October, 2016
Geneva, Switzerland
Zari
Zari took a sip of tea, listening to rain patter against the window. She had wanted to rent a studio apartment, but Andreas insisted on booking a room in this hotel near his employer Darius Eberly’s office.
He’s your employer now, too. The thought set off a nervous tingle in her stomach. She distracted herself by taking in her surroundings.
Though its decor was a bit sterile and masculine for Zari’s tastes—all gray and black, with a stark white duvet on the bed—the room was elegant. The bed linens were high-end, the furniture well-crafted. There was absolutely no noise from neighboring rooms. She had already bathed in the wondrously deep tub and helped herself to all the amenities the bathroom had to offer.
Now she was wrapped in a plush white robe, sitting cross-legged in a gray-upholstered armchair by the desk, fighting sleep. It was seven o’clock. If she could just stay awake another hour or two, she might sleep through the night without jet lag forcing her up long before dawn. A good night’s rest would boost her chances of making a decent impression on Darius Eberly, thereby smoothing her reentry into Europe.
A bad night’s rest?
Zari flinched, imagining her sleep-deprived brain misfiring at warp speed, causing moronic small talk to spew from her mouth like lava. To compound that, she would likely show up at the meeting clad in one running shoe and one boot—and to top it off, she’d have dried toothpaste plastered to her hair or a giant coffee stain on the front of her dress.
No, she absolutely needed plenty of calm, refreshing sleep.
Flipping her laptop open, she created a series of social media posts related to Miramonde de Oto and Renaissance-era female artists, wondering if her new boss would fire her if he found out she was lobbying for her pet cause in a hotel room he had paid for.
Act first, apologize later, she decided.
If Zari got nothing done on Mira’s behalf over the next six months, she would never forgive herself.
The desk was strewn with photocopies of the papers Lena Mendieta had given her that heat-seared August day in Oregon. Zari leaned over and rifled through a few pages. Originally inked in blue ballpoint pen, the writing was shaky but mostly legible. It looked like Lena had jotted down fragments of conversations, along with a series of hand-sketched designs that looked vaguely Celtic.
“The hill Mendietas and the sea Mendietas,” she read aloud. “Mendieta homestead Erkodun. Farmers, shepherds. But also whalers, fishermen. Some Mendietas lived near coast in Pasai Donibane. Border France/Spain now.”
Zari yawned mightily. She pushed away her fatigue and squinted at the page again, trying to make out an unfamiliar word.
“Chalupas,” she read aloud, liking the sound of it. She rested her head on the back of the chair and closed her eyes.
Chalupas sounded like delicious doughnuts, crisp and brown and sprinkled with cinnamon sugar. The word spun through Zari’s mind, weaving through all the flotsam and jetsam of half-remembered worries, fragments of to-do lists, and memories that swelled and ebbed in her brain until she drifted into a dreamless sleep.