The Spy Game

A couple. Caucasian. Probably Eastern European. Dark hair. I'm guessing Russian. Oh! They have a small person with them... But they're spies. No question about it! The short man passing as a kid: fabulous disguise!

"Three tickets, please."

"Certainly. Nine euros, please," I reply.

I take my time, meticulously cutting the perforated pieces of paper. I am, of course, just provoking them. Rattling them into an involuntary lapse. I discreetly slip the money into the open drawer below the counter.

"From Russia, are you?" I ask, already teasing them with the three tickets in my hand, still closer to my shoulder than his hand, my elbow resting on the wooden tabletop.

“Da! Onska!" says the little one. Got you! Russian spies are no match for me. The kid doesn't realize what just happened. He has a wide smile on his face, as if I'd given him some candy. The one disguised as the father opens his eyes and grabs the fake son right by the chest and pulls him close to his legs. The boy looks up and they exchange a revealing look. The boy's smile disappears and he now focuses on his hands and then the floor as the hands retreat into the pockets of his shorts. The fake father looks at me now. Even the smile is fake.

"Why do you ask? Any problems?"

"Just making conversation," I say. "Don't worry, there are no sanctions here."

His eyes, Siberian cold, are unblinking.

"Everybody's been looking at us funny since the war started. We're normal people. We have nothing to do with politics."

"Don't worry," I insist. "The ghosts here don't read the news."

The guy lets a smile slip by his K.G.B. training and quickly moves away, dragging the other two agents toward the train station.

Another couple approaches. These are not spies. They’ve been spending a lot of time in the sun. They're holding hands and both wear wedding rings. Lovers, no doubt. They're both in their fifties and long past the 'in love with your partner' stage of life. She has a Gucci handbag. Louboutin shoes. I think the dress is Prada. Nothing gets past me. These are all the real deal, not cheap knockoffs. He's a different story. He's playing the part, with the khaki pants, no socks, and a polo shirt with a green gecko on it; but he's not fooling me. He's not from the same part of town as her. He's after her credit card. I bet he'll do the talking, but she'll do the paying.

"Two tickets," he says, offering me a ten-euro bill. He must have asked for the money in advance to play the alpha male.

I try to give her the tickets, but he grabs them out of my hand. I laugh. His eyes narrow for a second, then looks at her and shrugs, like he has no idea what's going on. As if he could fool anyone...

"Hi, Jim."

"Hi, Tina. Fancy a ride on the old train?”

"No, thanks. Just checking up on you. Enjoying your last day?"

"Haha, I guess. Don't think the Ghost Train will miss me, though."

"Sure it will. And so will we all! The Monster Fair won't be the same without your stories."

Tina is a sweetheart, but the director already bought my replacement: a big black trunk that takes coins, bills, and credit cards, and has a plastic smile 24/7. It's progress, I guess. But this one's not very talkative. Glad I won’t be showing it the ropes.

Tina goes quiet as a young girl approaches. She’s a teenager with three coins in her hand and sparkling eyes. I give her the ticket and again she runs straight to the train station.

"Another spy, Jim?"

"No, no, Tina. I told you. Teenagers are just teenagers."

Tina laughs and waves goodbye. I know they're planning a surprise going-away party later, but it's nice to have these one-on-ones on my last day.

Another teenager approaches the ticket booth. Wait... this one has a very fancy mustache... drawn in crayon! He must be under twelve.

"We're closed," I tell him.

His eyes and smile drop to the floor. Then he looks up at me, only with his eyes, his neck still bent toward the floor.

"Oh, go on!" I say finally. What are they going to do on my last day? Fire me? As I follow the young boy's excitement running to the train station, my phone rings. It's Sarah, my wife. She also wants to know how my last day is going. Everyone's worried that I'll have a meltdown when I don’t have any tickets to sell.

"I think we'll be fine in Saint-Tropez, lying on the sand with enough sunlight to scare away any ghosts!" I say.

"You say that, but I know how much you enjoy the train."

"I did. But now I think my favorite thing in the world is this inheritance you got... Well, second favorite, of course, my lady heir."

"Hahaha, yes, it better be! Will you be very late today?”

"Not very late. There's the surprise party later, but I don't expect it to take that long."

"Any spies on your last day?"

"Two and a half. Their disguises get better every day."

"Okay, my darling secret agent. I want to hear all about it later on."

I hang up just in time. It seems that several customers are heading my way. They appear to be a group and they also have a teenager with them. All men. It must be an initiation ceremony. I've read about this! Maybe it's a rite of passage to bring this young man into adulthood. And what better place to do it, right? I don't recognize their language. They look Asian, so it's probably Chinese or Korean... Oh, no! They're Yakuza! How could I have missed that? The manga-like drawings on their black backpacks and the tattoos on their forearms. I'm getting slow – I was almost caught off guard... Good thing I'm retiring!

They walk slowly towards me. Twelve of them. They surround my little ticket booth.

"Do we have to pay just to walk around? We don't care about the ghosts, you can turn them off."

“Turn them off? No, these are real ghosts. We can't turn them off." I say in my best used car salesman tone. They whisper to each other in what I can only assume is Japanese. Then they begin gathering at the front, the young boy in the middle. In my peripheral vision, I notice one of the older guys, probably in his thirties, quietly watching on. He's wearing a gray suit. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a gun! My Lord! It's happening! This is what I've been training for all my life. I hit the floor instantly, my chair flies into the back door. They can't see me now because the bottom part of the compartment is black and opaque. I crawl along the wall to reduce their view of my movements. I reach the back door, but the chair is in my way. I try to move it quickly, but I think one of the wheels must be broken because it won't budge. Now I'm panicking. The three seconds of the surprise element are gone. I need to make a run for it, but I’m still inside the booth. I lift my head just enough to see over the transparent part of the walls, but I only see two almond-eyes. They got me.

"Are you okay? Did you fall?" he asks. Then he points to his phone, "We're playing Pokémon, we don't need the ghosts."

"Gotta catch 'em all!" the kid behind him says.

The guy in the gray suit is also holding his phone: "Ah, we'll just pay. Can I use my phone to pay?"

"Sure," I say, moving the chair, which magically works again. "It's thirty euros. I'll give you our group discount."

"Thanks. I hope you didn't hurt yourself."

"Oh, no. I'm fine. It's this damn chair. Always playing tricks on me."

#

I arrive home after ten. Sarah's waiting for me with a big hug and the bags ready.

"Nothing more to worry about. All we need to do tomorrow is go and get tanned!”

I've been dreaming of this retirement ever since Sarah first told me about the inheritance. Sun, beach, bar, and reading. I don't even want to get dressed. I'll be wearing bathing shorts for months!

Unfortunately, Sarah has other plans. After only a week, she decides we should go for a buggy ride, so I have to wear a T-shirt. The sacrifices one makes for love…

The hotel concierge directs me to a small adventure company just five hundred meters from the beach. There's a woman selling the tickets.

"Two, please," I say with a feeling of déjà vu.

She smiles at me. Sarah's already choosing her buggy, so I enjoy the flirtation. She holds out the tickets, taking her time. I’m starting to feel awkward about this. My wife may be distracted, but she's right there. I hold out my hand and look at her, trying not to be sexy, when I hear her ask:

"From Russia, are you?"