Think or Swim: Part VI

He stopped and looked back and saw the video intercom showing two young men wearing the kind of über-scruffy clothing favoured by those employed to do the dirty work of state agencies. They held up some sort of ID to the camera and spoke urgently to the lens. Because Mao preferred to keep the volume muted, the men gave the impression of burly fishes as they opened and closed their mouths, silently pouting; noiselessly talking.

If only he had paid attention to politics, this wouldn't be happening.

Mao Kelly moved to the south of France because he didn't like rain. He stayed because he fell in love with Yvette, who played the cello. And the biotech, robotics and artificial intelligence firms clustered there needed people with outstanding mathematical abilities, so he had interesting, satisfying and well-paying work.

Yvette.

They met in July in an Irish bar on the harbour not far from the train station. It was a favourite with loud Australian backpackers in summer and huge Welsh rugby supporters in winter. The locals came to watch the visitors drink beer and fight and experience the thrill of being near people who didn't seem to care how they looked or behaved.

For the carefully groomed and discreet expat knowledge workers, the Australians and the Welsh represented a world many of them had fled from but couldn't quite leave behind. They felt superior to but envious of those who were happily monolingual and multiculturally uncouth.

"Mao, this is Yvette," said Dinesh Ashenfelter, introducing him to a woman wearing a startlingly white top, which melded with her skin and struggled to restrain her nipples.
"Pleased to meet you," said Mao, who was famously single and meticulously polite.
"Guys, there's Jarol. I need to talk to him for a minute." Ashenfelter was already deep in the crowd before Mao could figure out a way to use him as a shield in what might become an uncomfortable situation.

"Is that your real name?" asked Yvette.
"Kelly is as Irish as I am," replied Mao.
"I'm singing in the rain / Just singing in the rain / What a glorious feeling / I'm happy again," sang Yvette and heads turned.

Mao was mortified. Public exhibitions of emotion didn't come naturally to him and now this woman was placing him at the centre of attention.

"Kelly. You know?" said Yvette.
But he didn't know what she meant.
"There was an American actress called Kelly who was a princess in Europe during the last century, if that that's what you mean," said Mao. "Did she sing when it rained?"
"You are funny," said Yvette and she laughed. But he knew at once that she was laughing not at him, but for him. Her brown eyes and her tanned body laughed and he had the odd sensation that he was now the only other person in the room.

Suddenly, glasses shattered and someone yelled, "Pig's arse! That's bullshit, and you know it."
"It's the Australians," said Mao to Yvette, explaining.
"Screw you with a broomstick, mate!" And a table crashed over.

"Come," said Yvette, and she caught his hand.

They walked along the Boulevard Amiral de Grasse and heard the surf break on the rocks below, while the walls, buildings and castle above them were bathed in light.

"Tell me about your name," commanded Yvette and Mao, sensing that this was going to be a long night, began to unfurl the family story that began in eastern China's Shandong province and ended in Dublin, which the human traffickers told his parents was Liverpool.