Fiction
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Bargains
(One of the stories of Louis Redmond, my oddball superman. Most fictional supermen are profoundly uninteresting; they're either completely without human foibles or completely insane. Louis, alone in the world from his teens and painfully cognizant of his immense powers, has decided on quietude -- a life of utter anonymity -- in the backwoods of Onteora County. But a truly superior man can't help affecting the lives around him, no matter how much he might want to avoid it.
"Bargains" is part of my novel Chosen One.)
Georges Chennault steepled his hands and looked pointedly at his daughter Vivienne, who immediately did the same and bowed her head.
"Lord, for Thy bounty which we are about to enjoy" he intoned, "we pray Thee make us truly grateful. In Christ Our Lord, amen."
"Amen," she echoed, then darted a look sideways at Louis before he opened his eyes and raised his face to the others. The young man appeared unaware of her attention.
He's not old or geeky. Concepcion's just jealous.
"Vivienne?" She turned to find her father holding the bowl of mashed potatoes out to her with an amused smile. She reddened, accepted it and measured out a tablespoon into her plate, then passed it to Louis. He took it with a low murmur of thanks.
"Why do you say grace in English when Louis is here, Papa?"
Her father lifted a slab of roast beef from the platter at the center of the table and flopped it onto his dish. "Courtesy to our guest, cherie."
"But --"
"One does not speak an unknown tongue in the presence of a guest, cherie. Not even when one is talking to God." He poured a small avalanche of buttered peas next to the beef.
But he does speak French.
Another side look at Louis caught the twinkle of his eye. If she would hold her questions for now, she would have an explanation later. Her father said no more, and for a while they concentrated on their dinners. In the darkly paneled, high-ceilinged Chennault dining room, the silence was warm and comfortable.
They were near to finished when her father said, "I fear we will soon be seeing Mrs. Lackland."
Louis set down his fork. "Not doing well, Georges?"
"Not at all. She is listless. I think she has lost her will."
"But not unwell."
"Not in the body, no."
Louis looked down at his plate. "She's right by the plant. I could stop in to see her a couple of times a day, if you think it would help."
Her father toyed with his potatoes.
"It would not matter, Louis. She is without Henry, now." Her father aligned his fingertips carefully along the table's edge. "Neither you nor I can provide her with a reason to live."
Louis bit his lip. "It would still be the considerate thing to do, wouldn't it?"
Her father's dove-gray eyes softened with sad knowledge. "Try it on Monday, and then tell me what you think." He turned to Vivienne. "Would you help with dessert, cherie?"
Vivienne dabbed at her mouth and thrust her chair back from the table with a screech that made both men wince. "I'll get it, Papa. You stay put."
"But the coffee --"
"It's already set up." She whizzed around the table, snatched up the dinner plates, and shouldered through the swinging door into their little kitchen.
She unloaded the little glass bowls from the old refrigerator onto a silver serving tray and peeled off the plastic wrap. The aroma of coffee liqueur rose at once to her nostrils, and she smiled. Her father had been surprised at the suggestion, for the sweet, sticky confection didn't really go with roast beef, but she knew it was Louis's favorite.
She returned to the dining room with her head and shoulders held back and the tray thrust forward like an award presentation. Her father's lips curved upward, but he said nothing as she centered a bowl on each placemat and slid quickly back into her seat.
Louis's eyes widened. He leaned over his portion and took a long, appreciative sniff. "Tiramisu. From Iacone's?"
Vivienne held her tongue. Her father said, "No, Vivienne made it herself, yesterday evening. Happy twenty-fifth birthday, Louis."
Vivienne clapped her hands and giggled in delight as a bright red flush spread over Louis Redmond's neck and face.
"Why haven't you told Papa you can speak French?"
Louis looked up from his sinkful of soapy dishes and grinned. "What makes you think I haven't?"
She ceased to dry the platter she held and stared at him.
"Your Papa has excellent manners, Viv. What they used to call continental manners." He rinsed a plate and deposited it in the wire rack before her. "I'm sure he speaks French to you, now and then when you're alone, but at other times he speaks English, out of love for his new country and respect for its people."
Jorge and Concepcion's parents never said a word in English the whole time I was there.
"Is that manners? To show respect?"
Louis felt through the dishwater for any items he'd missed. He found none, pulled the plug at the bottom of the cast-iron sink and ran clear water into the basin to hurry out the cloudy. "That's a big part of it. But there are other parts too. Conventions about what's proper, that have nothing to do with respect for others, but a lot to do with upholding tradition. Like saying grace before you eat. Or, if you're not religious but you're with people who are, waiting until they've finished saying grace before you pick up your fork." He rinsed his hands in the stream from the faucet, twisted the taps shut and reached for the dishtowel.
She started to scamper from the kitchen, expecting him to follow, but he took a moment to wipe down the tiled counter and arrange the dishtowel neatly on its hanger before he did.
Two men could hardly appear less alike than Louis Redmond and Georges Chennault. Vivienne's father was tall and broad-shouldered, craggy of face and brooding of aspect, an intuitively proper fit to his somber trade. Louis was short and slender almost to frailty, had features so soft that they almost disappeared beneath his piercing, miss-nothing eyes, and seemed never to be without a smile.
Yet the similarities went much deeper. Both men exuded a commanding presence. Both were perfectionists, keepers of stratospheric standards. Both were physically powerful, graceful beyond expectation, and possessed endurance equal to any trial. Both lived with the memory of enormous personal loss, and bore it in silence. The thoroughly masculine bond between them was like a living thing.
She wished she could believe that Louis might some day come to their home as much for the pleasure of her company as for love of her father.
Will he be here much longer? I have to get upstairs. Jorge didn't say when to expect him.
But then, he wouldn't.
As heavily crushed as she'd been on Louis since the day they'd met seven years ago, Concepcion's brother Jorge was...more exciting, somehow. His dark features and loose limbed, flamboyant carriage could not differ more from Louis's pallor and bodily discipline. A year ahead of her in age but a year behind her in school, kingpin of an insolent little clique every teacher strove to avoid, he exuded an air of the forbidden, of exotic pleasures indulged in defiance of others' views. He and his cronies pushed the school's rules about dress, grooming and behavior all the way to the edge, and sometimes a little beyond. His every word and gesture expressed a carefree disdain for learning, for his teachers and classmates, for anyone's opinions but his own.
When last she'd visited Concepcion, he'd caught her, as if by chance, alone in their bedroom hallway, and had backed her against the wall. His rawboned masculine presence had stopped her voice. His look of heavy-lidded menace had softened her resistance. The languid, careless path his finger traced over her eyebrows, down the bridge of her nose, and across her lips had melted it completely. Then and there, with Concepcion waiting downstairs, she'd allowed him liberties an eighth-grade girl wasn't even supposed to think about.
Tonight, he would expect to go further. Much further. He hadn't said so, but she could sense it.
"Wear lipstick," he'd said. "I like the feel of it when I kiss a girl. I like to know that I've mussed her makeup, so that she has to get away and fix herself up before anyone else sees her." He laughed, a quick coarse jolt of sound. "Maybe she has to fix more than her makeup, hey?"
Jorge was certain he could extract her from the house through her bedroom window, her father none the wiser. Her thrill of anticipation for a night of unforeseeable adventures clashed with her desire to remain in Louis's company for as long as he was there to visit.
But Louis would be there the following Saturday. Her father always brought him home from the mortuary on Saturday nights, and most Sundays as well. That gave Jorge an edge. Why that should be was a question she wasn't happy to contemplate. Why Louis Redmond, who always made her feel like a princess at a grand ball, should want to spend his birthday with a stodgy old funeral director and his gawky, bashful fourteen-year-old daughter, was another.
Vivienne laid the spoon in her empty cereal bowl, wiped her lips and marshaled her courage. "Papa?"
"Hm?" Her father looked around the edge of his morning newspaper.
"I think I would like to start helping with the business."
For a moment, Georges Chennault's face went completely blank. He laid the paper down and flattened his palms against the table. He had the look of a man with a difficult problem, who was bothered by not knowing why he had it.
"What brings this on, cherie?"
"My friends all have part-time jobs now. Concepcion has begun working on weekends, with her mother. They all talk about work as if it were the most exciting thing in the world, and I must keep still because I have nothing to offer."
His eyes lingered on hers for a few seconds. She knew he was pondering whether she'd given him her true reason.
"So," he said, "For your friends, what sort of work? Clerks in stores or waiters in fast-food places? Concepcion's mother cleans other people's houses, does she not? Perhaps the boys mow lawns? It's all very well, cherie, but it's not quite what I do. I think you would find that distasteful."
"Do you find it distasteful, Papa?"
His mouth tightened and his thumbs curled around the thick rim of the old aluminum table. "It is my trade, and my father's and grandfather's. I was raised in it. You were not."
There were rumblings of danger beneath the words, as if he were asking her under his breath to abandon the subject.
"It is our family's business, no? Is it wrong that I should have a part in the family's business?"
"Cherie, it is not something to aspire to. You have other gifts. I have hopes for you to --"
"Papa," she pressed, "it is honest work, and necessary. You have said so. Must I shun what you do to support us, as if I were somehow better than you?"
Her father closed his eyes, took a long, deep breath, and rose from the table.
"Cherie," he said slowly, "if you truly wish to do this, I will not say no to you. In truth, I would be glad of the help. But I tell you again, you will not care for the work. Much of it tests even my stomach, and I have done it for more than thirty years."
He stood silent as she thought.
Jorge had pulled her through her bedroom window, packed her into his beaten-up old Mustang, and whirled her around the county. He'd toured her through a world she hadn't known existed, a world of strutting young men in T-shirts and jeans who convened on street corners and in cul-de-sacs. They chain-smoked and drank from bottles of cheap wine concealed by paper bags as they spoke of vendettas, grievances nurtured, battles fought or soon to come. Most were accompanied by girls near to her own age: hard girls, garishly made-up, heavily perfumed, garbed in tight, boldly colored clothing that revealed more of their bodies than any of her friends, even Concepcion, would think decent. For all their brittle glamour, they clutched their boyfriends' arms or waists continuously and kept silent while the boys boasted and swore.
At every stop, in every gathering, the eyes of the boys crawled over her figure, though she was far more modestly covered than the girls that had come with them. The girls examined her with suspicion that verged on outright hostility. She stayed close to Jorge and said nothing to anyone. Jorge's wandering hands, making freer with her body in public than she'd have allowed him in private, was a small price to pay for the sense of protection from his friends.
Well after one AM, when the little streetcorner societies had exhausted their energies at last, he drove her out to a secluded part of Mill Neck Road, walked her into a little copse of trees nearby, and tried to undress her.
She stifled a scream, and he grinned, probably taking her agitation for mere virginal nervousness, entirely to be expected. When she twisted away from him, she took him genuinely by surprise. It was not a good surprise. He'd cursed her in guttural Spanish, choice oaths about her hygiene and station in life, and tried force.
She was terrified at the thought of what Concepcion would say at school on Monday. She'd furrowed Jorge's face too deeply for him to conceal. He'd been lucky to keep his eyes. Surely Concepcion would learn that it was her best friend who'd done it to him.
She was more terrified at the thought of ever again being alone with Jorge.
"Papa," she said, "I must."
Her father's eyes widened a fraction. He waited a moment for her to expand, but she kept silent. At last he nodded.
"Then it shall be so. When do you want to start, cherie?"
She swallowed. "Today."
"And what," he mused as if to himself, "shall I pay you?"
"Why not the same as Louis, Papa?"
The corner of Georges Chennault's mouth lifted into a smirk of private knowledge. "No, not that much, I think. We can discuss it afterward."
Louis burst through the mortuary door, snatched a white lab coat from the rack of hooks on the wall and slithered into it before he noticed Vivienne's presence. When he did, it stopped him cold.
"Georges?"
"Yes, Louis?" Vivienne could hear strain in her father's voice.
"Is this a good idea?" His eyes darted from father to daughter and back. What little color he usually had in his face was entirely absent.
"Vivienne has requested it, Louis. By the end of the day, she may wish she hadn't, but for now, we have another pair of hands to help us."
The muscles in Louis's face writhed. It was plain that he didn't approve.
"How many today?"
"Four. Cherie," her father said, "you will wash, and clothe, and do cosmetics. That is all done here." He waved at the long, granite-surfaced table with the inset sink that dominated the bleak white room. "You should not go into the next room. Not today. If we are both in there and you need one of us, knock on the door, and we will come out to assist you. Do you understand me?"
She nodded. "Yes, Papa."
Ever since he'd conceded her the privilege of helping him, she'd said nothing but "yes" to him. Yet he looked unhappier than she'd ever seen him. Louis looked worse.
Her father nodded gravely. "Let us be about it, then."
"Cherie," Georges murmured, "Leave your lab coat here."
Vivienne halted at the door and looked back at her father with eyes crimson and puffed from a day's weeping.
There was neither judgment nor reproach in his face. He simply waited for her to understand what he had said. She slipped the coat off her shoulders and hung it on a vacant hook, then dropped her hand onto the doorknob and pulled. The door seemed to weigh a thousand pounds. Louis and her father followed her in silence.
The sun had set. The evening wind stirred briefly, scraped at her cheeks and rubbed her swollen eyes a little rawer. She hunched forward, denying the wind her face, and plodded through the gloom down the little concrete path, hidden by two rows of thick, high rosebushes, that connected the mortuary to the Chennault home.
Papa does it every day. Louis every Saturday and most Sundays. How do they stand it?
Simply to wash the corpses had taken all the nerve she possessed. Their silence, their immobility, the limpness of their limbs under her hands made it impossible for her to pretend that they were anything but what they were. The job required a surprising amount of strength, all that she had, and sometimes a bit more.
To dress them was worse. Their unrelieved, sandbag-like weight -- at last she understood what was meant by dead weight -- had proved impossible for her to manage without assistance. The weight and the total flaccidity had caused one body to slip from her quivering arms as she strained to slip it into a burial jacket. It fell from the table and slid to the floor like a two-hundred-pound sack of jelly, and she screamed in sudden terror. Louis came running at once. He hoisted the corpse back onto the table without a word, then held her till she calmed. Between the two of them they completed the task.
Louis didn't leave her side, after that.
Worst of all was the cosmetics. She understood makeup, had used it herself for nearly two years, and knew its powers and limitations, or so she'd thought. How little she had really known! For hours she strove to paint life into those empty faces, to put peace into their cheeks and curve their mouths in contentment, so that their loved ones could look at them without shame or fright or survivor's guilt. It could not be done. When the last of the day's clients was finally behind her, and she allowed the brush to fall from her hand, the sense of release was so awful, and so complete, as to leave her dumb.
Louis said not a word the whole time. He seemed to know what sort of help she would need before she did. His steady hands, his surprising strength, and his infallible balance were always deployed just so, ready for every need.
She would have given all she had to be spared the sight of the grief that haunted his dark brown eyes.
She let herself in ahead of the others and ran up the stairs to her bedroom. She had the door closed behind her and her face buried in her pink and white pillows before she allowed any sound to escape her. Only then did she release the whimper that had been building in her all day.
Some time later there was a gentle knock on the door. She raised herself from her prone position, tucked her legs beneath her and said "Come in."
It was Louis. He stood there in silence, looking drained of words, for perhaps a minute.
"Are you all right?"
She tried a smile, shook her head and beckoned him in. He sidled toward her, sat beside her on her bed, clasped his hands in his lap.
"Do you want to talk about it? I'll try not to say anything stupid."
The storm of guilty terror she'd suppressed surged forward and came near to breaking her. It twisted her face, denied her all privacy. Louis saw it.
"There's no way to prepare for it, Viv. Don't flog yourself. You did very well. Your father and I are both proud of you."
"How, how do you stand it?" It was a low, tearful croak.
He grimaced. "Practice helps, a little. I doubt you'd ever get completely numb. I've been helping your father for seven years and it still gets to me. Especially when I recognize a client."
"Is that often?"
"It happens now and then. Onteora's not a big place. Viv," he said, "there's something you ought to know."
A fresh thrill of alarm ran through her. She held herself rigidly still while he chose his words.
"When your mother died, her sisters -- your aunts -- tried to take you away from your father and back to France. They were vehement that a young girl shouldn't be raised here, in the shadow of death, by a man whose life was spent ministering to the dead and the bereaved. They nearly got a judge to agree with them. Georges had to fight them with everything he had, which wasn't much. Losing your mother had debilitated him terribly.
"Part of what he had to do to keep you with him was to promise them that he'd keep you out of the business. In exchange for that, they agreed to let him raise you without interference. That's why you haven't seen them since then. He's feared ever since that they'd try to take you again. In return for his promise, he's insisted that they stay completely away."
He paused and waited until she met his eyes.
"If they were to learn about today, they'd be back here in a flash, determined to rescue you from a fate worse than death. They might succeed this time. That's what your father risked today, by letting you help."
"Then...why?"
A wan smile. "Because he thinks you're old enough to make your own decisions. Because you're his only family now, and he'd rather drive off a cliff than take the slightest chance of alienating you. Because he loves you."
She was trying to frame another question when the rock burst her window.
Louis's head snapped around at the instant of impact. He immediately grabbed her and pulled her under him. Bits of broken glass showered around them. A second rock added a lesser cascade of glass shards. From below came a guttural stream of jeering Spanish.
Louis pulled her upright and examined her quickly.
"Stay here."
He was out the door and streaking down the stairs before she found her voice.
A moment later, the sound of a heavy thud came from below. It was followed by a shrill scream and a torrent of curses in two languages. There was a sharp crack of flesh against flesh, and another, and the cursing braked to a halt.
Vivienne crept to the shattered window and peered down at a remarkable tableau.
The outside lights had been turned on. The light played over three figures: her father, Louis, and Jorge, whom Louis held by his shirtfront about a foot off the ground. Jorge's arms dangled at his sides. His usual smirking sneer was nowhere in evidence. His face was bright red from impact on both sides. He appeared to be in terror of his life.
Words passed between Louis and Jorge, but too softly for her to make out. After several unintelligible exchanges, Jorge nodded violently, as if he were desperate to convince Louis of something. Presently Louis lowered the boy to the ground and released him, and he streaked off through the fir trees to the west.
Vivienne ran down the stairs and found the two men closing the kitchen door behind them. Her father locked the door and doused the outside lights.
"Papa --"
Georges Chennault pulled at the lapels of his jacket and settled it around him. "Cherie, that was Concepcion Ibanez's brother Jorge, was it not?"
"Yes, Papa."
"Why would he have come here to cause trouble?"
Louis looked discreetly away. Vivienne composed herself.
"We had a disagreement, Papa."
Her father's chin lifted slightly. "So. Will this disagreement have further consequences?"
"I...don't think so."
Her father looked into her eyes for a long, uncomfortable moment.
"Very well. I think the events of the evening have concluded. Louis has handled the matter for us. But you must take care not to let disagreements with school friends involve this household in the future. Is so much clear?"
"Yes, Papa."
"Good. Louis," he said, "perhaps Vivienne and I should dine alone tonight. Would that trouble you?"
"Why, no, Georges." Louis sent a quick glance her way. "I have a lot to do at home, and work tomorrow, so perhaps it's for the best anyway. You enjoy your evening, and I'll see you next Saturday."
"Bon soir." Georges let him out, and locked the door once again. "And now, cherie, let us see to your window."
Vivienne scooped up the last of her asparagus, chewed and swallowed hastily, took her plate in her hands and surged toward the kitchen.
"Cherie."
She halted. Her father, his plate still half full of chicken and couscous, regarded her with a knowing smile. It brought heat to her face.
"I was, ah, going to start cleaning up."
"There is time. Sit." He gestured her back into her chair and waited until she had settled.
"Concepcion's brother is not much like her, is he?" He forked up a morsel of chicken.
"No, Papa."
"A little wild, a little rough?"
She nodded.
"Perhaps he is in need of seasoning? Not the right sort of boyfriend for a young lady, just yet?"
If flesh could ignite from its own fires, hers would have. "Perhaps, Papa."
Her father nodded and pushed himself back from the table a little way.
"I am told there is a night society, of young men who gather in dark places to preen and boast in Spanish while the rest of Onteora is in bed. I would guess that Jorge is a part of this. Am I right, cherie?"
She nodded. Her father noted her downcast eyes and nodded in response.
"It cannot be good for their studies. It would not be good for yours."
"Papa --"
He quelled her with a single raised finger. "No need, cherie. I know the Ibanez family somewhat. They have made a fetish of their son. They will not speak harshly to him, much less raise a hand to correct him. And so he and others who have been similarly mistreated hold themselves above the rest of us, with our foolishness about courtesy and respect and rules."
A shadow passed over his face. "I know the attraction such a group can exert upon a young and impressionable girl, yet unsure of her own value, who wants to be accepted more than anything else in the world. Vivienne," he continued in his most formal tone, "you may associate with Concepcion if it pleases you, but I will not have this other element in your life, so long as you live under this roof. Are we agreed?"
The words were hardly severe, and her father's gaze was only mildly monitory, not the flashing harbinger of wrath he could display to someone who'd elicited his full ire. Yet together, they left her about three inches tall, unworthy to sit in polite company.
"Yes, Papa."
His eyes lingered on hers a moment more.
"Good. Now, what arrangements shall we make for your services at Homely Rest? May I count upon you for afternoons, or only weekends?"
The change of subject briefly jarred the words out of her. He waited patiently.
"Papa, do you really want me there?"
A nod. "I told you I would be glad of the help. Louis cannot join me on weekdays. And there is always more to do than I can cope with alone."
"But I was...I..."
His eyes returned to their familiar depths of kindness.
"You believe you failed me today, because Louis came out to help you?"
She said nothing.
"We both expected it, cherie. The work is difficult at best. Louis thought you did well. Of course, if you would rather not try again, I will understand."
Her insides became a cauldron of fear. Fear of ever again touching a dead body. Fear of losing her father's respect. Fear of what Louis would say when he learned of her defection. Had the room filled with ghosts, all of them shrieking and lashing their chains against the paneled walls, she could not have feared more.
Concepcion's face had twisted into a mask of disgust when she described the filth the worst of her mother's clients left for them to deal with, once a week. Concepcion could not have imagined this.
Jorge and his swaggering friends would have drowned her in raucous laughter. Jorge, whose swarthy features, the marks she'd put on them still livid, had gone rigid with fear when confronted by Louis's superior force, would not have kept his breakfast five minutes.
Louis thought I did well.
She did not doubt that Louis had said exactly that. She could not doubt that he had meant it.
"Papa," she murmured, "what of the bargain?"
His eyebrows rose. "With your aunts, you mean? Louis told you about it?"
She nodded.
He stared at the table as he chose his words.
"You are fourteen years old, cherie. I think you are old enough for this choice. If you want to work alongside me, you shall. Estelle and Monique will swallow their objections. Their agreement was with me. It does not bind you. Are you willing to do this?"
She hesitated, then nodded. He smiled faintly.
"Good. Then all that remains is to settle on payment."
"Are you sure you want to pay me for this, Papa?"
"Of course! Aren't your friends paid for the work they do?"
"But..." She forced it away. "Then let it be what Louis gets."
He grinned and shook his head. "No, Vivienne."
"Half?"
He leaned forward and laid one warm, age-gnarled hand over hers. "I do not pay Louis, cherie. I never have."
"What?"
The hand squeezed. "I buried Louis's sister Jeannette when you were just a little girl. When his parents died, there were no remains to be dealt with. He came to me shortly afterward and asked if he might work at Homely Rest, as a volunteer. He wanted nothing for his labor. He would not discuss it, merely asked to help. I said yes."
The shadow returned to Georges Chennault's face. The muscles around his eyes and mouth worked in minute patterns of remembrance, love, and sorrow.
"When your mother died, Louis made all the arrangements. He would not permit me to assist him. I stood at the graveside, nothing more. Afterward, we returned here and talked of our losses.
"He told me that his family had been the greatest blessing of his life. He could not live a single day without thinking of them, and grieving for them. He came to me hoping it might somehow ease him to work with the dead, to familiarize himself with the relentless pace of mortality. Perhaps it has.
"But I knew there was more, Vivienne. I'd seen it before, and no doubt I shall see it again, and you after me. Louis wanted to strike a bargain with God. He hoped that in return for ministering to the dead, God would agree not to deprive him of any more loved ones, spare him any further loss."
The gray eyes slid closed.
"Did it work, Papa?"
"One cannot bargain with God, cherie."
Of course not.
"And perhaps not with a daughter, Papa." Her father's eyes opened, questioning. "I insist that you pay me twice what you pay your other assistant. And if he gets a raise," she said through a grin, "I'll expect one too."
"But --"
"No buts, Papa! It is our family's business. Pay me now, and there will be that much less of a dowry for Louis when I am of age, no?"
A light of realization dawned in Georges Chennault's face.
"You will have to work hard, Vivienne. Louis will be much pursued, if he is not already."
She squeezed his hand, rose from the table at last and gathered up their dishes.
"I know."
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