Acier
{Ah-Cee-Ay}
By S.T. Rucker
Copyright 2014 S.T. Rucker
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Acier
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Mount Elbrus, Russia
Year– 2006?
This place could disappear in the snow’s storm and no one would know it ever existed.
It reminded Robin of another little town in Italy by the sea that he had heard of–Vaga–tucked away from the rest of the world. Legs braced apart with a hand in his pocket, he inhaled gently, tipping his dark Herrington driver cap and staring up at the pitch black sky from beneath the rounded brim. The air lisped through his lungs, a frigid whisper of a caress. It’ll snow tonight, he thought wistfully. It always did. Maybe a trip to Italy wouldn’t be out of the question once he raised enough travel money.
Would he be able to leave the quiet and snow of Elbrus?
Robin shook his head and smiled at his musings. He would be late for work and wouldn’t even make enough for the daily bread if he didn’t stop his daydreaming. Robin buttoned his tweed coat, tucked his hands in his pocket, and turned to continue along the street. The heels of his snappy, black patent leather shoes clicked soundly on the slick cobblestone.
He passed the well-dressed ladies and sharp gentlemen of the town, tipping his hat to them respectfully.
The dark cobblestone streets and alleyways were packed in the corners and gutters with piles bright white snow. Golden lights flashed from the theater and shone from the stores and street lights, lighting up the snow and the slick streets and brick walls.
The night’s first icy snowflake touched and melted on his brow.
Scullery maids rushed up beside their mistresses’ jeweled and sequined dress trains and page boys ran alongside their masters, brushing the snowflakes from their coat tails, bearing umbrellas as the light flurries began to fall in earnest.
The wind on the mountain howled, blowing white sheets of frost across the black sky high above the town. The further Robin walked, the thinner the trickle of late night strollers became–and the less elegant. He still couldn’t fathom why such a fancy place like Acier was in such a run-down part of town. Robin shook his head wonderingly.
Reaching a small shabby-looking building at the end of the street, Robin hastily began taking off his coat. The squat, dark cobblestone building was leaned to one side and had the look of a less than reputable pub; its windows were so caked with grime and snow that one could not see through to the other side.
Beneath his tweed coat, he wore a bow tie, crisp white pearl button shirt, and a black double-breasted vest. He reached in his vest pocket and drew out a golden pocket watch, one of the few expensive things he owned. It was five until ten. Shaking the snow off the hem of his pleated black slacks, Robin hurried through the decaying wooden door, which hung haphazardly off its rusted hinges.
For half a minute, Robin wandered through a darkness that swooshed around him like heavy, black velvet curtains.
Then, suddenly, he ambled through the dark and into a golden, crystal lit hall. It smelled of fresh wine, lightly of cinnamon, and, strangely, money. Behind him lay an arch doorway draped in black velvet curtains. To his right, a polished coat rack stood. Robin draped his coat over one of the large, shiny knobs of the coat rack. Next went his hat, then Robin dashed down the long corridor. He entered the kitchens, mainly a huge beige tiled room filled with the aromas of the sumptuous feast belonging to their guests, racks of liquor, including the best and oldest of the city’s port, whiskey, rum, champagne, and wine; shining brass cookware which hung from the ceiling, and the place was filled with the sounds of boiling, sizzling, and chopping by the shadows of the chefs hidden in plumes of thick smoke. Here, Robin met his boss.
Mina De Rue tapped a long, lacquered red nail against her golden watch, her rogue lips pursed ever so slightly. Beautiful as always, she wore a sleek sparkling black gown and her wild red hair was gathered into a perfect chignon.
“You arrived just in time. Hurry, hurry–our clients are waiting,” she said, shuffling him off.
Robin draped a towel over his arm, straightened his spine, and allowed her to direct him into the dining area through yet another black curtain. The elegant Parlor that overlooked the Grand Theater and Great Ballroom was cast in calm, golden light from the lamp fixtures on the walls. The Parlor (with its plush blood red carpet, gilded beige walls, high-backed, velvet lined chairs, and round tables draped in vanilla silk) had snatched the first light of sunset and trapped it here, a living portrait of various subtle and bold shades of orange, yellow, and beige; it was an extravagant doll’s house sitting room for jeweled ladies and starched, gallant gentlemen and their wine and their sparkling diamonds. The patrons, two to a table, whispered to one another over the dim, scented candles burning softly between them.
Wide box windows looked down onto the hundreds of velvet seats in the dark Theater where a Noh play was being performed on the stage; the audience sat motionless in their seats, staring at the stage. Robin wondered whether they were so riveted that they were driven to utter stillness or if they were just living, elegantly dressed and bejeweled statues, sparkling in the stage light that reached for them.
On the left side of the Parlor, through the left side windows, a great sparkling chandelier shone down on an expanse of gleaming marble floor and that reflected men’s flipping black coat tails and the sweeping glittering, sequined trains of the women’s dresses as they twirled gently and bowed to one another in a lovely waltz.
Tucked away in a little corner of the Parlor, a familiar slender form sat in a sphere of particularly dim candlelight, dressed in a cut burgundy suit lined black velvet. Propriety dictated that a gentleman take off his hat upon entering a building. The man had not; his burgundy top hat with its band of black velvet around the base of the pipe sat on his head, shielding his face and eyes in a blade of shadow. Robin nodded to the unseeing patrons as he passed through, making his way silently to the table. The man did not move as he approached.
Robin bowed.
“You have returned,” he said quietly, smiling a little. For three nights now when Robin arrived for his shift, the silent man had been here, sitting at the most secluded table Acier had to offer. Every night when Robin came to him, he quietly ordered the same thing–a sugar cube and a bottle of champagne and a bottle of white wine.
The man never moved and never said more than a few words. He had simply asked Robin his name, then ordered his wine, champagne, and a sugar cube. He was always here alone and he was not from Elbrus, Robin knew that somehow. New money maybe? Was he a traveler? No. Robin had dismissed that thought on the second evening he had seen the stranger.
Wealthy men did not travel alone.
Two rather small leather gloved hands rested on the tabletop. “Acier seems to be a place for lost things such as myself, Master Robin,” said a soft, quiet voice.
“The usual, sir?” Robin inquired in an equally soft tone.
He nodded almost imperceptibly, a slight tilting of his elegant top hat.
“Very good, sir,” Robin said with a bow. He swept away to the kitchens.
~