Part Two Part Three:----------
Michel snatched the phone up from his desk on the first ring. “Hello?”
“Michel, Honey!” came his mother's voice. “How are you?”
“Oh, hello, Mother,” Michel responded, relaxing into his chair. “I'm good. How are you?”
“Fine, fine,” said his mother. “We haven't seen very much of you these past couple of weeks, though.”
“I've been by,” Michel pointed out.
“Well, not very often or for very long,” his mother complained. “Anyway, I want to know if you'll join us for dinner tonight.”
“Oh,” said Michel. “Well, I'm afraid I can't make it tonight; I already have plans with someone else.”
“Oh? That's wonderful!” his mother exclaimed, sounding happier than he'd heard her in years. “Susanne finally came around?”
“Er, no,” said Michel. “It's not Susanne—”
“It's not that Italian woman, is it?” his mother snapped. “Michel, she's no good for you!”
“Mother!” said Michel. He sighed in frustration. “It's not Teresa, either. It's not even a woman.”
“Oh,” his mother said quietly. “Well, Honey, it's okay; I love you just the way you are.”
Michel's face flushed scarlet. “Mother! I'm not gay! It's just—” He glanced up at the open door and saw Susanne walking by, studying a clipboard. “—my friend,” he finished.
“Your friend?” echoed his mother.
“Yes,” said Michel. “You know...” He sighed and lowered his voice. “The 'other Michel'.”
“Oh!” said his mother. “Well, then. What are the two of you doing?”
Michel grinned. “We're going out for Chinese,” he replied. “*Authentic* Chinese; there's a place in Shanghai that he discovered during his travels. Mother, do you know he's seen nearly the entire world? And we both have the same love of sweets! Yesterday, I traded him a box of Chamonix for a box of Ding Dongs. They're delicious!”
He heard the slight hum that usually accompanied one of his mother's deeper frowns. “Michel, I think you need to be a little bit more careful around this man. We still don't know who he really is or who he's working for!”
“Mother, I already told you,” said Michel, “he's not working for anybody. He told me so, himself.”
“That could just be what he was ordered to tell you, though,” his mother warned. “And did you say Shanghai?!”
He winced. “It's only for dinner,” he replied, trying to keep his tone light.
“In SHANGHAI?!”
“He said their food is very good,” Michel tried.
“There are *people* in Shanghai!” she shouted. “People who will see a French geologist flying along-side an American superhero—”
“Mother, they won't!” Michel protested.
“—and then they will call the Chinese army and you'll be taken away—” she continued as though he hadn't spoken.
“Mother,” he tried to interrupt.
“—and they will either lock you up, cut you up, or force you to work for the Communists and I will lose my son! Michel, I forbid you to go!”
Michel sighed. “Mother, none of those things will happen!”
“Do you *know* that?!” she snapped. “Do you *know* that flying all over the world with this stranger will end well?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it.
“Come home,” his mother pleaded. “We can order Chinese. It will be the same!”
For a long time, Michel sat staring at the receiver. Then he closed his eyes, remembering the feel of air rushing beneath him, of gravity letting go... “Mother,” he said quietly, “I am going to Shanghai.”
“But—” she began.
“—I promise I'll be careful,” he said. “He has a way of...not being noticed. I'm sure we will be fine.” There was a long pause. “I'll come see you tomorrow,” he offered.
He heard another one of his mother's hums, but she said, “All right. However,” she continued, “you must make absolutely certain that no-one sees you! Don't take any unnecessary risks, and if you see anyone suspicious, come home right away!”
“Yes, Mother,” Michel agreed.
“And call me,” she added, “so I know you're safe.”
“I will,” he promised.
“Good,” said his mother. “He may be a world-famous hero, but if anything happens to my son because of him, I'll—I'll—ooh! Michel, I have to go to a class. Promise you will come tomorrow?”
“Of course!” said Michel. “I'll tell you all about tonight. Perhaps I will even bring home a dessert!”
“Good,” she said. “I love you, Michel.”
Michel smiled. “I know, Mom. I love you, too.”
**********
It was nice having someone to travel with, even if Clark's new companion didn't know his real name. Dinner at The Fat Duck had been delicious, followed by dessert in Egypt and a friendly debate on sports that had somehow turned into a foot-race along the coast of Africa. Now, the two men sat on a ledge inside the crater of Mt. Nyiragongo, their feet dangling over the smoking lava lake.
Michel looked all around them with an awe and happiness that radiated from him so strongly, it almost seemed to seep into Clark's own mind. “This is the most beautiful place I've ever seen,” he said.
Clark shrugged. “It's okay, but to me, the forest we passed is a *lot* more beautiful. I've always preferred things that are alive.”
Michel whipped his head around and gaped at Clark. “Are you blind?!” he asked, his disbelief nearly tangible. He thrust out a hand over the dark pool. “My friend, look at how alive this is! Do you see how that lava churns, below us? It has erupted no less than thirty times in the past hundred years, once emptying completely in less than an hour. Its unique mineral composition makes it so fluid, that when it flows down the side of the mountain, it moves as fast as a car!” He turned back to the lava. “So much power lies hidden inside this mountain.”
“It's impressive,” Clark admitted, considering the liquefied rock with a new respect, “but just being powerful isn't really the same thing as being alive. Nothing grows, in here. It's just...smoke, lava, and rocks.”
Michel shook his head. “You must expand your definition of life, my friend. Rocks have a kind of life all their own, being born in the heat and pressure of Earth's womb and eventually dying to the wind and waves.”
“You really seem to love your field,” Clark observed.
Michel grinned at him. “We must all have our passions, my friend.”
Clark fell quiet for a while, contemplating the man sitting next to him. “Clark,” he said at last.
Michel's eyes widened. “Huh?”
“You can call me Clark,” Clark continued. “I know I've been a little—evasive—about myself, though I think you, of all people, can understand why. But I think I can tell you, now: my name's Clark Kent.”
“Clark Kent?” Michel echoed. “The newspaper reporter?!” His eyes widened further as realization seemed to kick in.
“Yep,” Clark replied with a grin. Much to his surprise, Michel suddenly punched him on the shoulder. “Hey!”
“*If* you can contact Superman, hm?” Michel parroted, his eyes twinkling.
Clark rolled his eyes. “All right,” he grumbled as he rubbed his “injured” arm. “Though, in my defense—”
Michel cut him off with a wave of his hand. “It's all right, my fr—Clark,” he corrected himself. “I understand.” He watched the lava for a moment. “So, do you like your work?”
“Yes, I do,” Clark answered, grinning broadly. “I've always loved writing, and journalism is a great way to meet people and really make a difference in the world. Plus, I have a partner who's simply amazing.”
Michel thought for a while. “That pretty brunette I met when I was first trying to contact you, right?” he asked. “Miss Lane, I think her name was?”
Clark nodded. “That's right; Lois Lane.”
“She seemed nice,” Michel said, smiling. “I got the impression she really liked me.”
Clark coughed uncomfortably. “Well—ah—her opinion of you might have cooled down since then, somewhat,” he muttered.
Michel frowned in confusion at this, but then seemed to shrug it off. “So,” he said, grinning wickedly at Clark, “are the two of you...?” He let the question trail off.
“What? Oh, no, we're not,” Clark sputtered. “We're just co-workers. She's not my girlfriend or—anything.”
“Ah,” said Michel. He gave Clark a knowing look. “I have a co-worker who's not my girlfriend, too,” he said.
Clark stared down at the lava, re-evaluating the merits and drawbacks of having someone—besides his mother—who could read him like a book. Finally, he sighed. “It kind of sucks, doesn't it?” he said.
Beside him, Michel nodded. “It does.”
“We're supposed to go to Smallville for an assignment, tomorrow,” he continued.
Michel turned to him with a quizzical expression.
“That's the town where I grew up,” Clark explained. “It's in Kansas. I think you'd like it: open fields, friendly people—you should come, sometime. We'll be having our annual corn festival this week.” He skipped a stone across the lava, then leaned back on his elbows, watching it turn red and slowly melt into the pool. “Hopefully, it'll get her to loosen up a little,” he murmured. “Maybe if she has enough fun, she'll stop thinking about work long enough to see me as something other than her junior partner.”
Michel smiled sympathetically. “Good luck,” he said.
