Chapter 13: The Metaphor of Mint 01
“Hi,” Olga used this as the opening of her bar night, “glad to see you’re still alive.”
“I think you’d probably be quite happy too if you saw me turned into a corpse stuck full of fresh flowers,” Hestal replied acidly.
Olga merely smiled at him, her expression unruffled: “Don’t say that. You know curiosity and happiness aren’t the same thing.”
Friday—it had been exactly twelve days since the Sunday Gardener placed that improper bouquet of white flowers on Hestal Amalette’s desk, and the gun homicide death toll in Westland remained stubbornly high, though no new serial killer had paid the city a visit.
When Hestal sat down at the old spot near the bar counter, “I Want to Quit” was playing its usual soothing music, eerily paired with wildly flashing neon lights, creating an effect that bordered on schizophrenia; no wonder that although Olga swore up and down that this place had the best cocktails in all of Westland, the bar still wasn’t very crowded.
Albanino, as usual, sat at Olga’s side, fiddling with the little umbrella decorating a Hawaiian-style cocktail. He wondered if anyone had ever reminded him that drinking that thing made him look either like he had questionable taste or questionable sexual orientation.
Hestal scrutinized the drink menu with a critical eye—the drinks had bizarre names, and below each one was a special note instructing customers to order using the “correct name,” otherwise the bartender would politely refuse.
He knew the other two were watching him with great interest, just to see which way he would swing on the scales between ordering what he actually wanted to drink and spitting out those strange drink names. This often made him suspect that Olga had chosen this bar specifically to torture him.
He was silent for a moment, then looked up from the drinks menu and said to the bartender with a blank expression, “Glory hole, please.”
Sure enough, he heard Albanino let out a low chuckle from the next seat over.
“I don’t know whether I should stand up right now and exclaim, ‘My God, Mr. Amaretto has finally ordered an alcoholic drink!’ or—to be honest, that cocktail is basically made of a ton of fruit juice, I’m guessing it might only have a few drops of vodka in it.” Olga pointed out with great interest, as if she had discovered a new continent.
“I know. I’ve had a very tough day,” Hestal said truthfully.
This was true. He had been forced to spend an entire day in discussion with a man who knew absolutely nothing about the law, and the main reason this discussion had been necessary was obviously that the man’s son, after taking SM too far, had dumped the prostitute’s corpse in the river channel—never mind anything else, could they have used at least a little brain before doing something like that?
In the end, this case and that client’s pungent cigar smoke brought him a migraine that was nearly impossible to resist, and even a consultation fee of fifteen hundred dollars an hour could not alleviate the pain.
Usually, when he found himself in this kind of situation, he would choose to go home, take his medication, and sleep until he lost all sense of time. This bar’s noisy environment was worlds apart from the dead silence of his home. He sat there watching the bright glints flickering off the glass in the bartender’s hands, puzzled for a few seconds as to why he was sitting here at all.
Indeed, many things that happened to him left him feeling confused—those clients who seemed incapable of thinking for themselves, the bunch of white daffodils and wheat ears that had appeared on his desk nearly two weeks ago, the Sunday Gardener himself whose intentions remained a complete mystery—and then there was Albanino Bacchus, who tirelessly showed up at his place for lunch at least two days a week.
Hestal ultimately did not chase the other party out, nor did he refuse Olga’s invitation for a night at the bar. A voice in his heart pointed out that this was very irrational. He should either draw a clean line between himself and these troublesome matters, or participate in this strange competition—he should not waver on that middle line.
Olga blinked and said lively, “Can your ‘hard day’ be soothed with twelve percent alcohol?”
“I’ll order a second glass,” Hestal replied condescendingly.
When the cocktail arrived, he was still thinking about these meaningless matters. The glass was hazily covered with a layer of condensation, and the ice cubes clinked crisply at the bottom. Olga was right—the base liquor of this cocktail was almost nonexistent vodka, its spicy taste diluted to nearly nothing, and it tasted merely sweet.
Someone would definitely describe it as “just like love.”
He sat there in silence and drank the first and second glasses, even though this stuff couldn’t actually make him forget those clients’ insufferable faces, and unless he was mistaken, he’d have to waste his time on those people again next week.
By the time Hestal drained the second glass, Olga was saying: “…Honestly, I’m waiting for him to strike back every single day.”
“The Westland Pianist?” Albanino hummed indifferently. “Bart wouldn’t like that kind of thinking from you.”
“That’s logical. The internet is all abuzz discussing his and the Gardener’s Bible-themed deranged killer showdown. For someone who loves writing letters to the police department as much as he does, it wouldn’t make sense for him not to retaliate, would it?” Olga said slowly. “Although more deaths are truly terrible, I think that kind of thing was bound to happen sooner or later. Being mentally prepared for it is the wise course of action.”
She paused, and just as she was about to continue, her phone rang like a death knell. She picked it up and glanced at it, then groaned, “It’s my editor calling. I clearly told him I’d rather die than revise the seventh draft.”
But it was obviously no use. Olga threw them both an apologetic look, then, clutching her phone like a bomb, squeezed through the crowd—clearly heading out to take the call. The remaining two stood in silence by the bar for a moment, and then Hestal suddenly spoke up out of nowhere, actually picking up the thread of the earlier conversation.
“Maybe he doesn’t care at all what the Sunday Gardener is doing.” Hestal set down his glass and spoke slowly.
Albanino let out a soft hum, the delight in his voice overflowing in a way that was unpleasant, clinging to the ends of his words like honey: “Or perhaps he was left speechless because he chose to concede defeat to the gardener.”
Hestal let out a soft sigh. The pain that had accumulated over the day assailed him, making his temples throb, and that sensation was something even sweetness could not soothe. He drained the contents of his glass, pushed it back onto the tabletop, and slid down from the barstool.
Albanino watched him with delight. Countless people would lose their hearts to those mint-green eyes—that was entirely conceivable. Hestal walked around Olga’s empty stool to his side, pressed his elbow against the wooden surface of the bar, and looked down at him.
Albanino widened his eyes, not appearing surprised in the least, and simply smiled at him.
“To you, is all of this just a competition? Two serial killers leaving a trail of corpses for each other along the way, fighting over the crown of some deranged murderer that none of us even understand?” Hestal pointed out to him in that usual cold tone of his.
“Describing it that way is far too shallow, Hestal. Why don’t you look at it from a more romantic angle?” Albanino said softly. In the somewhat noisy bar, his voice was so low that even Hestal could barely make out what he was saying. “Or is this just how lawyers see things: that what happens in the courtroom is nothing but competition or war, and that lethal injection and life imprisonment are negotiable spoils?”
Hestal narrowed his eyes. “Are you aware of the word you just used? Romantic?”
“And why not think of it that way?” Albanino’s smile was almost innocent. “Is it incapable of becoming anything you might expect? Or is it still not enough to spark the imagination?—After all, ‘What the creator seeks is companions, not corpses, and not flocks, and not believers. What the creator seeks is fellow creators, who will write new values on new tablets.'”
Hestal looked straight at him: “And you? What are you looking for?”
“A good night?” Albanino laughed. “You know full well—a warm, damp—a long night.”
Those adjectives rolled on his tongue, spat out tenderly and stickily, so low it was almost a murmur in a dream.
Hestal stared at Albanino. The unsmiling lawyer seemed to want to frown, or to sigh, but he did neither. He still had one hand propped on the bar counter, and then without any warning, using that posture, he leaned in and kissed Albanino on the lips.
“Kissing” was a very inappropriate description. It was nothing more than a fleeting brush of lip skin against lip skin. Albanino seemed to catch a faint, crisp sweetness of cocktail, but that was all. The next second, Hestal straightened up slightly, though their distance remained too close—almost impolite by social standards.
“Wow,” Albanino sighed exaggeratedly, his warm breath tickling the skin of Hestal’s jaw. He was very likely doing it on purpose. “Mr. Armalite, this is truly unexpected—can twelve-proof alcohol really get someone drunk?”
“Nothing surprising about it,” Hestal said lowly. “Perhaps you started a game, and now I’ve decided to join in.”
Albanino gazed at him for a long moment, then wore a thoughtful expression that was almost a smile: “Should I say ‘I’m honored’?”
“Better be so. Because unless you can enjoy this moment, here and now, you will never be able to enjoy anything, anywhere.” Hestal looked down at him, tugged at the corner of his mouth, revealing a cold, sharp smile. “Because the next moment will be born from this one… Mr. Bacchus.”
He could see a slightly confused expression flash across Albanino’s face, but before he could ask any questions, Hestal had already stepped back. The man leisurely strolled back to his seat and sat down, while Albanino noticed that in the spot previously blocked by Hestal’s figure, an alluring lady in a red dress was glaring furiously in this direction.
“Go deal with your dear Mingta, you playboy.” Hestal let out a scoff—clearly, long before this, at least before he had touched Albanino’s lips, he had already seen that lady staring angrily in this direction.
“Oh God,” Albanino flinched, “don’t.”
—But it seemed to be too late, because the next second, the beautiful lady had already angrily pushed through the crowd, stormed up to the bar, and viciously threw a punch right into Albanino’s face.
Meanwhile, Hestal was raising his third glass of wine, without even lifting his head. He needed a lot of alcohol to get through this night.
“Albanino Bacchus!” the lady screamed, her voice sharp as nails scraping across glass. “You bastard!!!”
So when Olga finally finished her phone call, escaped the editor’s clutches of deadline-chasing, and returned to the bar area, she was greeted by this scene:
Hestal sat motionless in his seat, drinking, the barstool between him and Albanino like an insurmountable chasm. And Albanino, the chief forensic examiner of the Westland City Forensics Bureau, had blood streaming from his nose, pressing a tissue to it while looking at Hestal with an expression of reproach.
“You’re really childish, you know that?” he said.
“Wow,” Olga exclaimed, “did I miss something good?”
Hestal shot her a chilly glance: “Nothing much, except Albanino’s girlfriend just rushed over and hit him—if you’d come in four minutes earlier, you could’ve seen the part where security escorted her out.”
“Girlfriend? That brown-haired nurse?” Olga thought for two seconds, clearly a parade of women of all types and descriptions flashing through her mind.
“That was the last one. The current one is a beautiful dark-skinned beauty named Sara; though I think the current one is also past tense now. But, strictly speaking, not a lover—none of them are lovers.” Albanino carefully moved the tissue slightly away from his nose, let out a low yelp, and pressed it back again. “It’s foolish to rashly develop that kind of intimate relationship before you’ve resolved to enter marriage. I prefer to call it ‘a stable bed partner.'”
But obviously that girl in the red dress wouldn’t think so. After all, Albanino-style “stable bed partners” included not just spending nights together, but also sweet talk and breakfast and lunch—all the sweet conveniences that a dazzling, charming fellow like him was willing to provide for his partner.
Unfortunately, no one would think that the shirtless man they saw frying eggs in their kitchen when they woke up was merely their bed partner.
Olga clearly understood Albanino’s logic very well, as well as what kind of misunderstandings those girls and boys would develop because of it. She sat back down in her seat, looking him over with amusement: “But I also told you not to change bed partners so frequently, didn’t I? I said that, right?”
“It has nothing to do with how long it’s been. In any case, I’ve never given anyone the impression that I was two-timing.” Albanino said, while shooting a fierce glare at Hestal.
“Think back on what you said to me today, and then swear that oath again.” Hestal retorted. Clearly, after three drinks, he too had become a bit more talkative.
“Ha, if you agreed to sleep with me, I’d properly break things off with the other person first. I’d even get an AIDS test before starting to date you.” Albanino let out a scoff. “Mr. Armalite, I’m the traditional type who waits until after the third date to sleep together.”
Olga wore a conflicted expression, as if she didn’t even know which part to complain about.
“In any case, Olga, you’re having Hestal foot the bill today. My fragile soul needs compensation,” Albanino said. Aside from his nose bleeding, the area below his cheekbone was also hurting terribly. That girl had really hit hard—by tomorrow, those spots would probably all be bruised.
Olga looked at him, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. “I don’t think you’re all that heartbroken.”
“Because we must learn to enjoy earthly pleasures as much as possible, Olga.” Albanino was silent for two seconds, then suddenly spoke. “Besides, I didn’t come away completely empty-handed.”
He crumpled the tissue into a ball in his palm. As he stood up, he tossed Hestal a mischievous grin. His cheekbone was already a little red now, but his eyes still looked remarkably bright.
Hestal sighed and began to fumble for his credit card.
The next morning, Albanino was woken by a rapid knocking at the door.
It was Saturday, so at least he didn’t have to go to work, and he hadn’t set an alarm. As he staggered barefoot to open the door, he could see a gloomy, lead-gray sky outside.
Autumn in Westland was always long and dreary—a third of the month would be spent raining. When he pulled the door open, the cool early-October autumn wind slipped in through the doorway, carrying needle-like, cold, sharp raindrops that lashed against his body.
Bart Hardy stood grimly at his door, burying himself in a funeral-black overcoat, with two tense-looking officers flanking him.
The three of them stared at him in unison, as if he were a monster—or rather, as if he had appeared before them in the monstrous form he kept buried deep in his heart—the scene was a bit too eerie for comfort.
“Hey, Bart,” Albanino offered the other man a weary smile. By now his cheekbone was completely swollen, aching with every twitch of the corner of his mouth. “What brings you here so early?”
Hardy studied him for a moment with a complicated expression, as if weighing how to phrase something, then seemed to give up and simply said, “Someone’s dead.”
He didn’t say anything more, but slowly reached out and held a photograph up in front of Albanino: it was a typical crime scene photo, filled with scale markers and yellow evidence placards, just like the ones he looked at every day. The background of the photo was clearly filthy standing water and a gray alley—damp, cold, and utterly desolate.
In the center of the photo lay a woman, her face swollen, her hair disheveled, her bruised cheeks and split lips forming a horrifying picture. She was clearly dead, and had suffered a terrible beating before she died.
A knife was lodged in her chest, its gleaming blade standing upright amid numerous messy, mangled wounds, blood soaking through the red dress.
Amid the already coagulated dark blood, amid the torn flesh blooming open on her chest, lay a small sprig of emerald-green mint leaves.
“…Sarah,” Albanino murmured, finally furrowing his brow.
“We got a call this morning. A body was found in the back alley of that bar you two frequent. And, Al, I don’t know how this happened, but—” Officer Hardy swallowed dryly and took a deep breath. “There’s one of your fingerprints on the knife.”
Albanino was stunned for two seconds. Somehow, he suddenly felt like smiling. But looking at Hardy’s expression, as though the sky was about to fall, he didn’t cruelly say it out loud.
“In that case,” he said after a moment’s thought, “I think I need a lawyer.”
Note:
[1] Yes, Glory Hole is the name of the drink that Hestal ordered—a certain exclusive cocktail at the “I Want to Quit” bar, with a base liquor of (“excessive and overly strong”) Russian vodka.
[2] “What the creator seeks is companions, not corpses, nor flocks, nor believers; what the creator seeks is fellow creators, who will write new values on new tablets.”
“Unless you can enjoy this moment, here and now, you will never be able to enjoy anything anywhere, because the next moment will be born from this one.”
Both of the above quotes are from Nietzsche’s *Thus Spoke Zarathustra*.
[3] Minthe:
The daughter of Cocytus, the god of the river of wailing, she was originally a water nymph. Minthe was a lover of Hades, the god of the underworld, and she believed that the vacant position of Queen of the Underworld would ultimately fall to her.
However, Hades took Persephone from Mount Etna as his wife and declared her Queen of the Underworld. Consumed by jealousy, Minthe spread word everywhere that she was far more beautiful and noble than Persephone, and that Hades would surely return to her.
The furious Persephone trampled Minthe into dust, and to commemorate his lover, Hades caused mint to grow from Minthe’s ashes.