“But you said you’re right handed, you’re not color blind ... You’ve done some testing. So what else do you know about yourself?”
“Well, I can read and write, obviously, and retain information. I seem to be good at math and languages. My motor skills are fine. I can ride a bicycle.” His eyes get a faraway look. “One of the kids from the village came to the clinic and showed me cat’s cradle, but I already knew how to play ...” He shakes it off. “Anyway, I wasn’t catastrophically brain damaged. I can make new memories okay, I just can’t access the old ones.”
Her instincts to scrutinize are firing up, as if physical gears are ratcheting in her head. “Did the fact you’d been shot have significance?”
“Hard to say. The URNG were fighting government forces all up and down the country—getting shot was surprisingly easy in Guatemala back then. I might’ve just gone somewhere I shouldn’t have, walked into a bad situation, met the wrong person.” Noone stubs out his smoke, stands to go to the kitchen and rinse his empty mug. “Flores said there were basically four options. That I was a student or tourist of some kind, possibly in training with Médecins Sans Frontières ... that I was a missionary ... that I worked for one of the petro companies ... or that I was a smuggler.”
Nomi turns in her chair. “So you could be a criminal.”
“Maybe. Who knows?”
“You don’t need anyone examining your papers too closely.”
“Not really, no.” He stands sideways, one hand on the metal sink, black shirt loose over his jeans. “I’ve only been in the country seven weeks, and I’d like to stay a little longer.”
“Until you figure this out.” Makes sense. “What’ve you been doing since you arrived?”
“Working, mainly. I’ve got the early-morning shift at Gennaro’s. They pay okay. Sofia Rosa gave me this apartment on no bond and no advance—I’ve scraped up enough to give her a month extra, so she knows I’m not going to skip out on her.”
If he gets along with their landlady, that pushes Nomi’s opinion of him closer to the green than the red. She suddenly realizes it’s dark outside the apartment windows; she’s stayed longer than she anticipated. It’s Friday, and her skin is prickling, calling to her—plus there’s tonight’s Riverview party to consider.
“Okay, that’s all good to know. I should really get going.” She clicks her pen, collects her notes, and stands. “Thank you for the coffee. I didn’t mean to take up so much of your time. But I appreciate you doing the translation for me.”
“Right, of course.” Noone extends a hand, escorts her to the door. “Come again, for all your translation needs.”
“Have you tried with any other languages?”
“No. But I guess I should do that.”
Nomi realizes she’s already decided, so she stops at the open entrance to Noone’s apartment and turns to look at him. “Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“Okay, I’ll help you.”
His blue eyes light. “That would be—”
“There’s conditions.” She wants to make this clear, before he gets any ideas. “I’m not moonlighting. This is my primary business, and I don’t do this work for nothing. I charge a fee. But on the upside, I’m pretty cheap.”
“I can pay you,” he says immediately.
“Great. It’s great to be paid.” It’s cooler out in the hallway; she cradles her notes and pulls her cardigan closer. “So if I’m trying to look into your identity, your history, you’ll need to give me everything you’ve got. Research, papers, that clothes label, everything. As soon as I can, I’ll give it all back.”
“Okay.”
“I have stuff to do tonight, but I’d like to talk with you again tomorrow.”
“I finish at Gennaro’s at eleven in the morning. But then I nap after I get home—I don’t really get up until about one.”
“I can work around your schedule.” Nomi feels strangely breathless. There are sharp edges to Simon Noone that make her wary, and she really hopes this isn’t a decision she’ll regret changing her mind about. “What are you going to do when we find out who you are?”
He stops. “I’ve got no idea. Figure out a way to make both halves of me join up somehow, I guess.”
Good answer. “Okay. See you tomorrow.”
She leaves him rubbing the back of his neck, goes to the stairs.
Her apartment seems cluttered after Noone’s space; she closes blinds, picks up a little dirty laundry in her sleeping area, waters her plants. Unfolds her notes and the fax copy, slides them into the Lamonte file. Then she finds a clean manila folder and creates a new file, calledSimon Noone. She jots down everything she can remember about her conversations with him, in a series of bullet points. Finally, she sets her pen aside. It’s evening.
