Chapter 7--So What, Gymnopédies

So What, Gymnopédies


The train departed the downtown subway station in a whirlwind that sent a cloud of grit across Dante's bare torso.  He clenched his arms about himself and shuddered.  The train's departure stirred air that was as chill and brisk as a walk-in freezer.  But it wasn't the temperature that made him shiver.  It was his vulnerability that made him shudder.  He was wearing only boxers.  Again. Just like before.

         The station was familiar.  The same light at the end of the tunnel buzzed and flickered.  The same dingy, gray tiles lined the tube-like interior.  The same aqua sign read DOWNTOWN.  Even Clark leaned next to the phone booth, smoking a cigarette.  The same dark curl, casual and perfect, hung over his brow.

         The curl that reminded him of Jesse.

         He squelched that memory.  Jesse was over, in the past. He no longer mattered. Now was all that mattered.

         The station was the same as before, but this time it was different, too. This time, a rag-tag group of African-American street musicians stood next to the steel posts that flanked the exit.  Cool jazz oozed from the trumpet one of them held.  A relentless rhythm pulsed from the accompanying piano, bass fiddle, and drums. 

         Clark ground out his cigarette and approached. His gaze raked over Dante, and he grinned.  "Good to see you.  I was afraid you weren't coming."  He tweaked an eyebrow.  "I see you're in uniform, just like before.  I hope Dazhbog has your new suit ready." 

         A tremor shook Dante's body and he clenched his teeth so they wouldn't chatter.  He couldn't think of anything to say.

         Clark ran a knuckle down Dante's cheek. "Hey, relax, buddy.  Take a minute to chill and enjoy the jazz."  He turned to face the street musicians and murmured, "They're pretty good.  I heard Miles Davis play this same tune on TV the other night.  'So What,' they called it. It's one of his standards."

         Clark managed to grind out between jittering jaws, "Can we…just…get…out of here?"

         Clark gave him an appraising look.  "Sure, sure." He glanced at his wristwatch. "We're short on minutes anyway if we're going to get you to your shoot."  He took Dante by the hand and led him past the musicians, past the stairs, past the Italian graffiti, and to the red neon sign for Cool Cat Clothiers.

         Inside, Dazhbog hunkered in the glow of a single bulb, working the treadle on his sewing machine.  Scraps of fabric and spools of thread disappeared in scattered shadows.  The phonograph again played a scratchy recording of a piano.  Dante frowned in recognition.  Satie, Gymnopédies. The title meant something like men dancing naked.  Fitting, since he was half-naked.

          Today, though, a foul, almost suffocating, scent clouded the air. Dante clenched his nostrils between thumb and forefinger.  "What's that?  It smells like a chemical dump.  Or moldy pickles."

         Clark sniffed.  "I don't smell anything."  A smirk twisted his handsome features.  "How do you know what moldy pickles smell like?"

         Dante thought about Momma's refrigerator.  "Don't ask."  He risked another sniff.  "Actually, it's more like biology class in high school.  You know. Dismembered frogs."

         Clark grinned.  "Well, that's an awful image." He tipped his head to one side and his smile turned playful.  "Frogs, huh?  Well, you never know.  Sometimes when you're looking for Euripides, you find Aeschylus instead."

         Dante scowled. "What?"  He wasn't making any sense.

         Clark shrugged. "Dionysus in Hades. Think of me as Xanthias. Never mind. My mind is a junk yard."  He turned to Dazhbog.  "мой друг, this poor soul is in need of his new suit."

         Was that Russian?  Hades or through the looking glass, or where ever this bizarre place was, Dante didn't care. He just wanted clothes.

         Dazhbog glared at Clark.  "You late.  Dazhbog work all night to finish suit.  Had it ready hours ago."

         Clark's voice turned soothing.  "I know, I know.  Couldn't be helped. If there's a penalty to pay--"

         Dazhbog shook his head and waved a hand.  "Paid enough already."

         Clark fumbled in his pants pocket.  "Well, I've got more gold if it will help."

         "Don't need gold.  When he dons suit, will have other thing, too. Deal done when he finishes change to new man."  He bustled away and returned with a black, woolen suit and a crisp, ivory-white linen shirt.  He handed them to Dante and demanded, "Put on.  Will get shoes and socks."

         The chemical smell was stronger now, with a faint underertone of sulfur.  Maybe it was clothes emitting fumes that caused the stink.

         Despite being wool, the new suit slid over his body like a second skin.  Even the starched shirt fit with perfection, as if it had been made expressly for him.  Not surprising, since that was apparently what Clark had paid for.  After all, that's what a "bespoke tailor" did.

         Clark attached onyx and gold cufflinks to Dante's wrists, while Dazhbog slipped silken black socks and gleaming ebony shoes on his feet.  To finish the ensemble, Clark tightened a solid black tie about his neck, then stood back and surveyed him.  A satisfied glow lit his features.  "Transformation complete.  You're a new person, all spiffy and ready to go."

         Dazhbog stood back, put his hands on his hips, and examined Dante like he was a side of beef.  "Da.  Transformed." His tone exuded satisfaction.  "Deal is done."

         Dante had to admit it was better than being half naked in his underwear.  The suit, the shoes, even the tie, fit like they had become part of him.  That should have felt good, but instead a vague unease pecked at him. To be sure, the clothes covered his nakedness. That should have made him feel better, protected. Instead, he felt confined.  Trapped, even.

         Clark checked his wristwatch again.  "We've got to go.  Your shoot with Spartan is in ten minutes." He turned to Dazhbog. "Thanks again. You're a magician."

         Dazhbog's eyes narrowed. "Not magic.  Just deal.  Good deal for Dazhbog."

         Clark grabbed Dante by the hand.  "Let's go. Can't be late to your shoot."

         Dante let himself be led away.  Every day, his life was going faster.  Faster than a roller coaster.           

         He wondered what was next, but then muttered, "So what?"  It didn't really matter.  Nothing really mattered.

                                                 
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