Geist, p.16
Geist, page 16
“Me too,” Victor said. “But dwelling on hypotheticals won’t change anything. There’s only one thing we can do. Work with the cards we’ve been dealt. Here and now.”
“So philosophical.” Charles managed a smile. “Almost like you’ve read what I loaned you back in college. Especially the Nietzsche.”
“It keeps me going.”
“Whatever works, man.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Adrift in the sea of slumber, Victor was haunted by darker thoughts lurking beneath the waves. Riptides tossed him back and forth as he sank into his own mind. There, in the depths of drowning dreams, he saw the columns and parapets of the Opera House. It was silent and empty, a shade of its former majesty, reminding Victor of his journey’s outset.
The Impresario was nowhere to be seen.
Victor’s footsteps were hollow against the carpet and wooden floor. He passed the rows of seats, down the age-worn aisle, approaching the screen and stage. Victor had never examined the great curtains before, nor had he noticed the moths gnawing on their velvet, circling the projector’s light. The theater reeked of chemical dye, like a darkroom of half-finished film. His effort was fleeting, but Victor wondered what lay backstage, lifting the drape aside.
Left of the screen, he followed the lamps, pale and blue, down the hall and along racks of cellos and trombones, into the warehouse of eldritch set-pieces. There he spied a tall mirror propped against a far corner, gathering dust in the dimness. Without realizing it, Victor stood before the cracked glass, lost in his own reflection. Something was wrong.
His skin was peeling and flaking away until only a rusty wireframe remained. He raised his hands, realizing it wasn’t an illusion. And yet, he didn’t scream or panic, as if this wasn’t his body at all, but a molting shell—a husk to be cast aside. As for what purpose, he could not say. He was an audience, watching his own horror show with empty eyes, slumping onto the floor, knees shattered, until a flabby hand grasped his shoulder and—
Someone was shaking him awake.
“What the—?”
“Good,” Jerry said. “You’re still alive. Left your door wide open. That’s dangerous as hell. Thought you of all people would know better.”
Lost in delirium, Victor barely recognized the suite in the Sunset Pagoda. He struggled to get out of bed, entangled by blankets, not quite remembering his lack of underwear.
“It’s cool.” Jerry shut the door behind him. “Go back to bed if you want.”
Despite the night terrors, Victor did just that.
#
It was well into happy hour when Victor emerged from his room. Tuesdays were always slow until sundown, but the front bar seemed a graveyard. A couple of off-duty watchmen, shopkeepers, and a lonely vagrant stared into their pints. Not a word was uttered, even by Jerry, who tapped his fingers on the counter, staring at a broken clock.
“Well, look who’s back,” the bartender called, “Thought you’d sleep in longer.”
Victor pulled up a seat near the corner. “Me too, considering—”
“Don’t worry,” Jerry said. “Charles and Beatrice filled me in already. Not that I understood half of it. Doctor’s gonna call if anything comes up, right?”
Victor nodded, unsure what to say.
“That’s all I need to know. Now, what can I get you?”
“Did you update the menu?”
“Not in a good way.” Jerry handed him a laminated copy. “We had to let a few cooks go. Can only fry up the same shit in so many ways.” A twinge of embarrassment crossed his face. “If pea soup or bratwursts aren’t your thing, I’ve got a value pack of chips in the back.”
Victor skimmed the four options. “How’s the black pudding?”
“If I hated you, I’d let you order it.”
“Water for now.”
“I’ll make it a double. Just for you.”
Victor smiled weakly.
The minutes dragged on as the ice melted in his glass. Gazing out the window, he barely saw across the street; Holy Gothica was still veiled in yellow-tinted fog. The haze hadn’t leaked into the Sunset Pagoda, and Victor didn’t care to learn if the smell had worsened. As for any deeper meaning, he suspected what the fog was tied to.
“It’s the famine, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Things aren’t getting any better,” Jerry said. “Food rots faster than we can cook it. Canned or frozen doesn’t matter. I can’t serve shit with those white worms. The leprosy was one thing. Lock your doors, and don’t let the damned in your house. But this? Everyone needs to eat. Not exactly a revelation.”
The door swung open; Charles and Beatrice rushed inside, shielding their noses, eyes watery and pink. The barflies glared at them, pounding shots of gin to mask the wafting stench. Charles lunged at the bar, planting himself next to Victor.
“Dude,” Charles wheezed. “I’ll need a gasmask before I go back out.” He waved across the bar. “Gimme a shot. Whatever will clear my sinuses.”
“Slip the rent under my door,” Jerry barked. “Then I’ll serve you.”
“Well, I don’t got a lot of cash, man.” Charles rummaged through his pockets until he pulled out a dime bag of hash rosin. “I mean, I got some oil from the meeting. It’s a little strong, though. Knocked me on my ass. Not sure what the market value for this shit is, honestly.”
Jerry slammed a bottle into the cooler. “From where?”
“Corporate office, I think, over at, uh….”
“Xanadu,” Victor interjected.
“Xanadu, thanks,” Charles said. “Label said, ‘Sultan’s Delight,’ and—”
“That’ll cover you until next month. Easy.”
Charles paused and slid the bag aside. “Groovy.”
The bartender shoved the payment into his pocket and poured Charles a double of top-shelf whiskey. Not a word was exchanged; even Victor knew their petty debts were cleared, though a greater shadow soured any respite.
“So,” Beatrice said, “about shit that actually matters. Yuko’s in for the long haul. No news is good news, and I think Alchemilla has its hands full.” She bit her lip, glancing away. “All we can do is hope. We better give them a few days at least.”
Victor sipped his lukewarm water. “I know.”
“Still,” Charles added, “that’s not to say she won’t recover. Weirder shit has happened in this hellhole, right? And, well, I know you dumped Yuko last night, but in light of recent events, maybe plan something for when she comes home? Use that penniless artist mojo.”
Victor scoffed but said nothing.
“To be fair,” Beatrice said. “You did save her from the depths of hell. Literally. That’s a guarantee for rescue sex. Might be more than a rebound too.”
“Write her a sonnet.” Charles nudged him. “Chicks dig sonnets.”
“You mean serenade,” Victor said, slowly catching on. “I understand that you’re trying to cheer me up. And I appreciate it, I really do, but there’s no salvaging this—”
“No offense,” Charles interrupted. “But when it comes to romance, you’re an idiot.”
Beatrice shrugged. “Yuko cares a lot more than she lets on.”
“Thank you.” The stoner pointed at her. “Listen to Beatrice, man. ‘Alt pinup model’ is practically her second language. Seriously, we’ve got your back.”
Slowly, night befell the slums. Victor basked in petty conversation if only to distract himself for a few more hours. When his friends left for other errands, the worn shroud of loneliness returned, twisting the Sunset Pagoda into a mockery of former joys. And yet, a glimmer of inspiration pierced the miasma of misery.
A serenade? Not a bad idea, actually.
Lifting a pen, Victor dug out a few sheets of staff paper, recalling the waltzes of Chopin. Though far from sound, an unhinged mind could produce the rawest art. As of tonight, Victor had seen such truth in many worlds. Though ill-tuned at first, his piano of thoughts recovered a sense of purpose and perhaps even a second chance.
Without music, life would be a mistake.
Victor had run out of paper well into the night. The crowd was nonexistent. No bouncer or barfly lingered now, save Jerry, who fiddled with the radio knob, searching for a station that wasn’t preaching the latest propaganda.
“Sounds like Psalms or some ‘born again’ shit,” he scoffed.
“I’ll let you pick.”
“Fuck that.” Jerry shut the radio off. “I’d rather commiserate. The bitch upstairs can preach all she wants.” He sighed. “At the end of the day, you can’t eat faith. But if you have five kids to feed and run out of prayers, those grain shipments start to look pretty damn good. And if the fat ass priest can’t outrun the mob? Well, you’re already acquainted with the reds.” He chuckled sadly. “You’d think the jackboots would’ve learned by now. When a king can’t offer anything except lies and bloodshed, he’s just a crime boss with a crown. And if the coffers run dry and you can’t pay your own guns? That’s how you wind up on a gibbet.”
Victor averted his eyes, torn on whether to retort.
“Don’t be shy,” the bartender said. “You clearly have something to say.”
“That’s half of the problem,” Victor said. “The empress may be a cancer, but Edgar is a festering tumor in his own right. People like him, the bourgeois, they keep the cycle going, borrowing time, year after year, saying it’s for our own good. Feeding us the same shit until we’re just malnourished cretins. Bread and circuses. Most of us can’t imagine a world any different, out of fear disguised as comfort.”
“Bread and circuses,” Jerry repeated. “Where’d you read that, huh? Better be careful. You might make someone think.” He slid Victor a double whiskey. “On a local scale, I’m not much better. Especially off-the-clock. Liquor makes it easier to swallow. Until you get liver disease and can’t afford to pay your medical bills. But sometimes, you get a smile, a tip, a good conversation, a glimpse into the decency in humanity, or, God forbid, a customer who’s not an asshole. Speaking of which, Edgar’s not welcome back. Ever. Just so you know.”
Victor downed his shot. “Thanks—”
Just then, a phone rang in the office. Dread tightened its electric grip on Victor’s mind, thoughts screeching to a halt with stark terror. Jerry put the bottle aside and went to the back. Victor didn’t remember how long the call took, only what followed.
“Don’t panic,” the bartender said. “The doctor called. Yuko’s condition suddenly got worse. A lot worse. You’d better get over there. Now.”
#
At the threshold of Yuko’s room, Victor couldn’t hear Cronenberg’s explanation over the howls of madmen, rambling over “gnawing hunger” and “mustard gas.” His eyes were fixed on Yuko’s vacant expression, breathing slow and shallow like a morbid experiment in still life, neither awake nor comatose, trapped in a limbo of painkillers and sedatives.
“In other words,” the doctor said, “she’s in critical condition.”
“Can’t you do something else?” Victor snapped. “Anything? We have electricity powered by music in this city, and you’re telling me a few shots are it?”
“All attempts to alleviate her symptoms were ineffective,” Cronenberg repeated. “A few procedures worsened her condition. Trust me, I wouldn’t have called you unless I thought….” Her words trailed off. “Do you want the truth now or later?”
Victor barely kept himself from screaming. “Can you save her?”
The doctor hesitated. “I’ll send for you if any changes arise.” She lifted a syringe from a steel tray. “For now, I must ask you to wait outside. We’ll do our best.”
Victor paced about the lobby, alone except for the concerned glances of a receptionist. Eventually, he sat on a stitched couch, resting his head in his hands. Such silence was broken by the quickening beeps of monitors.
Could I have done something differently? In the Inferno?
“Figures,” a familiar voice said. “It was a matter of time anyway.” Leng emerged from the men’s room, hands deep in his pockets. “Don’t suppose you want another update.”
“This is all so fucked up,” Victor said. “He really can’t be convicted?”
“I won’t mince words.” Leng sat next to him. “Best case scenario, Edgar gets a new prescription. He’ll be out within a week. As for conviction? The Ecclesiarchy isn’t going to fess up to the Inferno being accessible as a murder weapon. Not unless they admit to covering up some real shit for years. That’d be heresy.”
“He should be burning in hell.”
“Funny you should mention that,” Leng said. “We do have options. Remember, you’re not the only one Edgar’s hurt. He’s a master at slipping away, but still human, right?” He raised a flask to his lips. “Since when did we let ‘the law’ get in the way of justice?”
Victor turned to face his confidant. “What are you talking about?”
Leng glanced at the receptionist, who was distracted by paperwork. “Bastard needs to pay somehow,” he murmured. “Check out the rehab ward, Room 633, second to—”
The door swung open as a nurse ran into the lobby. “Is Victor Roland here?”
“Y…yes!”
“Hurry inside,” the nurse added. “Please.”
Victor did not recall walking to the room, only standing by Yuko’s side. The sounds of life support seemed too distant. The last bastion of his reason was ravaged by a horde of angst and dread; he clutched at the bedside rail, watching Yuko’s eyes shift and dart about as if fading in and out of a vivid nightmare. The machines, breathing for her, towered like ironclad wardens, her perfume replaced by wafts of antiseptic, her mind and wit reduced to a facsimile of awareness enforced by half-life.
“Yuko,” Cronenberg called. “Can you hear us? Do you understand what we’re saying?”
“Victor?” she wheezed, mustering a weak smile.
“I’m here,” Victor repeated, holding her hand. “I’m right here.”
“Why?” She tried to lift a hand to his face. “Why can’t I—?”
“You have to hang in there,” he rambled. “There’s still things you haven’t shown me yet. All the hole-in-the-wall places. Remember that bistro? Where we got drinks and talked philosophy on our date? Isn’t there a cocktail you wanted me to try? W…we can fix this, Yuko. We can make it work.” His voice trembled. “I’ll always be here for you.”
“I can’t,” she choked, as a single note pierced the room, “hear you….”
Victor was numb with hollow shock, deafened by the monotone of life support. Then came the pain. The journey had brought them to this misbegotten place, worse than any cosmic horror or hellspawn. Victor wanted her back more than anything. To find closure, if nothing else. Now she was a corpse, just another doll.
Without a word, Victor wandered down the corridor, head bowed. This wasn’t the first time someone had died in his arms. He had seen enough of Holy Gothica. What had the city brought him, save for false hope and torment? It was time to find a way home. And yet Victor shivered at the thought, carving into him like a medieval torture device.
Regardless of reality, Yuko had changed him and losing her flayed the carcass of Victor’s sanity. Tearing at his hair, falling to his knees, he knew there was no going back. His thoughts stemmed from a noble place, only to be twisted by his own selfish impulses. Victor wept for what could have been if things had turned out even slightly different. He managed a broken laugh; laughing at the absurdity of it all, gasping for breath, trying to ward off the myriad of scenarios racing through his mind: an overdose of happier endings—
Darkness engulfed the hospital.
Victor staggered to his feet. The coming of the Devil’s Hour was no surprise. By its corruption, the hospital was as grotesque as Victor imagined. Not a single nurse roamed the hall, its walls splattered with fetid greys and whites. Murmurs echoed throughout the corridors, distorted into a tortured choir, chanting against the percussion of the cacophony, hymns of human suffering. It was comforting, somehow, having an asylum of peers.
This wasn’t my fault.
Even now, Victor knew better. Such turmoil could warp one’s world, but some truths burned as mantras of determination. Tonight, revenge and justice were one and the same. His ambivalence had led to Yuko’s death, but Edgar killed her.
Victor’s mind was already made.
Room 633.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Whether by generosity or burnout, Leng’s fight was over. In the asylum courtyard, he took a long drag from a cigarette, hands shaking. For whatever reason, the daemons avoided the scent of tobacco. Wandering the hedge-side paths, Leng didn’t pretend to know Victor’s anguish, not that it mattered. It was time to pass the torch. He ground the charred end into the pavement, flicking his lighter on and off. The chance to exact one’s revenge. If months of service had taught Leng anything, it was the greatest gift one could give.
Make it count, kid.
Regrets only hurt as much as he let them. Leng shut his eyes, leaning against the wall. Living or dying, Edgar was a cockroach to him, but some things lingered.
Three months ago. Deductions. That’s when it all started.
Leng’s memory was hazy that far back. When he lived in a flat, just off the strip of Yoshiwara. Soho’s was closing in a week, so strong-arming Thaddeus was easy. It was Leng’s turn to pick the place anyway. Black rain rattled against his coat as red paper lanterns swayed with the exhaust, and throngs of bachelors shambled to the nearest hostel. Business was slow, even for a Monday night: one bartender, one bouncer, and a veil of despair.
