A Bohemian Tragedy

Past: A Bohemian Encounter

The hotel was dilapidated. Youji could tell that from first glance, even without his shades hiding most of the dirt that covered the sides of the buildings. The alley behind him rang with laughter and muspeoppeople celebrating the mere fact that they were alive. Foot high red letters had been painted over the broken door, proclaiming the name of the hotel. L’amour. Windows opened on the second story, but from Youji’s vantage he can not seen into the rooms.
He stopped outside, considering whether or not to stay at the hotel or not. It looked rundown, but he had little money to pay for a more expensive place. And it did happen to be in the center Montmarte.

“I’ve been in worse places,” he mumbled, pulling the cigarette from his mouth and grinding it out beneath the heel of his shoe.
The inside was shadowed, and a thick layer of dust covers every visible object. Cobwebs hung in the corner. A long desk fronts one wall, the cubbyholes behind the desk all full of keys. Evidently Youji is the only one without enough sense to turn around and leave.

He shrugged, and reached out to ring the bell on the desk. It gave a weak wine, much like the dying squeak of a mouse. Youji’s frown intensified.

From out of a dark hole that served as a doorway to the back of the establishment, a plump woman appeared in answer to the summons. A dingy apron had been tiedund und her waist, and her hair was pulled back in a severe bun. A look of distaste crept across her face as she spotted Youji, standing with one hip propped against the service desk, his only suitcase in one hand, his precious typewriter in the other.

“What do you need?” her voice has been etched with smoke and comes out a near growl.

His smiled, his most charming smile. Even though she wasn’t one of the more fairer of her gender, Youji Kuduo hadn’t met a woman yet that he couldn’t charm. She faltered a bit under the smile, tension leaving her body.

Youji pushed his sunglasses up to rest in the golden strands os has hair, turning his full, chng sng smile on her. “I need a room, if you’ve got one available.”
His piercing gaze fluttered her, and his smile broadened.

“Of course we do.” Her voice was younger, more vibrant than it had been before, and when she smiled at Youji her eyes literally gleamed with pleasure. She pulled a key down from the second row of cubbyholes, but held it back from him.

“I can show you your room, if you like.”

“That would be great, if it wouldn’t bother you in anyway.”

She beamed at him and started for the stairs the lined one wall of the room. “Not at all.”

Youji followed, eyeing the stairs warily. They groaned horribly as the woman moved up them, a spring in her step. He followed cautiously, wincing at every creak and groan.

His room was one of the ones that fronted the building, right under the scrawled red letters. From his window he could see out over the town of Montmarte, and he could make out the giant windmill that marked the Moulin Rogue and the great Gothic Tower. The room was sh, wi, with only a bed and a small table. But he had space to write and sleep, and that was all that he needed.

He turned to face the innkeeper and smiled. “Thank you for your assistance, madam, it is greatly appreciated.”

She held the key out to him, a stern look on her face. “Now, no visitors after midnight, and don’t mind the noise upstairs, all right?”

Youji swept into a mocking bow, a grin plastered on his face. “No problem.”

The woman turned to trudge down the stairs and Youji went to the only table. He pulled out the scarred chair and sat, placing the box that contained his typewriter on the gleaming surface of the table. The light from the window reflected off the keys as he eased the box open.

He stared at it a moment before crackiis kis knuckles. “Now to write. A story of beauty, truth, freedom, and above all things, love.” He paused, frowning. He sat back in his chair and reached into his shirt pocket, pulling out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. sle slender cylinder was pulled from the pack and stuck between his lips as he thought. A single click of his lighter and it was lit. He took a deep drag and then shook his head, mumbling. “But I’ve never been in love.”

Luckily, right at the moment, the ceiling of the room caved in on Youji. Youji’s sharp instincts barely earned him time to jump back, saving himself from being crushed under the splintered wood. He stared at the gaping hole in amazement, and was surprised to see a limp body hanging there, dropped down from the ceiling, hanging suspended in a tangle of ropes.

It appeared to be a young boy, around Youji’s age, with a shock of brown hair that drifted around his face. Youji stared at him a moment, baffled at how famr thr the stranger looked.
He jumped when the door suddenly crashed open, one hand reaching for the watch he wore on one slender wrist. But instead of a deadly killer, an even younger boy was framed in the doorway. Dressed as a nun.

He gasps when he sees the other man hanging from the ceiling, his widornfornflower blue eyes widening even more. He darts into the room, shooting a glance at Youji.

“I’m so sorry! We didn’t mean for this to happen. We’re just upstairs rehearsing a play. Called Spectacular Spectacular. And it’s set in Switzerland!” His eyes lit up and his face shone with childish glee. Only then did he seem to remember his friend. He ran over and checked on the man and then spun to face Youji, extending one small hand. “How do you do? My name is Omi.”

In a state of disbelief, Youji shook his hand, nodding. “What’s wrong with your friend there?”

A slight pout crept across Omi’s face. “Oh that’s Ken. He’s narcoleptic, among other things. Perfectly fine one moment, then suddenly unconscious the next.”

“Right.”

“How is he?”

Youji jumps again at the new voice and stares up to find three faces peering down at him. The one that had spoken was a middle aged man with black hair. There was an even older man and a young woman to either side of him.

The woman spoke, her voice high pitched and irritated. “Wonderful. Now the narcoleptic soccer player is unconscious, and therefore the scenario will not be finished in time to present to the financier tomorrow.”

Omi covered his mouth with one hand and turned to Youji, pointing to the three people staring down at them. “That’s Botan, Ouka, and the Doc.”

“He’s right, Omi.” Botan spoke again, frowning. “I still have to finish the music.”

Omi frowned as well, then immediately seemed to brighten, spreading his arms wide and almost hitting Youji in the process. “We’ll just find someone to read the part!”

Ouka looked petulant, and she scowled down from the room above. “Oh, where in heaven’s name are we going to find someone to read the role of a young sensitive Swiss poet/ goat herder?”

Youji began to sweat as four gazes turned his way. He backed up until he hit the wall, hands held out in front of him. “Now wait a minute, don’t look at me. I can’t act. And I have a horrible singing voice.”

“Nonsense,” Omi beamed, reaching out and grabbing Youji’s arm, beginning to pull him from the room. “You’ll do fine!”