A spy comedy written and illustrated by Susannah Rodríguez Drissi, “Another Secret Agent” ciphering on an academic-artist-movie star who decides to take the US-CUBA affair to its greatest possible consequences. Set against the backdrop of U.S. academia, dictatorship, and the lingering tensions of the Cold War period, this story’s plot begins and ends with a look.
When I walked through the hotel lobby that afternoon, the gaze of someone whose eyes I did not see was already on me. I was too familiar with the feeling not to know that I, along with every other registered and unregistered attendee at the conference, was under surveillance. I knew then, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that before the conference was over I would need to find those eyes and, yes—and this was a necessary detail—return the gaze.
It was a strange day, if only because the lobby, anterior and posterior staircases, and all the rooms I walked into henceforth, were full of spies and secret agents. Adding to the atmosphere was the conspicuous decor: the walls were full of mirrors. Elevators and emergency staircases were flanked by security personnel and there was a general mood of urgency and confusion—this may, of course, have nothing to do with clandestine operations or secrets of the state; it could well be the usual MO of academics under stress. How did I know there were spies and secret agents in the room, you ask? Short of wearing a badge, they stood or sat around in a suit, refused to crack a smile, and looked intently at something in the distance. Plus, a Latin American dictator’s daughter was somewhere in the building discussing the thriving days of the revolution and US foreign relations. Plus, somebody pointed them out in the crowd. Of the two who sat only a few feet away from me, one, in particular, caught my attention: A fine specimen of approximately 6 feet, 2 inches in height (at rest). A thinker’s receding hairline. Black suit and tie, a white shirt on the ruffled side. And those icy blue eyes hot enough to thaw a decade’s long winter freeze.
I imagine that it was the way in which his presence supposed the possibility of managing an entire room of potential counter-revolutionaries, agitators, and defectors by visual surveillance alone that made him a hot target in my eyes. I had to bring him down to size, distract him from “official” business. Tempt him. First, I did what any woman preparing for covert operations would do under the circumstances: I visualized the entire encounter as I would want it to develop. Through a series of hastily constructed mental images, I acquired situational understanding, determined the desired end state, and envisioned how the force (me) would achieve such a state. By the time I was done, I was no longer interested in eye contact alone.
Man, was I in trouble now. “What?” I asked a colleague, hoping to jump back into the conversation without arousing any suspicion of wrongdoing or general disinterest in the state of national studies. In any case, I was conducting my own research. And my group, who appeared to be none the wiser, carried on unaware of what was now a passionate engagement with the subject. Or was it the object?
Temporarily postponing the answers to my many questions, I proceeded to do what any sensible woman (who still remembers high school days too clearly to admit publicly) would do: Laugh like a “shilly” school girl. It worked: he turned to look at me—hell, he stared. His eyes bulleted right through me. Under other circumstances, I would have lowered my eyes, turned away, or simply lifted my wedding-ringed hand into the air. Not this time. I stopped whatever I was doing (listening to somebody speaking or pretending to, I suppose) and stared back, long, hard, and deep into his secret agent eyes. I held it for several seconds and then I turned away. Even three days later, as I write this, his eyes haven’t quite left me.
In the days that followed, I looked for him and I found him every time. There was always, however, a restrained distance of at least 10 feet between us. Any closer and I think one or two of us would have put in jeopardy the security of someone or something. On the very last day, after I had obsessively, compulsively discussed the possible meanings and consequences of a look with a friend and colleague, I was resolute on taking it a step further: I would end the affair for good. But I first needed to get closer. “Secret Agent Man,” I’d whisper in his ear, secretly (of course), my cheek burning his, “I can’t possibly follow through with what we both know would be inevitable.”
The “breakup,” however, would come too late: he would have already used his Secret Agent Machine to find out all about me and, by the time I’d get home, uncovered all about the real reason I went to grad school, the illegal trip to an island nation, my research trips to Cuba and Algeria and, worse, the trip from Amsterdam to Paris in 1996.
Oh, God! I needed to start changing my passwords, delete pictures from Facebook, close my windows and be generally cautious about who I talked to. Most of all, I needed to go shopping, do my hair more often, and commit to manicures and pedicures on a regular basis. If I was going to be spied on, I had to get ready. In case there was a satellite pointed right to my house, once I got home, I prepared a big poster and placed it smack in the middle of my back lawn: I’M NO LONGER INTERESTED! it read, in crayons and markers, and outlined with glitter glue. Why the need to bedazzle at a moment like this, you may wonder? Well, I wanted to highlight my fine arts background. You never know who’s hiring. Academic jobs are few and far between and I am certainly not willing to move to Hell Hole, Kentucky to find one—unless Kentucky is hiring and then I’m game! Plus, to be completely honest, I wanted to overwhelm him with my talents. If we are not going to work out, I want him to pine for me for the rest of his secret agent life. He will remember me as that academic-artist-movie star who saw what was supposed to remain unseen, countering the imperial worldview that his presence at the conference represented . . . or something like that.
At the very least, he must have been intrigued, right? My mission was secret—at least to him. Given the prostitution scandal involving U.S. Secret Service in Colombia, it was even more probable that my secret agent was exercising super-human-secret-agent strength not to give me the time of day—but he did. Who could blame him? I had pulled all stops that day. Hair blown out, pedicure, manicure (I did them myself, but could pass for salon quality) and a blue-red lipstick (MAC version of Chanel’s Yakety Yak) that I hadn’t yanked out of the vault since that same year in Amsterdam. It was on. I needed a job and I would stop at nothing to get it. Instead, what I found was a man in a suit, with an earpiece, and a resoluteness to protect the daughter of a dictator, who himself was the brother of a dictator who was the uncle of yet another daughter who had defected years ago. The whole affair was disturbing. I had no choice but to intervene.
I was interested, of course, but the whole thing promised to take a more serious turn and I wasn’t prepared to sacrifice my family for one night of hot exchange with a secret agent who was no longer a secret. Or was I? No, I wasn’t. I must confess, however, that I couldn’t get rid of him. Once I looked back, I saw his eyes everywhere. Whatever it was he saw in me when I looked back was haunting me. What had I revealed in a period of several seconds? That I desired to desire and be desired in return? That I was, in fact, human? What? What was I looking for? Why did I look back? He was hired to look and I wasn’t, and that was the fundamental difference between the way he looked and the way I looked back. The success of his “mission” depended on his ability to look without being seen; mine, on my ability to keep my looks to myself or, at the very least, see without “looking.” The inconvenient truth was that there was nothing more that I wanted to do that day than look. Look at him who was hired to look at me. But when it comes to looking, one often wonders if he liked what he saw. I certainly did, although I should keep that a secret. In any case, it wasn’t over. I needed to find him.
I woke up the next morning and wondered how, in the age of social media, cellphones, iPads, and Siri, one could find a secret agent. I started with Google. Here is what I found out:
My secret agent, wherever he is, is a language expert (I can corroborate that, since I was close enough to hear him speak in Spanish—although I don’t remember exactly what he said now). He may also be fluent in Arabic or Chinese, or both.
He has an advanced degree in some technical field, such as mathematics, computer science or engineering, as well as a background in psychology and political science. His past has been under scrutiny at least once; and he has survived a series of mental and physical examinations, not to mention drug tests and extensive polygraph interviews, which he has passed with flying colors. He’s not a liar, at least not according to the polygraph. He does not have a shaky financial background, is not a heavy drug user and has never been in trouble with the law. He has kept secrets from family and friends, has probably traveled some, and trained at a place in Virginia known as “The Farm.” He doesn’t make very much money (under 50,000) but probably always dreamed of being a spy.
Except for the technical background and the trouble with the law (I’ve had at least one encounter), the shaky financial background (school loans and a bill from Bally’s Total Fitness), and the training at “The Farm,” the secret agent and I have quite a few things in common. I needed to find him.
Moving forward, I had several questions: How, in God’s name, would I find a secret agent? Had my intervention into international espionage boiled down to a look? Wasn’t that precisely what espionage was about, looking? I knew the search would require a more systematic and comprehensive approach: I needed to start with Facebook. Then a Craig’s list ad. I will first discuss the ad, then I will move on to Facebook. This is how the ad would read:
Dear Secret Agent,
There’s no use denying the connection between us, however brief (at least three specific encounters lasting anywhere from 10 seconds to 15 minutes). I can’t stop thinking about you. You’re hot. I like the earpiece. You have to agree that I, too, looked hot. And that, among all the other women at the conference (who, by the way, are way too smart and accomplished to need to comb their hair when going out in public), only I could wear that shade of red. If it helps, I gave you a come-hither look that sent chills up your spine and made your thighs vibrate. Was I serious about the unspoken but assumed invitation? We’d have to see. For the moment, I wanted to intervene, to participate in whatever international intrigue was taking place right before my eyes. But, most of all, I wanted to look back. I have to admit that you, too, gave me the chills . . .
I’m married, so I shouldn’t be staring back at anybody, least of all secret agents, but you started it and I felt compelled to finish it.
Just wanted you to know that if I weren’t already so compromised and otherwise engaged with an entire life of choices, it’s on!
Sincerely,
Another Secret Agent
The waiting period would be the worst . . . Do secret agents use Craigslist? If I were to place the ad under “Personals,” these would be my choices:
Strictly Platonic
Women seek women
Women seeking men
Men seeking women
Men seeking men
Misc romance
Casual encounters
Missed connections
Rants and raves
“Missed connection” is the only heading that I actually contemplated—somehow everything else seemed inappropriate. In any case, I went for something a little less obvious: “For Sale-Auto Parts.” I figured that a Secret Agent would be more likely to need a rare part for his rare (vintage) import automobile than need to check the Personals. So I posted it there, right between “konig coilovers a4 1999 to 2001 obo ($350)” and “prelude turbo kit h22 for 600 or best offer ($600).” Mine read: “Secret Agent turbo engine for vintage (foreign) car—outrageously priced obo.” I figured that Secret Agents who drive foreign (vintage) imports are more likely to be attracted to something out of their price range. We’ll have to wait and see what happens.
Now to Facebook. Mark Zuckerberg’s invention required a different approach. One question kept on popping up in my mind like a pop-up blocker: if it all had to remain a secret, how would I find my agent? The Facebook status option was out of the question. He would be impossible to Friend Request—I didn’t have a name. Should I post something he could presumably like, make it public and then wait for him to Like it? I imagine that this is how torrid affairs begin. Somebody looks and somebody else looks back. Somebody posts and somebody likes it. Someone friend requests. The other one accepts. It’s down the cyber hill from there. I was taking a big risk, so I braced myself and hoped for the best.
Just as I thought, Facebook turned up empty. Except for a few crazies in Super Man suits and radio signals, I got nothing. I would have to ask Siri—everybody else does. Siri, whose motto is “your wish is my command,” seemed like the right approach. According to the iPhone page, Siri “[. . .] understands what you say, knows what you mean, and even talks back. Siri is so easy to use and does so much, you’ll keep finding more and more ways to use it.”
Well, I had found a way to use it. The only problem was that I didn’t own an iPhone (I’m happy with the keyboard on my Blackberry and afraid to switch). I would need to find a friend who’s a friend of Siri and ask him/her for the favor. “So and So, could you ask Siri how to find a secret agent?” I am painfully aware that the request makes me vulnerable to sneers and tagged photos of related events on Facebook, but I decided that anything was worth putting up with if the outcome was the location of that damn secret agent I couldn’t get off my mind.
My friend complied—not without sneering at my new-found “secret” obsession—and asked Siri on my behalf. Here’s what Siri said:
Call the CIA Operations Office at . . .
(I don’t want to make it public)
In the meantime, as I wrote Siri’s directions word-for-word, something strange was taking place outside my window. A car alarm went off and I felt again the weight of somebody’s gaze. This time it pierced through my windowpane and went straight for my eyes like an invisible, super-sonic ultra-violet secret ray. Oh, God, he’d found me! I quickly closed the blinds and ran to the room to change. I was wearing yoga pants and a sweatshirt, hadn’t combed my hair, and couldn’t remember if I had brushed my teeth. I ran to the bathroom, brushed-flossed-brushed, connected the flat iron to the wall, and looked frantically through the closet for something “hot” to wear. As hot was a relative adjective, in particular where garments were concerned, I didn’t worry too much about it: as long as the clothes made me look casual but attractive, that was hot. I deliberately took my time changing, tucking and sucking in everything that seemed to get in the way of hot . . .
Things had taken an unexpected turn: He had reversed the order of things. I was supposed to find him first. Right then and there it became easier to imagine the end of social media than the end of the affair. He had found me the old fashioned way—surely he read the nametag I had worn hanging from my neck the entire weekend. All he had to do was look me up (okay, yes, Google me) and he would at least find my academic affiliation—the horror! I crawled back to the window. Peered through the blinds. Carlos, my neighbor, was looking straight at my house. Car keys in hand: Beep-beep—and it all went silent. How obnoxious! In any case, I breathed again. I remembered the picture that first pops up when I Google myself (c’mon, we all do it, don’t we?). Let us just say that I look top-heavy and that I could have used a dab of translucent powder on my nose—hey, it was mid-July in Miami and I’d just gobbled up three of Misha’s cupcakes.
Now dressed and ready for encounters of the secret kind, I moved on to Twitter. I’d need to get a Twitter account. How would I approach this one? I’m not even really sure of how Twitter works, let alone how to use it to find somebody whose job is to remain secret—although, let’s be honest, not so good at keeping secrets. I thought about it. Too much exposure and too much trouble. The only thing left to do was publish the story on Nook. That, I could do. And that is precisely what I did (under a secret name, of course). Would he read it? Did secret agents own Nooks? Would he acquiesce to my calling and appreciate my confession? Who knows? All that matters is that I looked back and that I insist on looking. That I won’t take my eyes off from his until he acknowledges that: One, his secret dealings with dictatorships and the daughters of dictators are not so secret and Two, that he should just come out with it and acknowledge that behind all the possible and impossible missions that link us, there continues to be an undercurrent of desire that makes my heart beat faster and his thighs vibrate.
All images are original art by Susannah Rodríguez Drissi. All Rights Reserved.