Read Online Weight of the Heart (Bruna Husky Book 2) by Rosa Montero - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rosa Montero
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coming back?”
“Soon. As soon as I can.”
10
Y ou’re late,” said the tactile.
No aggression, just someone announcing an indisputable fact.
“You’re not Daniel Deuil,” Bruna replied.
She had of course looked up the tactile in the Central Archive and seen that he was a sixty-two-year-old man with a youthful appearance, thanks to some good plastic surgery. This man, on the other hand, was too young, and Deuil was Caucasian; this one looked more Asian.
“Yes, I am. Maybe you’re confusing me with my father. We have the same name. We’re both tactiles, though he’s more famous than me of course. If you prefer to be treated by him, I can switch you. But his schedule is full. You’ll have to wait for at least a couple of months.”
Two months was too long; Bruna wouldn’t be able to work on the stolen-diamond case. One damned tactile was like any other as far as Bruna was concerned.
“No. It doesn’t matter. Let’s begin.”
The tactile smiled gently. He was a bit shorter than Bruna, strikingly slim, with straight shoulders and a dancer’s slender hips. His skin was very pale, and his straight black hair was tied in a round topknot like a samurai. Bruna figured he was just over thirty. Her age, except that he’d probably live seventy years longer. Daniel Deuil, son of Daniel Deuil. With a real flesh-and-blood father. A father of the same name, the same blood. With shared genes and genuine memories. The rep clenched her jaw at the stab of sorrow and anger.
“Calm down. Slowly. There’s no rush. We’re here to enter into the body’s time, which is distinct and slow,” he said.
The body’s time. By the great Morlay. With some difficulty Bruna succeeded in curbing a loud, contemptuous snort. Deuil was watching her closely.
“You’re very tense. And annoyed. Right now I’m the object of your anger. It seems to me that you tend to turn your emotions into violence.”
“Right. Everything you’ve said is in my file,” Bruna said, incensed. “One assumes I’m here because I don’t do a good job of controlling my aggression.”
The tactile started to laugh, revealing a row of sharp, dazzling, perfect teeth. He was an attractive man, Bruna had to admit grudgingly. When he’d opened the door, she’d immediately noticed his deep, electric Asian eyes. Very dark blue, almost black.
“You have in fact just demonstrated it,” the tactile replied amiably. “You think I’m a fraud, a bullshitter. You’ve been forced to come, and you’re sure it will be a waste of time. Who knows? It may well end up being of no use to you. The journey we have to make is a joint trajectory. If you don’t collaborate, we won’t get anywhere.”
That was precisely what Bruna wanted: to go nowhere. But she wisely held her tongue. The tactile’s consulting room was of medium size. Although it was still light outside, the window was covered by an opaque blind, and the room was filled with warm indirect lighting. A shelf with a long row of burning candles ran along one entire wall. Vessels with burning incense, natural flowers in a vase. A couch covered with a soft, spongelike blanket of Omaá material. The comfortable anthropokinetic armchairs they were sitting in had adapted perfectly to their bodies. A faint sound was playing in the background, similar to the sound of the sea. Bruna sighed, a little calmer. There was another door in the office’s small foyer. Maybe that was his father’s consulting room.
“All right,” Bruna said with the fatalistic tone of someone surrendering to the enemy.
Daniel smiled again. A small gesture, maybe friendly, maybe pretentious. Bruna still wasn’t clear what she thought of the tactile. Thin lips, high cheekbones, hairless face like so many Asians. Deuil gestured with his hand, and the lights went off. All that remained was the dancing glow of the candles.
“Lie down on the couch on your back please.”
Bruna obeyed. In her two compulsory years of military
“Soon. As soon as I can.”
10
Y ou’re late,” said the tactile.
No aggression, just someone announcing an indisputable fact.
“You’re not Daniel Deuil,” Bruna replied.
She had of course looked up the tactile in the Central Archive and seen that he was a sixty-two-year-old man with a youthful appearance, thanks to some good plastic surgery. This man, on the other hand, was too young, and Deuil was Caucasian; this one looked more Asian.
“Yes, I am. Maybe you’re confusing me with my father. We have the same name. We’re both tactiles, though he’s more famous than me of course. If you prefer to be treated by him, I can switch you. But his schedule is full. You’ll have to wait for at least a couple of months.”
Two months was too long; Bruna wouldn’t be able to work on the stolen-diamond case. One damned tactile was like any other as far as Bruna was concerned.
“No. It doesn’t matter. Let’s begin.”
The tactile smiled gently. He was a bit shorter than Bruna, strikingly slim, with straight shoulders and a dancer’s slender hips. His skin was very pale, and his straight black hair was tied in a round topknot like a samurai. Bruna figured he was just over thirty. Her age, except that he’d probably live seventy years longer. Daniel Deuil, son of Daniel Deuil. With a real flesh-and-blood father. A father of the same name, the same blood. With shared genes and genuine memories. The rep clenched her jaw at the stab of sorrow and anger.
“Calm down. Slowly. There’s no rush. We’re here to enter into the body’s time, which is distinct and slow,” he said.
The body’s time. By the great Morlay. With some difficulty Bruna succeeded in curbing a loud, contemptuous snort. Deuil was watching her closely.
“You’re very tense. And annoyed. Right now I’m the object of your anger. It seems to me that you tend to turn your emotions into violence.”
“Right. Everything you’ve said is in my file,” Bruna said, incensed. “One assumes I’m here because I don’t do a good job of controlling my aggression.”
The tactile started to laugh, revealing a row of sharp, dazzling, perfect teeth. He was an attractive man, Bruna had to admit grudgingly. When he’d opened the door, she’d immediately noticed his deep, electric Asian eyes. Very dark blue, almost black.
“You have in fact just demonstrated it,” the tactile replied amiably. “You think I’m a fraud, a bullshitter. You’ve been forced to come, and you’re sure it will be a waste of time. Who knows? It may well end up being of no use to you. The journey we have to make is a joint trajectory. If you don’t collaborate, we won’t get anywhere.”
That was precisely what Bruna wanted: to go nowhere. But she wisely held her tongue. The tactile’s consulting room was of medium size. Although it was still light outside, the window was covered by an opaque blind, and the room was filled with warm indirect lighting. A shelf with a long row of burning candles ran along one entire wall. Vessels with burning incense, natural flowers in a vase. A couch covered with a soft, spongelike blanket of Omaá material. The comfortable anthropokinetic armchairs they were sitting in had adapted perfectly to their bodies. A faint sound was playing in the background, similar to the sound of the sea. Bruna sighed, a little calmer. There was another door in the office’s small foyer. Maybe that was his father’s consulting room.
“All right,” Bruna said with the fatalistic tone of someone surrendering to the enemy.
Daniel smiled again. A small gesture, maybe friendly, maybe pretentious. Bruna still wasn’t clear what she thought of the tactile. Thin lips, high cheekbones, hairless face like so many Asians. Deuil gestured with his hand, and the lights went off. All that remained was the dancing glow of the candles.
“Lie down on the couch on your back please.”
Bruna obeyed. In her two compulsory years of military
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