Chapter Text
The doctor makes no mention of the previous night—not to question why Garak followed him, not to ask why Garak would care about having been refused casual sex, not to explain his drunkenness or tell Garak whether he’s been able to push the latest memories to the side. The only hint that the previous night happened at all is when he greets Garak and says, “You seemed positively enthralled by The Iliad.”
“It was positively Cardassian.”
Julian looks outraged. “It most certainly was not! The Iliad is—a critique of war and all the pointless savagery that goes with it. The tragedy of Achilles and Patroclus—all of the needless death—”
“You see a critique because your society no longer seeks out war. I see a celebration. You mean to tell me that all of that poetry, all of that—loving description of violence—is intended to demonstrate that the war was wrong?”
“You’re completely missing the point!” He almost shivers with pleasure at Julian’s tone. “The entire war was begun and manipulated by the gods, for their entertainment. Every truly loving relationship was torn apart. Nothing was gained by the death of Patroclus, nor of Hector.”
“I admit to some surprise,” Garak says, “that the war did not end at the close of the book. Human literature seems to prefer a tidy resolution.” Julian starts to speak, but Garak holds up one finger to silence him. “Yes, I do see that the rage of Achilles has—quieted. But I had expected—”
“Oh, if you want to see the war end, you’ll have to read The Odyssey. I don’t think you’ll find that quite as Cardassian.”
“What weakness Achilles showed,” Garak muses. “His pride, and the depth of his—sentiment—for Patroclus.”
“Of course, a man should have no pride, no intimacy in his life.” Julian looks as though he wants to say something more, but Garak can’t help continuing.
“My dear doctor, a spy should have no ego. But his failing was in revealing his vulnerabilities. His display of pride made it clear that he could be manipulated by challenges to that pride. The openness of his regard for Patroclus similarly did so. Agamemnon could have brought Achilles back into the fight with a more subtle demonstration of the dangers that the Trojans posed to Patroclus—there was no need to wait until Hector had killed him.” Garak takes a satisfied bite. His analysis is impeccable. Julian must be able to understand this—the danger of allowing oneself to be manipulated by obvious attachments.
Julian watches him chew for a long time, until Garak begins to feel acutely uncomfortable. “Do I have something on my face, doctor?”
“It’s only that I forget sometimes. What the inside of your mind must be like.” There’s something strangely painful in hearing Julian say that. “I suppose you would never openly demonstrate your regard for anything.”
“I would—” Garak finds himself too ready to answer this question honestly, and diverts to a different truth. “I’m afraid I have openly demonstrated my regard for a well-tailored suit on many an occasion,” he says.
“Ah, so your enemies know that they need only wear poorly-hemmed pants to excite your emotions.”
“Precisely.”
Julian shakes his head at that. “You win, Garak.”
“And what exactly do I win?” Garak suddenly doesn’t want to hear the answer to his question. “You told me there is another book, in which the war concludes?”
“The Odyssey? Yes.” Julian hesitates. “I know that nothing bothers you, Garak, but you might find it—” He can’t seem to find the right word, which Garak finds ominous. “It’s the story of a man trying to get home.”
Something freezes deep inside Garak, something that he can’t allow the doctor to see. “Goodness, why would that bother me?” That impossible desire is a particular weakness of his, too easily spotted.
“All right. I’ll drop by your shop with it.”
Disappointingly, Julian comes by the shop with the book while Garak is occupied with three different customers. It means that Garak has little time to consider the expression on his face—the particular pull of his lips, the lines at the corners of his eyes—as Julian sets the cylinder containing the book on his shop counter. When he starts to walk away without saying anything at all, Garak says, “My dear doctor—”
“Let me know when you finish it. If you want to talk about it.”
* * * * *
There’s something in Julian’s tone, in his carriage, his attitude toward the book, that makes Garak shoo his customers away as quickly as he can and close the shop as soon as he has done so. He replicates a cup of Tarkalean tea, only because he is about to read a book that Julian gave him, and sits in a chair in his quarters to read.
The book is gutting.
Garak rarely finds himself emotionally involved in whatever he happens to read. Cardassian literature has a certain formal structure to it, a symmetry, much like a well-constructed suit or even a Cardassian trial. There is no room for deviation. Even Severance and Solitude, banned as it is, adheres to such a structure. The human literature Julian has given him to read has typically had its own clear structure. Rarely does either Cardassian or human literature present a character with whom Garak can—no, not empathize, but—a character upon whom Garak does not look down in some way.
Perhaps all of these flaws are present in The Odyssey. But it is as though Julian has found each ill-fitting piece of Garak and assembled them into a character to present to him. Odysseus is the cleverest of all and yet his men die and he wanders, exiled, because he believed himself a little cleverer than he was. He wins the war for the Greeks and it is ruinous to them all, but Odysseus is within sight of home before the winds snatch him away. The language, the rhythm, certainly Garak can appreciate these things, but Odysseus—
He reads the entirety of it. He does not sleep.