Persona by Genevieve Valentine Page B

“I’ll keep my eyes open for any of Ethan’s business that seems interesting.”
    The woman said, “We’re after Sapaki.”
    His mouth went dry. He hung up.
    Suyana opened the door.

11
    The IA annual portrait had to be taken in the Palais Garnier, because nothing else would hold them all, but at the request of several national press outlets, for the most recent portrait a few weeks back they’d been arranged in rows in the orchestra section instead of on bleachers on the stage. It made for a more regal picture.
    â€œThank God,” Ethan had said to Satoshi as they settled in. He’d forgotten to undo the button on his blazer, and it was straining across his shoulders. “Those bleachers reminded me of high school.”
    â€œYou’ve never seen a high school,” Martine said from the row behind him. “Stop pretending to be populist.”
    Suyana was seated a few rows behind them, between the Netherlands and India—strategically less desirable than among the Big Nine, but from here she could watch the whole expanse of formal suits and carefully selected cocktail dresses, which was always illuminating. The IA floor was regimented; it was different, watching Iceland’s and Turkey’s Faces chatting from adjacent seats as their handlers stood helpless along the far aisles, clenching their fists at the possibility of untoward statecraft they couldn’t wade in to prevent. Stylists moved quickly through the rows, silhouetted like puppeteers as they arranged the last of everyone’s hair.
    â€œI’ve seen the inside of a lot of high schools, Martine.”
    â€œMovies don’t count,” said Grace from beside Martine. Down the row, China and Italy laughed. So did Ethan.
    â€œI mean I go on a lot of school visits,” he said. “School visits count!”
    â€œAnd so populist,” said Suyana.
    Ethan and Grace both turned to look at her; Ethan with raised eyebrows and the ghost of a smile, and Grace with an expression Suyana couldn’t determine before she turned away.
    â€œOkay, places!” someone called. On stage, three dozen photographers took up positions behind their cameras; the stylists melted away.
    Suyana took off the leaf-printed jacket she’d been given. The shirt underneath was plain and black. From the sidelines, Magnus started to say something, and settled for looking strained. When Suyana sat back in her seat, she saw that Margot had come onstage and was watching her, unblinking.
    â€œMembers of the International Assembly,” she said, and everybody in the room fell silent. Ethan, midjoke with Grace, froze, still twisted around in his seat, as if afraid to interrupt her by turning to face front.
    â€œThank you for being here today, and congratulations on another productive year. For those who have been here before, welcome back. Your exemplary work has been much appreciated.”
    Down toward the front of the orchestra, Korea’s Hae Soo-jin shifted in her seat. Margot never looked down, but one corner of her mouth turned up.
    Martine and Grace exchanged a glance. Suyana wondered what Hae Soo-jin had done.
    Still twisted to face them, Ethan mouthed, “What happened?” Suyana couldn’t hear Grace’s response, but Ethan made a pained, sympathetic face.
    Suyana thought about the contract Ethan needed to sign; the contract Magnus said didn’t have enough appeal.
    â€œFor those who are taking their first portrait, it’s a pleasure to have you in the Assembly. Let’s all work toward a better world again this year.” Margot stepped off the stage even before the applause could really get going. Suyana appreciated that. Margot was a monster for power, but at least she didn’t bother grubbing for approval.
    â€œAll right, let’s rehearse,” the stage manager called, and clapped her hands. Before he turned around, Ethan gave Suyana another look, a longer look.
    She