Lunatics

Lunatics · Chap 051 · The power of temptations

51 · The power of temptations

MARCUS FELT like crap. He had searched for signs of guilt into Ibrahim Mousmée’s eyes and found none. Marcus believed in his innocence but could not help him.

The whole thing had been a debauchery of mistakes, a bacchanal of errors: the young billy who wanted to play with fire, the old goat who had become pasture for flies, the scape goat who was now captive of the Feds. Marcus felt ashamed.

It was a dirty game. And he has ever wanted to be far from it.

Before the train reached the second stop, he sat beside an old man who seemed unable to stop munching his own teeth. Marcus could not forget Furuya’s victorious expression. And he remembered the other Neotokyan descendant, the waiter at the bar near Chico Manoel’s house, the boy who studied bioengineering instead of music.

He pulled two pieces of paper from his right pocket and wondered why he carried them even after changing his gear. Two addresses: Dante’s and the waiter’s; both written with a precise, firm lettering. The second also had a number to a personal communicator.

He checked the time. It was five after nine. He tried to connect to Satine but she did not want to talk to him and left the answering service work. He looked at the small piece of paper, rolling it back and forth.

The old man read the address on the paper. Marcus looked at him and tried to smile. The old man smiled back, sporting perfect, white teeth.

“Some opportunities only happen once.”

He knew it. He could not save Ibrahim Mousmée. Marcus Frowned. The old man widened his smile and touched Marcus’ shoulder with a surprisingly firm, warm hand.

“Regret is a burden too heavy for a lifetime. The worst ones are those for things we left undone.”

Marcus felt like crying. His eyes reddened and filled with tears.

“The heart makes us do foolish things, but a life taken too seriously always leads to an old age too miserable. Don’t let you grow too old to discover such things, laddie. What’s done is done, what’s not is not.”

Marcus frowned and a tear rolled down his cheek.

“My eyes work pretty well. If you drop on the next station you’ll a couple of blocks from that address.”

Marcus smiled, dried his own face and stood up, resolute. The train stopped and he got off. He tried to wave goodbye to the old man, but he was distracted, back to munching his own teeth.

The house was easy to find, exactly three blocks from the Saint Miguel station. The external painting was old and there were darkened spots everywhere. The fog was still strong and it lent a gloomy atmosphere to that moment. Marcus giggled to think of the old melancholic, mysterious horror films he watched in his childhood.

He had spent his younger years not far from there, but he did not want to remember Antoine, Claire, and Maria at that special moment.

He digited the number in his personal comm. Seconds after, a smiling Kenzo Kanawa answered the call, arranging a lock of hair that insisted on falling over his eyes. Marcus spoke, very serious.

“I’m sorry to interrupt your class.”

“Oh, no. Today’s class was cancelled, I’m at home, cleaning and arranging stuff.”

“Do you have someone with you?”

“I wished!”

“Can I come in?”

Kenzo widened his eyes in surprise.

“Where are you?”

“Open the door…”

The call was cut. Kenzo came to the door. He opened it, with a shy smile, wearing torn clothes, and smelling of cleaning products.

“What’re you doing here?”

“You invited me, remember? Can I come in?”

“Sure, Marcus! Sorry, sorry! Come, come!”

The furniture was simple; pragmatic needs had always been stronger than aesthetic sense. Marcus felt uncomfortable with a poster of Elisangela Mussume’s Life of Dora. Kenzo regained control and spoke without trembling.

“I took the free time to arrange the house. It was awful. I was cleansing the keyboard and it reminded me of you.”

Kenzo closed the street door and they kept silently looking at each other for some moments. There was some music playing very low. Marcus couldn’t recognize the tune. His mouth was extremely dry, but he risked saying something.

“I wasn’t sure I’d meet you here.”

“I usually don’t...”

“Do you live with... someone?”

Kenzo articulated a no, but the sound did not happen. Marcus thought of the silences in the music by John Cage or Émile Jons. He tried to smile but his lips were stuck. Both knew they should not mention both Chico Manoel and Belizario Dante.

Kenzo licked his own lips and spoke with a husky voice.

“Was it difficult to find the house?”

“No. I had the help of… an old friend. Well, I was raised near here. To the sides of the church and the fancy condos.”

Kenzo tried to reach the kitchen, speaking automatically.

“Something to drink?”

Marcus intercepted Kenzo, holding him by his waste and bringing the Neotokyan nearer to his body.

“No.”

“I can make you a...”

Marcus kissed him on the mouth and they embraced. Both wanted that from the beginning. From somewhere in the house there were notes from violins trying to caress their bodies. Mozart; the first movement of his 25th symphony in F minor. Or Ryuichi Sakamoto’s Rain.

On the flight back to Alphaville, Marcus did not think of that kind of intoxication, but his head was spinning as if he had taken all the whiskey in the world.