When Politicians Dodge Questions, It Is The Activists Who Hold Them Accountable

“Oh Markus, it’s really you,” she breathes, and then: “What in the world happened to your face?”

I wave my left hand, trying to play it off. “Not worth worrying about. Listen, I came here to—”

“I don’t know how you dodged Inspector Vidocq, but one word from me to Father, and you’re going to be missing your current look.” The concern on her face has melted away just as quickly as it appeared, her expression recomposed into something far more serious. She pauses to think for a second. “I don’t know why you’re here, but something is clearly off. You’re in my office now, and you’re going to play by my rules. I’m going to ask you some questions, and you’re going to answer them truthfully.”

Her words hang in the air, and that lovely face of hers, the cute haircut, it all suddenly seems much more intimidating than I’d ever expected. What happened to that little girl who I used to be able to boss around?

“I was five years old when you last saw me. These days, I sit by negotiating tables with CEOs who want me dead. I’m not giving you a free pass just because you’re banged up,” she says, as if picking up on my train of thought. Then, her expression softens a tad, brown eyes roaming the bruises on my face. “Who did this to you?”

“I… some girl,” I say. “She’s a nobody. Really, I would say more, but I don’t know all that much about Lizzie.”

“Then how…” She gestures at my face.

“I met her at a bar, I took her home. Turns out she’s clingy and violent. It was a perfect storm,” I say. “But I won’t see her again. I’ll make sure of it. It’s not why I’m here, anyways.”

She nods, and then sighs.

“You’ll be fine like this? You’ve seen a doctor and had it all checked out?” She throws it out like an offhand question, the type I’m just supposed to say ‘yes’ to so that we can both move on and talk about other things.

“Sure, like I said, not a big deal.” I smile at her, or do my best impression of one. I’m not sure she picks it up. “What’s your next question?”

“Well, letting me know where you’ve been these past two decades would be a fine place to start,” she says.

“I’ve been…” My voice trails away. It’s not an easy question to answer. So much has happened, and yet, so little of it seems to have mattered. Scarlet moves from her spot by the window to her chair, sitting down with delicate poise. She picks up a pen to jot something down on a notepad while I get my thoughts in order.

“I’ve been keeping myself alive,” I eventually manage. “I thought I might make it on my own. Blaze a trail, forge an empire, you know, what Father’s always said he did. Turns out I can barely keep a roof over my head, most days.

“I don’t know… I’ve worked a dozen jobs, been fired a dozen times. I’ve met some girls, never met anyone I’d actually want to settle down with, I’ve met half the homeless guys in this damn city, I’ve been tailed by Vidocq across the five boroughs, I’ve been smashed and smacked and smothered…”

I cut myself off. I wasn’t planning on saying so much, but the words… I need to be better at controlling my tongue.

“The others wouldn’t understand that. They’d ask you for details. They’d push you, not comprehending how it could be possible to just ‘barely keep a roof over your head,’ and they’d think you a failure,” Scarlet says, still scribbling on her notepad. She pauses, and looks up at me. There’s a small smile crossing her face now. “It’s a good thing you came to me. I’m not here to press you. Obviously, something has gone wrong.”

“Not wrong, strictly speaking—”

“What can I do for you?” She cuts to the chase, dropping her pen to her desk. The heavy fountain head clatters on the wood, rolling for an inch before coming to a stop against a legal reference book. I look into her eyes, wondering if coming here today was the right move, wondering if I need to build up more affection before I do what I’m about to do.

“I need you to do something for me,” I say. “Three things, actually.”

From a pocket, I withdraw a slip of paper. I hand over my demands to her, and her fingers brush against mine, accepting the slip.