Geist, p.9
Geist, page 9
“Well, aren’t you looking splendid?” Edgar rambled. “Tonight’s production will surely rake in even more revenue for the company. If rehearsals are anything to go by, that is.”
“Here’s hoping,” Yuko sighed.
She gazed out the window, across the fairgrounds to the slums beyond. Through the billowing smoke, she saw the Pagoda and its scarlet lanterns. She wondered how Victor was handling things, hoping he was okay. She’d never thought he’d threaten Edgar out of raw jealousy.
Then again, what did she expect? Deep down, Victor was a kid.
Cute, but still a kid.
“My dear.” Edgar masked his excitement with a thin frown. “Is something the matter?” He drew a glass bottle from his pocket. “You can tell me.”
Yuko shot him a glare. “What do you think?”
Edgar popped a few pills and took a long swig of brandy. “I think you need to reconsider your priorities.” He wiped his lips with a handkerchief. “Master Roland and I had yet another altercation. He cares for you a little too much if you ask me. Think of your future. Charity may be a virtue. However, what can you give if you have nothing?”
“You don’t….” Yuko’s words trailed off. “Never mind.”
Edgar’s eyes fell upon the photographs along the far wall, commemorating his greatest achievements: opening his first store, the collaborations with Doctor Murdoch, the company’s first factory, and when he had first proposed to Lady Himiko Fukuhara.
“How you remind me of your mother,” his voice softened.
“Not surprising,” Yuko said. “Considering how you designed me.”
“It’s more than a mere template.” Edgar sat down, fiddling with his flask’s lid. “You have her spirit and compassion. Even for those who may not deserve it. Let alone pay.”
“There’s more to life than political gain,” Yuko said. “There’s—”
“Love?” Edgar smirked. “If there’s one thing I know, it’s that love is just as unrelenting as hate. And it, too, can fade in time. There is no room for love in Yoshiwara, my dear.”
“I wasn’t going to say that,” Yuko snapped. “I don’t love Victor. He’s sweet and cute, but it’s not enough. He’s young. Fragile. He’s talented but an idiot at the same time. Like a stained-glass window begging to get shattered by some tramp. Still, that doesn’t mean I’m shackled to you either.”
The chocolatier’s eyes darted away. “Yes, I am well aware of this.”
Yuko saw the cracks in Edgar’s armor and ego; his lips began to tremble. She laid her hand over his, only for Edgar to flinch as if expecting a terrible burn.
“Didn’t mean to lash out,” she said.
“It’s all right,” Edgar said. “I am still hurting—quite a bit, to be honest. I’ve been fasting from most things we used to enjoy. I must reflect and purify my conscience.”
“I know,” Yuko admitted. “We haven’t exactly fucked since she died.”
Edgar admired her curves and design. “No one is ever truly gone, my dear.”
Yuko sighed but held her tongue. “I’m going to need a drink too, at this rate.”
“Indeed. It may refuel your batteries.” Edgar handed her the flask. “To be perfectly honest, I give so much to see others experience joys I cannot anymore. I’m no fool, Yuko. I’m not getting any younger, let alone happier. I beg of you, don’t repeat her mistakes.”
“I don’t plan to.” Yuko took a long drink. “Because they’ll be mine.”
Edgar smiled sadly and stood. “Then you’ll need such liquor more than I.”
Before Yuko could respond, Edgar departed, shutting the door behind him. Too bad his lithium didn’t kick in sooner. She turned to the window; the main entrance of Xanadu was locked, and what gates remained were heavily patrolled, closing soon.
Slowly, her thoughts drifted back to Victor.
Unlike the giddy playboys, he was genuine. That’s what scared her. If things continued, Yuko would be his first in every respect, and her infatuation would implode into tragedy. Virgins were fun for one-night stands, but getting attached was dangerous. She’d seen it before. And yet, beneath her roiling sea of cynicism, Yuko knew it came down to a simple truth.
I don’t want to be that heartless bitch. I don’t want to hurt him.
She cared in her own way. “It wasn’t love,” Yuko repeated to herself, trying to switch off emotional variables and reconfigure her endorphins. And while a cut wire could override many things, such anguish wasn’t sedated so easily.
Only your naive ass could make me feel this way.
#
Down the back corridor, Edgar listened to his own hollow footsteps passing by the sandbags and unpainted props. No actors or stagehands lingered. He was alone once more. Until the world chilled and dimmed. Static filled the air, hissing and growling as if taking on a will of its own. Leaning against a wooden crate, Edgar shivered, trying to repress the “hunger” until its thoughts became words, worming their way behind his ears.
You’re taking too long. Time’s running out.
Edgar clutched his stomach, salivating, vision warped by sharp contrasts, black and white. All sound faded from the theater, save for a voice, tempting him into impulsive action.
Edgar tried to cling onto a semblance of self—
The real you? Such foolishness. I thought you’d learn.
Edgar glanced over his shoulder, spying a television in a shadowed corner. Its screen flickered on. He couldn’t see anything clear or tangible, but Edgar recognized the silhouette all too well, whispering from the speakers as if yearning to break free.
You know what we crave, what drives us to do great deeds. Our flock needs guidance to survive in this wicked world. Thugs and whores alike, they are lost without our light of salvation. You must prove yourself better than them. Only then can you achieve your purpose, to sate our desires—to become what you were born to be.
Edgar tore at his thin hair. That voice, almost audible, gnawed at the back of his mind. A tempter from within and without. Indeed, it chuckled, relishing another victory.
You alone know what needs to be done. This starving city cannot nurse itself back to health…not without a savior. One who can quell their madness at long last. One who will end the famine of their souls. One who shall purify them with the flame.
The screen sizzled off; color returned to Edgar’s sight as he cracked a defeated grimace, accepting the hunger. He would finish what he’d started, for the end was near.
“Until then,” he said to himself, “the show must go on.”
CHAPTER TEN
Beatrice’s motorcycle screeched to a halt at the road’s end. As she shut off the ignition, Victor dismounted and sprinted up to Xanadu’s entrance. The air reeked of burnt popcorn, sulfur, and cordite. Neon signs flickered off, one by one, while searchlights waved over the midway’s walls, advertising tonight’s premiere. The Electro-Jazz Orchestra tuned over the loudspeakers, tantalizing hope in Victor yet, as he clutched the Dollmaker’s letter.
Hang on, Yuko. Don’t worry, I’m coming.
Deaf to Beatrice’s warnings, Victor arrived at the ticket booth, where the uncanny attendant greeted him, that false grimace wider than before. Catching his breath, Victor leaned on his electro-staff, trying to repress his rage, boiling in a froth of madness.
“Why hello there, little boy or girl,” the attendant’s voice was staticky. “I regret to inform you that our phantasmagorical exposition is now closed. The World’s Xanadu Exposition is open each and every day from 8:30 to 20:30, including all paid holidays and weekends. I apologize for the inconvenience, but assure you, our exposition will—”
“Quit the Stepford bullshit,” Victor snapped. “I don’t have time for this.”
Beatrice caught up with him. “Dude, slow down.”
“What are you standing there for when she’s in danger?!” he screamed at the labori. “Is your boss going to own up if something happens? Is Edgar going to drop a fucking penny for a soup kitchen on her behalf, huh? Say something, you semi-sentient trashcan!”
“I have detected one expletive, one implied threat, and one-and-a-half miscellaneous insults,” the attendant said. “I must ask you to not verbally assault the front-end clerk. We get paid exclusively in the joy we spread. Please, don’t make us cry.”
Victor twisted the knobs on his staff, setting its gauge to “EMP,” when Beatrice gripped his wrist. His eyes jerked up and met her piercing gaze.
“Don’t,” Beatrice spat. “There are other ways.”
Victor was about to refute her, but a flicker of sense prevented violence. Stationed about the entrance, surveillance cameras whirred, zooming in on him. Victor took a step back and wiped the sweat off his brow; charging in blindly would only result in swift arrest.
“S…such as?” he managed.
Beatrice jerked her head aside. “This way, c’mon.”
Uncertainty flooded Victor’s mind—however, trust in Beatrice outweighed his doubt. She led the way deep into the shadows and crouched behind a trimmed hedge. It took a moment for Victor to catch on until he saw a loading dock lined with carriages, all drawn by automated stallions of black steel. Ductworks wound in and out of the warehouse, wide enough for anyone to crawl through—a perfect route.
“Shit,” Victor chuckled, calming down. “How did you find this?”
“Saw it while you rushed at the ticket guy,” Beatrice said. “Listen, if you want to reach out to Yuko, you need to be discreet. Remember what I told you?”
Victor nodded. “No giggling. No hand puppets.”
“Don’t get caught, is what I mean.” Beatrice paused as if noticing the vacant look on Victor’s face. “In gamer terms, ‘tactical espionage action.’ Shoot for the dressing rooms during intermission. Only don’t actually kill anyone. Please. I know sneaking in seems crazy, but—”
“I don’t care,” Victor said. “If she needs me, I’ll do whatever it takes.”
“You’re a romantic, all right. Passion bordering on stupidity.” Beatrice shook her head, stifling a bittersweet laugh. “I’ll wait for your lovesick ass by the bike.”
“Y…you’re not coming with me?” Victor stuttered.
“Someone has to watch our ride,” she said. “Besides, this is your hour of Aspie heroics. Yuko’s waiting for you too. In her own damaged way.”
Victor couldn’t help but smile. Beatrice’s words cast fleeting light upon his dread. He clenched his fists, knuckles whitening, recognizing the fanfare of the ‘Playboy’s Polka.’ Distant applause echoed from the Grand Electrified Theater. Victor glanced over his shoulder, about to thank her, but Beatrice was already gone, leaving him to infiltrate Xanadu alone.
The Dollmaker’s eyes are set. I need to warn Yuko.
#
Victor crawled through the ducts, trying to muffle his movements. Maybe he was gaining weight, but these tunnels were tighter than he’d anticipated. A burst of exhaust chilled him, but Victor followed the dramatic overture. Midway through the maze of iron, he gazed upon the production below, blinded by its garish lights and set design.
The dancers are awfully clothed, thought they’d be— Oh! N…nevermind.
Against the gathering smoke, Victor saw dozens of can-can dancers, those in front of mortal flesh, those in back mere animatronics; every skirt of a different color and pattern, yet every face painted pale with scarlet lips. Such choreography was almost enough to distract from their bare breasts and fishnets, synthetic or otherwise.
A…almost.
Despite his resolve, Victor noticed the bulge in his slacks. Before a mural of weird twilight, the stage itself was composed of bordellos and opium dens, “the Mysterious East” through glamour-tinted glasses, where geishas and courtesans were one and the same.
If Baz Lurhmann and Kurosawa had a “child,” this would be it.
Though Victor continued his long crawl, the Electro-Jazz Orchestra lingered in his ears, a fusion of roaring guitars and sonata form, catchy and cadent, appealing to even his elitist tastes. Backstage was nearer than he’d expected. When the overture ended, the lights dimmed, and voices carried from the halls below. Victor paused, trying to make out a few words.
“Gentlemen,” Edgar called, a twinge of urgency in his tone. “I am updating our security protocols. I want two of you stationed at each and every dressing room.”
“Why the change of plans?” a gravelly voice replied.
“This is opening night,” Edgar replied. “Who knows what sorts of…paparazzi will come knocking. None can interfere with our debut. Let alone tamper with our timing.”
“Does this mean we get a raise, finally?”
“Do I pay you to complain, Thornton?” Edgar snapped. “At your stations. Now.”
The bouncers walked off, murmuring among themselves. However, Victor still heard Edgar tapping his cane and the ragged breathing of a familiar manservant.
“They don’t understand, brother. Nor will they ever,” Edgar said. “This isn’t about profits or my own prestige. So long as the masses are sated, I’ve done my duty.”
Brutus sighed as if in agreement.
“No matter.” Edgar tried to pep up his tone. “Besides, I’ll entrust you to watch over room thirty-six. She’s your special ward tonight. You know what that entails.”
Fan-fucking-tastic.
Victor bit his lip lest he give away his position; Brutus playing as Yuko’s bodyguard complicated matters. Trying to salvage a “plan B,” Victor ignored those creaks as he shifted his weight. Hearing the hulk shamble off, Victor lifted the iron grate—until the vent collapsed with a rusty shriek as he tumbled and crashed atop a hollow box.
S…shit!
Disoriented, Victor clawed and stumbled like a startled housecat. The door slammed open. Amidst his panic, Victor curled his knees, huddling against the cardboard. Eyes shut, he waited, listening to every bootstep and murmur.
“Probably just a couple of rats,” a bouncer said. “C’mon, man.”
“Sounded way too big,” his coworker muttered.
“Whatever,” the first replied. “Pest control is extra. Worst case scenario, it’s another fanboy. We can get better jobs easy too. Wanna take a smoke break?”
“Yeah,” the second sighed. “Got the good shit?”
When the bouncers left, Victor mustered his courage and placed the box aside. Judging by the surrounding crates, this was a storage room. He sneaked over the stray props and masks and peered past the open door; the corridor was unpatrolled.
Can’t afford to ruin this now.
The backstage halls twisted and turned in ways no sane architect would design. Then again, Edgar was involved in all aspects of his monopolies. Victor tread lightly, despite his wide-eyed paranoia. He jolted at every clap and cheer, glancing over his shoulder. Not even Fugue for ‘59 Gibson in C Major distracted him. The shredding solo continued what Victor hoped was the first act. Keeping low, he carried on, until—
Wait, a piano piece? A somber shift, yet somehow hopeful. What’s happening?
Victor’s curiosity got the better of him. He halted and squinted through a crack in the wall. The stage lights dimmed to a nocturnal blue, then came a voice. Victor listened to the aria, to the mezzo-soprano, unable to recognize such a language; only the singer.
Yuko….
He forgot how to breathe, let alone think. “Moonlight” illuminated her nude figure, still and statuesque, a muse hewn from a slab of marble, gifted with life by her sculptor alone. Her voice was impeccable, harmonious with the sighing strings. Victor had never realized her talent; his guilt grew. Music was a universal language, that much he knew.
Despite his social idiocy, he understood music as well as his own pretentious vernacular. Perhaps more so. Victor’s fingers twitched, trying not to “conduct” in tune. While he’d heard such laments before, in concerts and niche JRPGs, they never ceased to usher tears.
Tonight, Victor wept more than usual.
Moderate tempo, expression of gentle feelings. Aria di Mezzo Caratte….
His eyes bulged as empathy breached his mental floodgates. Only now, through music, did he comprehend her pain. Though Victor questioned this world’s reality, he’d mastered his sense of self. Yuko never had that luxury. She doubted her own humanity if one could call it that. Blessed with sensual beauty, cursed with the world’s apathy, and thrice-damned by her own artifice. Her condition. At that moment, Victor realized the song’s translation.
Aria of half a character.
Overcome with despondency, Victor shuddered, trying to find a solution to their relationship’s flaws. Was there even an answer? The lights flickered on, pale and mundane. Dragging himself out of crisis, Victor heard murmurs and footsteps filling the theater.
“We will now have our fifteen-minute intermission,” an announcer called over a loudspeaker, “accompanied by a pre-recorded minuet. Please use the loo, and purchase a refreshment or two. Return to the auditorium for the climactic second act.”
Second Act. Intermission?!
Time was running out, that much Victor knew. Bottling up his shame, he barreled down the corridor and past the cameras. Stealth lost its importance, and heartfelt confessions could wait. Only warning Yuko mattered—he’d see this through.
#
Victor’s heart throbbed in his chest. He evaded the bouncers as best he could while maintaining speed and direction. He followed the room numbers, counting down.
Thirty-eight, thirty-seven, almost there— Oh God!
When he turned the corner, Brutus was already waiting. He laid a hand against the intruder’s chest, uttering a growl of hideous anger. Victor froze in terror as the simpleton giant towered over him. A moment’s silence passed, broken by a madman’s cry outside. A fly landed on Brutus’s scalp, but he remained still, even as Victor glanced past the hulk’s girth.
