Loitering with Intent

One detail struck me: while L took care of his people (expensive insurance for the Kira Investigation Team, showing visible signs of distress at Ukita's murder), Near was the only one protected by a mask at the final showdown with Light; all the other SPK members were bare-faced.

I have always found it hard to believe Near was a "personable" leader. To me, his authority rested more on cold competence and intelligence than charisma (which L/Mello had in spades). It could be said that Near did not exactly inspire affection or personal loyalty among his subordinates, and he likely was oblivious to the way he affected people. It had more to do with one's particular cast of mind than calculated cruelty; empathy, as well as its outward expression, was indeed often an acquired skill for the emotionally sparse.

If Death Note were a political or institutional drama, it would be plausible to find undercurrents of resentment inside SPK; Halle would disproportionately bear the brunt of his casual dismissiveness, as women often do in such institutions. This could explain the seemingly mysterious bond between her and Mello: both, in a way, were "victims of Near". I find this to be a much more convincing hypothesis than physical attraction or anything akin to that.

It is not difficult to imagine the cracks in Halle's loyalty deepen, either over time or triggered by a particularly egregious incident. Shakespeare would have found this familiar territory: just picture Near having his own "Ides of March", Halle as Brutus and Mello the "lean and hungry" Cassius.

(A short exercise on writing N's interiority à la Josephine Hart)

A decade after the Kira affair, I no longer trust my own feelings.

Not as one distrusts the heart’s wavering compass—that human, all too human error to which even L was not immune—but as one distrusts a habitual liar. A man was useful and consistent, even loyal, and then, without warning, was not. There is a particular contempt reserved for those who break faith wordlessly. I hold that contempt now, and I hold it for myself. An emotion, they say, is a signal. I no longer believe this. I think now it may only be noise — the static a machine produces when something deep inside has come loose.

I found myself outside a dance studio; I had not meant to stop there. But stopping was, I understood now, also a kind of signal, and I had learned not to trust those either.

I put on the dance shoes. Before the music began, my usual partner glided to me across the room. A nod of acknowledgement was exchanged. My right hand held hers, and my left palm was rested on her upper back. I steadied my breath, and let the noise begin its flow.

Tango, I had read, was born in the slums of Buenos Aires. A dance of passion and melancholy in equal measure, performed by men who had nothing else to offer a woman but the warmth of their embrace and the sweetness of their promise. The man leads. The woman follows. Left foot first, and mind her feet. Mello would have liked this. There are so many things in this world Mello would have liked, had I not—

But what I did was only necessary. He would have died regardless. I have known this for years, the way one knows the destination of a train the moment a ticket is purchased. A man of his temperament does not last. Instability, unmanaged, finds its natural conclusion.

If he were here.

He would have made a magnificent partner. He had energy enough for two people, and he never once, in all the years I knew him, learned to be still. He would have hated tango first, thinking it too urbane, but I knew he would come around. He would have loved it dearly, giving it the all-or-nothing dedication so typical of him. Here, finally, passion was not a liability; it needed not to be managed, contained, redirected. It was the very fuel the dance ran on.

I would like to have danced with him. For once, I would have let him lead. There was the mental picture of him, clad in black leather, sharp with the grace of a medieval dagger.

I do not know where that picture came from. I do not keep thoughts like that. I have rules against it, rules I learned before I had the words for what they were protecting me from. One does not negotiate with the game. One does not allow a single block to undo the architecture.

The music stopped. So did the noise.