Troubled souls must go to troubled places
The clouds have been building up – a coming together of moisture, vapor, and hope. The colors changed from white to beige to grey to a looming darkness that promised relief. The tension sat on the shoulders and necks of the town’s people. They hoped the clouds would let go, so they could also relax, even just for a moment. But as they thought they could smell the rain, the clouds sucked up the remaining air and moved on.
Hugo cut the tomatoes into quarters, the peppers in slices, and the cucumbers into cubes. He tossed them into a wooden bowl when the first guest knocked on the door.
Come in. Don’t worry about your shoes.
Francesca closed the door with an elbow while pulling a casserole dish out of a shopping bag. She made it through the narrow hallway into the kitchen. Two kisses and a judging gaze at his outfit later, she opened the oven door, pushed in the pasta bake, and set temperature and timer.
Hugo scraped the waste into the bin and reached for the corkscrew.
White, red or rosé? Or Prosecco to start?
Prosecco first – for us. Are the others coming?
Yes, but Sam and Maryam are finishing something up in the office before they can join us. As always.
And who is the odd one out this time?
Me.
Come on. Who are you ‘introducing’?
Actually, her name is Rose, and she hasn’t been in town that long.
Not another one. Hugo, you don’t do well with those. They come and they go.
Yes, and I stay. But this is not like that.
Will see.
Francesca poured each of them a glass and saluted. She inhaled the prickly gas bubbles and tones of cedar or flowers or whatever sensory impression she was supposed to experience. She swallowed the sweet tang and hoped the alcohol would calm her down. While Hugo reported on his weekly routine, Francesca poured olive oil and then Balsamico into flat bowls and carried those into the living/dining room/office. She shimmied between the back of a sofa and fold-up chairs. Hugo had started to set the table, yet Francesca rearranged the plates, cutlery, and candles quickly, creating the illusion of more space. She didn’t understand why Hugo always invited people into his much too small apartment. At his age, and with his income, he could easily afford a much larger one. Anyways, no one volunteered to host the next get-together, so this tiny apartment would have to do.
Hugo brought in the salad, bread, and a jug of water on a tray. He examined the table in search of the right placement, so Francesca took the items and put them on the table, regardless of where since they would be in the way in any case and needed to be passed around.
Another knocking moved them back into the hallway and Francesca into the kitchen to refill her glass. She tightened the grip on the stem of her glass, brushed over her wrap-around dress, hair, and necklaces, and turned to welcome ‘Was it Rose?’
A small mousy woman entered the kitchen and handed her a package from a popular and pricey bakery.
I didn’t know what would be appropriate, so I bought tastes of different things.
Francesca pegged her as a people pleaser – that’s why the work at an NGO, did Hugo mention that? Well, he seems to go for that type and that look: not urban and stylish; monochromatic but not on purpose.
Hugo introduced the women formally and Rose asked for water, so Francesca added more Prosecco to her glass, examined the bottle and emptied it. She opened the second pane of the kitchen window to counter the heat from the oven. Even though the night air felt cooler, for Francesca it wasn’t a relief. The hum of the last few days stuck.
Hugo recited the layout of the apartment, the legend of how he had made friends with Francesca in London and how they – years apart and independently – moved to this town at about the same time. They compared work/yes, relationship/no, off-spring/so not status while reaching for olives. Rose nibbled, Hugo tossed some into his mouth, excusing his silence, and Francesca ran the monologue, keeping her from opening the wine bottles just yet.
The timer went off. Now, everyone was busy, taking the last bits to the table, creating varied paths over the obstacle course that was Hugo’s set up, ensuring that they really had everything. Hugo felt like a strategic mastermind: giving Francesca the seat to his right but letting Rose fill the seat to his left, thereby ensuring that she could listen to Francesca from a safe distance.
The salad made its first pass around just as Sam and Maryam stormed into the apartment.
It just won’t rain, will it.
It’s been what? A week with this will it; won’t it?
Some say it’s geoengineering, which doesn’t exist or we would never do, mind you.
So, this is Rose. Nice to meet you.
Yes, Rose, Welcome to, I don’t know, our ‘humble fold’ sounds too religious. We are by no means a cult; we are much too exclusive.
I see Francesca has been having fun without us. We have some catching up to do.
More salad is placed on plates and Hugo brought out the pasta bake, from which Sam and Maryam took an extra-large serving. For a few minutes, the voices ceased and only the sound of cutlery and the crunch of lettuce or cucumber could be heard. Everything felt lighter and more intense. Sam’s shoulders rounded over the edge of the table while Maryam occupied only half of her seat, not leaning but keeping her back erect and tense. This way only small bites traveled between her fork and mouth. Francesca lubricated every fork-full with a sip of wine. Hugo ate with the worry of a host, checking that each guest had enough food and actually liked the meal. Rose shifted from relaxed – I’ve been to so many of these friend-group-gatherings and know the dynamics – to agitated – I’ve read all the Substack articles about small talk and haven’t got a question to ask.
Sam broke the silence after sating his initial hunger and asked Francesca about her current projects. While she rattled off the latest progress in phase three, Sam’s eyes wandered between Francesca and Rose, which Maryam followed. Hugo noticed the calculated precision of Maryam’s observation and the threat assessment of Rose. It would not be the first time that Sam would fuck the odd girl. Hugo knew a detailed Q+A session would commence when Maryam volunteered to help with the dishes and coffee later on in the kitchen, but could he vouch for Rose? He hadn’t known her that long or well.
So Rose, what brings you to our town?
Accounting.
Everyone burst out loud.
Who still has an accounting job? Isn’t AI doing that?
Well, yes, and I’m using AI for some models.
Watch out that you don’t account yourself out of a job!
That’s highly unlikely currently. I’m assessing the value of the drowned migrants.
Like the guy in Fight Club? You know, a finger is worth so-and-so much.
I suppose quite similar. In fact, I’m establishing the potential value loss of future earnings and contribution to the overall economy, compare those to the savings in resources and social services and analyze the data points between the intended host nations and countries of origin.
Can you really put a price on human tragedies like these?
I’m not taking the emotional toll and individual suffering into account. My clients are less interested in that but rather in the contribution values and innovation losses. Since I’m mostly focusing on the under twenty, I track the potential of the loss. Let’s say, this person is eighteen and has received a fairly advanced education during childhood. This individual would have landed in Spain, worked in the agricultural sector and developed a more sustainable, water-saving method of growing tomatoes. Now, this loss has become more far-reaching than previously considered.
Who is ready for coffee?
Oh, I brought dessert.
Even Sam helped clear the table. They sucked in stomachs, avoided furnishings, and moved with extra care in the kitchen. Hugo set the large Italian coffee maker on the gas stove and Maryam gathered small coffee cups. When Rose took the dessert platter into the kitchen, Maryam asked,
Do we like Rose?
Francesca drained someone’s glass and gulped.
Can’t say.
Too soon.
A bit creepy.
The coffee machine erupted and spat out the last drops. The group retook their seats and passed Rose’s paper plate, that she had rearranged in the meantime, taking a couple of sweets to offset the bitter aroma of the espresso. Hugo carefully selected two pieces, wondering if his choice of dark chocolate and pistachio could say something specific about him and become data points.
Francesca felt sober after the first sip though the coffee couldn’t be responsible for that.
Who are your clients?
I can’t name them, obviously, but they are larger entities that invest in the future. So, these losses are not theoretical but practical. As a matter of fact, the next step is to demand reparations from countries and organizations directly responsible for these losses.
How horrible to commodify deaths.
Well, isn’t it even more horrible to just read about them in the headlines? And then do nothing?
Sounds familiar: companies benefiting from the death of strangers.
Yes, but at least those deaths are then real and accounted for. Who do you work for?
As product designers it varies. Super high stress but super lucrative.
And you, Francesca?
Actually, we don’t talk about work or jobs in my culture.
But you did share about your project not that long ago. So, who do you work for?
Hugo stepped in and declared
In marketing it depends. Francesca is working in an agency, but I do mostly freelance, so I can decide who I want to work with.
And all of you like living here?
Absolutely: we love the history, the culture, the food – of course the food, most importantly.
All is a bit slow, all is a bit more complicated than necessary, but then again, I’m not bothered by a little corruption – if it goes in my favor. Seriously though, this town is in my top five.
You don’t feel troubled by what you do, Rose?
Do you feel troubled by what you do?
Sam felt the rush of caffeine and thought of one more email he should write; Maryam released the worry that Rose would not be another calendar entry; Francesca decided to avoid expats for a while; Hugo swept crumbs onto his plate.
The evening closed with this uncomfortable knowledge that nothing was gained as they wished ‘good to see yous’ and ‘good byes.’ Sam and Maryam pounded down the stairs. Rose walked a bit slower but relieved to get out of the tight space. Francesca hung back, kissed Hugo longer than friendship would have allowed for, and closed the door with a sense of finality.
Hugo looked out into the troubled sky but didn’t close the windows, for it wouldn’t rain again.