Yumi looked skeptical. “And what might that be?”
“We have the same job. We decided that we should be called Happiness Collectors.”
“Wait, there are more people like you?”
Aida filled her friend in on the limited interaction she’d had with Luciano, including the whisper of her name and pecks on each cheek at the end. She also mentioned the woman she had seen going up the elevator with Mo. “She knew Mo. I wonder if she’s also a Collector.”
“Okay, so this is turning out to be bigger than some rich old lady whose eccentric hobby is having you catalog all this Italian stuff,” Yumi said.
“I know. It makes no sense. Why would she need other people to do this? How many Collectors are there? And why bring us together in the same place at the same time? Wouldn’t that be a risk?”
Yumi looked thoughtful. “They’re probably relying on the NDAs you signed to keep it quiet. You know... I could see about hacking the hotel’s database and getting the records of people who stay there on the days you have your interviews. If there is a lot of overlap with other people, we’ll have a good idea of who the other Collectors are.”
At that moment, an old man sat at the other end of the bench. He looked harmless, but she hastily stood and moved on.
“Gah,” Aida said when she lifted the phone back up to see Yumi. “It gives me no small amount of anxiety every time you mention hacking something.”
“I won’t get caught, Aida. Don’t worry.”
“I do worry. It wouldn’t be a little slap on the wrist. They’d lock you away. Don’t do it. Maybe I’ll learn more if Luciano gets back to me.”
The conversation turned to Yumi and her recent string of bad dates. Aida tried to appear interested, but her mind was simultaneously racing with two things: the thought of Luciano’s smile and the implications of a world with more Happiness Collectors than just her.
Aida returned to Rome the next morning. She didn’t hear from Luciano for another three days, at which point she had reluctantly given up the hope that he might find her on Signal.Then, one morning when she was out for a walk to enjoy the early summer air before it became too stifling, she felt the buzz in her pocket. She almost dropped her phone, her excitement was so great, when she saw the text on her personal phone from an unknown number.
Aida, sono io, Luciano.
Ciao!she texted back.
Sei libera? Puoi parlare con me? È sicuro?
Aida’s stomach fluttered.Yes, I’m free to talk. It’s safe, she wrote back in Italian.
She flipped off her MODA phone, then climbed the stairs of the nearby closed church. It was the perfect vantage point to see if anyone was coming. Her phone screen came to life just as she leaned back against the centuries-old stone.
“I’m sorry we couldn’t continue talking in London,” he said. He was also outdoors, walking along what looked like the Seine. He stopped at a bench and sat. His hair was tousled with the wind, which gave him a wild look that made Aida’s heart jump. “Mo is such an asshole when I’m late for my interviews. Tell me, how long have you been working for them?”
“Not long. Six months. I thought I was their only historian.”
“Ahh, just getting started. I’ve been with them for nearly four years. I thought I was the only one for a long time too. But there’s a man I keep running into in London, and over the years, I’ve come to the conclusion that we’re always at the hotel at the same time because we do the same thing. But I haven’t had the opportunity to speak with him.”
“Have you ever met Lady Ozie?” Aida asked.
He shook his head. “No. I asked Disa once if I ever would and she told me I never wanted to. I’ve the impression she’s a miserable sort.”
“Mo told me the same thing. It sounded almost like he despised her. Do you know why we’re collecting... happiness?”
Luciano scoffed. “I wish. When I began working for them, I was so desperate for money and a job that let me use my degree that I didn’t question my incredibly good fortune. I had concerns but was determined not to let them think I was ungrateful with too many inquiries. But since I realized there might be more than one of us, I have to admit that there are too many strange things to ignore. Why all the secrecy? What we do isn’t illegal. And we’re collecting places that are already familiar to people.”
Aida was giddy with the knowledge that someone else felt the same as she did about MODA. “I don’t understand either. I hate not being able to talk about my work with people close to me. My friend set us up with Signal to talk, but I worry I might be found out at any time. I feel like a child; if they catch me, they will take my phone away—or worse, my job.”
“My aide, Dolores, always has her eye on me. It’s tiring.”
“My aide too. I wonder how many Collectors there are,” she said.
“I collect happiness all over France. You collect it in Italy. Maybe it’s country-specific?”
It was an intriguing idea, but of course, they really had nothing more than ideas to go by. They spoke for a little while longer, comparing stories about Mo, their aides, and their experiences at their London interviews. Finally, they both reluctantly had to admit they should go before they were missed by their respective handlers. Neither of them had answers, just more questions. But as they ended the call, Aida found it had been a profound relief to talk to another who understood the MODA weirdness so exactly, and who had the same misgivings as she did.
