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The Mafia’s underground facility was quiet and lifeless. Even Dazai thought so whenever one of his jobs forced him down here.
There were no rats and it didn’t smell like a sewer, but it wasn’t pleasant either. For several kilometres, a maze of long corridors built with white walls stretched endlessly. The floor was uneven at times, and the little ground and rainwater that did end up forcing its way through the cracks in the ceiling and walls pooled in small hollows in the light cement.
Not all lamps worked. The cold neon lights, that buzzed over his head, were the only source of light that deep underground, and some of them flickered on and off.
The security of this facility was questionable, Dazai thought. Not many guards could be seen here, and as an underground facility it wasn’t safe from earthquakes either. The only times the facility could be considered safe was when the assassins in training were visiting. But even then, not even a group of highly trained Port Mafia assassins could stop a natural disaster.
However, security was not Dazai’s job in the Port Mafia, so he didn’t bother telling Mori any of this. And it was not like Dazai cared, anyway.
His only job down here was the object under his arm that was to be delivered to the sole man that inhabited this facility – what a lonely existence that had to be.
The echo of his shoes hitting the ground bounced off the blank walls and overlapped until it sounded like multiple people were approaching the heavy doors of black steel at the end of the corridor.
Two of the doors were to his left and right, the last one was straight up ahead. All were guarded by one man each, but Dazai was sure that even he could take three armed men if he were to play his cards right.
The guards recognised him instantly and one of them opened the door straight ahead. Dazai told them to leave the doors unguarded until he came back and slipped into the room as the door fell shut behind him.
“Knock, knock,” said Dazai, bored. “I come with a delivery.”
It was a sad room. Even though the neon lamps were replaced by a lamp that gave much warmer light, the room still felt cold. It lacked furnishing and the few lousy attempts at decoration were half-hearted. None of them had been done by the man who resided here, however. Sometimes his students brought gifts, an early sign that they were too soft to be an assassin in the Port Mafia. Their presents just ended up catching dust and withering away.
“Ah, Dazai. It’s you.” A tall, blonde man sat by a small table. Before him was a plain cup with a hot liquid and a notebook in which the man had been writing. He put his pen down to give Dazai his undivided attention.
The man was not on his guard – at least that was how it would seem to a normal person. He sat in his chair, relaxed, with his eyes tiredly gazing at the visitor. But Dazai knew better. This man – Verlaine – was a monster. Dazai had witnessed it first-hand.
As a former spy and assassin, Verlaine was always on his guard. Dazai could feel his eyes reading and interpreting his every move as he descended the few stairs into the man’s living space.
He took the small bundle he carried under his arm into his hands. It was something that felt like a book neatly wrapped into paper, so he hadn’t been able to catch a glimpse of what was inside. Not that he needed to anyway, and Verlaine knew this.
“What is this?” he asked. Any normal person would’ve narrowed their eyes suspiciously or shown a different reaction that would indicate their distrust. Not Verlaine, though. And that was what made him so dangerous.
Dazai shrugged at his question.
“Boss’s orders.” He offered the bundle to Verlaine who took it while thanking him.
“Is that all?”
“Yup. I’ll take my leave then. I don’t want to spend any more time in this cave.” Dazai turned on his heels and walked straight back to the door. Verlaine did not say anything else. It was as if he was waiting for something.
When he opened the door, Dazai shortly looked back at Verlaine.
“Chuuya had a say in this as well.” He didn’t elaborate. Verlaine would understand.
The door fell shut behind him once again.
Verlaine was alone again, like he was most of the time. The only thing that changed when people came and went was the amount of objects Verlaine owned. His students’ presents did not mean anything to him. Everything they brought was merely an object to him that would from now on be his, without him wanting it or appreciating it. He had no emotional attachment to any of those things. If they were to burn in a fire, Verlaine would not bat an eye.
But this felt different. Dazai’s visit had had a certain weight to it that Verlaine was unable to define.
He picked up the gift and unwrapped it. White paper and tape were discarded completely and fell to the ground. What they revealed, however, stopped Verlaine’s heart for a moment.
A plain, black journal. The cover and the book’s back had a few imperfections, a sign that it wasn’t brand new. The pages were a bit wavy and had lost their original purely white colour but it was still well-kept which made it hard to tell how long the journal had been in use before being passed into Verlaine’s hands a few minutes ago.
Regardless, it was not the journal itself that had caused Verlaine’s reaction. It was that he knew that journal. He’d seen it many times before.
Verlaine took a deep breath before he opened it, only turned to the first page. His assumption was proven right; someone had written their name on the inside of the cover in beautifully elegant handwriting with a fountain pen with black ink: Arthur Rimbaud.
Verlaine looked at the name on the page with a blank expression on his face. He was unsure what expression to make in the first place, and he didn’t even know what to think. The name Arthur Rimbaud, as well as the late person in his life who had carried that name, were constantly on his mind. He was the subject of his poetry, even.
Almost against his own will, Verlaine’s fingers wandered over the signature as though they carried a trace of Rimbaud himself. A piece of his soul, his memories. But nothing happened. So, Verlaine turned the page.
Journaling had been Rimbaud’s ‘thing’, as he himself put it when Verlaine had asked one evening. He wrote down everything from his thoughts and feelings to his mission’s details. Not that Verlaine had ever read any of it – Rimbaud had always protected this journal with his life, kept it close, as it could easily be used against him if it were to fall into the wrong hands.
Verlaine had warned him about this many times, but Rimbaud had dismissed him, saying that keeping a journal brought him peace of mind. It wasn’t an argument Verlaine had understood back then, but he did now due to him writing his own poetry.
He turned the page and was met by the first entry.
05 Février xxxx
The mission that has been in the planning for the past months will finally be executed over the following few days. I’ve been warned of a strong Gifted who can cause destruction equal to a natural disaster.
It’ll be a challenge for sure, but with the number of preparations and time that have gone into this mission, I’m confident of its success.
Verlaine shook his head with a faint smile. His former partner had not even bothered to write in any sort of code – the entire entry was written in clean French, and even though he did not give any names or further details, it would be an easy task for anyone to find out what this entry was referring to.
The rest of the entry described a mission Verlaine was very familiar with himself: his own rescue from mind-control. A fateful day, surely, for both of them. Being pulled out of an endless sea in which he had been drowning ever since the day of his creation, unable to move on his own. He had watched his own actions play in front of him like a movie for years and years, until Arthur Rimbaud grabbed him and taught him how to swim.
07 Février xxxx
Yesterday’s mission was successful. I failed to write an entry due to the events of that day, but I will write them down now, as my memory is still fresh.
Verlaine placed the journal on his crossed legs to read better. Reading everything from Rimbaud’s point of view was interesting, to say the least. He took in the words like they were gospel.
The weapon man used as a weapon turned against his master and he’s free now. I asked him what he would like to do now, but after spending his entire life unable to think of his own, making decisions is not something he’s capable of yet.
He did not have a name, so I gave him the one that was mine before. I chose to rid myself of it and I want to give him the opportunity to make his own choices. I wish for him to become his own person one day. A person who can think on his own and doesn’t need to worry about the brainwashing of his past.
Paul Verlaine felt a faint ache in his heart. His former partner had been a kind man who had chosen to protect a stranger, someone who was not even human. Looking back, Verlaine thought that he probably did not thank Rimbaud enough. He had discarded Rimbaud’s attempts to comfort him by reminding him of his humanity and in the end, they had attempted to kill one another.
A feeling of pity washed over him. Verlaine pitied himself, pitied this blind fool he had been all those years. Had he known where this path would lead him, he doubted that he would have made the same choices.
Rimbaud… Verlaine’s fingers traced over the signature at the bottom of the page, then turned it.
The following entries detailed the early days of their time together. They were written irregularly at first, with Rimbaud missing several days at a time that he then shortly summarised in one entry, but he returned to his regular schedule after.
Rimbaud described his paperwork and missions less and less, and focused more on the rather difficult time the two of them had together. How he helped Verlaine make his own decision, how they quickly grew close – after all, they were the only people in each other’s lives that could be trusted.
Verlaine began to pick up on some of Rimbaud’s habits and little things about his personality that he had not previously noticed. How his handwriting lost its elegant style and looked messier when he was upset or had a bad day. He only wrote about what he ate on a day when Verlaine cooked. He was scared of bugs and spiders but insisted on putting them outside carefully instead of killing them. Rimbaud had a gentle side – he enjoyed going on walks and trips to bookstores. He put effort into learning Japanese fluently.
It shaped the person Verlaine had in his head not only by adding little quirks to him but also by bringing him back. At moments, Verlaine did not feel like he was sitting in a dark Port Mafia basement anymore. He was in a new apartment that he shared with Rimbaud, sitting right next to him as Rimbaud was telling him about all those little things himself.
A fond yet deeply sad smile formed on his lips. Verlaine looked up to where Rimbaud was supposed to be sitting but the chair was empty. It was just him down here and that would not change, no matter how hard Verlaine wished for it.
Feeling closer to Rimbaud through his journal ultimately meant feeling his grief more intensely, Verlaine thought. Maybe it was inevitable.
He sighed deeply and turned the page only to almost drop the journal. For a second Verlaine’s heart stopped beating and it took him a few seconds until he was able to continue breathing.
The next entry spread over the left side of the double page. Nothing was unusual about it in terms of style, but what had startled Verlaine was the right page. There was a detailed drawing of Verlaine himself sitting by a window with a book in his hands. His head was turned away and he was looking outside at something that was not visible in the drawing itself.
Rimbaud, who had left his signature beneath the picture, had drawn it with a fine pencil. Despite it being in shades of grey, the drawing felt alive – the light of the setting sun looked soft on his skin and clothing, the little creases in the fabric and his hair were so detailed that Verlaine thought he’d feel it if he touched the paper.
It was like Rimbaud had caught a moment in time and put it into his journal where he could keep it close to his heart.
Verlaine hadn’t known about Rimbaud’s talent until now – just like the other things he had learned about his former partner, it fascinated him. It also surprised him that Rimbaud had been able to capture this moment without him noticing.
The journal entry that accompanied the drawing was no less surprising.
Here’s a picture I drew of Paul this evening. We were sitting in the living room of the apartment, and he was reading a book by the window.
I had a strange feeling, one that I haven’t felt in a long time. I think it was comfort – so, I picked up a pencil and drew the source of that feeling.
It’s been so many years since I’ve drawn anything as I laid down the pencil when I left my old life and loved ones behind. Maybe Paul could be a new beginning for me. After all, I want to be a new beginning for him.
It’s a bit hard for me to describe this. Paul is the one who has a good way with words – his poetry is a joy to read when he writes about his fascination with the world, life and humanity. I do not write poems often, and when I do, they tell stories of death, but I will try to describe this new, positive feeling regardless.
My life regained colour after Paul and I met. I feel joy when we spend time with one another between missions and I actively look for things we might do together. But the quiet moments like the one I captured here are beautiful to me. He is.
I’m wondering if this feeling will continue to bloom in my chest like flowers during spring – but a comparison to the seasons implies them withering away eventually. For now, I wish for them to stay. I wish to bask in this warm feeling for a while. Perhaps I wish for it to last forever.
Yes. I wish for it to last forever.
Verlaine held the journal in his hands, opened at the final page that had been filled. After this entry came nothing more. There was no formal ending, no goodbye – but most importantly no closure for Arthur Rimbaud’s feelings.
Verlaine read the last sentence again and again, looking for meaning in a sentence that lost its most significant part. Rimbaud was gone. There was no way of telling if his feelings would have lasted forever, had he lived. Neither was there a way to know if Verlaine had felt the same.
The former spy loosened his grip on the journal and closed it. He put a hand on the cover, almost as though to hide it from his own eyes.
‘Not good with words, huh’ Verlaine thought as he leaned back in his chair. His lips were pressed into a thin line and his eyes aimlessly roamed the room but kept falling back on the journal. A laugh escaped him, but it changed into a sob.
“Arthur,” he mumbled with a pained expression, “I, too, wish it could’ve lasted forever.”