Chapter 22

22

Jonathan

I feel so much better now. I have killed seventeen people. I am a little on fire. I hardly even think about Eva, or getting shot, or Mas.

It is a dreary day in France and I am taking a walking tour through the Palace of Versailles. It is part of my self-improvement journey, my deal with Thomas. Ever since that triple in Florence, he has been after me about every little thing.

He has been calling me all morning. I know he wants to talk about my last job. You kill someone, and everyone has an opinion about it.

He calls me now and I answer to gauge how angry he is.

"You fucking—" Fairly angry.

"Sorry, I can't talk right now. I'm in a museum." I hang up before he can catch his breath.

To prove that I am fully—mostly—sane, I am focusing on my work–life balance. I needed more culture; that was what was killing me. I needed museums and monuments and works of art. I needed to know that everyone was fucked and had been since forever. That murder was historical and tragedy was average and everything was going to be as okay as it had always been. No worse. No better.

It is not good to form obsessions with people; it is even worse to form attachments. In a way, I dodged a bullet by fainting on that train. I do not need Eva.

I need history. As I pass by paintings of soldiers and battles and suffering, I feel a keen sense of belonging. I would have made sense back then. I wonder what happened to all the people like me throughout history. The people who killed. I assume they were killed back.

I am in such a state of thrall to history that the first time I see her, I doubt myself.

I am in the Hall of Mirrors, surrounded by my face. I am trying to avoid my eyes when I find hers. Not once, but an infinite number of times.

The sunlight breaks through the clouds. Light sears the room.

I cock my head. She smiles, an infinite number of smiles.