Exchanges & Departures
Departures & Exchanges
I was wearing my best overcoat. It was wellington green, and a bit faded at the elbows, but still perfectly serviceable for tonight. I was painfully aware that my bag looked anything but new, but at the same time, I had a feeling that she wouldn’t really be concentrating on a bag. I smiled at that thought and then immediately wished I hadn’t.
Lowering my eyes to the ground, I controlled the quirk of my lips and made my face a perfect blank. Trusting myself to look up once more, I glanced at the digital clock above the constantly-changing train times. Sixteen fifty… I stopped myself from looking at my watch and worked it out mentally - ten minutes to five. Right. Sighing, I shifted slightly and watched the green lines flicker to sixteen fifty-one. Sixteen fifty-two, fifty-five, why did I have to be early for everything? I knew she wouldn’t be early, but I had to turn up half an hour beforehand anyway. Just in case.
The words haunted my lips as I mouthed them in a whisper. Being late was worse than not turning up at all, my father always used to say, although I never quite found out exactly why that was so. Just took it for gospel, as I did with everything he ever said to me. In a way, I suppose that’s why I was there - in Manchester Victoria - waiting for her. Rusty old belief in my father.
She’d told me to look out for a red beret, which amused me at the time even though I knew well enough not to suspect that she would also be in army uniform, but my mind insisted on imagining it anyway, and I saw no harm in indulging. She’d sounded so… well, professional on the phone. Almost snippy. She definitely knew what she was talking about, anyway, and that’s what counts.
Sixteen fifty-nine, seventeen hundred and I caught a glimpse of red bobbing through the briefcases in black. My heart skipped a beat reminiscent of older days with my wife, and I shifted from foot to foot eagerly. What would she look like?
Oh. Like that. The red beret sat atop curly black hair, and her brown coat was as no-nonsense as her voice. Her heels were pointed and about as thin as my little finger and her rusted red pencil skirt was far too short for a woman her age. She looked about forty, and I must admit, I was slightly disappointed.
She raised her hand when she saw me - we’d agreed that my coat would be green and my bag brown for recognition - and I waved her over, stamping my disappointment down deep and replacing it with what I hoped was a sunny smile.
“Mister Henry Lewis?” Her voice was as economical in reality as it had been on the telephone.
“That’s me,” I said. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs Nelson.” She just stared at my outstretched hand, so I dropped it back to my side and shifted uncomfortably.
“It’s Miss,” she emphasised the ‘s’ sound as if her tongue had got stuck between her teeth, and I smiled.
“Sorry.” I felt like a schoolboy being told off. Definitely didn’t like her, which probably wasn’t conducive for why we were here. Never mind. You don’t have to like these sort of people, after all. “Are we doing this here?” I ventured.
“Don’t be stupid. And call me Samantha,” she set off at a brisk walk and I gaped at her back.
“Well, where -”
“There’s too many people.” She didn’t even turn to speak to me, just carried on walking regardless. I shook my head and followed, determined not to let her get the better of me.
“That does make sense. Where are we going, then?”
“A hotel.”
“Oh. Which one? The Travel Inn’s quite close.”
“Not there.”
“Oh. The Hilton, then?”
“You’ll find out when we get there.” She finally looked sidelong at me, her forehead creased in a frown. “You ask a lot of questions, Henry.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s ok.” She sped up a little and we crossed a road almost without looking. It was like she was trying to escape from somewhere, and I wasn’t sure I liked it.
“Are we being followed?”
“Why would you think that?”
“Well, you’ve been looking around a lot. And you walk very quickly.”
“It’s a cold day. And no, we aren’t.”
“Oh. Right then.”
“There’s the hotel. Come on.” She marched through the door, across the polished floor, set a packet of papers on the reception desk and turned to face me. “This is the Crown Plaza Hotel,” she tapped her heel on the floor and looked thoughtful for a second. “This floor is real oak.” I looked at her, bemused.
“Oh, is it really? How… lovely. I think.”
“Wooden floors are rarely oak, Henry,” she looked down at it and I almost caught a hint of wistfulness on her hard face. “Anyway.” She rang the reception bell once, resoundingly. I felt sorry for the bell.
“Nelson and Lewis party,” she told the receptionist, who smiled and took the papers.
“You’re in room two hundred,” he said. “This is your key. Just slot it into the door and you’re sorted.” Samantha took the offered key and set off towards the stairs, without waiting for me once again.
“We’re not going in the lift?” I had a sinking feeling that room two hundred was on the fiftieth floor or something ridiculous.
“Exercise is good for you.”
“Well, yes. I suppose.”
“Keep up.” I sighed and followed, but I couldn’t quite keep up and she frowned at me again as I puffed to the final landing.
“You clearly don’t do enough exercise.” I sighed and just nodded, too out of breath to reply. “The room’s this way,” and off she went again.
I stared glumly at the carpet as I followed her, noticing that it was red with a sort of gold pattern on. It looked quite expensive, and I was willing to bet that it was ultra thick if I walked on it without my shoes. It was tempting to try out this theory, but the thought of Samantha’s displeasure frightened me slightly, so I dismissed the idea. Perhaps later on.
“Samantha?” I watched her slot the key card into the door’s handle with one swift movement.
“Yes?” She threw open the door with as little regard for it as she had shown the bell.
“How long will this take? I mean,” I waved my hand at the room. “It looks like we’re staying the night.”
“We are.”
“Will it really take that long?”
“Maybe. It pays to be prepared, Henry.” She placed her bag onto the bed and turned to face me, a strange expression on her face. “Did you think I’d name a price, take what you have and then leave?”
“Sort of.” I suddenly felt a bit guilty for being judgemental. It was me who’d arranged this meeting, after all. Out of curiosity, I suppose. I still wasn’t sure what I’d get out of it, but I think these things are what you make of them. “Uh, would you like a cup of tea?” I noticed the customary kettle in the corner of the room, and was feeling eager to make amends.
“Black, no sugar.” Her face went back to the neutral expression I was getting used to, and I went to fill the kettle, satisfied. While I busied myself with the tea, Samantha sat down on the bed and crossed her legs primly, settling her hands in her lap.
“We’ve been waiting for an opportunity like this for some time, you know,” she said as I handed her the hot cup of tea. She wrapped her hands around it and gazed into the cup.
“When you say we-”
“Yes, I mean the organisation. Simurgh. Huma. Bennu,” her voice lilted attractively when she said the foreign words, as if she tasted them like champagne on her tongue. “Whatever you choose to call us.”
“Simurgh was the one I found in the Yellow Pages.”
“All names are the same, Henry. They’re all a part of the one - the organisation I represent today and tonight. Simurgh.”
“I am sort of curious about what you do, though.” Their advert in the phone book had been a single word - Simurgh - encased in a rectangle. No design, no logo, nothing to hint at what they stood for save the understated blurb. Heirlooms Valued. The egg had been in my family for generations and, finally, curiosity got the better of me. I was expecting Simurgh to be a sort of faux Antique Roadshow, complete with distinguished men in monocles.
“We value heirlooms, like it says in the advert. Oh,” she said, as an afterthought. “We trade too.” I’d taken a guess about the buying side, since Simurgh seemed to be oddly interested in my egg.
“But what if I’m not selling?” I sat down on the wooden chair, next to the bed.
“Trading, Henry. It’s not the same thing.”
“I know that,” I scowled. “I’m not that stupid, you know.”
“I never said you were.”
“Well stop talking to me like I’m a little boy, then.”
“I wasn’t aware that I was.”
“Well you were.” Her words had nettled me more than usual, but I put it down to prolonged exposure to her and made myself calm down. “Anyway, you said trade? What sort of things do you trade in?” I was interested, if only because I had so little information about Simurgh.
“Mostly heirlooms,” she put her teacup down on the low bedside table next to me, and pulled over her bag. “But for the rarer items, we can usually come to an agreement.” She looked directly at me as she opened the clasp of her rather large bag with a sharp snap. “I am a persuasive woman, Henry.”
“Do you do all of the dealing, then?”
“Only me.”
“Surely you have partners?” She shook her head. “There’s really no-one else? Isn’t it sort of… dangerous?”
She laughed, then. “Dangerous? Why Henry, I’d almost think that you were concerned for my safety.”
A flush crept into my cheeks and I stared firmly at the carpeted floor.
“There are some dangers,” she admitted. “But nothing I cannot cope with. And certainly not enough that I need some partner to look after me. The very idea!”
It was the most I’d heard her say, and it convinced me that this was something she felt strongly about. I decided not to mention it again, and picked up my bag from the floor.
“Is it in there, then?” She looked at the bag, and my fingers tightened about the worn leather possessively. It was stupid to feel like that, I knew. After all, I’d known, deep down, that I’d trade in the egg. But now that it actually came to the time, a wave of uncertainty washed over me.
“Yes, it’s in here.”
“Can I see it?” It seemed a silly question, so of course, I obliged.
The egg was right at the bottom of the bag, and once I’d dug it out, I had to unwrap the tissue-paper from around the box. Once I’d got it free, I opened the lid carefully. The cardboard was fragile from age, and the smell of it always reminded me of a childhood spent in the attic of our huge house, poking around in forgotten corners.
Inside the box, the egg was wrapped in further protection - a small bag of bubble-wrap - and surrounded by scraps of yellow tissue paper, which cascaded onto the floor as I took the bag out carefully. All the bubbles were, surprisingly, still intact and I resisted the urge to pop a few, as I slid the egg out of its home. Putting the trappings to one side, I nestled the precious object in my hands and gazed at it with reverence, Samantha’s gasp of appreciation mere background noise as I took in its detail.
Every time I saw the thing, it took hold of me like that. It held a sort of fascination for me, and it had done ever since I was a boy and the first time my father showed me it. It looked, on first glance, like any old Fabergé egg. That is to say, golden in hue, with extraordinary detail. But if you brought it up to your eyes and found the right sort of light, it became something entirely different.
The egg was like an extravagantly-worked piece of clockwork, and its gold was worked in cunning, twisted ways reminiscent of a labyrinth. Between the gold, painted wood peeped out. Oak, my father always said; its designs in burned orange and fiery red, all swirls and circles and never-ending lines.
The whole thing was the size of my cupped palm, and it always felt warm to the touch, as if some inner workings projected unnatural heat outwards. The little latch on one side had always puzzled me, but not as much as the tiny cogs and wheels that covered the top half of the egg and then stopped, suddenly, at that latch. They fitted together in a way which suggested that the egg could be opened, but I had stopped trying a long time ago.
Briefly, I wondered if Simurgh would attempt to open it, and the thought filled me with a strange longing.
“We’ve never been able to open it…” I remembered my father’s face as he told me that, and realised that my own probably mirrored his. This time was different though. This time, there was Simurgh, and if they were determined, perhaps they could open it.
“I don’t think the opening is a problem you should worry about, Henry.”
“So you can open it then?”
“Of course. But that is not something you need worry about, as I said before. If you decide to go through with the trade, the egg will no longer be any of your business. You would do well to forget all about it.”
“Forget about it? That egg’s been in our family for… decades! I can’t just…” I shook my head. “It’s like asking me to forget about my hand. It’s just been there so long… you know?”
“No. You wouldn’t sell your hand, would you, Henry?”
“Probably not,” I admitted. “That would be a silly thing to do, really.”
“Yes it would. I do hope you’re not having second thoughts...” She trailed off meaningfully, and I knew that she would be able to tell that I was flustered.
“No. N-no, no second thoughts.”
“Excellent.” Samantha pursed her lips together. “I will need to hold the egg and examine it, before we make our, ah, deal.”
“Of course,” I said, looking down at the egg nestled in my palm. Why when it finally came down to it, was it so hard to think about the egg not being there? Why was I imagining a cold, dank hole at home, where it usually lay? No, I told myself. It was time for the egg to move on. Time for it to be out of my hands.
Samantha held out hers, and I gently tipped the egg into her eager palm. Her face took on a strange sort of glow as she looked down at it, and for a second it seemed like she was taking in the heat from the egg itself - sucking it in through her skin - but that was impossible, and as she let out a little sigh, I was jolted from those thoughts.
“Yes,” she breathed. “This is it.”
“It? What it?”
Samantha ignored my questions as she gazed on the egg with something approaching rapture on her face. “It’s finally over,” she said. “Ohh.”
“Over? I’m sorry, I think there’s something I’m not understanding here.”
“There is plenty you do not understand, Henry,” she snapped, but her voice had none of the acid of before. “But do not worry,” she lowered her voice. “Soon you will understand everything, even if for just a split second. It will all make sense.”
“I’ll take your word for it. So are we doing the trade, then?” I was getting restless in this hotel room, and Samantha’s cryptic words were chafing on my nerves.
“Yes. We are doing the trade. I have what you need right here,” she gestured to her bag and I wondered exactly what was inside it. Perhaps it was like Mary Poppins’ carpet bag, and had a standard lamp inside. My lips quirked at the thought.
Samantha opened the bag with one hand - the other still holding on to the egg as if she were afraid that I would take it back - and a horrific smell wafted out, assaulting my nostrils. I gagged. “Oh god, what is that?”
“The egg is a symbol of life, Henry. It must logically be exchanged for a symbol of equal power. And this,” she reached delicately into the bag and pulled out a jar containing whatever was making that smell, “is a salamander.”
“A salamander.” My face fell. “You’re giving me a lizard in exchange for my egg?”
“An amphibian, not a lizard,” Samantha said, firmly. “And it is far from ordinary, Henry. It has certain… properties. It should not be taken lightly.”
“Is that… is it still alive?”
“Of course it is! What use would it be if it were dead?” Samantha tut-tutted, holding up the jar to the light. “See? Perfectly alive.” She gave it a little shake, and the amphibian inside swayed and blinked.
“It looks annoyed.”
“Wouldn’t you be, if you were in a jam jar?” Samantha half-smiled, and then placed the salamander-in-a-jar on the bed at her side, all the while still holding the egg.
“Probably,” I agreed. “So what properties does it have, anyway?” I leaned down and peered through the glass. The salamander just blinked. “I mean, other than the ability to smell like burnt, gone-off food.”
“The salamander is rumoured to be able to extinguish flames with its body, and it’s blood, if smeared on the skin, can protect from fire,” Samantha half-closed her eyes like she was reciting from a book. “But then, it is also said to have no digestive organs and that it eats fire, so we tend to take the rumours with a pinch of salt.”
“Wow,” I said, picking up the jar. I held it up to my face and tilted it this way and that, watching the yellow and black creature sway with the movement, trying to keep its balance. “Do you think it’s true that it can put out a fire?”
“You will find out soon enough,” replied Samantha.
“That’s cryptic.”
“Surely you expect nothing less from me, by now?” She looked amused, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “The trade,” she glanced down at the egg fondly. “It is satisfactory?”
I nodded. “I think so, yes.” I smiled at the salamander, already inexplicably fond of the liza- the amphibian.
“Excellent.” Her hands came together to cup the egg for a second, before she pulled her bag open and placed it carefully inside, and out of sight. She snapped it closed with a sharp click. “I’m not sure we will be needing the room for the night after all. I expected to encounter more… reluctance on your side.”
“Reluctance?”
“Yes. In the past… Let’s just say that the trades have had to be facilitated with blood, on occasion.”
I pulled a face. “I suppose it’s good job I’m nice then, isn’t it?”
“Certainly. We would not trade a salamander to just anyone, Henry. Not even one of your bloodline.”
“Wait a minute… my bloodline? What’s that supposed to mean?”
Samantha sighed and placed her bag primly on her knee. “Your bloodline. Family. Prior generations, yes? You were the first to come forward with the egg; the first to even entertain the possibility of no longer being its caretaker. It does not matter whether you were motivated by money, or whether you are in possession of all the facts - what matters is that you came. You were not coerced; this is your own free will. That is important.”
I tightened my hands around the jar as I digested this new piece of information. “So… so if I hadn’t found Simurgh and hadn’t offered the egg… what then?”
“I’m afraid we do not know. We’re not seers, Henry. Nothing is certain in this world.” She smiled a sad little smile. “Well, some things are, now. But I cannot linger on that.” She sat up, straight and prim on the bed and I was struck suddenly by how thin she looked. Surely she hadn’t looked like that the whole time?
“We must shake on the trade, Henry, and then I think I shall depart. There is really no need for me to stay when the trade is over with so promptly.”
“No. No, I suppose there isn’t,” I said. “You… won’t stay anyway?” I had a sinking feeling that I sounded desperate, but I tried not to let it show.
“I’m afraid not. There is much work to be done.” Samantha stood up and placed her bag on the bed. She held out her right hand, and tugged me upright as I took it, the salamander jar clutched in my free hand. She smiled and tightened her grip, and gave my hand a brisk shake. She shakes hands like a man, I thought briefly, as she let go.
Samantha rubbed her hands together and picked up her bag. She straightened her no-nonsense coat, tugging at the lapels until they lay flat, and picked up the key card for the room. “You had better leave too, Henry. You’ll be wanting to… ah, be somewhere familiar, I suspect.”
I shook my head at her opaque way of speaking and then smiled. “Will the salamander be alright in my bag, do you think?”
“I brought it here in mine; I should think it will be fine in yours.” She walked to the door in a smooth movement, and I hurriedly picked up my bag, placing the salamander inside it as I followed her.
I took one last glance at the room, glad to be seeing the back of the bland, magnolia walls and featureless bedspreads. The beds themselves had been hard, so I was glad that I wasn’t staying the night after all.
The door closed behind me with a soft click, and I crouched down to make sure that the jar was safe inside my bag. I wedged it upright between a packet of handkerchiefs and the squashed remainder of my packed lunch from earlier on in the day.
When I straightened, bag slung diagonally across my chest, Samantha had disappeared. There was no sign that she’d even been there to begin with.
I shook my head, and took my time walking down to the reception, where the man behind the desk was looking bored. He gave me a little wave as I passed, and I smiled at him, resisting the temptation to tell him that his rooms needed a lick of brightness before they bored the guests into submission.
The journey home passed uneventfully. I gazed out of the train window, watching lustreless houses pass me by, and thinking. Thinking mostly about the egg, but the edges of my thoughts were warmed by the salamander. I knew it was irrational to be attached to such a small creature, but it wasn’t like a gerbil or a hamster. I’d seen some sort of intelligence behind those black-ringed eyes.
I wondered whether it was a boy or a girl, and then it was my stop, and I dreamed myself home, pondering names for the amphibian as I walked.
There was a smattering of drizzle - that horrible fine stuff that wets you through - and then I was letting myself in through the front door, taking off my shoes and hanging up my coat.
I put my bag on a chair and took out the salamander, placing it carefully on the kitchen table while I poured myself a glass of milk. It felt nice to have another living being in the house, after so long by myself - even though the little creature didn’t really make much noise.
“You know,” I said, out loud. “I think I’ll call you Sal. I had a dog called Sal once… well, Sally, but you know.” All of a sudden, I felt stupid for talking to the salamander, but I carried on anyway. “She was a Labrador. Sort of yellow, like you, actually.” I took another gulp of milk. “Was Samantha right, then? Can you extinguish fire?” Sal blinked at me, and I could have sworn she nodded her head. “Handy, that.” I finished the milk and rinsed out the glass with cold water. “I don’t suppose I can keep you in that jar the whole time, can I?” Sal blinked again. “No,” I said, putting the glass upside down in the drainer. “No…”
I sat down heavily on one of the chairs and rested my chin on the table. Sal looked out at me, her yellow skin reminding me of jaundice and her throat moving like she was trying to say something.
“I suppose it’s just you and me then,” I whispered. “You and me and the end of the world…”
I think that, if you were to ask me how I knew that the egg had been opened, I would not be able to tell you. I can imagine it, in my mind’s eye - those cogs uncurling and twisting around each other in an intricate dance - the sudden heat that would spring from it, searing the air in a desert haze. The egg would unfold, gently, nothing about its movement suggesting danger. There would only be the shimmer of heat - cleansing, birthing fire - as our world was made anew.
Nothing felt different, there was no great flash of light, or heat, or deadly sirens piercing the air. Just a slight, warm breeze, and the blinking of a salamander.