I have been remiss, I know it. One of my many imperfections is overcommitment.
Opium smokers in the East End of London, 1874. From the Illustrated London News, 1 August 1874
When they opened the suitcase at Heathrow customs, she felt strangely detached, as if none of it was happening.
In the back of a pub in the East End, Tommy had talked her into it. “Ten grand,” he had said.
The plan seemed simple enough. Tommy’s contact would meet her in Kowloon.
“The Peninsula,” barked the driver as they pulled up to the curb.
They searched her, of course. Victoria Harbor sparkled down below.
She hadn’t really conjured up Mr. Mun in her mind, but if she had, it wouldn’t have been this mild-mannered man in late middle-age wearing a suit and heavy-framed glasses.
“Three kilos,” he said, “as agreed.”
She picked up the packages and put them in her bag. There was no turning back.
Gustave Doré
Rosa Celeste: Dante and Beatrice gaze upon the highest Heaven, The Empyrean
“She found herself walking down a brightly lit corridor. When she reached the end of the corridor, she turned around only to see that the corridor didn’t exist - that she was picking raspberries, the brambles tugging at her clothes. The sun lay low on the horizon. It was late summer. And then fall before it was her turn at the start of the corridor, revisiting each step, until she reached the end, yet again, and turned around, only to see herself at the beach, playing with shells. The hills were green, then brown, then green again. And then she found herself at the start of the corridor.”
“What does it mean?”
“A dream, perhaps.”
“A fantasy?”
“Yes, maybe that too.”
Elsbeth looked down at her notebook.
