Geist, p.4
Geist, page 4
“What?” she asked.
“S-sorry,” Victor stuttered. “It’s just…never mind.”
Yuko took him by the hand. “Enough brooding in the corner. For both of us. I’m taking your ass to have some fun, goddammit.”
As she pushed the door open, Victor was blinded by the light outside.
#
Victor and Yuko sat on an iron bench, watching the motley passersby. He didn’t understand how the “weather” could be so bright. Sunbeams trickled past the Iron Sky, almost like the smog didn’t exist, save for the lingering reek of cinders. And yet, Victor noticed something off. Not a single soup kitchen was open, nor did he see a single yatai cart. Odd, considering a month ago, he could buy dumplings and potstickers on any street corner. Then again, Holy Gothica was no stranger to restrictions.
“What happened?” Victor asked. “There used to be noodle stands, restaurants, and whatnot. But now,” he looked away, “well, I’m not exactly seeing a lot to choose from.”
A whiff of decay carried from the alley, perhaps a dumpster, as white worms burrowed into the mud and grit, too large to be maggots or unearthed larva.
“Not sure,” Yuko admitted. “I’ve heard the farms down south are in crisis. Or the grain shipments are, at least. Trains aren’t fast enough. Almost like they spoil because of the city.”
She paused as if trying to backpedal. “That said, Edgar has a monopoly on the independent food industry. He’s bought out Upton Meatpacking Company, local candy shops, craft breweries, among other things. Anything that isn’t state-run, he supplies for a price.”
“I see,” Victor said. “Are they usually closed on Market Day?”
“Everyone needs a day off,” Yuko replied. “Sad, though. Before the Iron Sky, the slums were neighboring towns around the Apostolic Palace. The Industrial Revolution upped the scale of everything, including our problems. It did bring people closer together, I guess.”
“While enabling a police state,” Victor muttered.
“No kidding….”
Along the closed cafes, Victor noticed a line of urchins and working men, eyes heavy and faces thin, winding from High Street to Gin Lane. Everyone had a fistful of tickets at the ready, some with sacks or baskets, as imperial marches played over the speakers.
“Ration cards?” Yuko stood. “Shit, that was fast.”
“This is our daily bread in the Holy Land,” a blackshirt touted a well-rehearsed speech, hosting a stale loaf as a symbol of unity. “We’ve kept these goods safe for such a situation. The heretics lie: there is no famine. Because in the Imperium, there’s not a single home without a warm hearth, a full belly, or needs met. It is our duty to keep that order.”
Anger boiled in Victor’s chest, catching himself by surprise. Between the officer’s rosy cheeks and the gaunt frames of hungry locals, the idea of jackboots on High Street was an insult to his morals. Yoshiwara, for all its vice and seediness, was home now.
“Should I be worried?” he asked.
“Not yet,” Yuko lied. “Must have passed the Banquet Act, though. Figures the bitch upstairs is doing this. PR’s been tanking for years. Now’s her chance to look good. As if we’d forget the purges. Why we’re walled up in Yoshiwara, to begin with.” She took Victor’s hand, changing course to East End. “Just a detour, don’t worry.”
Amongst the townhouses and shingles, Victor noticed a decrepit factory not far away. The processing plant was a colorless blight against the brothels. Faded posters were pasted about its brick walls, depicting workers with the heads of pigs. The windows were boarded, and the scent of broiled meat wafted through the narrows.
“Who owns that place?” Victor asked.
“Huh?” Yuko glanced at the rotting edifice. “Oh, no one. Used to be Upton Tripery, one of the original warehouses. Well, before the epidemic. Edgar bought out what he could. The rest went bankrupt. That one never got demolished, though. Probably slid through the cracks.”
Fear cast a shadow in Victor’s mind. He was reminded of penny dreadfuls and cannibal pie-bakers; Yoshiwara’s history of violence didn’t soothe such thoughts.
“Creepy,” Victor said. “I’ll be right back—”
“You mean, in the middle of our date?” Yuko interrupted. “There’s a lot of shady shit in Yoshiwara. Just because the shop’s abandoned doesn’t mean it’s housing a leper-cult. Besides, the Dollmaker strikes me as too ‘sophisticated’ to operate there.” She kept walking. “C’mon, I know some better spots. You’ll like them, especially the last one. Trust me.”
Victor wasn’t convinced but knew better than to object.
Along the River Noir, Yuko took him to Cannery Row, where wharfs and harbors reached over the black water. The damp air reeked of sewage as fishermen trolled with diesel-powered boats, delivering their daily catches of three-eyed salmon.
“I’ll pass on the sushi,” Victor said.
Just then, his eyes fell upon another sight—an alley leading to a grim cemetery. The grass was grey and brittle as hills rolled about the arboretum, dotted with skeletal trees and unmarked graves. Intrigued, he was about to walk down when Yuko grabbed his hand, standing still.
“Let’s not go that way,” she said.
“Why?” Victor asked. “It’s only a graveyard—” As he caught himself, his eyes widened with shame. Despite his obliviousness, Victor put the pieces together. “Oh.”
“That’s the Harlot’s Repose,” Yuko said. “A lot of people I knew are there.”
Victor’s mind wandered into darker places. No doubt the Dollmaker’s victims lay beneath the earth, all numbered tallies to the grave. A few young men paid their respects. Victor had lost count as to how many were slaughtered. He could scarcely imagine how Yuko felt. Her fear. Victor stared down the alley, spying the sculpture of a bronze telephone pole looming from a tor over the tombs. A memorial commissioned by the Sunset Pagoda.
“I…,” he managed, “I don’t doubt it.”
Yuko pulled him away. “Anyway, there’s one more place.”
Victor tried to smile, but the specter of murder weighed heavily upon him. At the moment, he made a promise to Yuko. Unspoken, yet nonetheless authentic.
I swear, I’ll catch this bastard….
#
If the Sunset Pagoda was a dive bar, then Hatter’s was a true bistro. It seemed like a mansion with its gothic architecture, having a cavernous quality—dim and romantic, appealing to Victor’s sense of style. A thin waiter with a wispy mustache took Victor and Yuko to a table by the koi pond. Victor always preferred a corner booth.
“This is one of my favorite places,” Yuko said. “So out of the way. None of the drunks or gangers come here. Just the locals. They’ve got a great cocktail I want you to try.”
Victor was distracted by the horns and swelling strings on the stage. He tapped in tune to the piece, loving the intensity of its acoustics, almost seeing the chords soar through the air. When the song ended, he listened to the conductor’s speech.
“That was ‘Playboy’s Polka,’ based on waltzes composed throughout the 1700s. However, you may have recognized it from the burlesque production, Shogun….”
When Victor dragged himself back to the date, he saw Yuko smiling at him. His eyes darted away. “Sorry about that.”
“No need.” Yuko sipped her tea. “Honestly, it’s interesting. Almost like you see the world in sound. I wonder what it’s like to see the city through your eyes. You’re eccentric, but in a different way than most creative types I’ve met.”
“It’s been a while since I listened to a piece like that.”
“Not many cafes play it anymore.” She paused. “You don’t really dance, do you?”
Victor stifled memories of ninth-grade swing lessons when he’d accidentally stomped on his partner’s foot. “Absolutely not. Can’t abide all those moves. I have the coordination of a blind walrus.” He saw the look on Yuko’s face. “Not the perfect metaphor.”
Their waiter handed Victor a bottle of root cola with a straw. He took a few sips, trying not to make any obnoxious slurping noises. His mind wandered to places of little relevance.
“I know you’re really into music,” Yuko said. “But is there anything else you like?”
“History, old movies, philosophy,” Victor listed. “Nothing that’s terribly applicable here.” He looked away. What could they actually talk about? It was like going to a foreign country and dating one of the locals—yet another layer of social anxiety. “W…what about you?”
“Well,” Yuko said. “As you know, I’m into politics.”
“Amazing how you haven’t been arrested,” Victor said. “But yeah, I’m mostly a centrist, yet viciously anti-authoritarian. However, the longer I stay here, the more I find myself leaning left. I’m beginning to think people are more alike than different.”
“So, you’re a ‘sane’ libertarian?”
Victor bit his lip. “I don’t think there’s a word for what I am. But, uh, how does being a double-minority influence your opinions? I mean, you’re a woman, and, well…a sex machine. Literally. Not exactly a paragon of privilege.”
“Well,” Yuko said, “I’m practically invisible to the Inquisition, so long as I stay out of their way. That being said, it does suck, being ‘less than human.’”
Victor noticed a glint of pain in her eyes.
“That’s why I fight so hard too,” she continued, “to be recognized and respected. It’s one thing to call yourself a feminist living in luxury. It’s another to be truly destitute.” She laid her hand over Victor’s. “But there are some people who see me for what I am—a person with different wiring. Like this human. I think I’ll keep him around for a while.”
“I should certainly hope so.” Victor blushed. “It’s just—”
“My dear.” The waiter returned to their table. “Is everything as you hoped so far?”
“Oh, yes, Francis,” Yuko said. “Very much so.”
He kissed Yuko’s hand. “Forget the bill. I look forward to our next evening.”
Even Victor could sense the sexual tension, the way Francis moved and looked at her. It made his stomach churn with envy. “Excuse me,” he blurted. “This is kind of a date.”
Francis blushed in embarrassment. “Oh! My apologies, I—”
“Don’t worry.” Yuko waved. “Just book an appointment, and we’ll get to it.”
The waiter nodded repeatedly and vanished into the kitchen. Victor’s mind buzzed like a hive of anger and confusion. His legs were trembling, not knowing how to react.
“I’m so sorry,” Yuko whispered. “I thought he’d catch on.”
Victor didn’t reply. He knew, in theory, Yuko would sleep with other men, but he never wanted to witness any part of it. He realized that now. “It’s fine,” he lied.
“No, it’s not,” Yuko replied. “But if that’s how you feel, it’s going to be a problem. I mean, between Edgar, my clients, and—well, a list probably doesn’t help….”
Though Yuko tried to carry on an adult conversation, Victor couldn’t hear her, trying to focus on deep breaths to keep his anxiety at bay. He tapped in tune to the band, trying to tame his thoughts with rhythm. And yet, his mind was shackled by insecurity.
“Just know,” she said. “You’re my primary, as long as we’re together.”
“W…what?” Victor snapped back to reality. “What is primary?”
Yuko’s eyes dimmed. “We can talk about this later. Do you need a little space—?”
“Yes.”
#
When Victor returned to the Sunset Pagoda, he ordered a double whiskey. His head swam in a cesspool of misery. Liquor didn’t solve anything, but it would help him forget. The door chimed open; Charles and Beatrice joined him. No one said anything for a grueling minute.
“Hey, are you okay?” she asked.
“I’m fine,” Victor snapped.
She laid a hand on his shoulder. “I know it’s about—”
“The Dollmaker?” Charles rolled a spliff. “Shit’s stressing me out too.”
“Yuko and Victor. They’re having a thing,” Beatrice said.
“Oh, I’m well aware.” The stoner pulled his silver hair back into a ponytail. “Hate to break it to you, man. The Dollmaker isn’t only after streetwalkers. You’ve read his letters. That psycho’s after us. We have no idea who he is, only that he’s damn well watching. People close to you are being targeted, and you think it’s a good idea to fall for Yuko?”
Victor looked away. “It’s not like that….”
“Oh, please,” Charles said. “You’re hot over her, like a washed-up singer on meth. But you two aren’t just boning. You’re dating. I mean, I’m happy you finally got laid, but fuck. Not a good idea. Besides, have you ever tried polyamory?”
“N…not really,” Victor said. “But I thought I’d give it—”
“No,” Charles interrupted. “Having an open thing with, I don’t know, Beatrice, would be giving it a try. This is expert-mode polyamory. Like ‘recipe for heartbreak and suicide-by-absinthe’ polyamory. I’m not just saying this ‘cause I’m running out of weed. It’s the truth.”
“Have you ever tried an open relationship?” Victor spat.
“No, but I’ve been cheated on,” Charles said. “That girl back in ‘91? Yeah, I—” His mouth went dry, and he looked away. “Whatever. Shit doesn’t matter. I’ll always have your back, man. But that doesn’t mean I’ll agree with every decision you make.”
There was a long pause as Victor calmed down.
“Sorry,” Charles said. “I just care about you. I don’t want some crazy nympho to ruin your life. You’re naive as shit, but you wouldn’t want me to dumb this down.” He cracked an embittered smile. “Listen to both heads equally, just saying.”
“I know,” Victor said. “But if I passed this up, I’d never forgive myself. She’s—”
“Hot?” Charles sighed. “Hotness isn’t everything, dude.”
With that, the stoner went off for a smoke outside. When Jerry passed Beatrice a bright blue shot, she broke the silence. “You know Charles means well.”
“He’s not the first to tell me this,” Victor said. “It’s just hard.”
Beatrice nodded. “You’re horny and scared. Bad combination. Still, did she say anything? About relationship roles? She’s poly, but that can mean a lot of things.”
“She mentioned that I’m ‘primary.’ Whatever that means.”
“Her primary?” Beatrice repeated. “Shit. That means she values you. A lot. Think of it like Camille. A courtesan, sure, but she totally had a favorite customer.”
“You do know how that novel ends, right?” Victor stared into his whiskey. “Armand ends up heartbroken, and Marguerite dies of consumption. Alone. Not comforting.” He chuckled to himself, sadly. “La Traviata was better anyway.”
“Opera? Yeah, I couldn’t finish the book,” Beatrice said. “Writing was awful. Hated the melodrama and purple prose. Should’ve been abandoned like eugenics. ‘Course, the older movies were pretty—anyway, Yuko’s got a long line of paychecks and boytoys.” She looked him in the eye. “You know the type. Posh brats, sure. But they’ve offered her a life of safety and luxury. Every last one. Far away from here, where she’s at risk of homelessness or worse. And she’s trying it out with you. That should mean something.”
Victor ran his fingers along his scalp, repressing his fears of romantic failure, forcing his thoughts to the Dollmaker. It wouldn’t be long until the Devil’s Hour hit. Until the line between the city and Hell blurred to nothing, and daemons walked the earth in weird silence.
“Can you grab Charles?” Victor killed his shot. “I want to check out a lead tonight. An abandoned slaughterhouse. Something’s wrong with it. I’m not sure what, but I’d rather be paranoid than an idiot. We need to catch this bastard before someone else dies.”
Beatrice stood. “Gotcha. We’ll meet outside ten to midnight.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Whenever the Thirteenth Frequency struck, Holy Gothica was veiled in nightmarish silence, save for the whispers of the Inferno, encroaching upon reality. Victor knew those voices all too well, sobering him with sheer malevolence and their promise of peril.
“Goddamn,” Charles said. “I’ll never get used to this.”
Beatrice said nothing. Meanwhile, Victor felt sharp stones dig into his boots’ heels. Townhouses leered over him as expressionist shadows against the dying streetlights. Victor felt his way along the lampposts; the alleys led ever further to the East End.
Hope I’m right about this. The old tripery isn’t far.
Distant screams carried through the air, none of them quite human. Victor drew his electro-staff with care, a thumb over its knob until Beatrice gripped his shoulder.
“Easy,” she said. “I don’t think the daemons know we’re here.”
“Yet,” Charles added. “Shit’s off. Even more than usual.”
Victor shined his fluorescent light towards the upper windows, only to see scantily clad mannequins—catatonic husks, still and lifeless. Then he heard music through the smog, neither broadway nor opera. A bleak amalgam of arias and butchered lyrics.
Charles stepped towards its source. “Should we cross here?”
“Well….” Victor hesitated. “Considering we’ve gone this far.”
Beatrice sighed and took the lead, past the porcelain fops and harlots. Only the brave or foolhardy retained awareness during the Devil’s Hour. Victor saw something out of the corner of his eye—a silhouette turning a sharp corner, bolting into the smog.
“Oh, that’s ominous,” Charles spat.
Against his better judgment, Victor trailed after the figure. The narrows seemed to warp along the tenements until he came to their destination. Dull and drab, Upton Tripery was an ulcer on the city’s underbelly. Beatrice kept quiet, peering into the darkness ahead.
