One Heartbeat

I have a penchant for being overly dramatic, so instead of asking Akah Kara about the photo, I dropped it on his desk and said, Do you have anything to tell me?

He hesitated for a moment and looked at one of his screens. From the mirror-image on the back, it looked like he was composing some kind of speech—probably for an event we are having in a few days. I silently reminded myself to double-check that we had booked space and everything for it while I waited for him to finish writing a sentence.

Akah Kara looked down at the photo. His face blanched perceptibly, but he showed no other sign of recognizing the photo or her identity. Still, that small amount of recognition was enough.

I found it in the archives, I said. It fell out of one of the boxes. That person who looks like me, do you know who she is? I used the word kammi for that person, which may have confused him because Tveshi, unlike the Shiji dialect I translated, tends to use kammi more as a generic name than as a placeholder.

He shook his head. I’m sorry, but I don’t know who that woman is.

Aren’ t you in the photo?

He picked up the photo and turned it over. Yes, but that was nineteen years ago. I can’t remember everyone I’ve met … that’s just impossible. I would advise you to keep that in mind as you get older. Then, chuckling, he added: I remember that night, though … that package that you gave to Adviser Sari? I had to leave early that night, and a woman sent to deliver it caught me about a block away. She shoved it into my hands. I forgot about it afterward … my wife went into labor that night shortly after midnight, and it’s easy for things to slip from one’s mind … I hope you don’t mind an old man rambling about his youth.

Not at all, I replied. May I have the photo back?

I’ll take it back down to the archives. You don’t need to worry about it. He smiled at me. Would you mind checking with the advertising department about their work for the rally next month?

I spent the rest of the day running between various departments for information—anything to keep me out of his office, really. While I can’t say I agree with what he did, perhaps he wanted me to get out because he didn’t know what he would say about the woman he knew. My only hope is that, when I go back to work tomorrow, I can find something—anything—in the archives. 1845, right? Or was it 1846? Which box did that photo fall from? If I can wake up early tomorrow morning and get to the office before Akah Kara, no one will be guarding the archives to question my intentions.