching tables and chairs and sagging coats made Temple feel both oddly safe and oddly removed. Was this Max's immoral proposal? Clandestine cohabitation instead of openly living together, as before? Yet he was offering her more honesty in the truly closed portion of his life and past, where danger intersected desire at a perilous angle.

"I told you I was faithful all the months that I was gone," he said softly. Yet his voice carried all the way to her heart.

"You don't seem to doubt that, and I thank you. But I have to admit that it wasn't as difficult for me to be true as for most men. I've lived whole stretches as celibate as a priest, an honest priest anyway. Too dangerous, for me and for the woman. Why do you think James Bond has his Bond girls, a new one for every novel? They don't last, Temple. And in real life, Bond wouldn't either. And if he did, he wouldn't keep seducing some pathetically gorgeous girl to her inevitable end. When I broke the rules and took you with me to Las Vegas, it was because what happened between us was so true and powerful, I finally couldn't say no. I'm weary of being on the edge alone. I want a partner. I've had it with performing solo. In my magic act, in my life and in my secret profession. You're involved, whether you wish it or not, whether you still love me or not. We might as well make it semiofficial, and fight for what we both want. If we still both want it."

His eyes were searching hers, not the hypnotic green eyes of a cat, but the clear blue eyes he was born with. Changeling , she thought, how will I ever know the real colors of you?

During the silence of that searching moment, the waiter-cum-chef appeared beside Temple, wafting heavy pasta dishes in front of them both. Steam curled up in waves, like heat from a chill wet street. It was a curtain, a tissue of illusion between them, but it would soon cool and dissipate. Did anyone really want to see too clearly?

The magician of the menu announced a roller coaster of Italian syllables, the name of each creation.

Temple sampled her dish, surprised by the perfect yet elusive taste. "And yours?" she asked Max.

"As sublime as he said. Chefs are the most eccentric of geniuses."

"No, just temperamental. We aren't used to that, so we think it's eccentric. Tell me about your life . . . before."

They concentrated on eating, while Max doled out details between bites. It added up to a lifestyle Temple could only imagine.

"The first eight years, when I was young and foolish, it was like living in a computer-game world designed just for me. I was like the Little Prince to them, in peril, but also invaluable. I traveled in Europe, free of charge. My interest in magic was heaven-sent for my new role. I saw and studied with the best magicians the Continent had to offer I traveled off-Continent, eastward. I was taught . . . everything I wanted to know and a great deal that I didn't know enough to want to know."

That was when Temple's expression had grown skeptical.

"Yes, even that. I had my Mata Haris. I was a blank slate, possessed by guilt and vengeance. They shaped me into a perfect weapon."

"Did you kill people?"

"The whole point was to keep people from being killed. I saved hundreds, I know, from bomb plots and hijackings and more personal mayhem. What I learned and passed on might have resulted in people's deaths. But these were people who'd be facing death penalties if they were caught."

"Should you be talking about this here?" The table was so tiny that their faces practically met over their empty plates, but still, Temple thought.

"Too noisy, too small. Besides, I'm wearing a powerful listening device; I'd hear anyone who said anything suspicious, or who was suspiciously quiet. Instead they're all discussing the best preschool in Manhattan and their post-Christmas cruise. Hardly matters of international interest."

"You're wired?"

"I'm used to listening in two directions at once."

"I guess. Tell more about the Mata Haris."

Max couldn't keep from grinning. "Pretty heady for a teenager. It took my mind off my dead cousin and the pretty colleen who had divided us. I had a field day, and then AIDS began creeping in from Africa, and I grew up and discovered that I was a kind of plague carrier myself, and lonely besides. The glamour was gone. I was no longer coddled, but expected to earn back the investment in me. It wasn't a game, after all, but life and death. My life and death too. I was cut off from everything I had known, my family, my country, my culture. I became what was necessary, a magical mystery machine, remote from everything and everybody, playing a role. Those were my monkish years, and a good thing too, or I'd have never passed those Minnesota AIDS tests."

Temple shivered. "What a weird, empty, excessive life."

"They sent me to the U.S. on sabbatical, figuring I was about to crack from the strain. I did, but not in the way they were worried about."

"I was the crack?"

He nodded. "Want dessert?"

"No, I couldn't--"

"We'll share," he decreed.

Max was very good at decreeing, the Little Prince grown up.

The surly chef appeared to collect their plates and promised to return with "some" dessert. Of some sort.

Temple threw up her hands. "I'm beginning to think mystery menus are natural."

"Only in New York. What else do you want to know?"

"More about the Mata Hari types."

"And yet you are the soul of discretion on one lone ex-priest."