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Topic 51: Holiday Shopping
Dec. 11th, 2006 04:48 pmEmily always used to buy the Christmas presents, even for long-term employes who were not exactly part of their social circle, such as the Dixons or Marshall Flinkman, whom she knew from her occasional visits to the official Credit Dauphine offices, or from Christmas parties.
Before Laura died, she also used to buy presents for the Bristows. It was the only holiday shopping they did together, Arvin taking the time between missions or administration battles, and wondering, year after year, whether there wasn't some potential for global mind control via shopping malls. After Laura, Jack made it clear he did not wish any more gifts. Emily still bought presents for Sydney, though this was something Arvin found out only later, when they moved into a new house. There they were, still wrapped up. At first he wondered whether Jack had sent them back unopened, but abandoned the idea as soon as it came to him; Jack, with his unfailing courtesy towards Emily - perhaps the only remaining person Jack was unfailingly courteous toward -, would never have done such a thing. Emily probably never sent them to begin with. He looked at the bright colours of the wrapping paper and understood they had not just been for Sydney; they had been tributes to the life that was gone, before she had reconciled herself to the idea of accepting the loss.
In the year after Emily died, truly died with her life bleeding away on an Italian field, Arvin Sloane spent most of December moving from country to country, both for practical reasons - he had not yet made the deal that allowed for his very public rehabiliation and still was on the list of most wanted fugitives - and because he did not quite know what else to do with himself. True, there was a new goal to look for, his unknown daughter, the Passenger, but he did not even know her name. Each time he tried to imagine her, he ended up thinking of the girl he had known very well indeed. When he found out Allison had killed Sydney, he called Jack a couple of times, but hung up every time Jack said as much as "Yes" or "Bristow". What was there to say, after all? Arvin had been the one to place Allison Doren in Sydney's house.
(Sometimes, he indulged fantasies about this being a mistake; that there was no way Allison should have been capable of killing Sydney Bristow, whose life was protected by prophecies and destiny. Sometimes, he wondered whether perhaps Sydney had done the same thing as her mother before her; faked her own death for some unknown purpose, brilliantly and efficiently. Then he made another of his phonecalls, and the sound of Jack's voice, the blankness no longer a cover but the lack of any life, told him it could not be anything but true.)
He was in Hongkong, of the all the places, having nothing in particular to do until the meeting with another contact, when some street traders approached him. "A shawl for your daughter," one of them said, and another called "flowers, Sir, flowers for your wife".
Arvin thought of Emily and those carefully wrapped up, unopened presents in their old house. She would not have wanted flowers, though; she would have wanted seeds. He did buy the shawl, though, thinking about the way the rich red silk would have accentuated Sydney's skin and eyes. "Fit for a bride, Sir," the hawker said, and Arvin pretended not to listen. He spent the next hour hunting down seeds for the most exotic of flowers he could find, with a fair modicum of success. For some reason, the image that came to mind was not Emily in her garden, planting, teasing life out of the barren ground, but of Persephone who made the mistake of eating those seeds and trapping herself in the underworld. There was still something missing. Jack, he thought, of course.
One of the first Chinese customs he had learned about: presents made of red paper, to be burned at a funeral for the dead, so they would have them in their next life. Never mind that Jack was the only one of the three still alive, or that Arvin was not a Buddhist (or, for that matter, a Christian). There was so much to choose from, though. Cars, pagodas, houses. In the end, he picked a gun, of course.
It was time to meet his contact then; information was exchanged, favours were traded, and he left the meeting not without satisfaction. He could not afford to remain in Hongkong afterwards, though, and left within the hour, one identity exchanged for another, not an item of clothing the same he had arrived in. There were three things he kept, though. A shawl, seeds, a paper gun.
He should have known that presents, once bought, ultimately always found their recipients.
Before Laura died, she also used to buy presents for the Bristows. It was the only holiday shopping they did together, Arvin taking the time between missions or administration battles, and wondering, year after year, whether there wasn't some potential for global mind control via shopping malls. After Laura, Jack made it clear he did not wish any more gifts. Emily still bought presents for Sydney, though this was something Arvin found out only later, when they moved into a new house. There they were, still wrapped up. At first he wondered whether Jack had sent them back unopened, but abandoned the idea as soon as it came to him; Jack, with his unfailing courtesy towards Emily - perhaps the only remaining person Jack was unfailingly courteous toward -, would never have done such a thing. Emily probably never sent them to begin with. He looked at the bright colours of the wrapping paper and understood they had not just been for Sydney; they had been tributes to the life that was gone, before she had reconciled herself to the idea of accepting the loss.
In the year after Emily died, truly died with her life bleeding away on an Italian field, Arvin Sloane spent most of December moving from country to country, both for practical reasons - he had not yet made the deal that allowed for his very public rehabiliation and still was on the list of most wanted fugitives - and because he did not quite know what else to do with himself. True, there was a new goal to look for, his unknown daughter, the Passenger, but he did not even know her name. Each time he tried to imagine her, he ended up thinking of the girl he had known very well indeed. When he found out Allison had killed Sydney, he called Jack a couple of times, but hung up every time Jack said as much as "Yes" or "Bristow". What was there to say, after all? Arvin had been the one to place Allison Doren in Sydney's house.
(Sometimes, he indulged fantasies about this being a mistake; that there was no way Allison should have been capable of killing Sydney Bristow, whose life was protected by prophecies and destiny. Sometimes, he wondered whether perhaps Sydney had done the same thing as her mother before her; faked her own death for some unknown purpose, brilliantly and efficiently. Then he made another of his phonecalls, and the sound of Jack's voice, the blankness no longer a cover but the lack of any life, told him it could not be anything but true.)
He was in Hongkong, of the all the places, having nothing in particular to do until the meeting with another contact, when some street traders approached him. "A shawl for your daughter," one of them said, and another called "flowers, Sir, flowers for your wife".
Arvin thought of Emily and those carefully wrapped up, unopened presents in their old house. She would not have wanted flowers, though; she would have wanted seeds. He did buy the shawl, though, thinking about the way the rich red silk would have accentuated Sydney's skin and eyes. "Fit for a bride, Sir," the hawker said, and Arvin pretended not to listen. He spent the next hour hunting down seeds for the most exotic of flowers he could find, with a fair modicum of success. For some reason, the image that came to mind was not Emily in her garden, planting, teasing life out of the barren ground, but of Persephone who made the mistake of eating those seeds and trapping herself in the underworld. There was still something missing. Jack, he thought, of course.
One of the first Chinese customs he had learned about: presents made of red paper, to be burned at a funeral for the dead, so they would have them in their next life. Never mind that Jack was the only one of the three still alive, or that Arvin was not a Buddhist (or, for that matter, a Christian). There was so much to choose from, though. Cars, pagodas, houses. In the end, he picked a gun, of course.
It was time to meet his contact then; information was exchanged, favours were traded, and he left the meeting not without satisfaction. He could not afford to remain in Hongkong afterwards, though, and left within the hour, one identity exchanged for another, not an item of clothing the same he had arrived in. There were three things he kept, though. A shawl, seeds, a paper gun.
He should have known that presents, once bought, ultimately always found their recipients.
