“I never would have guessed the two of you shared a love of poetry,” Charaban said with genuine surprise.

“Who exposed us?” Palandine asked.

“Drabar. I asked him to do a security check on Ten Lubak. You’re not a Ramaklan spy, are you, One Ketay?” he asked with the same lack of concern. Her answer was another laugh and a provocative look that challenged any and all assumptions he dared make about her. I jumped up.

“I swear,” I began, trying to overcome a very dry mouth. “I’ve told her nothing of our plans, One Charaban, and she has never asked.” It was true; we talked about everything except our work.

“Why not? Aren’t they worth talking about?” he asked with a serious face. I had no idea how to respond.

“You’re confusing him, Barkan. That’s not very nice.”

“My apologies. Believe me, Ten, I would have been surprised if you had.”

“But Drabar thought he had,” she said.

“No, actually, it was Two Charaban,” he replied.

“So this ‘security check’ is now common knowledge,” she wryly observed. I had the same thought.

“This is as far as it goes,” he assured her. Palandine nodded in response, giving him a last careful look. Charaban smiled back with an openness that seemed to answer her concern. He sat down on a rock, gave me a look that was more a reappraisal, and then looked away. In the ensuing silence, each of us became involved with our own private thoughts. In the corner where she sat cross‑legged, Palandine studied her exquisitely shaped hands. Now, with the three of us, the dynamic in the enclosure had changed, and we were all adjusting. I no longer had Palandine to myself–but surprisingly, I didn’t mind, in fact I was pleased that Charaban was here. His stillness, like everything else about him, had grace and strength. I sneaked another look in his direction and marveled that this was the same person I had first encountered in the storeroom. He returned my look, and in the next few moments a bond grew between us that I had never thought possible. The whooshing flap of a night bird pulled our attention up to the section of glimmering sky that was visible.

“I love the Blind Moon,” Charaban said softly.

“Why is it called that?” I asked, deeply relieved by the mysterious change that had come over us.

“It’s the time for lovers’ assignations,” Palandine answered. “The moon will give them enough light to meet, but not so much for them to be discovered.”

“So if you and Elim were true lovers I wouldn’t have been able to find you,” Charaban teased.

“That’s right, Barkan,” she said with a direct look. I shifted position in the ensuing silence and tried to hide my disappointment with Palandine’s reply, but at the same time, the pleasure I felt in the company of these two people kept growing.

“See?” Palandine suddenly addressed me. “You cando it.”

“What?” I was startled by her delighted burst.

“Smile. Look at that, Barkan. Wouldn’t you tell someone with that smile everything he wanted to know?” she demanded.

“The first time I met him–well, the second . . .” he corrected himself, “he had a smile that I wanted to wipe off his face.” He was referring to that early morning in front of the Central Gate.

“But it wasn’t thatsmile,” Palandine insisted.

“No,” he conceded. “Definitely not that one.” And the truth was that I could feel this smile throughout my entire body.

We settled into another silence that lasted until the Blind Moon disappeared behind the foliage. I was certain at the time that for each of us this silent gathering was a precious respite from the relentless strivings of Bamarren ambition. There were other such gatherings, but this was the one that I will take with me to the Hall of Memories. If I could have stopped time . . .

17

Entry:

Today I thought I’d have lunch at the recently reopened Klingon establishment in honor of my new friend from the Jeffries tube, who turns out to be a nephew of General Martok. As I made my way through the Promenade–which gets more congested every day–I thought of the dabo girl, Tir Remara, and wondered why her name was so familiar. Odo said she wanted to see me to express her gratitude, and I laughed at the irony: a Bajoran wanting to thank a Cardassian. On a sudden impulse, I redirected myself to Quark’s.

When I entered the bar, Quark smirked at me. “The savior of dabo girls. You know, Garak, you used to have a wonderful reputation as someone who minded his own business. What happened? Was it a bad brand of kanar?”

“No worse than usual,” I smiled. A master of compassion, our friend Quark. But judging from the large and loud group of Klingons present, he needn’t have worried about a drop in business.

Remara saw me, and we made eye contact. She finished paying out latinum from the last spin of the wheel, motioned to another girl to take over the table, and approached me. Quark was not pleased.

“Make it fast, Remara. The Klingons are here for you–not Byla.” Quark stayed as if to monitor our conversation, but Remara just looked at him with a level, clear expression. He blinked.

“You heard me.” And he moved away. When she turned those clear, gray eyes to me, I immediately understood why so many people wanted to play dabo when she was spinning the wheel.

“Thank you. For yesterday,” she said simply.

“Well, I . . . I don’t think. . . .” I was astounded–I couldn’t get a clear sentence out of my mouth. But she knew what I was going to say.

“He was very drunk and he was going to hurt me. He’s not a bad man, but he’s the type who’s dangerous past a certain point.”

I could only nod in agreement. She was older than I had originally thought, and clearly more intelligent than the usual dabo girl. Girl. She was as much of a girl as I was a boy. Other than Leeta, this was the first dabo woman I had ever seen. I’m sure her popularity among the Klingons must be immense, otherwise Quark would never allow such intelligence and maturity to spin the wheel. As I stood there, I totally forgot that she was wearing that silly skimpy outfit. Her poise, the directness of her gaze . . . I also forgot that she was a Bajoran.

“I have to return to work, but I’d like to talk with you. We had a mutual friend. I’m done after the second shift–is that too late for you?”

“N‑no. No, not at all.” My lips were betraying me. I sounded like Rom. “Shall I meet you here?”

“No. The observation lounge on the second level.”

As she went back to the table I noticed Major Kira sitting in the corner. She was giving me the same look she had used whenever I had been in the company of Ziyal. Because of those hard, impenetrable eyes, I can only imagine what she thought of this exchange. I nodded and . . . smiled.

It was late, and there were few people on the second level. As I waited in the observation lounge it came to me why Remara’s name was familiar–she’d been a friend of Ziyal. I remembered now Ziyal saying that Remara was some kind of teacher on Bajor, and that she occasionally worked as a dabo girl to support her family. When she’d made enough latinum she’d return to her life on Bajor. Quark put up with this arrangement because her statuesque beauty attracted many people–not just Klingons, and not just men–to the dabo table. Even those who never played.

“Thank you for coming.” Her voice came from behind me. I jumped up from my chair, surprised. She was standing there in a tasteful but modest frock. Without her dabo‑girl shoes we stood eye to eye. Her face was scrubbed clean of the makeup and her hair was unpinned, falling below her shoulders. It was somewhat darker now, and I wondered if she lightened it somehow when she was working. There was also a distance in her look which, coupled with her directness, created an odd dynamic. The distance challenged you to work yourself closer–if you had the courage.