FIC + ART: A CAFÉ CALLED LIMBO
Title: A café called Limbo
Author: black_betty_26
Artist:heavenly_rain
Team: ANGST
Prompt: Whiskey & Rum, Balcony
Word count: 1,318
Rating: G
Summary: In times of war people do desperate things for motivations sometimes unknown. Arthur may have done something he didn't realise he would regret.
Notes: This is somewhat loosely based on the movie 'Casablanca' and so it takes the artistic license to include that the Germans invaded Morocco during WWII. They never did.
Big BIG thank you to black_betty_26 who is lovely and patient and kind and wrote this beautiful piece. And who actually knows something about Casablanca... I need to travel more :p
Preview:
Limbo, in the daytime, is drab and gritty with sand, dust motes floating through the hot white sun beaming in through open windows. The tables seem scattered haphazardly across the room, chairs flipped up off the floor, their feet in the air like spindly spider legs reaching for the ceiling where rotating fans pushed the hot air back and forth, groaning rhythmically to a monotonous beat.
It is hot during the day, sweat gathering even in the starched white collar of Arthur’s shirt, loosened tie and undone buttons leaving it hanging limply open in the tepid air, baring his throat as he cooks the books on the worn surface of the bar. Through the windows he can hear the rumble of traffic, automobiles and rickety wagons, goats and donkeys fighting for street space, their drivers shouting in sharp, cutting syllables, layer over layer.
It’s the background symphony to the muddled thoughts in his head, vying for attention against the stream of numbers he attempts to fit together to make some sense of the previous night’s take. The numbers swim in front of him: money raked in from cards and rattling dice in the backroom, and from the flood of alcohol over the bar in the front room, parceled out while the patrons listened to music and swayed and drank themselves into dreamy oblivion…
He sighs and sets down his pencil, rubs at his bleary eyes, pours himself another finger of whiskey from the open bottle next to him, already half empty. He tells himself he can’t think in the heat, that one of his staff fudged the numbers, that he’s drank too much or not enough, that Limbo in all its unattractive, ordinary daytime ugliness is disconcerting and distracting him, but really, it’s none of these things.
He knows what it is.
It’s Eames.
Or rather, the distinct loss of Eames. Because Limbo has always been colourless and lackluster in the daytime heat of Morocco, so sharply contrasted against the Limbo of night, and that hasn’t changed.
At night there are lamps along the walls, hanging from the ceiling, candles settled across the tables, all of them glittering stars in the smoky dimness of the room. There are men in black and white suits, sharply cut to the body, women in dresses trailing the floor, soft satin and shimmering gems, and perfectly curled hair. All of them drink sweet wine or tart liquor and listen to the soft rolling melody of the piano, conversation a lulling hum under the rolling voice of the woman in black as she sings ‘bye bye blackbird’ and ‘dream a little dream of me’ under the hot lights. All of them blow smoke out of red lips into the darkness of the night.
Limbo at night is magic, is a hazy, odd and lovely dream. In the sharp light of day, this magic seems like something transitory and fleeting, a strange mirage in the desert. Limbo has always been this way, but daytime within its walls has never seemed more bleak, more desolate and dry then it does now, without Eames.
The whole of Morocco seems dead, the desert rushing in and drowning it in sand.
Eames, King of the night, the Prince of thieves, the eye of the storm, the man with answers and keys to all the world-Eames has disappeared from Limbo where he held court once the sun went down, dealing cards, whispering in dark corners, drinking golden liquor from a crystal glass and sending a sliver of smile down the bar toward twittering girls. Eames has disappeared from the city and maybe from the world. And Arthur was the last person to see him. Arthur saw him in Limbo before he was taken away.
***
It had been three months ago.
Arthur had been standing in his office above the club, staring out at the night through the wooden slates across his window, streetlamps casting stripes across his face and body like a prison of shadows. Fitting, he thought, for the crimes he had committed, before Morocco, before the war, crimes he was perpetrating even as he stood before the window, watching the hustle and flow of the nocturnal crowd, crawling through the dusk.
They had come to him that day, when the sun was disappearing under the horizon. They had come to him and asked about a man with papers, a man who was helping enemies of the Third Reich and the Chancellor escape into the new world. Arthur knew, of course, everyone knew, because Eames was the man you went to, the man with the magic touch and open doors and papers to pass through them.
Arthur didn’t care whether Eames was right or wrong. He didn’t care about America, where he was born, or Germany as they tried to wipe out the map of the world, or Morocco where he had fled and burrowed himself deep under sand and red stone.
He wasn’t loyal to anyone, hadn’t tied his allegiance to anyone in a long time. He cared about himself, and he cared about Limbo. Anyone he had held dear was dead, and buried, his brothers in the green fields of Holland, his parents under a grey headstone in Connecticut, Dom and Mal in the crumbling walls of Paris. No one else had ever given him a reason to care about anything other than himself.
In the end, he gave them Eames’ name.
Eames had come to him that night, right at the very moment he thought about all he had lost, and all he had left to hold onto. He had known what Arthur had done, and who laid in wait downstairs, but he hadn’t fled, hadn’t slipped into the darkness as he had done so many other times.
“Do you hate me so much, Darling?”
Arthur had turned around then, light from the street spilling over his shoulders, glancing across Eames’ face, but not revealing him, keeping him in half shadows as he stood by the door.
“It’s nothing personal.” He had replied, and Eames had laughed softly.
“Yes Arthur.” He smiled then, sad and sharp, something bitter lingering in the shape of his mouth. “Nothing’s ever personal with you, is it?” Arthur had said nothing in return, and they spent a long moment studying each other in the long shadows of the room. Finally, Eames spoke again, “You did what was best for you, Arthur, in the end.”
He turned then, opened the door, but he cast one last look over his shoulder. Arthur saw his face, light from the hallway catching the curve of his lips, the glint in his eye, the tightness of his jaw. In one instant Arthur saw something in him, something Eames’ eyes had promised since their first meeting months ago, Arthur opening Limbo’s doors for the first time, Eames lighting a cigarette and looking for a place to drink.
It had always eluded him, whatever it was, as so many parts of Eames eluded him and left him frustrated and confused. And it still remained a mystery then, except that in that moment, he could see that there was something more, something quiet and burning just beneath the surface. It was there, reflected in the open glance of Eames’ final look, and then gone before he turned away and went down the stairs.
Arthur followed him out and gazed down from the balcony outside his office, watched as the soldiers fell upon him in the midst of swaying couples on the dance floor, bodies thrown apart with a gasp as men in slick combat boots pushed through the crowd to confront him. He watched as they wrenched his arms back, ignoring his smile and smooth words, and shoved him towards the door.
Eames didn’t look back again.
Arthur didn’t have regrets.
He told himself he wouldn’t regret that night.
He did.
But it was too late.
Author: black_betty_26
Artist:heavenly_rain
Team: ANGST
Prompt: Whiskey & Rum, Balcony
Word count: 1,318
Rating: G
Summary: In times of war people do desperate things for motivations sometimes unknown. Arthur may have done something he didn't realise he would regret.
Notes: This is somewhat loosely based on the movie 'Casablanca' and so it takes the artistic license to include that the Germans invaded Morocco during WWII. They never did.
Big BIG thank you to black_betty_26 who is lovely and patient and kind and wrote this beautiful piece. And who actually knows something about Casablanca... I need to travel more :p
Preview:
Limbo, in the daytime, is drab and gritty with sand, dust motes floating through the hot white sun beaming in through open windows. The tables seem scattered haphazardly across the room, chairs flipped up off the floor, their feet in the air like spindly spider legs reaching for the ceiling where rotating fans pushed the hot air back and forth, groaning rhythmically to a monotonous beat.
It is hot during the day, sweat gathering even in the starched white collar of Arthur’s shirt, loosened tie and undone buttons leaving it hanging limply open in the tepid air, baring his throat as he cooks the books on the worn surface of the bar. Through the windows he can hear the rumble of traffic, automobiles and rickety wagons, goats and donkeys fighting for street space, their drivers shouting in sharp, cutting syllables, layer over layer.
It’s the background symphony to the muddled thoughts in his head, vying for attention against the stream of numbers he attempts to fit together to make some sense of the previous night’s take. The numbers swim in front of him: money raked in from cards and rattling dice in the backroom, and from the flood of alcohol over the bar in the front room, parceled out while the patrons listened to music and swayed and drank themselves into dreamy oblivion…
He sighs and sets down his pencil, rubs at his bleary eyes, pours himself another finger of whiskey from the open bottle next to him, already half empty. He tells himself he can’t think in the heat, that one of his staff fudged the numbers, that he’s drank too much or not enough, that Limbo in all its unattractive, ordinary daytime ugliness is disconcerting and distracting him, but really, it’s none of these things.
He knows what it is.
It’s Eames.
Or rather, the distinct loss of Eames. Because Limbo has always been colourless and lackluster in the daytime heat of Morocco, so sharply contrasted against the Limbo of night, and that hasn’t changed.
At night there are lamps along the walls, hanging from the ceiling, candles settled across the tables, all of them glittering stars in the smoky dimness of the room. There are men in black and white suits, sharply cut to the body, women in dresses trailing the floor, soft satin and shimmering gems, and perfectly curled hair. All of them drink sweet wine or tart liquor and listen to the soft rolling melody of the piano, conversation a lulling hum under the rolling voice of the woman in black as she sings ‘bye bye blackbird’ and ‘dream a little dream of me’ under the hot lights. All of them blow smoke out of red lips into the darkness of the night.
Limbo at night is magic, is a hazy, odd and lovely dream. In the sharp light of day, this magic seems like something transitory and fleeting, a strange mirage in the desert. Limbo has always been this way, but daytime within its walls has never seemed more bleak, more desolate and dry then it does now, without Eames.
The whole of Morocco seems dead, the desert rushing in and drowning it in sand.
Eames, King of the night, the Prince of thieves, the eye of the storm, the man with answers and keys to all the world-Eames has disappeared from Limbo where he held court once the sun went down, dealing cards, whispering in dark corners, drinking golden liquor from a crystal glass and sending a sliver of smile down the bar toward twittering girls. Eames has disappeared from the city and maybe from the world. And Arthur was the last person to see him. Arthur saw him in Limbo before he was taken away.
***
It had been three months ago.
Arthur had been standing in his office above the club, staring out at the night through the wooden slates across his window, streetlamps casting stripes across his face and body like a prison of shadows. Fitting, he thought, for the crimes he had committed, before Morocco, before the war, crimes he was perpetrating even as he stood before the window, watching the hustle and flow of the nocturnal crowd, crawling through the dusk.
They had come to him that day, when the sun was disappearing under the horizon. They had come to him and asked about a man with papers, a man who was helping enemies of the Third Reich and the Chancellor escape into the new world. Arthur knew, of course, everyone knew, because Eames was the man you went to, the man with the magic touch and open doors and papers to pass through them.
Arthur didn’t care whether Eames was right or wrong. He didn’t care about America, where he was born, or Germany as they tried to wipe out the map of the world, or Morocco where he had fled and burrowed himself deep under sand and red stone.
He wasn’t loyal to anyone, hadn’t tied his allegiance to anyone in a long time. He cared about himself, and he cared about Limbo. Anyone he had held dear was dead, and buried, his brothers in the green fields of Holland, his parents under a grey headstone in Connecticut, Dom and Mal in the crumbling walls of Paris. No one else had ever given him a reason to care about anything other than himself.
In the end, he gave them Eames’ name.
Eames had come to him that night, right at the very moment he thought about all he had lost, and all he had left to hold onto. He had known what Arthur had done, and who laid in wait downstairs, but he hadn’t fled, hadn’t slipped into the darkness as he had done so many other times.
“Do you hate me so much, Darling?”
Arthur had turned around then, light from the street spilling over his shoulders, glancing across Eames’ face, but not revealing him, keeping him in half shadows as he stood by the door.
“It’s nothing personal.” He had replied, and Eames had laughed softly.
“Yes Arthur.” He smiled then, sad and sharp, something bitter lingering in the shape of his mouth. “Nothing’s ever personal with you, is it?” Arthur had said nothing in return, and they spent a long moment studying each other in the long shadows of the room. Finally, Eames spoke again, “You did what was best for you, Arthur, in the end.”
He turned then, opened the door, but he cast one last look over his shoulder. Arthur saw his face, light from the hallway catching the curve of his lips, the glint in his eye, the tightness of his jaw. In one instant Arthur saw something in him, something Eames’ eyes had promised since their first meeting months ago, Arthur opening Limbo’s doors for the first time, Eames lighting a cigarette and looking for a place to drink.
It had always eluded him, whatever it was, as so many parts of Eames eluded him and left him frustrated and confused. And it still remained a mystery then, except that in that moment, he could see that there was something more, something quiet and burning just beneath the surface. It was there, reflected in the open glance of Eames’ final look, and then gone before he turned away and went down the stairs.
Arthur followed him out and gazed down from the balcony outside his office, watched as the soldiers fell upon him in the midst of swaying couples on the dance floor, bodies thrown apart with a gasp as men in slick combat boots pushed through the crowd to confront him. He watched as they wrenched his arms back, ignoring his smile and smooth words, and shoved him towards the door.
Eames didn’t look back again.
Arthur didn’t have regrets.
He told himself he wouldn’t regret that night.
He did.
But it was too late.