Mirabelle follows Medic down a poorly-lit foot path hedged in between shanties and a narrow canal. She moves swiftly and silently beneath the conical spotlights. In between she returns to a casual stroll that matches Medic’s.
He doesn’t show any suspicion of being followed but she maintains her distance anyway.
He’s already stopped a few times, leaning on the railing, staring into the water, sighing heavily while rolling his head contemplatively from side to side. A couple of times he seems to come close to spotting her as his eyes follow a passing stranger but he’s quickly retaken by his own thoughts. Even the click of her lighter and the ensuing spark of flame don’t seem to register.
Turning away from the canal and the raucous atmosphere of the tourist area they head further into the city.
Medic leads them to a nearby temple complex where he examines the large, ornate statuary. Mirabelle slips silently through shadows and behind angles, watching him. A very relaxed giant Buddha watches over them both.
Having circled the sanctuary a few times, Medic walks back out through the entrance and slowly makes his way back in the general direction of the guest house. Mirabelle’s in tow, occasionally crossing the street to avoid detection.
Eventually they arrive at the other end of the Khao San district. Medic looks around for landmarks and, finding none, settles on plunging headlong into the crowd. Still gliding calmly along the pavement, Mira slips into the throng behind him.
A few moments later she spots him sitting alone at a small table outside a dense and lively establishment. The Beach is playing inaudibly on a grubby monitor mounted above the bar.
“You will not order anysing?” she asks loudly into his ear over the background cacophony of dance music and tourists.
A startled Medic looks over his shoulder to find Mirabelle standing there, black tank partially covering bleached cut-offs, smiling casually.
In his mild shock he struggles to formulate a response.
She shrugs off his confusion and offers him a small plastic lighter accompanied by what looks like a leaf-wrapped joint being held together with a red thread.
“More ‘onest zan cigarette,” she says.
Quickly hiding the items below table level Medic asks, “Is this legal here?”
“But yes,” replies Mirabelle as she eases herself into the chair next to him. “Iz a bidi. Tobacco. You can buy it anywhere.”
After a moment of hesitation Medic takes the small cigarette, lights it, inhales deeply, and launches into waves of convulsive coughing as an amused Mirabelle orders them a round of beers from a passing waitress.
“Strong,” he wheezes eventually through disoriented blinks.
“Like I say, iz ‘onest,” she intones and takes a drag on her own bidi.
By now the beers have arrived and Medic takes a thankful gulp.
“I don’t know what I was expecting to do here,” he says, putting down the bottle. “I don’t have any money.”
“Money?” she asks, twisting her face into a question mark. “Why money?”
“Because money can buy things,” he replies with conviction.
“So,” she says, tilting her head to the side, “if you can get sings wizout money zis is maybe better, no? ‘ow do you say … skip ze middul man, yes?”
“If I could do what The Handler does,” begins Medic before trailing off into his beer.
“Yes, I ‘ave ‘eard. It iz like ‘ypnosis,” she acknowledges. “Very small.”
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“It is a small sing. Zis ability is ze magie de scène,” — she pauses reflectively — “magic of ze stage. Like cards, and lapins, and ze” — she removes an imaginary hat and taps its rim with an imaginary rod — “magic stick … la baguette magique. You know?”
“Wand,” replies Medic, recognizing her gestures.
“Yes. Magic wand,” she says, pointing at him while gripping her beer. The motion causes a single dollop of the fizzy golden liquid to flop out onto the table in front of her.
They simultaneously snort out brief bursts of nasal laughter.
“That’s how The Handler … I mean Rebekah, made it sound,” affirms Medic. “I tried it in Cape Verde. Didn’t work.”
“What ‘appened?” she inquires.
“The couple we sailed with had an … open relationship. Rebekah made the husband believe that they were having a great time. As for me and Sandy, well,” he smiles meekly to finish the sentence.
“Ah, I see,” she says with a measured nod. “And you did not enjoy it?”
“She was nice enough but the situation was awkward and weird. The boat was small. Sometimes the husband would … you know what? Maybe we can talk about this another time.”
“Okay,” she acknowledges with the same slow nod.
“So then we finally get here,” Medic continues, “and because everything isn’t nuts enough already, Elvis spills the beans on … psychic abilities? That one’s a little hard to take, you know?”
“Yes, you already imply zis before,” nods Mirabelle as she raises her drink to her lips.
“Yeah, I haven’t seen anything,” he says, crossing his arms. “All I’ve gotten is secrecy and vagueness. I feel like I’ve been conned but I can’t figure out why. Maybe I’m being set up. Maybe this is some Manchurian Candidate shit. I don’t have money, connections, secret knowledge. I definitely don’t have any special abilities.”
“You do,” she replies with a sudden burst of assertiveness. “Everybody do. A little. Like a baby, very weak. For some people, maybe stronger. But everyone can be more strong, like running or … ‘ow do you say,” she asks as she strenuously pumps an upraised fist into the air.
Medic studies her motions and suggests, “Lift weights?”
“Yes. Lift weights to make you more strong. More power,” she says triumphantly, slapping a slender hand against the mild bump of her flexed bicep.
“If you say so,” says Medic, shaking his head in surrender.
“Okay,” says Mirabelle with an accepting nod.
She finishes her beer, stubs out her bidi, and stands up.
“No more talk. Just watch.”
She studies the busy street, a gentle smile curling up one side of her mouth.
Having found what she’s looking for, she crosses the busy thoroughfare to another tightly packed pub where a rowdy group of Europeans are watching a football game. Small groups donning matching team jerseys and scarves bubble on the periphery, arms over each other’s shoulders in drunken camaraderie.
Mirabelle walks to the far end of the congregation, looks over her shoulder to ensure that Medic is watching, and swivels her head away from both him and the Europeans.
She begins to bob her head gently to the most prominent beat rising above the street’s din. After a few moments she begins to walk backward into the football fans. At first she’s moving between clusters of people frozen with focus but suddenly they erupt en masse as the game takes a turn.
She bends forward and spins to her left, narrowly avoiding the thrusting arm of an outraged fan. By the time he notices that something’s twirled past him, Mirabelle has emerged from the other side of the huddle with upraised arms, like a magician revealing a completed trick.
She continues to step backward as Medic looks on in disbelief.
Now Mirabelle has moved to a second bunch of fans who are staggering around in inebriated revelry, beers held aloft. The three men collide clumsily, sending the middle one’s beer bottle arcing toward her through the air. Before either the bottle or the spraying beer have a chance to connect she fluidly side-steps both and continues backing up.
Any wandering attention is drawn to the shatter of glass as she emerges from the tight enclave, still facing the wrong way.
Nearly immediately she spins around a couple of surprised girls on the sidewalk. They have big spiky hair, lots of piercings, loose tank tops, and baggy bondage pants. Her sudden evasion stuns both of them.
Now standing back-to-back with one of them, Mirabelle contorts and moves her body to remain out of the girl’s line of sight as the other girl tries, through increasing fits of laughter, to convince her friend that someone’s right behind her.
After a few moments of this Mirabelle stops matching the girl’s movements and turns around. She offers what looks like a heartfelt apology to the pair, leaving the bemused friend looking even more delighted and her partner wearing an astonished smile as the three part ways.
Medic is just as impressed.
Now walking forward, Mirabelle turns her head slightly to the side as though she’s following the source of some sound. She bops slowly to a steaming food cart nearby and makes her way to a beefy tourist in a gaudy floral shirt and wide hat, crouching next to him as he waits for his order.
Finally receiving the skewered meat he holds it to the side, just above Mirabelle, and leans in to pay. As he extends forward, the skewer slips out of his grip and directly into her waiting hand.
It takes the man a moment to register what’s just happened as Mirabelle stands up and returns his food to him with a congenial smile. The man is still staring at her with a deeply furrowed brow as she trots back across the street toward Medic.
“It iz not always for evil, huh?” she says with a broad smile as she plops back into her chair.
“That was incredible!” shouts Medic emphatically. “Like it was choreographed!”
“Oh my god I was so lucky,” she explains with enthusiasm.
“Oh I think that was more than luck,” he replies sternly. “That was unbelievable. The way you hid right behind that woman, and with your back turned … that was the craziest shit I’ve ever seen!”
Mirabelle smiles and squints.
“I mean zat I can show you,” she clarifies flatly.
Looking lost and pulling back, Medic asks, “What do you mean?”
“I mean zat ze situation didn’t ‘ave to ‘appen. Ze man didn’t ‘ave to srow ze beer. Ze ozer man didn’t ‘ave to srow down ze” — she searches for words — “meat stick. Ziz was all was lucky.”
“Wait,” says Medic, leaning in. “You mean you dancing around those guys, mirroring that chick, the skewer drop … that wasn’t luck? You planned all that?”
Mirabelle shakes hear head in mild indignation.
“Don’t be ridiculous. ‘ow would I plan it? Why would I plan it?”
“So you’re telling me,” says Medic as he inches a little closer, “that you were able to do all that because of your special … skills?”
“Yes, zis is what I am saying,” she responds. “But if you don’t like zis word we can say anozer. As I say before, for me it doesn’t matter.”
With a troubled expression, Medic looks directly into Mirabelle’s hazel eyes and asks, “Do you really believe what you’re telling me?”
“Encore avec believe,” replies Mirabelle in a disapproving huff. “Yes, yes I believe. But do you believe? The eyes? The ears? La tête?” She finishes by tapping a finger against her temple.
“I’m not sure what I believe anymore,” answers Medic, wiping the sweat that’s accumulated on his forehead.
“Of course,” she says with a firm nod, “ze body is maybe not always true. People are not always correct. Maybe ze world lie to you. Maybe ” — she motions toward the movie playing in the background — “like cette merde.”
He follows her gesture to the screen above the bar where Leonardo DiCaprio is being accosted by an insistent Thai man on a street similar to one that Medic has just experienced.
“Zis is Bangkok?” chuckles Mirabelle with derision. “Did you get offer to drink ze snake blood? I already been ‘ere many weeks and nobody offer to me any blood. I even ‘ave to find my own bidis.”
She lights another thin stick, takes a pull, then raises her eyebrows and shrugs.
“You make it sound like I shouldn’t trust anything,” opines Medic reservedly.
At this Mirabelle’s lips slowly extend into a broad smile.
“Exactly,” she says, pointing at him with her bidi hand. “Do not trust. Verify.”
Medic sits and stares vacantly into space, blinking occasionally.
Without warning his hand flashes up and darts toward her face. She instantly pulls her cheek just out of reach of the swing, then sits staring at him with an upraised eyebrow.
“Umm, you did say verify,” he says sheepishly.
“Okay,” responds Mirabelle resolutely, “I give you one. Only one. Dominic can confirm zis is generous.”
“I’m gonna take your word for it,” surrenders Medic with upraised arms. “I believe you.”
“Ah, you can believe!” she says exuberantly. “Maybe we celebrate, huh?”
As she tries to get the server’s attention Medic sits silently and alertly, taking in the experience.
“I’m starting to get a better understanding,” he says as the next two bottles arrive at their table, “of why someone might be after the Section. I have no idea how I can help, don’t know the first thing about espionage let alone whatever this is, but I’m willing to give it a chance.”
“I’m ‘appy to ‘ear zis, Medic,” she reassures him, offering him the neck of her beer.
They tap bottles and take long drinks.
“But Medic,” follows Mirabelle, “zis does not suit you. Meh-dik, it sound too French and we are too different. Also, ze agent should ‘ave a strong alias. Meh-deek is not very strong.”
“If you’re gonna say it that way then you might as well call me Brock,” he replies snappily.
“Brock,” she says as if tasting the name. “Brrrock. It sound more aggressive. Yes, it iz better.”
“I’m not very aggressive,” he points out.
“When zey learn zis it will be too late,” she says with a mischievous grin.
“Once we figure out who they are,” he points out again, returning the smile.
They continue to chat, drink, and smoke late into the night.