CAR 23

Quachi, who had been peering at the morning paper, clicked his tongue. It was a time when a slight division had formed within the noble faction. Just as he’d expected, the front page was packed with snide remarks about a few families steeped in insolence who were trying to control the other nobles. He intended to stop by the salon when the day broke to track down who had scribbled the article that was more akin to an indictment.

Quachi struggled to raise his thin, old body. He suddenly looked at the mirror. Having made all his ‘sons’ independent, he was nothing more than a listless, arrogant old man. The inside of the mansion, devoid of vitality and youth, was always silent.

Quachi, dressed in his gown, readjusted his grip on his cane. After scrawling curses on the morning paper’s pages, Quachi handed it over to the footman as it was.

Come to think of it, his ‘first son’ had always been a nuisance to Quachi, but he had heard nothing at all from his ‘third son,’ Dennis. He might have to send another warning letter.

The capital had been pouring rain for ten days straight, nearly a rainy season. Standing by the second-floor window, Quachi lit a cigar and exhaled his old, pent-up feelings into the gaps between the streams of rain.

The first floor was in an uproar. Noticing an unfamiliar horse tied to the main gate, Quachi stubbed out his cigar on the windowsill.

Sometimes in life, you feel a sense of déjà vu. Quachi scratched the back of his neck and went downstairs. Just as he’d thought, a footman and some young man were in a standoff at the entrance.

“What is it.”

“He says he is an attendant from Volle.”

“…What business would an attendant from there have?”

“Your sons…”

Quachi’s face crumpled. He had a bad feeling.

Quachi looked at the attendant by the door. He was extremely large. And why not? The Volle bastards were all bound to be scrawny, so an attendant would need a good build to handle the rough work. Quachi ordered for him to be let inside.

The man was soaked from head to toe. For a mere attendant, he was somehow imposing and quiet. Compared to his physique, his steps as he followed Quachi were excessively light. Water dripped with his every step. His shadow was deep.

Leading the attendant to the drawing room, Quachi deliberately left the door halfway open. Ordinary attendants do not try to face the master. However, the man had apparently been fixed at both sides of the entrance for quite a long time, as if he had intended to meet Quachi. With that insolent mouth of his firmly shut.

“I’d like to hear news of my sons now.”

“…”

“More importantly, aren’t you quite a distinguished person. How did you come all the way from that distant place.”

The attendant pushed back his rain-soaked robe. Quachi, taking in the man’s features, unknowingly opened his mouth. His rain-wet jawline was extremely sharp. He was a handsome man, too otherworldly to be of this earth. Blue eyes slowly scanned Quachi’s drawing room.

The attendant had a bandage wrapped around his right arm. He watched Quachi without a single word. Under the man’s domineering gaze, Quachi felt as if he would freeze solid. Though he had dealt with many people in his long life, this man was different from the very beginning. The attendant’s lips twisted bizarrely.

Ah.

This man, he is not an attendant.

The man’s left hand picked up the long table between them. He threw it straight at Quachi. As he could not dodge, Quachi shielded his face and head with both arms. Quachi’s scrawny body fell helplessly over the sofa.

“Maurice Quachi.”

The attendant spoke for the first time. His pronunciation was unique, the kind royalty might use.

“The second son of the Quachi family, who killed his own brother at sixteen and inherited the title, struggled quite a bit with venereal disease in his youth, and is said to sell the children of vagrants to brothels for a pittance…”

Quachi was more overwhelmed by the stranger’s eyes than by the history he was reciting. He had let a wild beast into the mansion.

Beneath the chandelier, the man’s platinum blond hair shone brightly.

“Old fox.”

The man was bare-handed. He carried neither a gun nor a sword. Nevertheless, Quachi’s entire body trembled. He had the cool impression of a messenger from hell. The man’s shoe-clad foot pressed down on Quachi’s Adam’s apple.

“My, my sons…”

“Who is your son.”

“Dennis, Dennis Kahler…”

The toe of his shoe kicked Quachi in the lower jaw. The man, after shoving the toe of his shoe into the mouth of Quachi, whose front teeth had all been shattered, sneered.

“I’m thinking of applying collective responsibility.”

“…”

“Your dear son tore up my hand, you see.”

The man clicked his tongue. The toe of his shoe glistened with saliva and blood. Sticking a hand in his pocket, he tore Quachi apart using only the tip of his foot.

“Vi, Vittorio… Your Highness Vittorio.”

The man thus called lifted his foot without a reply. Vittorio pressed down on Quachi’s neck as if grinding out a cigarette. Quachi’s two hands desperately grabbed at Vittorio’s ankle.

In his final moments, Quachi was looking at the longsword hanging on the wall. If only he could wield that…

But as if not to tolerate even Quachi’s brief glance, Vittorio’s other foot came down on his eyelid. Having stomped with his full weight, Quachi’s vision momentarily flickered out. The pain was immense. His eyeball had surely burst.

With his face half-caved in, Quachi pleaded for mercy. His trousers grew soaked.

Vittorio, leaving the drawing room, was expressionless. The footman waiting in the hallway bowed his head to him. When Vittorio came out alone, all the servants of the mansion knelt. Vittorio briefly looked around. He casually gave an order to the footman.

“Go to your master’s room and bring back only the letters sent by Dennis Kahler.”

Everything was easy for Vittorio. To him, Quachi was nothing more than a small fry, but he was displeased that Dennis Kahler revered and pledged loyalty to him as if he were his own father.

Besides, since he was returning to school after a rather long absence, he wanted to give Dennis a meaningful gift, too. For instance, a Quachi, crushed and put in a box.

Maurice Quachi was kicked to death by Vittorio.

It was just as Dennis’s father had been beaten to death by Quachi once upon a time.

The footman handed Vittorio a box containing the letters. Vittorio buried his face in it. The smell of the moisture-logged parchment and cheap ink stimulated his sense of smell. Just thinking of Dennis Kahler, who must have written these so sincerely, made Vittorio erect.

He dearly wanted to show this sight to his beloved Kahler.

🩰

Dennis had been sitting on the edge of his bed all through the dawn. He was recalling many things. Eric was with him. For a hallucination, he flinched every time there was a thunderstorm. His human-like behavior was utterly incomprehensible.

‘Lightning, lightning is coming, Vittorio is coming, lightning is coming, Vittorio is coming, lightning is coming, Vittorio is coming, lightning, lightning, Vittorio is like lightning, lightning is coming, Vittorio is coming. Lightning…’

Eric’s chanting filled Dennis’s room. Dennis felt this room was just like a liquor bottle. He felt like dregs of alcohol, drifting inside the bottle. Just clenching his fists made the backs of his hands tremble.

He wanted to ask Yan. Since when, and how much of the drug did you inject into me for me to be seeing things like that.

The insomnia seemed to be a kind of withdrawal symptom.

Dennis got up from his seat. Bracing himself against the wall, he slammed his head against it. Twice, three times, four times… On the fifth time, something trickled down from the crown of his head. Along with a faint pain, he finally felt a sense of reality. No matter where he looked in the room, Eric was not there.

Dennis went out into the hallway, biting his nails. The end of the hallway was bustling. The rehearsal for the spring regular performance was in four hours. Dennis suddenly wanted to join them without reserve. Being alone in his room or isolated was eating away at his mind.

Sami, I should go to Sami.

He was the only person at Volle who was favorable to Dennis. Even after feeding Sami the lie about his death, Dennis often visited the garden of the annex. Unlike before, though he did nothing with particular motivation, Sami always had a bright face. He treated Dennis like a normal person. When he sat side-by-side with him, gazing at the tidy landscaping, it felt like a ray of sunshine had entered his daily life.

Sami always talked about his twin brother. Dennis would listen to the story of a certain deceased man who had tried to rape him with a deceptively peaceful face. Once, when Dennis couldn’t hold it in and threw up, Sami gently wiped his mouth with a dry cloth. His fingertips were rough.

‘Ah, come to think of it…’

‘…’

‘I lost the handkerchief you gave me then. Damn it, I had kept it so safe… I’m so ashamed.’

Dennis felt the weight of the handkerchief in his back pocket. But it was far easier for Sami to feel indebted to him. It’s okay. As if relieved by the short reply, Sami smiled faintly.

Eric, standing beside him, muttered with a blank face. You have a strong stomach, teacher. After all, that’s Laurent Lemaître’s face, isn’t it?

‘Shut up.’

‘…Pardon?’

Dennis swore looking at Eric. Sami’s gaze followed Dennis’s and looked down among the weeds. There was nothing there.

Things like that happened frequently. After that, Dennis’s visits to Sami decreased significantly. He didn’t want to be perceived as an insane teacher by him. More than that, he was afraid Sami would one day find out the ‘truth.’ If he were to be lumped in with Vittorio and condemned, he might die of shame and humiliation.

When day broke, Dennis would become fine. Like a vampire in some old castle, he would wander his room aimlessly at night and at dawn, and during the day, he would cross the hallways with a face more composed than anyone else’s. It had been quite a while since he had visited the dining hall, for fear of running into Yan. His pants were loose because he had lost weight.

“Excuse me, Teacher Kahler?”

Someone called out to Dennis. It was a lowerclassman who had been moving stage materials. He was a boy with long arms and a small frame. The lowerclassmen didn’t even take Dennis’s classes, so he wondered how they knew to call him and became needlessly wary.

“Pardon me, but could you help me move these… to the backstage area?”

The boy looked too pitiful to refuse. Even a lowerclassman could participate in the corps de ballet if his skills were outstanding, but he was stuck hauling materials. Instead of answering, Dennis took off his jacket. As he rolled up his shirt sleeves, the lowerclassman’s face brightened.

“…You’re from the capital, aren’t you, teacher?”

The lowerclassman asked in a tense voice. He looked like a young boy. The body he had irritably maintained solely for the sake of dance made him look younger than his age.