“Yes,” I replied, taking my eyes away from Pythas. “I am indeed.” I rose from my chair. “I shouldn’t be here. This is not my place. I apologize for the intrusion.” I looked again at Pythas. I didn’t know what to say to him. But even with his one good eye he could still communicate with depth and meaning. Not here, he told me. Not now. Madred also rose.

“Thank you, Gul Madred, but I can find my way out.” I bowed to the company, and turned my back on them.

5

Entry:

Ever since the negotiations came to a conclusion, and with the transfer of Terok Nor to the Federation now imminent, I’d waited for some kind of communication concerning my status. Nothing but silence. Still, I was certain that my exile would end with the Occupation, and that soon we would all be on our way back to Cardassia Prime. This morning I decided to go about my routine even though I had no real work to speak of. After all, if the garrison and all Cardassian civilians are scheduled to depart today, why would any of them leave garments with me? However, I still had my own clothing designs to wrestle with.

When I came out onto the Promenade, I was stunned. It was like a holiday. The Bajoran population had obviously been celebrating all night. Groups of them were singing, dancing, holding each other up as they staggered and howled their delight. Debris was everywhere, as they tore down and scattered the remnants of the makeshift shelters they had lived in for so many years. I could hear the din from Quark’s bar, which evidently was doing a booming business. I ducked back into the shop as several inebriated celebrants came careening my way. When they had passed, I stepped out to where I could see more clearly down the Promenade. There wasn’t a Cardassian in sight. The only officials were Bajoran military and Federation people. The withdrawal had taken place during the night, and Terok Nor was now Deep Space 9.

I heard someone yell, “The tailor’s still here.” I hurried into my shop and locked the doors behind me. I stood in the darkness, trembling. Not a word. Nothing! They’d left me here. I wanted to contact someone. To protest. But ever since I had filed my last report about the negotiations, they had cut me off. I felt impotent. Ashamed. Elim Garak, a Cardassian tailor on a Federation outpost, cowering from drunken Bajorans.

There had to be a limit. My crime was a serious miscalculation, no doubt; I had ignored the warning, disobeyed my superior, and given in to the passion of my life. But I had dedicated myself to the state! This couldn’t possibly be unpardonable . . . not when idiots and butchers are promoted and prosper every–

The door chime rang. I froze. I wondered about my status. Would I be allowed to remain in the shop and work? Did I want to? Did I have a choice? The chime rang again.

“Yes?” My attempt to sound normal was pathetic.

“Are my c‑clothes ready?” It was Rom. I had forgotten that I was still working on the suit of clothes he had “bought” from his brother.

“Just a moment.” I turned on the lights and took a moment to compose myself before I let him in.

Rom was apologetic. “I thought you were open, otherwise . . . .”

“Not to worry, of course I am,” I brusquely assured him, as I fetched his tunic and trousers. “And I think you’ll find everything fits quite well.” I held the curtain to the changing room open for him, and he took the clothes and entered. I pulled the curtain closed and checked behind the counter to see if there was anything left in the kanarbottle. There wasn’t even a bottle.

“How, uh, did you know I’d still be here, Rom?” A quaver undermined the attempted nonchalance.

“My brother said you would be, but I wasn’t sure, and when I saw that the Cardassians had left during the night . . . .”

I could tell from his tone that he wondered why I hadn’t left but was too shy to ask. Strange people, these Ferengi. Rom had a sensitivity, almost a delicacy that was totally lacking in his brother. Was there such a thing as a typical Ferengi? Most people judged him to be simple, as if simplicity was somehow a substandard quality. He came out of the changing room wearing his new garments. I had certainly dressed him like a Ferengi, and I could see that he was pleased.

“Tell me, Rom. Are they all gone? The Cardassians?” I stopped trying to disguise my concern. Rom looked at me with that fearful directness of his and nodded.

“Y‑yes. Late last night. Gul Dukat passed the station over to the Federation and a Commander . . . Sisko and . . . they left.” He still wanted to ask why I had stayed.

“Well, Rom, the trousers and tunic fit quite well, don’t you think?” I pulled the tunic down at the back. “Don’t wear it so far up on the neck; it ruins the line. And I’d be grateful if you’d tell any interested parties that indeed I’m still here and very much open for business.”

“Oh, yes . . . yes! And I like. . . .” Rom made a broad, awkward gesture toward his new ensemble. I thanked him, and we walked out onto the Promenade, as if it were just another business day. We said good‑bye, and I watched him march proudly through the ragged celebrants. I had a fondness for him. It was an odd relief, especially at this moment, to converse with someone who literally meant everything he said. My attention was drawn to a group of drunken Bajorans across the way who had interrupted their celebration to stare at me with hostile disbelief. They had the same question as Rom. I smiled graciously and went back into the shop.

I sat in the shop and tried to busy myself with a design that had been eluding me. It was almost as if the suit was designing me, and I thought that somehow this was appropriate at this stage of my life. I had my back to the door, but I could hear a crowd gathering outside. Their sounds were low but threatening, and I knew that my presence was the focal point. Would rule of law prevail now that the Occupation was at an end and I was the only Cardassian left on the station?

Individual voices could be heard yelling from the crowd and urging that action be taken. I could sense the growing anger as their numbers increased. And they weren’t complaining about their pants. The muscles of my neck and shoulders were tense as I sat hunched over the work table. I erased another design and started again, chasing the design that in turn was chasing me.

Someone broke away from the crowd and stormed into the shop. I braced myself, but I didn’t turn to face her: a woman screaming at me in a peculiar Bajoran dialect that was totally incomprehensible. I continued to work, focused on a design that was now oddly coming to life. I could feel the heat of her rage, and believed that there was no way to confront it without making the situation worse. But more people had entered the shop, and suddenly I was grabbed from behind with great force and pulled to my feet. I stumbled against the table, quickly regained my balance, and turned to confront a Bajoran man who immediately realized that he needed the rest of the crowd to follow through with his intent. The others stood behind him and the moment was suspended. No one spoke, no one moved. We just looked at each other. Their hatred was a unified field that blurred all individual distinction. I realized in that moment the gravitational field of the station had been adjusted to a heavier setting, and the wave of hatred flowing from these people made it even more oppressive. I felt as if I were carrying twice my weight. I fully expected to be torn to pieces.

“That’s enough!” a harsh voice commanded. The constable of the station, the shapeshifter Odo, was standing at the top of the outside steps. With his customary dignity he made his way through the crowd, which was now half in and half out of the shop.

“Clear this space,” he told them. “Go on! Get about your business.” Two of his Bajoran officers were directing people back onto the Promenade. Odo grabbed my attacker unceremoniously by his shabby tunic and turned him over to one of the officers.