Chapter 2.2
The next customer was the middle-aged man seated at the center of the bar counter. His name was Xara Edigio. He wasnât quite a regular yet, but had started frequenting the place often as of late. Cyril hoped heâd become a regularâbut that didnât seem likely.
He always came in wearing a gray suit, so the other customers had taken to calling him âthe pigeonâ in hushed tones.
Xara Edigio was a man of many secrets. He never even briefly mentioned to Cyril what kind of work he currently did. Still, Cyril had a feeling his name, at least, was real. Xara, who said he had traveled all over in his younger days, was remarkably well-educated, something rarely seen even in Downtown.
His vivid stories of far-off places were a particular joy for Cyril, who found it hard to ever leave the East.
Honestly, compared to the others, Xara was one of the easier people to deal with. There had only been one time he put Cyril in a difficult spotâwhen he opened up about his past and started bawling.
When a middle-aged man who usually seemed so dignified suddenly cries like a five-year-old, it doesn’t make you uncomfortable so much as feel sorry for him. But that’s only when it lasts an hour or two.
If someone grabs you and cries until eight in the morning, even someone as seasoned in customer service as Cyril would be ready to drop dead.
That night, Cyril gave up on going home and pushed some tables together to sleep on top of them. After that, he decided not to bring up Xaraâs past any further.
Xara had arrived at 6:10 p.m. The one who came after him was the last of todayâs three regularsâŠ
âUna!â
Just then, Cyril happened to glance over and saw her with that same red cigarette in her mouth again, and he shouted.
Heâd told her time and time again not to smokeâit was hard to air out the basement, so the smell lingered. But she never listened.
Una lowered the cigarette from her lips and waved her hand as if to say sorry. But the way her face was smiling slyly, it was obvious sheâd try again when he wasnât looking. This time, for sure, heâd kick her outside. Cyril carried over the two cocktails to the table where Una was seated.
âWhereâs Rune?â Una asked as she accepted her Apple Martini.
âI sent her on an errand.â
âTo where?â
âThe hat I bought her last time was too bigâit kept slipping off her head. And sheâs at that age where sheâs constantly darting around. I figured the hat was uncomfortable, so Iâm having it made into a necktie collar instead. So she was delivered to the tailorâs along with the hat.â
âBy now, she must be getting her measurements taken with that stiff little face of hers. Must be adorable.â
âAssuming the tailor isnât just playing around with Rune using the measuring tape.â
As he replied, Cyril glanced down at his wrist. The watch strapped to a black leather cord was ticking along steadily. It had already been four hours since Rune met with the tailor.
Cyril pictured the short-statured red-haired tailor. How she, despite claiming she couldnât keep pets due to her line of work, had looked at Rune with a flushed expression. Strings and tape measures were some of Runeâs favorite toys.
âJealous. Set up a meeting for me too, Cyril. Iâll bring fancy jerky.â
âIâll ask Rune.â
Cyril gave a vague answer, then turned toward the table next to Unaâs.
âYour Black Russian.â
He placed the glass down on a pitch-black paper coaster. The man smiled at him.
âThank you.â
Looking into the manâs gently creased eyes, Cyril once again thought, how truly strangeâŠ. An Uptown person, all the way down here.
Downtown did have the somewhat of a commercial district, but more often, it referred to the turf of the working class and the underprivileged. A metaphor, comparing it to the lower-class laborers who used to live beneath the castles in medieval times. The affluent upper tier of the city was Uptown. The middle class stayed in Middletown. Below that were the impoverished slumsâDowntown.
In the Free City of Orgel, there were no formal classes. Which meant that as long as you had money and power, anyone could aim for Uptown. But conversely, it also meant that anyone from Uptown could tumble down to Downtown.
In a city where the rich got richer and the poor got poorer, no wealth or power was ever secure.
Cyril knew several people who had once lived flashy lives in Uptown, only to lose everything and crash into Downtown. By that point, their minds were too rotted and broken to functionâthey spent their days wasting away on drugs. Just like Una, sitting right beside him.
Still, among them, Una could be said to live a relatively productive life. She worked for Agapia, the company that amassed wealth through drugs, and diligently recruited those around her to become clients. Though whether that could truly be called âproductiveâ was another matter.
Cyrilâs sharp response to Unaâs cigarette wasnât without reason. Her cigarette was different from ordinary ones. That rose-scented cigarette was an addictive kind.
If you kept smelling its lovely fragrance, youâd become addicted in no time. Just like the ad slogan Agapia promoted: Youâll see roses bloom from your skin. A hallucination. Death that bloomed only inside the brain.
But todayâs Uptown customer didnât seem like someone whoâd lost everything and been driven down here, like Una had. When the man opened the door and stepped into the bar, Cyril had felt it. Today wasnât going to be ordinary.
And Cyril wasnât the only one who sensed it.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
As the man descended the stairs and took his seat, everyone in the bar went silent and stared.
