Unspoken Request

The silhouetted forms huddled close together in the gathering twilight. A light fog rippled about their ankles as they shuffled around trying to get warm. Among the fog were their stories; each individual's soul with one another entwining, yet never intersecting. And they remembered another misty eve, and that day was as clear to this assemblage of timeless friends and foes as was the scent of sassafras as they watched the tide come in.

A rusting piece of the monument still stood. No doubt some master artist gave render to the graceful lines in the faces of the children depicted. Perhaps they were meant to express joy or innocence. Perhaps their eyes were meant to glow with pride at some accomplishment or another. Time and oxidation had seen to any such lofty dreams. Whatever banal controversies had been stirred up by their provocative dress or their revolutionary ideals or unmasked greed had long since slipped below the waves.

He turned to the left. The tall figure before him regarded the gathering water in solemn tranquility. After a moment, as though sensing the gazes falling upon him, the man spoke. “A spectacle. A carnival. An entertainment. That's all this was.” There was no anger, no resignation either, as after a moment the man added, “But, oh, what a show.”

He turned to his right, ignoring the tall man for the moment, and peered into the mist at the empty space where another ought to stand. Amid another pregnant pause, soft footfalls and a linen skirt hem rustled the grass behind him. He turned around to face his conscience, grinning awkwardly.

She glanced at the empty space and sighed. “Come here. You've sprained your ankle. And have you eaten anything today?”

And here the mist had been beaten away by bright lights and dancing feet upon the concrete, though a lull in the festivities permitted re-encroaching tendrils to creep under the awning. A hooded woman in a tattered coat circled the patio. Pausing a moment to wince at an amateur's mistreatment of her favorite Chopin nocturne, she stepped past the baby grand and swept towards the rear entrance. As she passed the bar she slipped a folded bill under the tip jar and, turning aside, passed through an unremarkable door into a less remarkable room.

A patron at the bar, slightly the worse for drink, began humming along to the hesitant tune of the piano. After a while and much to the relief of the other guests, the music stopped and the bar patron was joined by a slimmer figure in expensive black silk.

“I was wondering when you'd give it a rest.”

The erstwhile pianist grimaced and signaled the barkeep. “Everybody's a critic.”

“Does criticism bother you?”

“Only accurate criticism. Jamie neat.”

“Don't serve neat. On the rocks?” said the squat barkeep.

“Yes,” The drinker answered for his companion, “and make it two. Buddy here is paying.”

“Really? I must see this, boys. Buddy never pays.”

Both men glanced around as a woman in an elegant brocade dress and modest black top approached their position. The drunk laughed loudly at the slimmer man's expression.

“I didn't realize they let the riffraff in. Must have a word with the doorman later.” The slim man sniffed and added, “Or maybe you plied him with your... unique charms?”

“No, I save that for men of means. Try not to look too disappointed, dear, it isn't seemly. Oh, hello Henri,” she said cheerfully to the barman, as the slimmer man turned puce. “And you come bearing drinks, how lovely. Here's how, Frank.” She clinked glasses with the drunk and tossed hers back in one go, while the slim man gestured resignedly for Henri to bring another. “Golly! I'm seeing stars. Time to wind things up again, I suppose. Frank. Darling Reince.” And trailing her fingers seductively across the slimmer man's shoulders as she went, headed off across the concrete towards the piano.

“I really don't know how you manage to put up with her, lad,” said the slimmer of the pair after his drink arrived.

Frank glanced back across the bar as a lively arpeggio called the band back to the roped-off musician's section. “Comes with the territory,” he grunted. “And she played better than you, that's for damn sure.” He looked at his companion over the top of his drink as he took a sip, and sighed, setting the glass aside. “Enough nattering. What've you got for me?”

Reince paused a moment, allowing time for the bassist to begin his jazz walk before speaking. “There's nothing left to do, my friend. The 'liberators' have the seat of government. They have the television station, they have the radio station. They have the banks and the post office. They have the armory. They have the server hub, Frank. The server hub. They even took the bloody football pitch, man. They've won, we've lost. Time to totter off and hide.” He knocked back his whiskey and stood. “Or come with me and pretend you were on their side all along. That's the beauty of being a Yank; there's no one identifying ethnic group, so you can pretend to be with whatever faction suits you at the moment.” Another pause. The drummer launched into a bossa nova cadence as the volume picked up and celebrants flocked to the dance floor from all directions. “I envy you. Does that sound strange? I hate you, and I envy you, and I love you all at once. But most of all, I blame you. Now come on, lad. Last ferry is in an hour. We can just make it if we hurry along.”

“I'm too old to hurry along. Let alone collaborate.”

Reince stiffened at the venom in Frank's voice. “I won't see my children hanged for a lost cause, Francis.”

“And I won't see my grandchildren ever again. You talk to me about envy? My own child sold out his kin for some pretty words and a medal, and took my family from me.”

“.... my apologies. I'll take my leave now.”

“Oh, stop your vacillatin'. Sit down. We'll have one more and part as friends. And I'll do my best to keep the bitterness out of my voice when we say goodbye.”

“Aye, okay then. Two more, Henri. Quickly, now!” Reince said, just a bit too loudly. He glanced nervously at Frank, who either hadn't noticed or assumed Reince was simply trying to be heard over the increasingly raucous crowd. The Jameson's arrived in short order and they drank in silence as men do. After a moment, Reince became aware of a vision of loveliness approaching from the corner of the bar nearest the rear door. She was clothed in shimmering silver with lapiz lazuli at her ears and neck, and a daisy chain dangling from her matching handbag.

Taking a slow pull, as though building courage, Reince drained his glass and again stood. “What you need, my boy, is something good by which to remember me,” he said, and catching his companion's eye he nodded circumspectly towards the woman's reflection in the mirror. Frank caught sight of her and his face took on a resigned and regretful cast, though he hid it as well as he could.

The woman reached the pair and drew the daisy chain smoothly out of her bag, laying it over Frank's arm. Frank started to remove it, saying wistfully, “I appreciate the compliment ma'am, but your custom far exceeds my credit here.” She stopped him with a graceful finger on his hand.

“Your friend has extended credit on your behalf. Let us eat, drink, and be merry.”

He simply looked at her for a moment, but cast whatever suspicions to the back of his mind, as often happens when smaller heads do the thinking. She swept him onto the dance floor, falling effortlessly into the sequence and laughing kindly when his inebriation required her correction for some of the more intricate steps. Reince watched from the bar. Henri brought another drink with a look of concern, but Reince's hand barely trembled as he downed it in one, popped an ice cube in his cheek, and walked to the exit. As fortune, or misfortune, would have it, the ebb and flow of the dancers brought Frank and his partner near the gate just as he was reaching for the latch. Frank excused himself for a moment and stepped closer to Reince.

“Take care, Limey,” he said, sticking out his hand.

“And yoursel', Tex.” They shook, and Reince departed. The woman in silver took Frank by the arm and led him through the crowd, pushed open the unremarkable door and sat on the chaise. Frank heaved another sigh, wishing he'd had one less drink.

As soon as the odd couple passed through the rear door, the band launched into gypsy swing, with wild acrobatics from the younger dancers and noise reaching dangerous decibel levels. The spotlight shut down save those illuminating the stage while colored Christmas lights strung from the support struts came to life, lending an opalescent glimmer to the fabrics and jewels around the room. In the dimness the celebrations wound towards their climax. Had there been walls, they would have been a-shaking.

After a while, sweating bodies detached themselves from the joyous throng and headed for the edges, melting away into the mist for a breath of air or quiet conversation, or a stolen kiss, or a daring tryst. One by one the party-goers fled the floor until only the die-hard, desperate and dastardly drunk remained, and even they, seeing the departure of the attention-givers, elected to forgo further competition and seek a quiet corner. The band wound down its final number and the bar came forth with refreshments. In the bustle of hungry revelers jostling for position at the buffet, no one noticed the rear door quietly swinging open and shut again.

The men in the room did notice a woman in silver cross the room in long leggy strides, and the women took note of their menfolk's momentary distraction. The younger and less secure among them chided their paramours with harsh whispers and angry looks; the older and wiser among them said nothing and plotted reprisals for later that evening, knowing precisely when a man is most vulnerable to attack.

Henri the barman noticed a woman in silver as well. He watched surreptitiously as, without breaking stride, she slipped a folded bill out from under his tip jar and placed it inside, all in one easy graceful moment. And shortly afterwards the bar was closed as Henri rushed around back to the copse.

Reince also noticed a woman in silver exit the gate and sweep across into the darkness of the car lot. From his vantage point, Reince watched her enter a vehicle and roll out of sight, all the while listening to Henri's clumsy attempts to move quietly through the brush. He turned to face the barman.

“Report.”

“I have confirmed the signal.”

“Did you confirm the success of the mission?”

“That was not among my assigned tasks, sir. In fact, I was specifically warned against –”

“Good lad. Off with you, now. Folk'll be wanting a drink.”

With the sound of Henri's departure growing faint, Reince slipped off into the darkness. He reached the car lot, climbed into his vehicle and drove into the night, wiping away tears as he went.

Returned from sojourns into the mist, the revelers sat eating cheerfully on hastily procured benches near the piano. A few folks were leaning on the bar so as to be in close proximity to the buffet trays. As the gate swung open with the first glimmers of dawn, the more sober diners looked up from their plates to ogle the newcomers. The drunker among them blissfully continued to stuff their faces.

The incoming crowd was slightly older than the diners, and had that air of quiet competence which speaks of a certain amount of experience enduring trying circumstances. Henri bustled over with a few folding tables, with pointed glares rousted a few young bench-dwellers into assisting him, and the newcomers were seated with very little fuss. Soon steaming buffet platters were being more or less demolished; old soldiers have no truck with dainty eating.

Henri, who knew very well the appetites of both old soldiers and young partygoers, kept the well open past last call, and before long a steady trickle of folks were walking down the bar towards the back. The more patient among them waited in line, fidgeting and hopeful. The less patient (and exclusively male) went right out the back to commune with nature, so to speak. It was less than an hour before an impatient young lady, too possessed of propriety to commune alongside the guys but in a bit too much of a hurry to wait in line, pushed open the unremarkable door, and instead of the overlooked lavatory she had hoped to discover instead found – .

The scream made the younger folks look up in amazement. The older crowd, with instincts born of conflict, crashed through the unremarkable door within seconds, weapons at the ready and first aid gear in hand. Within seconds of surveying the room, it became obvious that neither would be immediately needed. For there, on the ground, was Frank. Blood pooled beneath his head and his hands were clutching a daisy chain. Draped across the chaise was a young woman in a silver dress with gemstones at her ears and neck.

One of the onlookers knelt, checking for pulses, and finding none sighed. “Aw, hell. Somebody better tell the Commander. He's off getting his ankle wrapped – but he'll sure want to hear about this!”

A woman in brocade burst through the crowd and took in the scene. “Glory,” she said. “And here I thought it was all over at last.”

Out in the mist a nightingale sang to the dawn, and the world turned on towards morning.