Borderless Deceit by Adrian de Hoog

elegant summer homes north of Toronto, the containers with the missiles were transported by ship into the Black Sea and unloaded in the Georgian port of Batumi. From there they made their way by truck through Turkey into Iran. But when they were opened on an army base near Qazvin not far from Tehran, out spilled not a cargo of Exocet missiles, but thousands of cheap, Romanian rubber boots. “Arranged a substitution,” grinned Hugh-S through the phone. “Cute, right? Oh, Cahsun, thanks again. Damn fine file you done up.”
    I settled in a corner of the cold cabin and thrust my hands inside my jacket to warm them underneath my upper arms. I thought back to another day, to what Rachel said when we paused here. I also thought of what she had kept to herself. I had no right to know about her lovers in Vienna, but I had wanted her to confide in me about them all the same. And now, sunk away, I wondered why. Why did I crave the details? And why did I want them from her? So as to be drawn by a few precious minutes of story-telling into her world and sense she enjoyed sharing its richness with me? But that day not a hint, not the faintest indication of her affairs had passed her lips. I wondered, when we sat so amiably on the bench outside, had Rachel described her men to me, how she would have presented them. As mere life intrusions, mildly interesting at first, but causing ennui soon enough? Or were they opportunities for exploration, both of herself and them? Or was their purpose memory creation, to allow an ardent late-in-life reliving? Or maybe it was simpler. Maybe in an uncomplicated way she just liked her men. Maybe they allowed her to give expression to her body, as her work gave expression to her mind. I wanted to know the colouring, the composition, the splendid artistry with which Rachel painted the canvasses of these affairs. I wanted to hear the words that started them,the acts that sustained them, the mood shifts that ended them. My urge was a collector’s. I ached to own rare treasures and, were I to possess them, to hoard them, to lock them away deep inside my brain. I rationalized it too. I convinced myself I wanted her to share all this because, really, I just wanted to understand.
    Slumping forward, my breath expanding before me in white wisps, as if on cue the dreaded inner whispering set in. It never failed. When Rachel’s Vienna days swept over me, my conscience turned black. And when an inner voice muttered that in contemplating scenes of Rachel entwined with her lovers I demeaned myself –
Voyeur,
it whispered – I moaned with pain. Yet, I was a captive to the Vienna episodes. They played through my mind like newsreel images – old, blurry, shaky, yet terrifyingly real. Once in motion they couldn’t be shut off. I created them, I watched them, I was addicted to them, and they made me feel unclean.
    Perhaps because Rachel had once sat here with me so pleasantly, I began wrestling especially hard with feelings of wrong. The wind beating at the cabin windows made it worse. It sounded like a drum roll and all around a vortex began spiralling. It narrowed my field of vision; it dragged me down. And as things went dark three apparitions, one after the other, formed…
    Eduardo de Castro Santiago. A Brazilian diplomat. Dark good looks. The manners of an aristocrat. Rachel’s age. Her first Viennese lover.
    They meet at a diplomatic function. Rachel spins her charm, uses her quick eyes and sharp intelligence to create an aura.
Around me life is enticing!
At once he’s captivated. An exhilarating psychological dance begins. Spoken words are mere cover for two pairs of eyes to pierce. With Latin pride he talks about Brazil and then himself. Rachel, steadily inquisitive, blowing warm air into his expanding self-esteem, mesmerizes Eduardo. The reception conversation ends as it began, with Eduardo’s slight formal bow. The next day he does the normal thing. He