The wind

Things didn’t go right from the very beginning. Mr. Valerian Tudori, his baby face shaved squeaky clean, his dimples ready, hopped down the aircraft steps, and almost moaned with pleasure as the soles of his shoes bounced against the tarmac. It must have been the whiff of that wilderness and freedom – the slogan of his own creation – that leaked into his brain. For the thing was, Mr. Valerian Tudori, though still quite young and fairly sporty, usually took his job too seriously to hop in front of anyone who drove directly to the plane to greet him. Valerian threw a haunted look at a mountain of a man locked in a business suit and commanded his dimples to stay in place. “Anemon Agriani,” the man said, reaching out for a handshake to the protest of the stitches in his suit, “the mayor.” People of this build squeezed hands like sponges, so Valerian composed himself in order not to wince, and then winced anyway. It wasn’t the handshake though – confident but almost caring – that contorted…