Chi-Qua laughed. “And the other half?”
“Bend down and assume the position, I guess.”
“That’s disgusting, even by your standards, Kara.”
“What can I say? I’m a disgusting coit.”
She bumped into someone and spilled a few drops of wine. Her fault. However, the encounter was a hopeful one.
“Ya-Li. Hello.”
“Good evening, Honored Miss Syung.”
Ya-Li Taron carved a stately figure, as if he morphed into a different man from the gangly, shy thing she often passed in the corridors of work. He wore a deep green tuxedo with long tails and striking yellow tie leaf. Perhaps it was the makeup that matured him. Maybe the high-cut coif. At least he looks his age for a change, she thought.
“Ya-Li, aren’t you nineteen?”
“I am.”
“I’m a year older, and I’m an intern. I haven’t earned the honorific.”
“Oh, I think you have. You must hear the way people speak of you.”
“Nice things, I hope.”
“Very.”
He removed a cylindrical pipe from a jacket pocket and pulled a long drag of poltash. In the awkward silence, he expired the smoke through his nostrils in delicate streams.
“Would you like some?” He asked.
“I didn’t know you smoked,” she said, taking the pipe and giving it a gentle pull.
“Oh, I’ve smoked poltash since I was ten, if I’m being honest. My parents forbid it, of course. My friends and I, we found other ways. I’m embarrassed to say, I wasn’t allowed to smoke socially until a year ago. If not for Honorable Great Grand, I think they’d still treat me like a child.”
The voice in her ear broke through loud and clear.
“He’s a twat.”
“And my savior.”
He winced. “What’s that now?”
“I trust everything is in order for Lord Taron’s toasts?”
“Oh, yes. It’s perfect, actually. I revised the wording myself three times. Maybe four.” He finished off a glass of wine. “Marketing Division’s influence, I suppose. Always revising and polishing.”
She lost her smile. “Linguists. Always hunting for another word.”
“Indeed. So, Kara, I’ll hope to see you again later. After Sanhae?”
“Certainly. Make this happen, and we’ll find a way to celebrate.”
She thought he was going to melt where he stood. Instead, he found a waiter, replenished his glass, and vanished into the crowd.
“Did you just make him a promise?” Chi-Qua asked. “You told me you never promised him anything.”
“I didn’t. Personally, I think Ya-Li would be satisfied with a few minutes alone, just talking and drinking. Poor thing. He’s hopeless.”
“Don’t take pity, Kara.”
When Sanhae dinner was called, Kara joined the Syungs at their table, one of the closest to the dais. She was surprised but also relieved to discover her seat had been reserved between Mother and Father. Lang and Dae sat opposite, which was perfect positioning to see their reactions at the big moment. She also had no interest in sitting with her Aunt Mei, Uncle Cho, or Great Uncle Prem, none of whom ever said a word worth hearing. One seat was left empty to honor Gran Enna Syung, who passed in her sleep thirteen months earlier.
The meal was, of course, the most exquisite combination of food anyone ate on Pinchon that night. The conversation, meanwhile, followed the predictable script of family banter, pretentious observations, and assorted niceties that were forgotten as quickly as they were said. Kara smiled as she indulged Mei, Cho, and Prem’s stories of past Sanhaes without ever once mentioning Gran Enna or the Chancellors, who used to be represented by Unification Guard captains in spectacular finery. Naturally, they asked Kara how her internship at Nantou was progressing. She used the Marketing Division’s unimaginative linguistic training to answer without saying anything of substance.
Lang and Dae puffed their chests on occasion, but when talk swirled around to company business, Honorable Father wagged a finger of disdain. “Tonight,” he told them all before arriving, “is about celebration, not evaluation or calculation.” As usual, Lang shaded his eyes to avoid Kara’s. She took it in stride, having grown used to the behavior but also for anticipation of what was to come.
She wanted to apologize to Chi-Qua for the long interlude of absolutely nothing of interest to hear, but they never rehearsed coded language. At one point, however, Chi-Qua provided an update.
“Food’s decent,” she said. “Better than expected. Buffet, of course. I don’t see a server anywhere. I think I’ll have extra cake. I earned it. Tell me when the show begins.”
Which Kara did. The program ran to perfection, with a plodding but smiling Lord Ban-Ho Taron reaching the dais with minimal help exactly twenty minutes before the new year began. He was one hundred two years old, but Kara thought he could pass for ninety.
He leaned into a microphone and said with a wry smile:
“This is my eighty-sixth Sanhae, and nothing has changed.” He paused, as if for dramatic effect. “Good! As it should be.”
Polite applause followed for the same opening line Kara remembered from last year, and the year before that. She thought it interesting how most citizens of The Lagos identified as Modernists but seemed least interested in change.
Lord Taron launched into a string of toasts, his deep-fluted wine glass held high as he read from a screen chest-level. From time to time, he stumbled over words or butchered names – likely of people he’d known for decades – but he ended each toast with a sip and a grin.
Kara’s stomach turned as the moment neared. Her category – rising stars – would be last, according to Ya-Li. Was he so bold as to include her at the finale itself? In the final minute before Sanhae? Chi-Qua
