The Liar
Chapter Thirteen

“Shit, man, you really can’t dance.”

“You know what, Gaius? Piss off. That’s what.” Marcus sank lower into the couch, taking another long swig from a bottle of beer to fend off his hangover. Hair of the dog that bit you, and all that. He knew it wasn’t the best idea, but he was damned if he cared.

“No, no. I mean, you really can’t dance. You’re so stiff and awkward!”

“I can dance,” Marcus muttered defensively, arms crossed. “I’m quite fantastic at the waltz, thanks. I’ve just never done this whole…flail around “dance” before. Plus, I am still currently about a foot shorter than I’m used to being. You try messing with your dimensions and then you go dance or whatever. See how you do.”

“You’re grumpy when you’re hung over.” Gaius leapt off from the couch and onto a nearby chair, knocking it over and pitching head-first into the carpet.

“…What the fuck is wrong with you.”

“You’re vulgar when you’re hung over, too.” The Liar laughed gleefully. “I love it.”


*

From the size of the park, it was apparent that the powers-that-be here weren’t too into the whole “community” thing. But it had a large, garbage-free pond, benches, some nice grass, and a nation of ducks. Michele sat looking out at the water, bag sitting next to her and taking up the rest of the space on the narrow bench.

“Hey. Awful little park,” observed the Liar, coming to stand next to her.

“Yeah. But I like the company.”

“Aww, that’s sweet.” He beamed a little, smiling closed-mouthed.

“I was referring to the ducks,” she shot back dryly. Half-turning, she got a proper look at him—he was watching something intently, hair messed up beyond any redemption, hands stuck in the pockets of loose, dark jeans. “Nice clothes.”

“Yeah. Went shopping this morning, after Marcus kicked me out. Forgot to pack some clothes when I came here, and I don’t feel like going back to Montreal just yet.” He shrugged, taking off his grey jacket and tossing it over the back of the bench.

Walking around, he took her bag off the seat and gently placed it on the ground, stealing its spot. They made small talk for a while, until the Liar exploded with, “We all only want to be felt by the people around us—even those who say they don’t. For example, hermits.” The word was tinged with disdain and Michele was certain that here was someone who didn’t understand isolation very well. “They might claim they don’t, but with their absence they affect just as much as their presence might. And if that’s not at all, then it’s only a foolish attempt to deny the need of acknowledgement from others to avoid private humiliation.”

He paused his diatribe to lean forward and fiddle with the ring on his right middle finger. Idly tuning it back and forth, he stared at the gold band with seemingly too much interest. Michele knew the Liar was only taking a moment to collect his thoughts, so that he could articulate exactly what he meant with no mistakes of wording.

“We only want to be felt by those around us,” he repeated a little more slowly, green eyes still locked on his hands. “The more we are felt, often the happier we are. No, that’s not quite true.” His face quickly arranged itself in a frown and he amended, “We are often happier the more we perceive that we are being felt. Whether or not we actually are is irrelevant, I suppose.”

Sitting back again, he tapped his lips with an elegant index finger, watching her face as she sorted through his ponderings on the fundamental motivation of human existence.

“You’ve spent a lot of time studying philosophy, haven’t you?” she asked, glancing askance at him. “Seriously, Gaius, all I said was that some days school makes me want to run off and become a hermit. Your prejudice is showing through.”

“Just don’t tell Marcus.” His tone was odd, and she couldn’t tell if he was joking or being stone-heart serious. “Anyway, yes, I have studied a lot of philosophy—I have several doctorates in it.” He tilted his head back. “Of course, I was also there for much of the evolution of philosophy. Or I’ve chatted with those who were.” One pianist hand rapped the bench seat gently.

Michele sighed, getting the signal. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. At least partly. I do think there’s more—to be felt and understood are not the same thing. Nor one being felt positively or negatively. Then there’s the matter of purpose, which might matter more than being felt. People are creatures of struggle. They’re often happier when striving for something than when they have it in their hands. But then, I think it varies from person to person, and there are more factors than we really understand fully. To try and reduce it to something less than a giant mess and say “Aha! There is the answer in its entirety” is to take something away from it, I think.”

“Good answer!” the Liar approved, clapping enthusiastically as he laughed, earning a couple of odd stares from the ducks in the park. “Great answer. If I didn’t know it was completely useless, I’d suggest you try for a degree in philosophy yourself. Very balanced, liberal, clear and clear-headed. Or run for office. They’ll never elect you, but it’d be fun.”

“Politics? No thanks,” she declined firmly. “Too much hassle.”

“Governmental politics, you mean. Everything is politics.”

Stopping halfway to saying something else, she looked at him with a renewed interest. “Have you ever run for office?”

“Governmental politics is theatre,” he declared. “And I’m not a terribly good actor.”

“Liar.”

“Of course. But it’s true that I’ve never run for office. I’ve certainly been…influential…on numerous occasions, even, but I’ve never held elected office. Appointed is a slightly different matter.”

“Fabulous. Now I suppose you’ll tell me that you orchestrated the election of the last pope and that you’re also a Spanish marquee.”

Laughing, he told her, “Catholicism is silly. And I’m an English duke, thank you. I believe I also hold land in Italy and in various eastern European areas.” The Liar tilted his head back again and he regarded the tree branches above them with more gravity than Michele thought possible. “I suppose I will have to check on that.”

“…You’re kidding.”

“No, why would I be….? I’ve been very high-ranking in assorted militaries and courts. These things accumulate over time. It’s the main source of my income, I guess—or the interest from various moneys. One way or another.”

“What if one of your…holdings, I guess, fails? Do you let it die, put money in it, or do you even care?”

“I have no idea. Jessica does all of that for me.” The Liar shrugged, shoulders rising and falling eloquently under a tight black t-shirt with a print of a girl blowing her own head off and butterflies erupting from the wound.

“Who’s Jessica?” she wondered, watching the ducks totter by.

“Angel of Organization. Terribly OCD, as you might imagine,” he confided with a playful grin and a wink as he leaned sideways towards her as if he really was telling her something that he didn’t want overheard. By the ducks. “Doesn’t like me much, but she looks after things for me because it drives her insane to see mine managed so poorly. Guess she doesn’t have enough to do with her own assets.

“You know, she’s been trying to figure out for the last century if watching me be neglectful or signing off on anything she presents me with infuriates her more. I think she’s quit about two hundred and seven times so far—she does it every six months, when I check in. I don’t really care, but it keeps her happy. She likes throwing her little tantrums, so I oblige.”

“You’re insane.” She stared at him. “You know, if you actually bothered, you could probably manage to control the entire world.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “But I don’t bother. It’s not something that interests me. And I only could do that if the other angels stayed out of it. They wouldn’t. Not a chance. We’ve all got our stakes planted quite firmly. Plus, there are certain…agreements. Our power is never allowed to extend too far. When something like that does happen, then everyone else steps in. There have been some very small, very bloody, very important unrecorded conflicts fought to this end. On their own or hidden behind larger human ones,” he finished soberly. All of his playful nature seemed only a dream at this point.

Michele looked over at him, perturbed. “Like what?”

“…certain recent world wars, for one.”

“Shit.” She stared out at the pond. “Why hasn’t it? Power, I mean. Interested you.”

“Power’s not where it’s at. Passion, creation, art. Genuine purpose beyond oneself. That’s what’s important to me. For all the years I’ve been around, that’s the one thing that’s held my attention. It’s a constantly changing landscape, and there are always people within it who genuinely care.” He paused. “Plus, power’s such a cliché.”