Page 21 of Gates of Tartarus

Back at the house, I scuttle up to my room and think about staying there. I’m failing at far-seeing, failing at impressing Seef, and will no doubt fail at acting cool around Jorge. But I’m hungry, so, after a half-hearted debate between my ego and my id, I sidle into the kitchen with fingers and toes crossed, hoping for the best.

Jorge’s standing at the counter, with his back to me, and my heart skips a beat when I see his tousle of mink-brown hair and his long, lean body, casually clad in light-tan chinos and a forest-green sweater.Cool, cool, I admonish myself.You love being friends. That’s all you want, nothing more.And everyone’s entitled to at least one night of drunken revelry in their life. You just went all drunk, no revelry.

Hearing the door open, he turns around and greets me with a wide smile. “Maela! Have a good day? Take a seat and tell me about it. Can I get you something to drink?”

Dazed, I nod my head. “Just a glass of water, please.”It’s OK. My shoulders slide imperceptibly down my back.It’s OK.

“Slice of lemon?”

I bob my head again, like a marionette on a string. “Thanks.”

Jorge hands me the glass. “Here you go. The others will be in soon. Emlyn’s on a call, but Kavi’s promised to help me with dinner once he finishes getting changed. He only got back a few minutes ago.”

“I can do that,” I offer, almost shyly. I feel I have to redeem myself after Saturday night’s fiasco.

“Sí?” he smiles again. “OK. Could you get some potatoes out?”

It’s going to be a simple meal – charred Padrón chili peppers tossed with olive oil and sea salt, a Spanish omelet, mushrooms sauteed with garlic, slices of Serrano ham, and a nice crusty baguette – but, as he explains gravely, the simplest meals are often the most difficult, as there is nowhere to hide. The ingredients must be of excellent quality and prepareda la perfección. So, no pressure, but surely even I can’t screw up peeling and chopping.

“You OK?” he asks as we get to work. “You seem a little tired.”

I shrug: “Eh. ‘m fine.” I don’t want to launch into a moan about everything that’s gone wrong lately – nobody likes a negative Nelly – and I’ll die before admitting to unrequited attraction, so I take my usual refuge in questions. “How was your day? Are you enjoying working at MI5? What’s new and exciting?”

He gives me an assessing look but doesn’t push me. Yes, he had a good day. Setting up a wellness program with Kavi won’t be difficult, as stress counseling is stress counseling whatever the setting, but there’s a lot to learn about empathy and developing his ability. Reading suspected criminals is a far cry from reading recovering addicts.

“Yeah?” I’ve finished peeling the potatoes and get started on the onions. “In what way?”

Jorge stills, cocking his head thoughtfully. “Most addicts secretly want to let you in. They know they’ve got a problem, even if they try to hide it, and are hoping for help. It might take a while to build up trust, but the will is there. The suspects I’ve met so far are actively hostile. That one emotion can drown out the others. And, of course, they don’t want anyone to find out the truth.”

“So you can’t read everybody all the time?” Maybe I can pull off insouciance after all.

“Some people are more transparent than others,” he says lightly.

Bugger!

“But,” he continues, “My gift is not very developed. All emotions have a flavor, and I can distinguish the basic tastes, like you can tell a Merlot from a Pinot Noir.” He smiles at me, and I stick out my tongue. “A strong empath, though, can read the notes and tell you the region and vintage: a Rioja 2005 or a Ribera del Duero ‘98. Myabuelataught me what she could, and I can sense straightforward emotions – fear, joy, guilt, surprise – and the truth of them, but there is much to learn.”

“So, empathy is as much intellectual as sensual?” I can understand that. Take a painting. It elicits a response, yes, but you want to know what the artist is really trying to say. So you analyze, you compare, you draw on what you have learned through study, you come to a conclusion – this way of thinking makes sense to me.

He pauses, considering. “Maybe touch is a better analogy. Everyone projects emotions,sí?Perhaps Kavi is right and we are all surrounded by energy fields. Perhaps emotions rearrange the very molecules in the air around you. So happiness surrounds you like a warm embrace, but anger flays the skin from your bones. Perhaps empathy simply means being more receptive to these currents of energy. And perhaps the stronger empaths can manipulate them.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know if Emlyn is right, if my gift can be developed. I know I am more receptive to emotions, that I can sense them better than most people. But, if someone is actively putting up blocks, it is difficult to get a read, and I need to get better at finding a way through the cracks if I am to be a good agent.”

“People can do that– can lock in their emotions?”

He nods, taking the chopping board from me. “With practice, yes.”

Huh. I watch as he tips the potatoes and onions into the pan heating on the hob, then cracks some eggs into a bowl and begins to beat them. There’s no way he didn’t pick up what I was feeling when I came in, then. I’m about as opaque as a glass of spring water. And he must have known how bewildered I was by his bad mood yesterday and how vulnerable I was feeling. Even Seef the blockhead thinks I’m an open book. Jorge’s usually so nice, so considerate, always careful of my feelings, always making sure that I’m OK. So why hasn’t he apologized yet? He was a moody git, and a “sorry” is in order. I drum my fingers impatiently against the counter.

“Could you slice up the mushrooms, Maela? I’m going to get the peppers done.”

Feeling miffed now, I emit a short “yup” and go to the fridge. I’m entitled to an explanation, all in all. And some groveling. I’ll give him another minute.

“Thanks,querida.” Jorge coats the peppers with olive oil and sprinkles them with salt. He looks absorbed in what he’s doing, and, I think, content?

Oh for God’s sake! I open my mouth: “So–”

The door opens, and Kavi comes in. “Sorry! I got a call from my mother. My sister’s had her baby – a little girl!”

“Congratulations,amigo!”