Chapter 4--Leibestraum

Liebestraum

The moist, musty air of the taiilor shop warmed Dante's exposed flesh.  He clenched his arms about his half-naked body.  Underwear in public.  Like a nightmare.  The amber glow of a single bulb illuminated a troll of a man who hunkered in the shadowy interior.  His feet worked a treadle-powered sewing machine that clicked and whirred on a shapeless wad of gray fabric.  Bolts of cloth crowded the walls, and random scraps of fabric and spools of thread littered the floor.

         A scratchy recording of a piano made Dante frown.  Despite the bad quailty, he recogized Liszt.  Liebestram.  He'd played it for his audition to Julliard.  The one where they laughed at him.  Whatever.  It didn't matter.  Nothing mattered. 

         The troll looked up from sewing and squinted deep, brown eyes at the intruders.  An enormous white mole bulged on his bulbous nose and the spare light gleamed off his bald pate.  A gap-toothed smile twisted his features as his gaze landed on Clark.  He croaked in a heavy Slavic accent, "Vot brings you here, my young vriend?"

         Clark waved in Dante's direction, "My companion is need of your services, Dazhbog."  He fumbled in a pocket and pulled out what looked like a golden coin that he presented to the troll. "For you."

         Dazhbog snatched the coin, bit it, and stuffed it in his trousers. He turned to examine Dante.  "Like a scarecrow, he is."

         His dead eyes made Dante squirm, and he huddled into himself.  He turned to Clark, and murmured, "I don't think--"

         Clark interrupted, "Yes, that's right. Don't think.  Just let Dazhbog work his magic.  You'll see.  You'll be a new man in no time."

         The troll was already pulling bolts of fabric off the shelves and holding samples up to Dante.  He muttered, "Time, it will take.  Miracles Dazhbog can do. But not at once."

         Clark said, "Miracles would be nice, but we we don't have a lot of time.  Perhaps you've got something already made that would suit him? We can return tomorrow to pick up a custom job."  He paused to examine Dante, then continued, "I think perhaps something neutral.  A nice gray, or brown."

         Dazhbog tipped his head to one side and squinted an eye closed.  "Tomorrow, yes.  Today?  Perhaps, perhaps."  He fumbled through a stack of garments folded on a nearby table, and pulled out a pair of pants and matching jacket.  He handed them to Dante and ordered, "Try on."

         The drab olive fabric scratched his skin as he stepped into the trousers and pulled on the jacket.  They actually more or less fit.  Magic, indeed.

         But the minuscule tailor fussed over him, tugging the garments here and there and making chalk marks, all the while shaking his head and muttering tsk, tsk sounds.  He snaked a tape measure around Dante's neck, down his arms, and in the inseam of the pants.  Like he was sizing him for a custom-made suit. Or a coffin.

         Eventually, Dazhbog finished fussing with him and stepped back.  "Shoe size?"

         "Uh, ten narrow."

         "Goot.  I have." He held out a hand. "Give me suit." 

         Dante stripped it off and handed it to him, then stood feeling even more naked than before.

         The little troll pointed to a pair of threadbare easy chairs in one corner of his basement workshop.  "You wait.  Dazhbog fix you up."  He bustled away to pull a shirt, socks, and shoes from the shadows.  He placed them on one of the chairs, then returned to his sewing machine with the suit coat and pants.

         Dante picked up the shirt. As he pulled it on, he raised his eyebrows at the crisp, starched surface.  The pocket contained onyx and gold cufflinks.  He stashed his phone in the pocket and attached the cuff links to the shirt.  Black silk stockings on his feet completed the task and made him feel a little less naked. 

         Clark gave him an expansive smile.  "You already look better.  Ready to conquer the world."

         Dante had to admit it felt better to have more clothes on.  He doubted he looked better though.  Nothing could make him actually look good.  At least, nothing ever had.

         The chair, despite emitting the stale odor of an antique, was surprisingly soft and comfortable.  He settled in, and the dim light and the whir of the sewing machine became strangely alluring, relaxing, almost hypnotic. He could really stand to chill out about now. Too bad he'd left his works back in his kitchen.  He eyed Clark, but the guy looked too tight-ass to have any meth.

         Clark lounged in the chair next to him like it was made just for him.  He reached into a pocket, pulled out a pack of Kools, and struck one up. He offered the pack to Dante, who waved it away.  "I quit." Meth was better.  Much better.

         Clark shrugged.  "Everyone needs a vice. It's unavoidable.  May as well choose a minor one."

         Dante shook his head, leaned back, and closed his eyes. Vices he had.  That wasn't his problem.  Unbidden, memories welled up, dreamlike.  Dreams of love. Nightmares of loss. Jesse's smiling face.  Jesse in those final moments, right before the end.

         Out of nowhere, a dark, hooded figure loomed over him. The ghostly vision carried an immense scythe over one shoulder, and squinted at him with single, glowing eye. He'd seen this figure before, in his worst dreams, in his best dreams.  He knew how this dream always ended. 

         Dante squirmed and an involuntary groan escaped his lips.

         A hand gripped his arm.  Clark's voice muttered, "Wake up.  You're having a bad dream."

         Dante lurched awake. Where was he?  Then he remembered.  "I must have fallen asleep.  Sorry."

         "If you slept, you must have needed to."  Clark's voice carried the assurance of certainty.

         "I guess." Dante's mouth felt like he'd been chewing on sweat socks.  He glanced at the troll.  "How much longer?"

         As if in response, the incessant whir of the sewing machine ceased and Dazhbog stood. "Is finished. Try on."

         The suit had only kind of fit before, but now it was perfect, almost as if it had been made for him. 

         Dazhbog continued to tug and pull at it, then stood back and leered at him.  "Look better now.  Clothes make man, no?"

         Clark said, "They do, indeed."  He turned to Dante and announced, "I told you. He's a miracle worker.  The suit transforms you to something completely different."

         Dazhbog dug through another stack of fabric. "Need necktie."  He pulled out several, holding them up to the Dante and squinting, then settled on one with gold and black stripes.  "This one."

         Before Dante could react, Clark had taken the tie, flipped up Dante's collar, and expertly tied it in a perfect, four-in-hand knot.  "Now you look civilized.  Ready to conquer the world. We'll come back tomorrow for the real thing, and your transformation will be complete."  He tugged at Dante's hand and led him to a corner of the shop that contained three mirrors, angled to give the viewer a kaleidoscopic self-image. 

         Dante gaped at himself. His body didn't look scrawny.  It looked downright dashing.  Almost heroic. Even his tousled hair looked perfect.

         In his best dreams, he'd never looked so good.

         On the other hand, his best dreams were the ones where he was dying, so maybe it wasn't so amazing after all.

         
                                                 
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"Dreamin' Life Away"