Founder, Installment 8

Chapters 15 and 16

Chapter 15

Dead Ends, July, 2021

The day after he told Silvia about Gaius Willsom, Hugh called the Genealogy Ministry to begin the claim process. Several days later, he spent an hour on the phone being interviewed by a Ministry analyst, during which he shared every detail of his research. Then came a lengthy email exchange, and, eventually a request that he submit to a DNA test so that his genetic profile could be compared to that of an Edmiston-registered member of the Godor clan. He ordered the test from a lab the analyst recommended, shelling out nearly 400 euros. A week later he received the test kit containing an illustrated instruction booklet, two plastic tubes, and a cheek swab in a sealed pouch. Twenty-two days after swabbing the inside of his cheek and returning the sample to VSF Biosciences, he received the results in an email. The report was two-pages, with four columns of letter codes and a smattering of botanical-sounding terms like “locus” and “allele.” There was no introduction or conclusion, just columns of data. None of it made any sense.

“It’s prepared for scientists, by scientists,” Callista explained when he called the Ministry. “Just forward me a copy and I’ll pass it along.”

“What happens after that?” Hugh asked. “They’ll run it against a Godor profile?”

“No, no,” she replied. “We don’t have that kind of information in-house. You’ll have to find someone who’s willing to submit a DNA profile to support your case. Then our people will make the final determination on a match.”

“I have to find someone?”

“Yes,” she said. “I’m afraid so.”

“I don’t know any yazzers,” he grumbled. “What if I can’t get someone to provide a sample?”

Several seconds passed before Callista responded. “Then there wouldn’t be anything more we can do. We need that second DNA profile to establish a match.”

Since receiving that unfortunate news, Hugh has been considering his options. He could post an appeal for a donor on Facebook or Twitter, but quickly nixes that idea—way too public, with no way to screen out fraudsters. A classified ad in The Record wouldn’t be any better. Eventually he decides that, even if he doesn’t know a Godor, he might turn up someone in his friend circle who does. So, with no other option available, he texts Tullia—not to ask for help exactly, but to open the door for her to offer.

He has no idea how she’ll react to such a request, or if she’ll reply at all. Wisely or unwisely, he told her about his claim several weeks ago—shortly after he told Silvia, when Tullia came by the bar. He left out most of the key details because he didn’t know if he could rely on her discretion. He told her enough to arouse her curiosity, though, and kept it piqued by sharing updates here and there. Tullia particularly liked the story about Hugh’s great-grandfather fighting for the Greys, and asked if she could pass it along to her parents. All things considered, she responded fairly enthusiastically. He did notice, however, that when he told her he’d filed an official claim, her face grew suddenly taut, as if she were torn between happiness for Hugh and wariness of him. At the time, he didn’t fault her for that reaction. He’d had a similar reaction in primary school when a kid he’d helped learn spelling went on to beat him in the spelling bee.

We all root for the underdog—right until he threatens to steal our bone.

His text to Tullia takes Hugh a half-hour to compose.

hey. since you asked about the dna thing…i got my report back, but the mg is telling me I have to find a godor to do a test as well. and of course i don’t know any. might have hit a dead end. you coming by the bar this week?

He sends the message after breakfast and Tullia responds early that afternoon.

Trip was good, she writes. We’ll probably be in this week if Iris can get free. Bummer about the report thing. Gotta love the ministries!

She ends the text with a clenched-teeth emoji.

He replies with a thumbs up emoji, then pockets his phone.

He tells himself not to be angry, or to see Tullia’s reply as a rejection. It probably didn’t even occur to her to offer help. Yazzers are accustomed to receiving assistance, not offering it. With her clenched-teeth emoji, however, comes an impasse for which Hugh has not even an inkling of a solution. Days pass. Then weeks. For all of August, September, and the first half of October, he vacillates between just asking every friend or acquaintance if he or she, by any chance, knows someone from the Godor family, and giving up the chase. As the weeks pass, he tells himself he hasn’t surrendered yet, though he can sense his attention drifting away from DNA reports and Edmiston-registered Godors, back to the more familiar rhythms of a feegie bartender.

Then, in mid-October, as luck—or inspiration—would have it, he conceives of a plan. Not a highly promising one—more of a last-ditch effort, really. And approaching the person he has in mind comes with complications. So he takes a couple days to let the idea simmer. When time yields no greater clarity on the matter, he decides you only live once, and makes the call.

Chapter 16

Tommy, October 2021

Hugh first met Tommy when Silvia cajoled him into joining them for a pint—to put faces to names, she said. Hugh refused at first because he never fancied meeting new people and had no interest in spending an evening with a lawyer who made more in a month than he did in a year. On top of that, Silvia had recently come clean that Tommy With the Hyphenated Name was, as Hugh suspected all along, a bona fide gantling, complete with a trust fund and a family estate in Kasabresan. That development only made Hugh less inclined to meet the new boyfriend.

But Silvia persisted, as she always does, and Hugh eventually gave in.

The three met at a pub chosen by Silvia, in West Mistauth, diplomatically located halfway between Tommy’s flat in Gursey and Hugh’s in Gloven. As Hugh approached the pub that night, he spotted the couple through the window, seated cozily in a booth, and he almost turned around and went home. But Silvia saw him through the window and waved him in. When Hugh arrived at their table, Tommy stood and offered his hand, which Hugh gripped assertively but with little warmth.

“Hey, mate,” said Tommy with a big smile. “It’s a pleasure.”

Tommy’s hand wasn’t over-large, nor for that matter was Tommy himself. In fact, the gantling didn’t stand much taller than Silvia, but his shoulders were broad, and he had a lean, athletic-looking build. He wore his wavy blonde hair short on the sides, longer on top.

Square jaw. Unusually tan. Casually but not interestingly dressed.

The conversation began awkwardly, with Silvia describing Hugh as her flatmate and best friend, and Tommy laughing and nodding, though clearly a bit skeptical about the platonic thing. He turned out to be a pretty good guy, though, with no yazzer airs about him and a surprisingly good command of Bressen-United trivia and craft beer. Within minutes, Hugh found himself liking Tommy more than he’d planned to.

Since that night, Hugh has seen Tommy a number of times, typically when the lawyer stops by the flat for a night out with Silvia. Whenever Hugh finds himself alone with Tommy, he strikes up a conversation about Bressen-United being poised for a better year, or how Barbier’s ankle was healing, which always makes Tommy’s eyes light up; and then they slip into an easy but purposely shallow conversation until Silvia shows up.

Silvia’s relationship with Tommy, having lasted from June into October, strikes Hugh as comfortable but not particularly torrid. Silvia speaks fondly of her gantling boyfriend—about how sensitive he is, and how he always asks what’s on her mind. And the two have the law in common, of course, which is no small thing. But their romantic trajectory has been fairly flat.

Until today.

It is a cool, overcast morning in October, and Hugh has just returned from buying a large Americano at the Magic Bean. When he opens the flat door, he finds Silvia at the dining table, in a sweatshirt and blue pajama bottoms, studying. Hugh has just hung up his coat when Silvia abruptly announces, “Tommy asked me to meet his parents this weekend.”

Hugh makes a point of looking shocked, then sets his keys on the kitchen counter and goes to join her at the table. She looks reasonably composed, but something in her expression suggests she’s been stewing for a while.

“Well, he’s pressing the pace, isn’t he?” laughs Hugh.

“That’s intense, right?”

“It is. You gonna go?”

“I don’t know,” she says, leaning back in her chair and rubbing her palms on her thighs. “It feels rushed, you know?”

“Is it like a special occasion?” he asks.

“Not really,” she replies. “He just said he’s eager for me to meet his parents ‘cause he thinks they’ll really like me. He says I shouldn’t be nervous ‘cause they’re super casual and welcoming.”

“Ah.”

“He’s such a decent guy, you know? And I don’t want to say no ‘cause it will crush him. But it feels rushed.” Now she places her hands on the table and stares at them.

“He seems like a decent jimmy,” ventures Hugh. “But you shouldn’t let him rush you if you’re not into it, yeah? I mean, the sword cuts both ways.” He isn’t entirely sure what he means by this last metaphor and doesn’t try to explain. It takes some effort not to appear shaken by Tommy’s invitation. The idea of Silvia dressing up and playing high society with the Payne-Havissoms already has his rib cage tightening like a blood pressure cuff. But he also knows that Silvia, the fiercely dogmatic third-wave feminist, won’t appreciate being hurried into meeting the parents. In fact, if Tommy pushes too hard, he could scare Silvia away entirely, which wouldn’t bother Hugh at all.

Or at least much.

Silvia tugs on the drawstring of her sweatshirt and furrows her brow. “I mean, I don’t mind meeting his parents—I just don’t want him to take it the wrong way, you know? Maybe there’s a way for me to go without giving him the wrong impression.”

“Good luck with that,” Hugh laughs. “Guys aren’t so good with subtlety.”

Silvia nods. “He’s been really patient so far. Which I really appreciate.”

Hugh acknowledges once again that Tommy is a good sort, and that he seems to have the silver spoon thing under control, which comes out sounding like a backhanded compliment. His wording doesn’t seem to bother Silvia, though, who continues to tug on her drawstring, lost in thought.

Now Hugh elaborates, adding that Tommy doesn’t seem as selfish as other gantlings he’s met, that it’s admirable, for example, how he volunteers at the clinic, and helps people in other ways.

At first Silvia just smiles and nods her agreement. After a moment, though, she looks up and asks, somewhat truculently, “What do you mean ‘other ways’?”

“Oh, you know,” he replies, “just that he’s always eager to help out, yeah?”

She leans farther forward now. “Like how?”

How.

Wow.

Now.

Hugh crosses one leg over the other and grips the toe of his boot, distractedly bending it back toward his shin. He looks at the ceiling, then back at her, only to find her gaze more penetrating than before.

“He just offered to help me out with something,” he finally volunteers. “And I really appreciate it.”

Silvia draws herself up in her chair. “Tommy offered to help you with something?”

“Yeah,” says Hugh. “My claim.”

“Your claim? How is he helping?”

Seeing no possibility of retreat now, he considers his reply, then plunges headlong into his Rubicon. “I mentioned that I’d taken a DNA test to support my claim but that I’d run into a dead-end finding a match. So he said he’d try to help out.”

Silvia cocks her head incredulously. “You just happened to mention that to him?” In an instant, she has gone from curious to accusatory.

“Yeah,” says Hugh, now bristling at her tone. “‘Cause he showed interest in my claim, and I needed the help.”

With his every word, Silvia’s expression grows sterner. “You asked him without checking with me first?” she asks. “Why would you do that? I told you it’s been super awkward for me that Tommy’s family is…you know…clan. That’s one of the big reasons I’ve been reluctant to get more involved. And now you step right in the middle and ask for his help with the very issue that’s weird for me?” Here she pauses, slowly shaking her head. “Why didn’t you ask if I’d have a problem with that?”

Hugh hesitates. “I guess I was worried you wouldn’t approve.”

“It’s not about me approving, Hugh,” she says. “It’s about you respecting the boundaries I put in place with Tommy and his family.” Now she appears to reconsider his previous statement and circles back. “Approve of what?”

He frowns, keeping his eyes on her. “Of it all, to be honest—me asking Tommy for help—even me filing the claim in the first place.” He uncrosses his legs now and sits with his hands under his thighs.

Silvia looks over toward the window, her jaw clenched.

“Keepin’ it real, Sil?” he continues, “You radiate disapproval whenever I talk about my claim—like I’m embarrassing myself by even looking into it.”

“That’s complete rot,” she snaps.

“Well, that’s how it comes across.”

“And Tommy agreed not to tell me any of this?” she asks. “That’s fucking great. He’s already lying to me.”

“Only ‘cause I made him promise, yeah? Don’t be angry at him. He was just trying to help me ‘cause I ran out of options.”

Now Silvia presses him for details—about Tommy’s reaction to the request, why Hugh kept it from her, and what has transpired since they spoke. The more he tells her, the more agitated she becomes, until eventually she goes off like a loaded gun. “Why are you so fucking obsessed with the founders, anyway?” she shouts. “Chasing Tullia Bruggen around town, drooling over her Cartier watch, filing this fucking claim. Are you that insecure with who you are? Is being a regular person just not good enough for you?”

And there, in one contemptuous retort, is proof he was right all along. Silvia never really approved of his claim. On top of that, she just revealed that she can be as insincere as the next person.

In a flash, Hugh’s sheepishness turns to hurt, and then to rage. Without pausing to consider the consequences, he shoots back blindly. “Yeah—there you go, Sil. Like you always do—acting like the queen of the world, telling everybody how to feel and what to do. Meanwhile you’re dating jimmy fucking gantling with the perfect haircut—like nobody notices you’re a total hypocrite. Absolutely fucking classic.”

As he speaks, Silvia’s face grows as still and pale as a marble bust. When Hugh finishes, she stares at him from across the table, her lips parted, her eyes unblinking. In the ensuing silence he imagines he hears his heart thudding in his chest; a second after that, he feels the familiar tightening of the muscles around his eye.

“At least I know who I am,” says Silvia at last, her voice dropping an octave.

“Well aren’t you fucking special,” he mumbles.

Now Silvia shoots up from the table, thrusts her middle finger at him, and storms down the hallway, slamming her bedroom door behind her.

Hugh remains at the table for several minutes, staring at the floor; his eye is now clenched tight, and his hand is fighting a compulsion to dab at his mouth. Conversations with Silvia can go sideways quickly. He’s seen it happen before, though not quite like this: They get into a conversation about politics, or class, or anything, really, and she grows testy at some point, as if he stumbled upon a sore spot. Eventually she hits him with a zinger about needing to take his blinders off (or something like that), and Hugh turns defensive at the implication he is naive or uneducated. Then the conversation slides perilously downhill until one of them backs off and apologizes.

He’s never called her a hypocrite before, though; and she’s never stormed off like that, or flipped him the bird. That’s new territory.

After a minute more, Hugh rises from the table and goes down the hallway for a shower. When he emerges from his bedroom an hour later, he finds that Silvia has left the flat. At 3:00 that afternoon, he receives a text message from her.

I’m going to stay at Tommy’s for a while.