In the town of Luda, a dingy theater called Le Perl slouches in a back alley near the docks. To judge by the carved marquee and the cracked gas lamps, it must have been beautiful, once. Now there are puddles in the alley and holes in the roof, and a crooked sign reading GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS over the peeling door.
Inside, it’s hot as hell, with twice the temptation. On a scarred stage lined with stained curtains, a local girl with black eyes and a blond wig croons a sultry song to the light, lazy notes of a piano. Her voice is smoke and brass, and the footlights fall to pieces on the sequins of her hem. Slowly she removes a single glove. In the wings, the other girls whisper as they wait for their turns on the floor.
EVE: It’s so humid.
CHEEKY: Then pull your knees together.
Their laughter is sweet and rough.
EVE: The way my thighs rub? I’d kindle a fire.
CHEEKY: Can you do it on cue?
In the audience, men wait just as eagerly. They are crammed around rickety tables, soldiers with soldiers, civilians with their own kind, and each side avoiding the other’s eyes. With the rebellion gaining strength, they might be enemies outside these walls, but Le Perl is a place for forgetting such things.
The drink helps with that. So behind the battered wooden counter stands a boy in his element, making sure the liquor flows despite the rationing. His first name is always Leo, though his last name changes depending on who he’s talking to; the Aquitans prefer his father’s, the locals know his mother’s. And in his face, a bit of each side. But he sells anyone drinks and tickets, both at outrageous prices, though the winks and jokes are free.
Between mixing rounds, he checks his watch—a gesture that looks almost absent, but for the fact that he checks it again just a few minutes later. When a knock comes at the theater door, LEO goes to open it. EDUARD DUMOND stands outside in his uniform, a rifle slung over his back. He is the armée questioneur—the kind less at home with words than with implements. LEO ushers him in like they’re old friends—but LEO has grown up around people who had to pretend for a living.
LEO: Eduard! Sava? Come in, quickly, quickly!
As the soldier enters, LEO glances over his shoulder toward the street—a quick and practiced look—then shuts the door firmly.
How long has it been? A year? Too long, anyway. Ah, wait!
LEO holds up one hand.
You remember the rule? No guns past the bar.
EDUARD jerks his chin at the pistol tucked into LEO’s belt.
EDUARD: You have a gun.
LEO: And here I am, at the bar. (A small pause.) This isn’t a new rule, Eduard.
EDUARD: But this is a new rifle.
LEO (laughing): I won’t scratch it!
EDUARD: I mean a new type. It’s called a repeater. Seven
shots before reloading. A new invention. Very expensive.
LEO: Courtesy of the armée scientist, eh?
EDUARD stiffens.
EDUARD: The armée has no official scientist.
LEO (laughing again): Perhaps they grow the guns in the fields, then, next to the sugar. Either way, I’m guessing if you lose yours at a burlesque, the general will shoot you with his.
EDUARD: You know how he is.
LEO: I do. Oh, I do.
LEO’s grin has an edge to it now. He nods to the stage.
Then again, you know the girls. If they see I’ve let a rifle past the bar, they’ll disarm the both of us. And they’ll take our guns too.
EDUARD: All right, all right.
Making a face, EDUARD hands over the new rifle. LEO puts it behind the bar with the others—almost a dozen, now. La Perl is more popular with the soldiers than the shadow plays. Then LEO claps his hands and gestures to the greasy bottles on the back shelf.
LEO: Bien, now to more serious matters! Do you still drink l’ouragan? I’ll mix you one so strong you’ll hardly remember you had a gun in the first place.
With a flourish, LEO mixes the drink, heavy on the rhum, pouring the glass full to brimming. As EDUARD makes his careful way toward an empty table, LEO checks his watch one last time. Then he ducks behind the bar and pulls open a dirty trapdoor. He has just tucked the last rifle into the crawl space when the explosion rattles the grimy glass of the chandelier.
Quickly, he slams the trapdoor shut and sweeps his hand across the bottles on the back of the bar. As the glass shatters on the floor, he draws his gun and smashes the butt of the weapon across the bridge of his own nose. Wincing and swearing, he leaps over the counter and runs down the hall, shouting back over his shoulder to the murmuring audience.
LEO: They’re getting away!