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Below the hills, clearer skies transitioned to the valley of ash. With a squint, he had found its dusty constructions, spreading like ice crystals into towering, grey buildings. A brick road, formed from that same substance, arrived at his feet, covered in another layer of liquidous muck.
The city of productivity, of prosperity, and of freedom; it is where one’s aspirations climb toward the sky and reach the metal-caged stars dotting the street. Where there is always movement - a rickety carriage, young children vandalizing the roads, groups of men smoking in the alleyway. Pedestrians hurry along the road as the evening lights slowly come on: with a seething buzz, the theater sign displays its wondrous colors like a prideful peacock; the dance room is bursting with noise; and bars with loud music (and even louder laughter) meet at the corner. Someone is selling clams; someone else is stopping to select a few. Across the street, a lone peddler plucks his old, wooden instrument.
This was his first time approaching such an environment. ‘It’s certainly a lot more ratchety than my neighborhood, ’ he noted, obviously. Even though the sky had gone pitch black, the day seemed far from over; artificial lights supplemented the sun. Everyone flooded the air with a suffocating want, the current coursing through with panicked ferocity.
He headed north. A group of girls, seemingly on their way to the theater, stopped to chat with him, clearly impressed by his attire. He offered polite pleasantries before declining their request to tag along.
Everything was illuminated by a soft, yellowish light; it made his skin seem a sickly color, and the cloth on his body seemed old and rotten. All that had edges was smothered in this fog, mixed in with the smoke of a million cigarettes. He let himself melt along. Then there was the smell of something wet on the ground, then another aroma flowing with the scent of butter, and then something bitter. Another woman called to him. He declined another offer.
When he finally got bored with walking aimlessly on the road, he entered a little restaurant tucked away in the back part of some large apartment building. The door provided no barrier between the chaos within and without.
Some haggard man ran to and fro, barely keeping the liquid within the cups as he slammed them onto the tables. Many men congregated at a decaying maple table, howling with laughter as they fiddled with cards.
“Hello? May I have a table for one?”
No answer.
Glasses thumped against the counter where bartenders performed their duties. Yet again, the craziness of the atmosphere kept going around and around, efficient as a machine, until there was no moment of rest.
“Come with me, mister,” an elegant, feminine voice called from behind him.
The waitress was a stout woman, a vibrant waterfall of beige cupping her face. She seemed determined in keeping all remnants of ash off her pale skin, keeping the lips plump and inviting, and cheekbones high.
“Please, lead the way.”
The woman clearly held herself to a higher standard than most of the downtrodden laborers. A tight, cream corset hugged sensually over her curves as her antique dress swirled like waves crashing against shore; she had also worn high-heeled shoes - the newest sensation. Although, he scrutinized, she had worn the wrong shoes for the occasion, and so the illusion collapsed in on itself. She was just like everyone else.
He followed her to a small table in the corner, perfect for spectating the riff-raff of the bar, each conversation at the tables appearing rough and savage. Or was that the newspapers talking? (Alcohol, the great ruiner of family and civility itself - his father would kill him if she found out where he was at the moment.)
“There are two chairs; I am a party of one,” he noted.
“Tables simply come that way. Why not go to the counter then?”
“I do not drink.”
“A shame.” The young woman clicked her tongue. “Just pretend your grandfather’s ghost is sitting across from you - it’ll do.”
He almost chuckled; the girl was clearly experienced in conversation. “An interesting proposition.”
“I find yelling at the old corpse to be most entertaining; the perfect substitute for whiskey. Now sit down and get comfortable, would you?”
Complying, he scanned the room again, letting the chaos subsume his soul and play his heart strings with vivacity, to let the vibrations thump with overwhelming passion within his chest. A breathtaking experience, albeit, he quickly detected a small problem- where was the woman’s uniform?
“You are not a waitress here.”
“Hm? Really?” She tilted her head.
“Please, if you could lead me to an employee at this establishment, I would greatly appreciate it. You ought to understand the repercussions of your juvenile actions.”
“Pssh,” she scoffed, “I’m a close friend of his. And look around - if they’re not too drunk to know they’re alive, they’re all too busy running amok, serving or listening or cooking. Despite your attire, no one has looked once in your direction - well, excluding me, of course.”
“Then, missus, is there a menu I could peruse?”
“I could recommend some dishes to ya. Although I wouldn’t wanna offend Mister Sophisté with subpar service.”
Grunting, he stood up from his chair, the wooden legs groaning as they resisted against the grainy, uneven flooring. Seeing his action, the faux-waitress hastily added, “I’ll get you a discount.”
He laughed. “Do you really think I need a discount?”
“Got me there, monsieur. But, I know all the specials here, the best meals, their entire alcohol catalogue - I’ll get the kitchen your order straightaway!” she said with ferocity, utilizing a smooth and polished voice built up from countless repetitions. Apparently, she was quite the businesswoman.
He was curious about why she could not put more effort into her formal job rather than intercepting customers at a modest eatery. Many would argue that this precious time could have been spent better laboring.
“What is the best entree?”
Crack! She snapped her fingers, the sound mimicking the flick of a light switch as something clearly entered her brain. “Salisbury steak. That would be perfect.”
“Oh?” Was steak truly served in this restaurant? He was momentarily stunned. “Could you give a… lengthier description?”
“A bunch of beef loaves, mixed with onions, mushrooms, dripping in the richest gravy - richer than even your suit - sides of mash and beans.”
“Alright. I shall give it a try.”
“Would you like to tempt the devil with some whiskey?”
“No, thank you.”
“How about a little beer?”
“No.”
Her shoulders slumped. “Are you thinking of having some icebox cake after your meal?”
“No.”
She gave a drawn-out sigh. The young nearly-a-man almost began considering the woman’s position as an undercover worker for the restaurant. Beautiful, somewhat witty, needy and persistent - an ideal concoction for attracting male customers.
“Yes, sir. We aim to please.”
She spun around again, dress shimmering in kaleidoscopic colors, heels clacking with pretentious polish.
“Also- “ he interrupted.
“Yes?”
“I would like the steak to be medium rare.”
A distant gaze washed over her dollish face, painted over by previous playfulness. “I’ll be sure to tell them.”
-
The smells were not horrible, he decided. It tasted far saltier than back in his floral-dominated home. Throughout the noisy aromas, bitter drafts infiltrated through his nostrils, and he could swear he was tasting that ‘devilish, no-good’ liquor. His suit would have to be given a thorough washing - he could already feel the ash dominating his backside. His shoes, too, would need to be scraped, soaked, and shined. Firstly, however, he would need to hide these sullied accessories from his scrutinizing father. If he failed… he could already picture the shouting match and broken plates; his dutiful butler coming to his defense, perhaps being let go; nothing would really come of it in the end, and he would go on to university while his father continued pursuing his delusions of becoming city mayor.
Impulsively, he sat straighter to get his back off the ashen wood. Across from him, the chair was empty. What was his grandfather even like? He conjured up two likely scenarios: one, he was a mildly successful lawyer with a similar temperament as his father (he had no patience in conversing with such a figure), or two, he was a mildly successful lawyer who so happened to be a workaholic (a marginally more preferable option). Both were mediocre.
It was then that his mind drifted off into fantasies, one where his grandfather was actually a farmer, or an immigrant of sorts, who became rich and was able to leave a house behind. Indeed, those extreme ideas shone like polished gold compared to the dull silver of realism. He had never met anyone from those circumstances before, however.
“Having a fruitful conversation?” a familiar voice pulled him out of his thoughts.
“Unfortunately, no.”
The young woman from before placed a large platter of greasy, clearly ground beef patties onto his lonely table. “Enjoy your meal.”
He should have realised that such a place would not serve actual cuts of beef. That was on him. (Hopefully, it was still cooked medium rare.) Cutting a patty open, he realised it was well done.
That was on him.
“Say, missus…”
“Yes?” she asked eagerly.
“If you are not busy serving other customers, would you like to take a small break and accompany this kind gentleman?”
“Ha! Your poor grandfather.”
“His corpse turns comfortably in the family shrine, do not worry.”
“So, yes, I would gladly entertain this ‘kind’ gentleman.” With an unseemly audacity, she pulled the opposing chair back and sank down with startling force. “I’ve also prepared refreshments.”
Two glasses of water. ‘It seems she was prepared.’
“What’s going on in that bookish mind of yours, hmm?”
He bit delicately into the rough patty, feeling the gravy cling to his teeth, sticky as the street water on his shoes. Truly a unique experience.
“Recently… I have been thinking about… say…”
“Thinking thoughts. How utterly fascinating,” she quipped.
“If I may ask you a simple question: do the constructions of human souls determine their pathways in life?”
Her eyes widened slightly. “Oh. If you wanted to chat about something philosophical like that, I’m afraid this isn’t the place.”
“Apologies. You could always leave the conversation if it is too dull.”
“No.” Catching herself, she smiled impishly. “I’ll stay here.”
“You see, a friend of mine believes that certain human beings are born superior to others, which lends them the ability to rule over those born weaker, having the duty to care for but ultimately control weaker beings.”
“Coming here, what are your thoughts?”
“Ladies first.”
She took a sip out of her glass, giggling as she swallowed slowly. “What do I think about that? I think I ought to see it in practice.”
“He is not unkind, I assure you.”
“And, how kind?”
“Enough.”
“Well,” she crossed her arms casually. “I’ve not interacted with him yet, so I can’t give you a clear opinion.”
“Therefore, you believe that it depends on the circumstances.”
“Yes,” she huffed, “is there something wrong with my belief? If you want concrete answers, ask about what foods I like, or what clothes I enjoy wearing.”
“There is nothing wrong with not choosing a side. However, the world is run by people who do, and it is their existences that dictate a life such as yours.” He picked up some beans with his fork, similarly covered in fat. Certainly not the freshest he had eaten, but it was earthy, the salt and miscellaneous spices conducting a lively festival on his tongue.
“Do you agree with your friend?” the woman asked after a moment of silence.
“He is very gracious to me. I would hope that his ideals hold merit.”
She chuckled. “Don’t ask that question to any of those drunken men; they’d start mauling you.”
“I am sure that I could defeat them in a fight.”
“Psh. So naive.”
“That is precisely why I came to visit this city.”
“Hehe!” She took another sip from her glass and laughed a little louder. “Coming here won’t make you less naive, you know? I would wager there are far more naive people who live here.”
The woman gazed intently at the clear liquid, painting the yellow lights onto its surface. Was there something special about the water here, the boy wondered. He took a sip.
It was very bitter, making his throat feel drier than before. That was on him. Obviously, not even the drink was spared from ash. “What a putrid taste,” he coughed. “Is the water contaminated?”
“You won’t get sick, at the very least. I assure you.”
“What a comforting reply.”
His acquaintance giggled as she sipped her drink. (She was getting very giggly.) “Does everyone in your neighborhood think the way your friend does?”
“Perchance.”
“Oh…” she drawled, slamming the glass down with a weak strength, “you could tell me… some might dislike it, but most… will just accept it.”
“Heh. I am a stranger to most, although I can confirm that my father is a vehement non-believer.”
“Long road ahead for him.”
Despite himself, he reached for the glass and took another sip. The liquid went warm as it traveled downward. “Say, do you think the founders of our country would believe in the ideals of a more equal society? Would they rage at what this society has become?”
“By that, do you mean the war hero? Jino, I believe I’ve heard the older women talk about him.”
“Jinno?” His head became cloudy. “No… no… Jindou…”
“Equality… is a shapeless thing. I’m sure someone from the past would be very confused.”
“He would? He says he doesn’t think so.” He began staring at the half-empty plate. How filling.
“He?”
“Yes. He shouts about it all the time.”
The woman made an odd sound. “I hate shouting.”
After finishing another patty, he reached for the fuzzy, white block on the table to wipe his mouth. Whether it became cleaner or dirtier, he was unsure.
He sipped the stinging liquid again. “I despise it. I believe he could spend the energy in a far more efficient manner, and although he claims equality, it is nothing but that he stands above the common people.”
“What a peculiar man you live with…” she said quietly, her voice beginning to mix and distort like a light’s reflection in water.
…
For a moment, he paused to think of how to continue the conversation.
…
“Do you have a family?”
“I live with many girls; you may call it what you like.”
“Hmmmm…” his throat slowed down. “...I wish… I could live like that… with my friend…” He finished the remaining mash, the sensation of chewing feeling foreign to his body, as if he were a spectator to the action. “If you have girls you live with, what are you doing here? You ought to join them in… whatever they are doing…”
Another flutter of giggles rose from her plush, red lips. “Because I want a man. I’m at the age where I want to talk to a man. Don’t you also wish for romance?”
“I have encountered about five women in my life, and I am not in want of a woman currently.”
“Ah. I want to find a man, so they can take me into a neighborhood, and I’ll have many children, and I’ll be a good cook and caretaker.” Her head dipped low as all strength fled her spine. Her beige locks almost dipped into the gravy as her gleaming, gem-like eyes peered into his own with a naive look. “Would you like that kind of wife…?”
“I am engaged.”
An image of a well-dressed, brown-haired girl appeared in his head, the polished, overcorrected voice lacing his ears.
The girl froze. He spotted the rapid rise and fall of the fabric near her chest - was she choking on something? Then, he heard the slight scoffing noise of her mouth, a minuscule shot of breath. Her cheeks lifted, eyes now smiling. “Heheh! Hehehehaha!” He quickly grabbed her by the shoulder before she could knock the glasses over (not that he believed they were actually made of glass).
“I wasn’ talking about that…” she whined. “I was asking about romance…”
“It may… smell of flowers everywhere in my neighborhood… but romance is yet to be seen…”
“Aww…that is simply pathetic… heheh…” Her breathing became slow yet somehow unlabored, as if her body had gone into a coma as her awakened consciousness remained trapped.
Chair legs put up futile resistance as he stood up, shouldering the meager weight of his companion. Her chest pressed against his back as she leaned fully onto him, arms wrapping around his waist. Before leaving the establishment, the boy briefly considered paying his bill - hardly a dent in his wealth - then he shook his head, returning to equal quietness in the open air.
Both boy and girl swayed, moving off-beat to the distant cheers of the vaudeville show, returned to a lonely fog, equal to shadow.
“I never… I never… got your name…” she whispered in his ear.
“...Kiyotaka…”
“Hahahah… you oughtn’t give your name out to strangers…” she laughed.
The sky remained veiled, the large spectacle of dust catching the lights of the street. Sounds quieted, as if hitting the taut fabric of an umbrella just feet away from his soul.
“I already did… now you have to give me yours…” he slurred. Walking straight was becoming difficult.
“Stop~!” She slapped her palm against his back. “It doesn’t work that way~!”
“It does now…”
“Hmm…”
“I could… always drop you, you know?”
A familiar stench of street water drifted through the alley. The windows on the adjacent houses were crooked, lending an open peephole to the lives of the cramped little ants living inside. Packed tighter than corned beef, as the newspapers described it.
“Fiiiiine….” she relented, drawing her intonation. “Call me… Ki- Kikyō…”
“A surprisingly plain introduction for someone like you…”
“Hmph. I used to have a lot more fight in me… I’m tired…”
Kiyotaka set the girl down onto the ground; she made no protest when the ash began clinging to her clothes, when the water watered her dress.
The boy gazed down at her blurry figure. He had stayed out for far too long. He needed to go before he, too, fell asleep. Turning his heel, on the boots that would need thorough cleaning by the morrow, he endeavored to return to clear skies.
Just then-
An arm grabbed his leg, pulling him down to the ground. Kikyō scraped away some unkempt hairs, planting a kiss on his cheek.
That was on him.
Although… it wasn’t the worst thing in the world.