Cabaret in Flames

Chapter I. Ariadne’s Thread

I

Ariadne’s Thread

Fireworks crackled outside when he appeared at her door.

The neighbors set them off during football matches and to show whether or not they agreed with the news, but the noise that night was louder, thundering above the buildings like lost bullets.

The visitor introduced himself as Quaint, no surname, following the tradition of his kind.

My sobriquet since the nineteenth century, he would later say, coined by my late wife.

In age, Quaint looked like he could be anywhere in that nebulous period of adult life that ranged from thirty to fifty, but it was more, much more.

“Hello, gul doctor,” he said through the speaker of the intercom. Only his lower jaw and a fragment of his black umbrella appeared on the screen. “It’s been a long time.”

Ariadne never allowed anyone in her house after curfew, let alone a man, but something in his words made her press the button that unlocked the front door.

Perhaps it had been the certainty with which Quaint had spoken, hinting at an intimacy they did not share, or perhaps she was intrigued by the fact that he was a healthy adult male.

Most of her patients were elderly, disabled, or pregnant, harmless save for a few exceptions, so his presence in the clinic sparked her curiosity, making her wonder what a mature gul could want with her.

After climbing the last step, Quaint stood in the stairwell, just the silhouette of a tall man in the penumbra. It was like seeing a panther lurking in the darkness, well-built and alluring, waiting until the prey would walk into the trap.

“Are you Miss Yurkova, I wonder?” Quaint shook the umbrella, sprinkling water on the floor. His words echoed through the corridor, sending an unpleasant chill down every vertebra of her spine: wonder, wonder, wonder.

Ariadne frowned, staring at the metallic sign on the door that announced ERIK YURKOV, MD right under number 201.

“In a way, yes.”

“Erik, living with another person? That’s an achievement I didn’t expect of him.” He stepped forward and his shadow stretched from the stairs to the door of her apartment. “Are you his girlfriend? Daughter, perhaps?”

Ariadne moved aside to let him in. We’re nothing anymore, she thought, but her mouth answered:

“Apprentice.”

“Oh! Another gul doctor?”

Under the light, Quaint became somebody else: black hair slicked back with an undercut, golden-ocher skin, a long flat nose, and a pair of round sunglasses that hid his expression, but still she felt his eyes on her, analyzing every hint of movement.

He wore a mustard-yellow shirt, suspenders, black pants, and there were raindrops on the leather of his shoes.

What surprised Ariadne most, however, were not his fine clothes or the heavy rings covering his fingers, but the tattoos on his hands, neck, and the part of his chest exposed by the open collar.

Ariadne bristled like a cornered cat. “Are you human?”

“I’m fascinated by this question.” Quaint smiled, and the tips of his canines appeared between his lips. Adult guls could have as many as eleven pairs of sharp fangs, mirroring human premolars and cuspids, and every additional tooth increased their bite force.

“I’ve never seen a tattooed gul before. How…?”

Ariadne glanced at the sideboard. Inside the drawer was a dose of carfentanil strong enough to take down an elephant.

Quaint was twice her size and she should have never been alone with him, but one shot of the tranquilizer and he would be as inoffensive as a child.

It was not necessary; after a moment of silence, Quaint began to laugh.

“A strange sight, I’ve been told,” said Quaint, still smiling, one of his hands covering his teeth. She flinched with the gesture. “That’s one of the reasons I’m here, in fact. My tattoos have been fading faster than normal.”

“What are you, a masochist?”

“Far from it, but Erik will know what to do. Can you call him, Miss…?”

Erik again. Everything always went back to Erik in the end.

“Ariadne. And no, I can’t.”

Another firecracker exploded outside, followed by whistles and howls. The neighbor’s dog, from one of the houses across the street, barked at the sound, and other dogs followed suit.

“See, Miss Ariadne, I know I should have announced my arrival, and that you have quite the temper,” stated Quaint, raising two smoky eyebrows, “but Erik and I have been friends for many lives. I need to talk to him. Tell him it’s to rest my heart. I’ve had the most unsettling dream.”

“First, Mister Quaint…” Ariadne answered calmly. Her legs throbbed, and the stumps of her thighs felt sore against the prosthesis after a long day of work. “You know nothing of my temper. Second, I can’t call Erik because he’s no longer here. Or anywhere—might be dead, for all I know.”

Quaint opened his mouth to reply, but he gave up before even starting. His shoulders slumped, a thick wrinkle appeared in his forehead, and he touched the ring on his little finger.

“So Erik is really gone.”

“He’s not gone, Mister Quaint. He just left. Vanished five years ago and never told me why.”

“Only Quaint, please.”

“I’m guessing you’re not from here based on your name, your clothes, and the fact that I’ve never seen you before, despite your claiming to be his friend…”

“And you’re right. I did live in Brazil in the past, but moved back home in 2009. Time…”

“… passes differently for guls. I know. Well, I regret being the bearer of bad news, but you won’t find anything of Erik here.” Ariadne touched the key chain hanging from the door. “Do you want me to help you or will only Erik do?”

Quaint grinned, but the energy of his previous laughter was gone.

“Ha! Now I understand why Erik chose you as an apprentice. You’re bold enough for the two of you.” His hands slipped inside the pockets of his pants, and he straightened his posture. “Forgive the verbiage, I wasn’t expecting such news.”

“Please follow me.”

“In a second.”

Years later, Ariadne would still wonder if Quaint knew he would come into her house to stay, since he always seemed to know more than others around him.

If he did, he never told her, and he acted as sincerely as she had then.

He followed her into the consultation room and unbuttoned his shirt, revealing an already faded chest piece towering over the images that covered the rest of his torso.

The central tattoo depicted two birds, one on each shoulder, their spread wings meeting at his sternum.

The black ink had turned blue, unlike the guardian lion on his neck, fresh and recently remade.

“The problem lies in your regeneration speed.” Ariadne’s gloved finger brushed against the tattoo on his inner arm, a branch of guaraná, its fruits looking like insistent wide eyes. “But I would have to investigate why it changed out of nowhere.”

“Thank you, Ariadne. Please accept my apologies for appearing so late at night.” Quaint offered a discreet bow of the head, and unlocked his phone to input her number.

A scream outside interrupted their conversation, but Ariadne just shook her head, telling him to ignore it.

“I must say, however, that I’m afraid Erik might not have left of his own accord.

I have known him since his youth, and he’s never done that before. ”

Ariadne stiffened. “He packed his bags and walked out the front door.”

“Still, we shouldn’t…” Quaint took a good look at her, then smiled cryptically. “Never mind. I’ll talk to a few friends, and we can discuss the matter again at our next appointment.”

Rua da Encruzilhada was a residential cul-de-sac located in Vitória, Espírito Santo, and it had only a few small businesses.

The first was a three-story building with a compounding pharmacy downstairs and a clinic above, with a pair of residents: Ariadne, who lived with her cat in the duplex that belonged to Erik, and Ms. Terebê, a tiny gul shriveled like a fig who had been born somewhere in South America, long before the European invasion.

The last was the coffee shop around the corner, managed by Boniface, an Italian immigrant whose presence attracted a steady clientele of ancient patients to her clinic.

Their diet consisted of flesh, blood, and bones of humans like herself, but Ariadne felt safer with them around.

While she waited for Quaint’s next visit, Ariadne checked Erik’s old address book for the clinic, but there was no entry under the letter Q.

Admittedly, they were supposed to be friends, not patient and doctor, but the little black book was one of the few personal possessions Erik had left behind.

Years had passed since she had touched his things—she hated them, in fact, those lifeless proofs of his abandonment—but she wanted some clue that Quaint spoke the truth.

“Ms. Terebê,” said Ariadne one night. They were watching the news together on the small television on the counter.

The compounding pharmacy was open twenty-four hours, as Terebê rarely slept, but she closed the doors at eight, keeping a small window open in case there was a customer, which rarely happened after the curfew started.

Ms. Terebê lifted a gray, almost-invisible eyebrow.

“Hmm?”

“Did Erik have friends?”

The little screen continued to report the evening news: “An open letter was published this morning against the curfew, signed by more than two thousand artists, journalists, writers, and actors … Despite rumors of an illness, the president made a statement today, reaffirming that the curfew has lowered crime rates all over the country, but provided no proof of…”