Boots, Marisol, and the Cabaret (Day 3, Late Afternoon)

The afternoon light was merging slowly into the gold of a sun on the wane. Sister Lyen and Dorian stepped cautiously through the melting snow and slush puddles of Main Street. Occasionally, the pair had to dart to the side to avoid the icy splash of a passing wagon. They moved through a town made active by the Solstice Festival. Vendors shivered in their booths as lumberman and loggers, turned out for the week, ranged about the town in search of diversion.

“And so,” Dorian continued his account, “our widow has asked me tah train her fah work as a boat medic. Had her in tahday fah a dental procedure. She seems excited about it,” he concluded, “but Ah’m not sure we’ll get many more opportunities on New Kasmir.”

“It’s great to see Yeva really coming alive. Our entire trip she’s seemed so downcast; so focused in her mourning. I can’t wait to see the change it’s had in her to finally receive some peace.” Lyen tucked an errant hair beneath the cap she’d found in the coat pocket she’d relieved from Marisol’s engine room. A pang settled in her stomach as she was at once jealous and excited at the new development. She’d been considering asking Dorian if she could assist him, to learn, and to broaden her knowledge of the healing he ministered. Her impromptu surgery had piqued something within her, a visceral and instinctual call to mend.

Mind in the clouds, a particularly large puddle caused her to skirt away from Dorian’s side to pass, while a vendor took a precariously close turn to the nun. With a splat and sunken shoe, Ly shook her head in amused frustration: her right foot now covered to the ankle in sopping mud, she waited for the mule and cart to pass, a slight wave to the driver who waved back apologies.

“Làn yùn (rotten luck)! I think I can still feel my foot for now, but we better find someplace warm or I fear you’ll have to amputate, doc.”

“Hmmm,” Adler regarded the mud encased foot that Lyen fought to avoid smearing against her robes. “We have an emergency,” he declared. “Fortunately, tha outfittah’s shop is just anothah block on. Ah prescribe boots an’ dry socks,” he offered a mild smirk. Shall we?”

“In haste,” she took Dorian’s arm to steady her lopsided lope, robe-end in the other. Just inside the shop’s door, the smell of sweet pine and peppermint was a wall of welcome. To keep from tracking mud inside, Lyen bent double to relieve her shoe from her foot, leaving it just outside the door. There were all sorts of boots here, though most were utilitarian and rugged. A couple were obvious returns from wealthy folk who had probably just come to New Kasmir for the winter. Those were shiny and fluffy with all sorts of bows and tassels. Her hand was on her chin as she surveyed the stock, one bare foot wriggling on the stone threshold.

Dorian returned with a pair of heavy woolen socks. “Ah guessed ‘small,’ the medic shrugged as he handed them over. “Yeva told me she shopped here...left tha mournin’ dress behind and all. Apparently, tha rabbi let her of tha hook when he learned how long she’d sat with her husband.” He eyed the lengthy rack with its’ numerous boots. “Any of these seem right fah yah?”

“Thank you for these,” with a glance shot over her shoulder, Ly stooped to sock the poor frigid foot. “Just right. Well, they’re all so functional. That pair over there looks like something Jacy would have gotten.” The last time she was shopping with anyone was with Jacy by her side. In a small way it had given her comfort to see all the things set in rows waiting to be bought. She imagined Jacy might feel the same. But she was gone, now, and the boat was a little smaller. Just like Marisol, a fresh loss with fond memories. Chewing the inside of her lip, she chose the pair that looked like something Marisol would have worn. Functional. Study, but… her fingers pulled at the tongue to reveal a lively pattern of birds singing from tree branches on a background of buffalo plaid. “These are the ones,” a smirk was climbing her cheeks just thinking of how Marisol might wear something like these. To the shopkeep she asked, “Do you have these in a smaller size?”

To see Lyen’s face held in a secretive sort of smile brought Dorian to turn away, lest he spoil her moment. As the merchant hustled to his stockroom, Adler took a moment to study the firearms in their locked display cases. The shop was well provisioned...a requirement in a place like Aurora Creek. And there were several models whose lighter builds would serve…

Dorian returned to the boot rack to find Lyen discussing a second pair with the shopkeeper. He held his tongue as the nun pursued her aims.

“Would you say Marisol is a five or six, Dorian? I can’t picture her in anything but those steel toed boots she always wears.” The pair in her hand were patent leather, a deep burgundy with subtle styling and a similarly bright inner lining. “I think she’d love these.” It was providence, perhaps, to find such a gift before they met with their friend at the Cabaret de Montagne.

Dorian rubbed his jaw in contemplation, before measuring his forearm with the splayed fingers of one hand. “Just a guess,” he ventured, “but a boot? Ah’d think a six.” He admired the burgundy hue of Lyen’s find, with the vibrant lining hinting out at the top. “One thing Ah do know,” he said at last, “tha woman loves a good pair of boots.”

After a good natured argument over Dorian’s offer to pay was resolved by the shopkeeper himself, the pair stepped through the doors into the late afternoon chill. “Cabaret’s a block ovah,” he indicated with a tilt of his head. As they set off, he said, “our patient today mentioned it tah be a sly bar. More interestin’ was what he told us about a new singer, a small Spanic woman who’s now workin’ there. Ah conjure our mechanic’s havin’ a fine time.”

To see Marisol singing! Gods this was more than she could have hoped for. A bit ashamed of how excited she was to see the mechanic, and even then in a setting like the bar Doc had mentioned, Lyen pulled her cap down close around her ears as she replied, “This I can’t wait to see.” Somehow the bright orange robe she wore was free of mud, still she smoothed it over and patted it off. Her new boots were warm and pleasantly stiff as she and Dorian found the spot.

“La Cabaret de Montagne,” Adler read aloud the large placard which hung from an upper balcony. A poster had been affixed next the heavy wooden doors…*’Join us for our Solstice Extravaganza.’* He glanced toward Lyen as he knocked on the door. “Perhaps Ah’ll reserve a table.”

From inside came the sound of locks disengaging. The door pushed open to reveal a tallish man, clean shaven, stylishly dressed in his mid forties. “We open in two hours,” he said. “May I be of service?”

Dorian removed his hat. “This is Sistah Lyen Giu. Ah’m Dorian Adler. We’re friends of Marisol Chavez. May we see her?”

“Marrrisol,” the proprietor offered a subtle smile. “She might be busy, but I’ll be glad to check. Please, come in,” he gestured as the door swung wide. “Where are my manners? My name is Arturo. It is a pleasure to meet friends of our Marrrisol,” he offered a gallant hand to escort the nun inside.

It was difficult not to smile as Arturo took her hand and led her within the Cabaret. “Amituofo, Mr. Arturo, you have a beautiful establishment.” While she spoke, the nun took in her first sights of the Cabaret de Montagne; it’s brightly lit stage, islands of tables and chairs, and a prominent and antique-looking bar coalesced to create an exciting and inviting atmosphere, even with the house lights lit from above. She craned her neck around each corner for a glimpse of Marisol, a knowing glance shot back at Dorian. To Lyen it felt like a last chance to say a proper goodbye, but more than that, a chance for closure and to offer her the heartfelt hug in return she’d been surprised by when they landed.

Arturo made a half bow, his palms pressed together until both hands came down, separating into an open handed welcome. “Amituofo, Sister. Welcome to La Cabaret de Montagne.” The greeting delivered, he scanned the semi darkness of the table seating. “Marrrisol?” he called out. “Marrrisol!”

“Yes?” A familiar silhouette appeared among the tables nearest the stage. Marisol held a tray balanced to one hip as she moved about, placing fresh candles into the centerpieces.

“Put that down a moment!” Arturo’s voice carried through the room. “You have guests.”

Seeing her there against the backdrop of the stage, in the sea of tables and chairs was like seeing a special beast exactly in its element, utterly comfortable and secure. “Well hello there stranger,” Lyen set off down the aisle toward Marisol. When she was close enough, she wrapped the late mechanic of the Lunar Veil in a slightly snowy hug, clasping both slender arms around Marisol’s shoulders. “Just look at you, here, you look so happy!”

Marisol laughed as she threw her arms around the Sister. “Lyen!” she laughed again, eventually giving up the embrace as she pulled back to arm’s length. “I’m okay,” she wiped her eyes, but couldn’t stop smiling. “Working like a dog, but okay. The people here are wonderful,” she grinned broadly at the pair of them. “So good to see you,” she hugged Lyen afresh. “Are you in town for the night? I can reserve a table if you both want.”

“We heard there was a freshly minted act right here in the Cabaret, something about a fiery Spanic woman who has the voice of an angel? You know anything about that?” She brought their embrace to her side so they could view the wide open space of the Montagne, Dorian trading words with Arturo. “What it must be like to perform here. I envy you and your courage. We are definitely staying to see you--and the entire show!” She had no idea what kind of entertainment took place at a cabaret; there was no such entertainment on her side of Athens, or in Santo where she spent much time. She only knew that if Marisol was a part of it, then it was something she wanted to see.

Marisol shook her head. “Fiery Spanic woman? Nope,” she chuckled, “unless you mean Marisol, the singing waitress, toilet scrubber and coat check girl.” After a quick laugh, she said “Arturo and his husband, Remy...they’re the real show. I come up a few times at night to sing while they’re changing costumes for the next number.”

From behind them the two men laughed. After shaking hands with Arturo, Dorian rejoined his friends on the floor. “Yah employah tells me that folk are talkin’ bout tha new waitress,” he smiled. “Ah hate tah tell Paco he’s lost his best help.” He gave her a warm embrace. Yah missed on tha Veil.”

The smile diminished ever so slightly. “There are folk there I miss, too. But you two!” she exclaimed. “Listen, I’ve got to finish my tables before the band arrives,” she offered sheepishly. I’ll hold a table right down front…”

“Ah settled it with Arturo,” Dorian replied. “We’ve got a table. In tha meantime, Sistah?” he asked the nun. “Kindly allow me tah take yah tah suppah?”