Conversation · Klaasje (Miss Oranje Disco Dancer)

"No further questions."

"I always heard you RCM guys were cool." She gestures toward you with her cigarette. "You are."

"Thank you -- I've put a lot of time and effort into it," she says without any discernible irony.

Technically, possession of narcotics is legal in Revachol. But you should still reprimand her.

No, no, don't listen to the stiff. Be cool.

"Where does that door lead to?" (Point to the door on the roof.)

"You kicked it down -- you tell me."

"I have no idea, officer." She looks at it calmly.

Look her in the eye.

"What is this wild flower?" (Show her the flower.)

She looks at the dried petals in your palm, then lightly touches one with her fingernail.

Chipped white polish covers the nail. It's long and sharp, like a mini dagger. The petal crumbles on contact.

"Pretty. Looks like a dried may bell -- is that the one you caught? Sam Bo-style?"

"Why was it there?"

"Why was there a flower on the roof? I don't know, officer. Because of the wind?"

Or an admirer?

"Any admirers, miss?"

"Ruby? She couldn't have left it. She's not old-fashioned like that. I don't know what that flower was doing there, honestly."

"Admirers? I'm too old to be a débutante." She looks over the railing at the plaza below. "And this place is no fashionable society."

Question avoided. Let's conclude that she has admirers. Plenty of them.

Say nothing.

She watches you pocket the petals, then closes her eyes as she breathes in the cigarette fumes...

"Sudden change of topic!"

"All right." She nods and takes a drag. "I like it sudden."

"What's Sam Bo?"

"A martial art, sir." She raises an eyebrow. "Is that it?"

Samaran boxing, or Sam Bo. Graceful martial arts stuff. 'Sam Bo- style' implies stealth and cool.

"Yes. Why was it there?"

"Nice room you've got here."

"Yeah, it's pretty De Luxe."

No one likes to talk about their dirty laundry and their empty bottles. Maybe if you phrase it emotionally...

"Why do I feel like you've won here?"

"I really don't know, sir." She takes a sip of her cold coffee. "I certainly don't feel like I've won. I feel like shit, sir. All the time."

She smiles. A bitter little smile. She means it.

"You're right."

"How well could it have turned out for me. I mean... " She looks around.

The rain falls on her shoulders, tinting her blond hair light brown. It smells of industrial pollution and brine.

"I'm stuck in Martinaise, just like all of us. I've been up here for... I don't know how long now? I like to call this my rooftop containment facility."

"That's it then, I guess." (Conclude.)

She nods, slowly -- carefully, even.

There is suddenly a strange glint in her eyes. Not malicious... but dangerous.

"The dried flowers on the roof -- could Ruby have left them? These don't fit with anything."

"The what?" She narrows her eyes. "Oh, those ones! I don't know, sir. I said I have no idea what to make of them. Honestly, I think they're just trash."

"I mean, there's no reason for me to think they're somehow connected to her."

She narrows her eyes. "You mean that little thing you caught -- when you first came here? On the roof there?"

"Yes."

"I don't know, sir. I said I have no idea what to make of them. Honestly, I think they're just trash"

"Something seems... off with this theory I've developed. About Ruby."

"I don't know what to say."

"It all seems fortuitous -- for you."

"None of this is fortuitous for me."

"This all turned out well enough for you -- you somehow managed to not become a suspect."

"Did I?" She arches an eyebrow and sighs. "Why do I still feel suspicion hanging over me then? What I managed was to get him killed. I understand that."

The lieutenant looks away, over the railing.

He feels uncomfortable with this conversation. He doesn't know what to add.

"What are you contained for then?"

"For my sins of course. The long standing sins of a bad, frivolous person."

"For destroying my first love. For working for bad people. The list goes on and on."

The snow falls on her shoulders, then melts in her light blond hair... Cold and soft.

The wet wind, heavy with brine and industrial pollution from the stacks nearby, ruffles her hair.