Anonymous 2011/10/20 (Thu) 03:30 No. 37243 ▼ File 131908142537.jpg - (189.32KB, 800x700 , dust in the wind.jpg)
Rain fell incessantly as if wanting to slake the thirst of a parched ground. Figures huddled in greatcoats or under umbrellas scurried in a hurry, often darting from the cover of one building's awning to another. Traffic was heavy, congestion a natural result. The heavy raindrops impacted strongly on windshields, bludgeoning visibility to a pitiful state. The dark clouds made the evening seem older than it was. Without a timepiece it was impossible to guess other than it might have been deep in the night and not merely early to mid evening as it actually was.
I did not waste time taking a cab. Money was something dear to me and I had no intention to waste it frivolously by letting the meter run while immobile. Water poured over the brim of my hat as I walked and ran down my coat in coalescing streams. I regretted the fact that my shoes were not entirely waterproofed and that I did not have an umbrella on me.
Going around large puddles and the rapid streams of water at every crosswalk was time consuming. By the time I arrived, it was really mid-evening. I took my wet hat and coat off, entrusting them to the coat checker. I took my ticket stub and looked around, noting the piano music playing behind closed doors.
The main room was a large space with variable topography. On one side a large bar ran across the length of the room, polished wood counter and padded stools in front of the vast array of bottles and glasses in stock. Several men quietly sat there, nursing a drink and occasionally asking for another from the barkeep. The middle had a few tables arranged in typical cabaret style, in a depressed area (relative to the rest of the room), with a simple wooden stage at the back next to another door. A piano was neatly tucked into the corner by the stage. A few patrons sat at the table, enjoying a meal and drink. Lastly, a few private booths lined the other side of the room, the lighting dimmer and more discrete. The few figures that sat there seemed eager to mind their own business, talking to their companions in hushed voices.
All in all it was an elegant piano bar. The music reflected that, the tempo slow and the notes gentle. The pianist played with no rush, no worries on her face. As a whole, ambiance was one of relaxation, as if this was a shelter from the torrential rains and reality that lay beyond the entrance.
I made my way to the bar.
“What will it be?” A young girl with short hair asked. Despite her youthful looks she exuded an aura of professionalism, a quiet dignity and assertiveness with her work. Perhaps it was only her boyish haircut that made it seem that way. Gender identity was a non-issue with taciturn individuals.
“Scotch, straight up. Stirred.”
The girl nodded and diligently poured my drink in with ice and stirred. She strained and poured into a thick glass.
“Thanks,” I said, reaffirming my initial impression about her work ethic. I took slow sip, turning around in my stool to observe the rest of the room. The place was anything but packed, likely on account of the rain. From what I had heard it was quite the popular establishment normally. Not in the same sense as other, livelier establishments but it was popular among people who wanted to be somewhere discrete and welcoming for a few hours. My type was not a usual sight, I assumed. Perhaps only when meeting someone for business. My type was more at home in a far seedier bar, drowning sorrows and looking for jobs for petty change.
I almost missed the burning sensation in my throat. More decent alcohol was not a luxury I could afford. Things that went down too smoothly, like the drink I had, were not to be trusted. Accepting everything at face value led to getting hurt, it lead to losing important things.
“Say,” I turned to the bartender, she likely thought I wanted to order something, “when does the show start?”
“A few minutes,” She replied plainly, adding with little emotion in her voice, “our star act is on tonight.”
“Lucky me,” I finished off the whiskey. Not wanting to annoy the other patrons just yet, I asked the reserved barkeep, “What kind of act is it?”
“You'll see,” She looked towards the stage. The pianist had stopped playing and was drinking water, likely taking a break. She rested his glass momentarily on the top of the grand piano whilst shuffling around her sheet music.
“Seems like she's popular,” I noted dryly, observing how nearly every patron was stealing the occasional glance at the stage. No doubt there was a mood of anticipation in the room.
“She's... popular,” The barkeep agreed with some difficulty. It wasn't unusual that she knew the star – and probably even had some sort of relationship with her judging from her reaction.
It wasn't my place to pry. Not without cause. I instead ordered another drink. The lights dimmed and a murmur went through the room like a wave. A spotlight fixated on a spot on stage.
As she came into the light, her dress glistened, the smooth and shiny black fabric dazzling spectators. An aura of bewitching beauty was created by her every step and her wholesome little smile. As glamorous and provocative as her entrance and gait was there was something pure about her, something which was quite at odds with the length of her dress and the décolletage. Unpretentious jewelry contrasted with her loud and eye-catching cocktail dress; A simple silver pendant around her neck as well as two earrings inlaid with some minor brilliant gem. The lipstick she wore was likewise not too flamboyant nor too expensive-looking. The fleshy red was something muted, something conservative - a sensible choice for a sensible middle-class girl it told me. Her light-colored hair was done up in a bun held into place by elegant lacquered chopsticks.
Her eyes scanned the dark room, lit with a sparkling inner light that promised boundless energy. It was, in short, part of the usual arsenal of a practiced performer. I didn't know what to expect. The mixed messages she sent were not just limited to her character. She could break out into an aria or into something burlesque and I would not be surprised at either.
The pianist started back up. Slow, melancholic notes filled the air. I watched the girl. She closed her eyes, waiting for her moment,
I don't dream anymore, I don't smoke anymore,
I don't even have a history anymore,
I am dirty without you,
I am ugly without you,
I am like an orphan forgotten by all
Performances like these were always popular. I drank more as I kept my attention fully on her. Singing of loves lost, of times gone by, that sort of sentiment was always popular no matter the style or audience. As she thundered the powerful chorus, she draped herself on the grand piano, her back finding support on the the great instrument's top. It was a brief but powerful action, one which projected the illusion of a vulnerable woman, one who perhaps was singing a heartfelt song.
Like to a rock,
Like to a sin,
I am anchored onto you.
I am tired, I am exhausted,
Of pretending to be happy when they are here
When she finished there was a momentary silence. As if the audience were stunned. They remembered how to applaud soon enough and the room was filled with cheers. She smiled, looking grateful and took her leave of the stage with a polite bow. Two new musicians arrived right after and, along with the pianist started playing jazz music. The girl on the trumpet wasn't half bad, I thought.
“I can see why she's the star attraction,” I observed dryly to the bartender, “She certainly has a stage presence.”
“She's probably the only reason we've managed to do so well,” The bartender admitted with little humor in her voice, “People come to see her.”
“Maybe I will too,” I joked. At least I tried to convince myself I was joking. The idea of drowning my sorrows with a good atmosphere was very tempting. The only drawback that I could see was the rapid emptying of my bank account. Business for me was never certain.
As I was about to ask the bartender more about the singer, a voice cut in, “Ah, I see you've made a new friend there Youmu, about time.”
“He's just a patron,” The bartender corrected.
“Narrow-minded as always,” The voice chided.
I looked at the newcomer with interest. She sat in the barstool next to mine, exuding an air of complete familiarity. Like a long-time neighbor. Her dress was simple to the extent of being plain. A unremarkable little black dress only notable for how subtle and understated it was.
She gave the barkeep a simple order, “Youmu, I'll have the usual and please get another of whatever he's having for our dear patron please.”
“Thank you kindly,” I wasn't about to turn down a free drink. Especially if it was an opening for more conversation. I inquired, “By any chance do you work here?”
“Oh? What makes you ask that?” The woman smiled, her eyes lighting up with a playful glint. Her features were fair and noble, what most people would associate with being from a good family. Her hair was longer than the barkeeps, around shoulder-length and far more feminine in its appearance. It looked well cared for, contrasting the slightly unkempt look of the other girl.
“The assertiveness with which you carry yourself,” I explained. It was more than that but that was the most obvious point to bring up.
“My, you must be a detective or something, how observant,” The woman smiled as if she already knew all about me. It was probably meant to be charming and disarming but I had a well-developed sense of paranoia when it came to my identity. I didn't want to jump to conclusions but I thought I knew who she was. “Relax,” She said as if sensing my thoughts, “I indeed work here. I, in fact, own the place. Say, how did you like the singer earlier?”
The sudden subject change forced me to think about it again. “She was captivating, almost hauntingly so. She definitely has a lot of talent.”
“Thank you,” She nodded, “That was me, you know.”
“I had a feeling,” I said. The thought had crossed my mind but I had prevented myself from jumping to conclusions.
“Oh, really now?” She sounded a little disappointed, “Without the makeup, in different clothes and with my hair down I usually look completely different.”
“Perhaps. But you don't feel different,” I told her. I explained, “There's something beyond clothes and fashion that makes a person who they are. It's their walk, their smile, some might say aura. When you spend a lot of time observing people you notice that there's an underlying spirit that is always there. It's almost impossible to hide for prolonged periods of time.”
“A professional's eye is different,” She concluded. Seeing how I automatically tensed up a little, she added, “your reactions are also different. An observant patron one moment and a man ready for anything the next.”
“Are you playing with me, darling?”
“Not at all, that's the kind of thing a flapper would do and I absolutely disapprove of that.” She introduced herself with a familiar little code phrase, “I'm Yuyuko, owner of the [i[Rainbow Dream[/i]. Wouldn't you say that Gensokyo is a breadbasket full of queer and colorful folk?”
“Yes,” I replied as was expected, “It is the home of foppish and puissant mice. I'm Max.”
“I knew that from the moment you came in. I know all of my regulars and I've been expecting you.”
“I expected a patron not the owner to be the contact,” I spoke softly.
“So would most people. I have a history with her, which is why she chose me. She needs people outside of her current life.”
“I can understand that, so is there somewhere more private where we can speak?”
She led me through a door behind the bar and into the staff-only section. We sat down in a small lounge with a sofa and a few chairs, the dirty dishes piled on a nearby table indication that this was a staff break room of sorts.
“There was something else,” I said before we began.
“Something else?”
“The pendant around your neck, the silver butterfly,” I indicated, “you also wore it on stage. It was a dead giveaway.”
She giggled, “Oh my, what an amusing man you are. I'm starting to understand why she chose you for this.”
“I've never crossed paths with her before, it's unlikely she knew what I was like.”
“Acting coy in front of a lady? I won't pass judgment on your skills or intelligence so I ask that you please refrain from doing so with me in turn,” She chastised in a playful manner.
“Very well, I apologize, so how exactly does this work?”
“You tell me what you've found out and I pass it on, “ She stated, “Alternatively, you ask me for assistance with something and I see what I can do. I am your go-to person when it comes with dealing with her, simply put.”
“I don't have anything to report at this time, I'm still doing a lot of legwork. Casting a wide net, seeing what gets caught. If anything,” I told her in no uncertain terms, “She should not expect any reports from me. When the time is right she'll know what she has to know.”
“What a frightening professional,” She smiled, not at all fazed, “Such intensity.”
“No less than your singing.”
“A flatterer too,” She laughed, “How charming.”
“A silver tongue is necessary in my line of work. People reveal more when they're off-guard or disarmed.”
“Well, well, I could say more about that tongue of yours but I'm afraid it would be a tad uncouth.”
“As long as we understand each other,” I smiled.
“So is there anything I can do for you? Anything you need from her?”
[] “I'll be seeing her soon, tell her to wear something saucy.”
[] “Open a tab for me, I might be coming to see you sing more often.”
