Golden

1

The bickering of drunk merchants, the laughter of harlots and the clinking of cheap glasses never ceased at La Rouille. Nevertheless, on the scarce occasions it did, one could distinguish the soft piano and the chocolate-like voice drawling from the creaky stage improvised in the corner of the club. Many offers were made for a taste of the lips that sang of devotion and heartbreak. None big enough to get him out of this place, though.

Tonight was like any other night. Same foul clientele, same nagging voice of his patronne demanding him to get more tips, charm more lonely widows and respectable men that would have never confessed the amounts they were willing to pay for his services.  

Meaning his other services. It was mostly a lie, of course. There were no services, just carefully spread rumours of satisfied clients that were too drunk on wine - and some other things he cautiously slipped in the glasses he offered them - to notice when he swapped places with one of the actual escorts. He just had to make sure they were fully convinced afterwards that it was him that pleased them, his lips they kissed, his waist they grabbed. Then they could go about, whisper of their escapades and raise his rates.

He was desperate, but not desperate enough to sleep his way up to the top. As long as he had the favoured golden boy card, he would play the hell out of it. It was a trick, but it helped him keep that last ounce of dignity he had left.

The dignity he hoped he was preserving for when he would be on an actual stage, with an actual audience. When he would sing clad in golden fabrics and people would throw roses at him, as they once used to throw rotten pieces of bread and fruits. They would clap for him, and they would love him and they would never see him as vermin again.

“Keep daydreaming, Bastien, and you might end up right where I found you,” the patronne’s hoarse voice snapped him out of his reverie. Her painted nails fidgeted with the beads of her flapper dress as she sat at the bar.

“It’s nighttime.”  

The woman clicked her tongue in annoyance. 

The clock stroke four in the morning. The harlots were whispering, the drunk rummaging for an ounce of sobriety. But they all were pointing to the corner where three men sat around a table, hidden by the dimmed light. Way too young to be cheating husbands, yet far too elegant to be prodigal sons, the men certainly stood out.  

“You’ve been summoned“, the patronne informed him. 

“Was it him?” he nodded toward the man in the middle, who seemed to have some sort of authority over his companions.  

“Yes.” 

“What does he want?”  

“That is none of my business.”  

Of course it wasn’t. Bastien sighed, put the microphone back on its stand and crossed the dark room.   

Bastien reached the table and slightly bowed his head. Submission and innocence sold best, he was taught. 

“Do you sing here every night?” the man asked, his voice rougher than his boyish appearance. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Do you like it here?” 

“It pays well.”

A lie.

“So I’ve heard. Though it would be a shame if any of your loyal clients found out about your little scam, wouldn’t it?” 

Bastien pursed his lips. Did someone talk?

Composure. Obedience. 

“I am but a worker.” 

“I was hoping you might be a bit more than that to me, from now on.” 

Bastien’s eyes narrowed. The corners of the man’s mouth slightly lifted. 

“I will make you an offer-“

“Is this how blackmailing is called these days?”

The man giggled. It was unsettling.

“It won’t come to that if you play along well.” The man stood up and gestured towards the back door. “Too many ears are on us, I fear.”

His men stood up too, circling Bastien. He didn’t need to be told he had no choice but to follow them outside. The back alley was pitch black, the only sounds the dripping water from the rooftops and the night cats’ bickering around the corner.

“My name is Carol Sima. You might not know who I am, but you must know my father” the man spoke, turning to face him.

Of course he knew him. His father was one of the richest merchants in town.

“Did he send you?” Bastien asked, arching a brow.

The man puffed.

“I am here to undermine my father. And you will help me.”

“And if I don’t, everyone will know I am a fraud. So, I am blackmailed after all.”

“Stimulated.”

“Semantics.”

“I am a reasonable man. You are young and so am I. We deserve more” he took a step closer. “I have the resources to get you out of here.”

For a split second, Bastien’s heart stopped.

“It doesn’t take a genius to see how miserable you are here, wasting your talent on drunk bastards and whores. I have powerful friends. Play nice, and you could be singing at the Athenaeum in no time” he grinned. “After all, you might turn out to be quite the investment.”

***

Staring at the ceiling of his tiny room, Bastien turned the man’s business card between his slender fingers. All you have to do is make the right people talk, then come to me. I will know what to do with the information.

It made no sense. It had to be just one of those messed up jokes his fate liked to play on him.

Bastien peaked around, scanning the old wooden furniture, the dusty rug and the out of tune little piano by the window. It wasn’t much, but it was more than any of the other employees got. The patronne trusted no one, favoured no one, yet he had his own room with a piano in it.

If her clients found out their drunken confessions left the club’s walls, they would never return. This place’s reputation came from its discretion. There was no way out.

Bastien closed his eyes and tried to summon the sleep that so rarely answered him.

That night he dreamed of the lone street singer he always dreamed of, his rough hands strumming his guitar as he entertained the by passers. His smile unfaltering in spite their ignorance, the singer kept singing as if he performed for the king himself.

Bastien was a child back then, roaming the streets, lulling himself to sleep every night.

It was then when Bastien knew what his dream was; to sing to the ignorant somewhere they would listen.

But he had lost his way. Life happened and he had no hope left. No hope, except for the offer of a merchant’s son.

2

Later that week, Bastien sent Sima a letter. He would have his first secret ready for him tonight.  

            Bastien waited where he was told to, in the middle of the Atheneum’s stage, in utter darkness. His fingers were fidgeting with his rings as he tried to steady his breath.

            “Weird place to meet up, I know”, Sima’s voice echoed through the hall.

            The lights suddenly turned on. The merchant’s son was sitting in the front row, arms crossed as he looked him up and down.

            “A flare for the dramatic, have we?”

            “You are the performer. You tell me.”

Bastien looked around, taking in the hall for the first time. Its gilded walls reflected every ray of light. The red velvet chairs didn’t have a single dust particle on them, waiting patiently for their first-class audience. Something tugged in Bastien’s chest, like a puppy that heard its master’s whistling for him. A calling he was both scared and thrilled to hear.

            “Quite impressing, is it not?” Sima said, climbing the stairs to the stage.

            “I have your information”, Bastien blurted out.

            “Oh, I know.”

            Sima lifted two fingers and signalled his bodyguards. The brutes took Bastien by each arm and pinned him up against the wall.

            “What are you-“

           “Oh, you know damn well, you little rat”, Sima spitted. “You think I’m one of your pathetic clients? Kneeling in front of you when you tell them to?”

            Bastien tried to fight the guards, his feet barely touching the ground.

            “Is this how you repay my generosity? This stage could be yours, and you choose to lie to me.”

Fuck.

Well, Bastien knew he deserved to get out of the club, but that didn’t mean everyone had to go down with him. He had made friends there, and they too called that place home, as twisted as that was.

So, he lied.

He made up a secret, about a local politician’s illegal affairs with some tobacco traffickers he heard about one night at the club. He even made up a date and time when the supposed affair was going to happen.

“You did not look like an amateur liar, my friend” Sima clicked his tongue. “How come you hadn’t realised the time coincided with the general political gathering? No politician skips that without raising questions.”

Then his bodyguards beat him. They let him lay on the stage with a bleeding nose and a purple cheek and when they were done, Sima helped him up and patted his back. Bastien couldn’t see; he could barely stand. His own heartbeat deafened him.

“I like you and you need me”, the man drawled. “You have one more chance. Or I will start spilling secrets.”

Sima left the stage, shutting down the lights.

3

The wounds healed quickly; no long-term damage done.

But damage had been done.

Bastien took it easy. He continued doing his nightly job, charming the customers, getting them to talk and then meeting up with Sima. He earned his trust again, after a few weeks, when one of his father’s biggest associates lost most of his influence after everyone found out about his considerable debts. Turned out his accountant was quiet a regular at La Rouille.

Bastien had been playing this back-and-forth game for a month now.

Though there were indeed less costumers at La Rouille, that didn’t mean it was his fault, right? He had made sure he didn’t sell out the most loyal customers, just those valuable enough for Sima to get a few steps ahead. A couple deals here, a couple scandals there and some of his most threatening opponents were either in jail, rightfully so, or sporting a ruined reputation.

            And he was here. Opening for one of the most esteemed opera singers in the country.

            Bastien admired his rosy cheeks and black lined eyes in the mirrors scattered around the artists’ dressing rooms. People ran left and right, fixing up last minute details as the audience searched for their assigned seats. His whole body tingled.

This how heaven must feel like, he thought.

            And this is how his life will sound like from now on, all his pain and thoughts drowned away by thundering applause.

***

“I don’t want to say I told you, but I really fucking did, boy!” Sima declared, opening the door of the backstage cabin.

            Bastien couldn’t help the smile on his face. His heart was racing, already reliving the moments upstage. Nothing could ever come close, he thought, and that high scared him, but made him want more. So much more.

            “They loved you! They kept asking the conductor about the boy that opened the night. And that’s not all.”

            Sima sat on the chair beside him and draped a hand around his shoulders.

            “I might get you a gig at the Atheneum in two weeks’ time.”           

            Bastien closed his eyes.

            “Not just an opening act, boy, but your own show.”

            “Thank you” Bastien whispered, despite all the man did to him. “Thank you.”

            “Don’t thank me. It is not a gift.”

            He knew this was coming.

            “Anything” Bastien blurted, still hazed.

“I need something big this week. Something that will take out my father for good.” Sima took Bastien’s cheek in his hand. “We are so close. If my father is out of the game, I’ll have all the funds we need to sponsor you, and you’ll get to keep your money after the shows. His finances are already down thanks to us, but he has the authorities on his side. He gets away with too much illegal shit. I need – we need – to get them on our side.”

Sima squeezed Bastien’s cheek till it started hurting.

            “You are nothing without me. You know best how fragile reputations are; yours included. I can snap the very wings I gave you, boy. Do not forget that.”

4

Bastien knew good things don’t last forever. 

It so happened that he already possessed the information Sima needed. Which brought him here. 

The patronne was scribbling away at her desk, wrapped in an emerald shawl that perfectly matched the colour of her eyes. She didn’t look up from her papers as she gestured him to sit down. He complied, fidgeting with his rings as he waited for her attention.  

Bastien had truly considered telling her everything – about Sima and the deal – so she could guard herself. He knew his patronne was powerful to figure a way out for them both. With her web of connections, she probably knew Carol’s father personally, for crying out loud. Yet every time he’d almost given in, the other voice inside his head begged him to at least try and make his way out of the mudhole he had somehow ended up calling home.

But now… What Sima asked of him was too much. The patronne saved his life and he owed her at least a warning. Maybe he wasn’t here to spill it all, but she could take the hint.

“To what do I owe the presence of such a celebrity in my humble office?” she raised her eyes to meet his, an ounce of disdain in her look.  

God, she was beautiful. Not in the way the girls working at the club were, but in a quiet, stern way, like a statue you were only allowed to admire.

“How are you?” 

She raised her eyebrows. 

“Apart from trying to deal with the losses your side hustles cause my business? You think I don’t know how you got those gigs?” she puffed.  

Her eyes went back to the papers, her long fingers tucking a black strand of hair behind her adorned ears. He cursed himself for underestimating her. 

“Then why let me get away with it?” Bastien dared. 

She put her papers aside. He’d never seen someone so lawfully organizing their illegal businesses. She stood up, crossing her arms over her chest, and turned to stare out the big window behind her desk. Dust particles floated in the slim sunshine piercing through, making the patronne’s dark velvet dress glimmer like the fur of a wild beast. 

“Your face is my property. Your voice is my property.” 

“He offered me a real job.” 

“Did he? You think a snobbier audience makes you less of a whore?” she snorted. “You still owe me, boy.” 

“I am well aware. You’ve never let me forget, have you?” 

Her smile was nothing short of vile, yet it did weird things to his stomach he didn’t want to think about. 

“I am a businesswoman.” 

“Oh, I know. But you know what I think?” Bastien forced his luck, getting up of his chair and facing her by the window. Her heels made them stand at almost the same height, but she’d always somehow towered over him, always looked down on him with those distrustful eyes. 

“Careful, boy.” 

“I think” he whispered, leaning just a bit closer, “that the debt isn’t the only reason you want me to stick around.” 

For a damned second, he could have sworn her eyes travelled to his lips. She slowly, tentatively raised her hand. When her fingers traced his cheek, Bastien closed his eyes and felt the world go silent for the first time in a long while. It was a featherlight touch, but it somehow reverberated through his every nerve. 

“He gave you that bruise, didn’t he?” she whispered. “Weeks ago. I’ve seen you cover it up." 

Bastien turned his head and kissed her palm. The patronne flinched and withdrew her hand as if it burned her. She took a step back and cleared her throat.

“You can’t keep seeing that man.” 

“What?” 

“You are my employee. Until you will pay your debt, you belong here. No one else has power over you. And I cannot afford losing any more money.” 

“It’s all about money with you, isn’t it?” 

“Everything’s about money. The sooner you learn that the better.” 

His eyes fixed hers, and there was nothing but cold determination in them. He hated it. He hated it even more when he remembered she hasn’t always been like this.  

He was eight and she was fifteen when she’d found him, twelve years ago. It had taken a kind soul to take in a defenceless child when she had been one herself.  

He turned around, the floor creaking miserably as he made his way to the door. 

“Bastien?” her voice called again, like he sometimes heard it calling in his dreams. “If you ever go up on stage again, I will have you dismissed and thrown back into the alley I found you. Let’s see who you sell out then.” 

5

Bastien was trembling, though he wasn’t sure why. There were too many reasons: the huge crowd waiting in the Atheneum’s grand hall, the sudden silence as they waited for him to start singing, the blinding lights pointed at him.

The dream. He made it.

The orchestra stared playing, the music flowing through the hall like a spring wind.

The concert had been sold out, all the esteemed members of society taking their places in the balconies and alcoves. His voice the only sound, Bastien remembered the little boy on the dark alley, the rotten fruits he gathered from the cobblestone. The very people that disgraced him were now staring with teary eyes. Listening. 

Sooner than he realised, the first act was over, the curtain falling to let both audience and musicians have their rest for the second part of the concert.

Bastien was sitting in his room backstage, unbuttoning his golden coat when Sima stormed in the room, waving a newspaper.

“This is it! We did it!” he shouted. “This here is tomorrow’s morning paper, fresh from the printer.”

Bastien raised his eyebrows and grabbed the paper as Sima started pacing in the room. He saw his face on the front page, under the title A NEW GOLDEN STAR DEBUTES ON THE ATHENEUM’S STAGE.

“Is this real?” Bastien whispered.

“Flip the page.”

The next article was titled THE APPRENTICE HAS BECOME THE MASTER – THE RISE OF CAROL SIMA JR.

        “The press favours me. The authorities favour me. My father’s power is gone, and all he had is now mine” Sima declared and patted Bastien’s back. “Go sing. Charm your fans. We are going to party tonight, boy.”

          Sima returned to the hall, leaving Bastien staring in disbelief at the paper in his hands. He mindlessly turned the pages, scanning the titles and pictures of him, Sima and-

         Her.

THE PATRONNE OF LA ROUILLE, CHARGED WITH DESERTER TRAFFICKING, EXECUTED LAST NIGHT FOR HIGH TREASON

Bastien dropped the paper. The room began spinning. He stumbled from the chair and bended over as he vomited in the trash bin.

It’s one of her schemes. Yes. It has to.

Bastien hurried to the stage still hidden behind the curtain, searching for the exit door.

The whispers reached his ears first. It seemed Sima hadn’t contained his excitement; another copy of the newspaper was now passed over around the hall.

         “Did they hang her?” a woman inquired.

        “I heard they didn’t kill her right away, though. The soldiers thought she was too pretty to waste.”

        Bastien’s knees buckled. He barely felt the pair of hands dragging him back, the voice telling him he had five minutes until the show resumed. He was placed in the middle of the stage, the lights, the eyes, the ears pointed at him once more.

This is what hell must feel like, he thought.

6

A week passed. Then a month.

Another song ended, applause thundering through the room. This show was over, but the real show would begin soon, as everyone was already heading back to the carriages that would take them to the afterparties. Bastien bowed, collected his flowers and headed backstage.

She wouldn’t be waiting for him. She was dead.

But it was her fault.

Some part of him wondered if she taught of him that way too, when she’d found him; that it was his fault he ended up abandoned on a damp alley. That he deserved to meet his end there.

“Are you coming?” Sima asked, patting his back. 

Bastien forced a grin, and it looked grotesque on his angelic face. 

That night he drank, as he did most nights, lounging on a velvet sofa, a foreign woman in his lap. He drank till he forgot his name, his life, his songs. He kept drinking, and he tried so hard, but there was no absolution, no haze thick enough to fog her memory. Her face kept clinging in his mind, witty and beautiful. He had always told himself that, had he been a couple years older, she would have seen him differently. She might have even kissed him back, that one night, months ago, when every pain in the world gathered on his shoulders and he had cried in her arms and it all suddenly went quiet. The last and only time he thought he might have indeed felt love in his miserable life.

Bastien talked a lot when he drank. He gossiped about his clients, laughed at how he used to see the world. There wasn’t much to laugh about, which made it all even more hilarious. He kept talking till he found himself telling the story of the club singer and the merchant’s son, the deal they had made.

“A few important names, rich idiots that got all chatty after a couple drinks. Quite boring, really”, he boasted. “How do you think this bastard got his father out of the business?” he pointed to where Sima sat across the room.

“And the smuggler tip? Was that you as well, boy?” a nosy woman asked, perched on a yellow velvet armchair.

Bastien’s nonchalant grin faltered, just for the blink of an eye, before he resumed his show.

“Who else? Whoever gave that sort of information to the patrolmen would have their favour for life. Deserter smugglers are our society’s most despicable species! She deserved to die for what she’s done.”

The words stung his tongue, but he kept going. Bastien didn’t fail to complain about how hard that secret was to keep for so long, how his Patronne trusted him with it and how he helped her make sure the deserters, merely boys a couple years older than him, were safely taken out of town.

He made sure the politicians and officers partying in the stuffy room heard him loud and clear.

***

The next day at noon, Bastien congratulated himself as the officers tightened the noose around his neck.

His plan had worked.

He knew he would never have had the guts to do this himself, so he did what he knew best: he had put on a show. He had sung enough. His feet had stood on the stage he’d dreamed of all his life, until it became a nightmare.

He didn’t believe in an afterlife. He had left God behind in that dark alley. But it might have been enough, for now, to be hanged by the same rope she’d been hanged by.

A few minutes later, Bastien’s golden body hung lifeless from the gallows, his mouth twisted in a satisfied grin.  

---

Image Source: A LYL BIT via Pinterest