Jeweler

***

future starts slow — the kills

At first, there were two of them. That's just how it happened. A bit more than friends, a bit less than husbands. Also — roommates. As different from one another as two liqueur shots set on a bar, where one is warm, aged, and inert toward life, and the other is cold, precise, and ready. So different in flavor they almost canceled each other out. Constantly surprised. What kept them bound? A feral childhood or grenadine in their veins instead of blood? Honey? A mutual love for Kafka? Personal grievances with God? Resentments. Lovelessness. Solitude. Extremity. The wish to get far, far away. The longing to fly. To fuse with the sky. To live up there. They wanted so much silence and space that they barely spoke at all. Maybe they were already in the sky, and life on Earth had ended long ago? Cillian's hair was black; Billy's was white, the shade of Bible pages. Yellowed. Time to re-dye. Billy never called Cillian by his full name, and Cillian kept forgetting Billy’s last name — until Billy flashed that sardonic grin and spit into his mug next to the chair branded with his own logo, and then Cillian would remember. In his office, which looked more like a workshop, it smelled of money and soap — and even more of the shop floor. Billy worked around the clock, becoming metallic himself, more so with every hour. Cillian begged himself to protect Billy from the abyss and to beg him to rest. Billy worked until numbness, resting only when his eye sockets frosted over, a few nights a week at the boxing club, pounding the bag. He laughed when he combed through clients’ banknotes with his fingers. Cillian hadn’t laughed in maybe two, maybe three years. Maybe never. Cillian knew life too well. That’s why he wasn’t in love with it anymore. Just a handshake, a nod. No love. But Billy never respected life enough to shake its hand. He moved through it with flat-faced intent, planning to resettle somewhere near New York. In that, they would never align. Billy confronted life like a bayonet; Cillian was the bayonet. It was a strange autumn. The strangest of their lives. He worked, he smelled of gunpowder, he showered, he dived into scalding steam, he ripped off dead hair from the back of his neck, brushed his teeth and spat right into the drain — something Cillian scolded him for precisely seven showers a week. Billy barely remembered the person living inside him anymore, squeezing flavorless tar of passion and curiosity from his jeweler’s soul. Who was he? After his father’s death, he stopped asking. The answer etched into everything — unyielding and quiet — death. Billy became a tiny minnow, wick-sized, charting a course through his own shell all the way to death, with no goals, no women, no watercolors. That’s who he was now. Fidgeting still. Each night he scurried back into his shell and fidgeted there until morning, lashing himself with white switches. He didn’t wake until the rods turned bronze. From Cillian’s view, it looked like a nightly death around two a.m. and resurrection at ten. There’s no more accurate description. Every morning born, every night died. Samsara. For eleven and a half years. Or a hundred. Cillian Rhee didn’t work. He smelled of pear and tobacco. He lived off the orphan’s stipend granted by some social fund, Billy Valentine’s humming fridge, vodka, and grenadine. Sometimes he allowed himself to forget not only surnames but names, cities, ages — and drift off into the syrup of dumb joy from joints and marijuana. Usually Sundays, but it didn’t matter — Cillian didn’t return to reality or schedules. Cillian was pretty, and could’ve made snowdrifts of cash, cold and constant, but Cillian never looked in the mirror. Well — he did, but like at a pond. Who was in that cooling pond? Someone small, with puppies in his eyes and a wolf in his throat. A formless husk, heart unreflected, head full of ink, skin rough like plaster. He’d been here two days. And two years. Decidedly not alone. Tomorrow would be yesterday, and yesterday was tomorrow. Today didn’t exist. There was only him, a strange-tempered dog in a half-round cage, and Billy Valentine — ghastly and charming, especially when ghastly. With a cardigan made of his own wings. A northern boy with Irish blood. Cillian was only beginning to realize that Billy was both his fascination and his nature. If not for Billy, then Cillian might’ve already... The doorbell rang — he didn’t hear it. No one ever came. The bell rang only for clients and kids. Kids — for cheap thrills before bolting; clients — for the expensive Billy. Billy had long been ready to shred himself for the infinite — but so was the infinite father, living inside him and in his craft. A jeweler. Locally, he was known as The Barber. The Barber of diamonds, gold, and other hollow values. Billy was a pro, a real heavyweight on the market. He knew how good he was, and how the elite traders moaned for him. Billy had become an art object, walking and talking. A high-value, luxurious artifact. Art in the flesh. Which is why he lived in Seattle and not, say, near Missoula. Why Cillian shared the same apartment in Seattle with him and not Missoula — neither knew. Kinda registered, kinda not. Like a shadow. Maybe lucky. Maybe something in that fragile orb still held him on its hunch. Wanted something. Was waiting. Maybe it wasn’t for nothing. The bell rang again, and this time Cillian heard Billy drifting toward the front door. At the door stood a portly man of the tired bookie variety, with a ridiculously tight tie and a beard like Jeff Bridges. Without it, he’d look 134 years younger. Still, he looked solid, dignified. A bit rumpled, though. Billy Valentine greeted the client with poise. — Good morning, Mr. Valentine. — Morning. — My name is George Calico. I work for a distinguished company that empowers employees like me. I have a special order. Cillian didn’t peek through the doorway to look, but from Billy’s exhale, he immediately knew the client had pulled out a... — Revolver? — Short-barrel, modern polish. It’s a specific commission, but the client asked for no explanations. It needs to be coated in a five-micron layer of gold — karat 485 — from handle to front sight. No need inside the barrel. Deadline’s a week. Can you do it? — Strange, Mr. Calico, very strange... Certainly specific. How exactly do you... Cillian didn’t peek through the doorway to look, but from Billy’s exhale, he immediately knew the client had pulled out a... — One thousand dollars. Cash. As a down payment, Mr. Valentine. I assume we have an agreement?

***

— Yes. Absolutely agreed. — Splendid. You'll be contacted. You'll understand. The door shut as quickly as it had opened. Cillian didn’t need to turn around to see how Bill lit up, how reverently he let the envelope graze the pale bones of his wrist. Cillian hated when Bill was sad. It turned his own tears into clusters of grapes that surged through his veins, tearing at the skin, spilling blood. Cillian preferred Bill when he was childishly joyful, lost in the cotton-candy haze of his illusions. Then, and only then, could Cillian almost feel something himself. Cillian didn’t care much for happiness — it was alien, impractical. Sadness made sense. It was trivial, yes, but reliable. Like a catheter: you felt every movement, every stagnation, always with a pinch of pain. Happiness, on the other hand, drowned everything out. Nothing remained but itself. Cillian rejected that kind of egocentric ecstasy. He’d accepted sadness as an autonomous, generative organ — take it away, and you'd rip out all of Cillian. That was just his nature. A man in minor key. Bill, meanwhile, confronted his own melancholia like a brick wall. Deaf and blind to it. Only touch mattered. And only one texture satisfied: paper money. A drab approximation of a man, savagely trying to be something. The door clicked shut; Bill, unfazed, pivoted back toward his desk. The envelope practically moaned in his hand. Cillian stood and moved room to room, wordless, into Bill’s orbit. They didn’t even look at each other. Didn’t breathe the same air. Bill, in his idealist’s dreamworld, Cillian staring at his back like he might hurl a dagger into it. But then Bill turned — and no blood was spilled — as he began to waltz silently and feverishly around Cillian. One thousand dollars on the table. A revolver. Plain as day. He was rich again. His brand-new, twenty-four-hour life was off to a flying start. — Didn’t you find his speech odd? Bill, I’m asking you. — We’re rich, Cil! We are f-f-fucking rich again! — You're rich. I'm still hanging off your neck. Would you stop dancing? — I'm not paying for your therapist, that's what your job is for. — I never asked you to pay for Lawrence. I'm good. What I’m trying to say is- But Bill was airborne. A tireless, winged hawk. Air clung to his face, his heart slammed against his ribs like never before. — Get me some whiskey, Cil. And a bag of ice. Oh, yes — get me that goddamn whiskey. — I’m thinking about quitting therapy. I’m tired of it, Bill. — Good! More cash in the bank. — No, you don’t get it. The words skidded off Cillian's tongue like a warning shot, but Bill floated past him toward the fridge, extracting a jagged bottle like it had always been there. Cold. Scalding. The way August burns like October in his world. He popped the cap and poured. — I sort of... need it. I mean, it helps. — Yeah? — But it feels wrong. I used to think about one set of things, and now... other stuff. — Spit it out, Cil. You're rambling. — I like seeing him. But sometimes he says things that are just... nasty. Not even that nasty. Just - infuriating. You get me? — Yeah? — Jesus, stop with them yeah's. — What do you want me to say? Don’t get on my nerves, just let me drink. The amber liquid spread out. Bill eyed it first. Then his fingers wrapped around the glass. Cold to the touch. Heart hot and leaping, needing to be drowned. He downed it. Swilled it. Let it curl over his gums. The whiskey boiled, charred its way down. Bill Valentine smiled. Cillian liked when Bill Valentine smiled. — Maybe I’m just tired of him. Sometimes I wanna shoot him. — So shoot him. — It’s a figure of speech. Three-second stretch. Then, quietly: — Pour me one too. — You planning to pay? — No. It’s my whiskey. — Fair enough.

***

The apartment was like a beehive. For starters, there was a lot of honey. They loved honey. Cillian — with coffee, Billy — with mulled wine. Secondly, there was the cramp. Two boundless souls confined to forty square meters. A workshop with a back exit to the stairwell and another exit — downstairs; into the jewelry store. Then a tiny studio kitchen, a bathroom, and Cillian’s den of a bedroom — about nine squares. Valentine slept right in the workshop. One floor below — the jewelry shop. Only open on weekends, and even then more for show than for practicality, since Billy’s orders were mostly personal pickups with face-to-face, hand-to-hand delivery. Seattle’s loyalty to clear weather had never taken root, and the rain had been pouring for days now. They hadn’t left the apartment. Their bodies were thoroughly soaked in the stale scent of alcohol and osmium. Twice a week, Cillian saw a therapist assigned to him years ago by the same foundation, mostly for formality’s sake. Tuesday-Saturday. Today was Saturday. Cillian ritualistically disappeared from reality and sank into depression every day precisely at four-thirty. On top of that, he hadn’t slept all night, so Friday, in his mind, still wasn’t over. That night he’d looked at his reflection for the first time in a long while. He stared for about three hours. Just him, frostbitten fingers, his bare pale flesh, and a flashlight — like a revolver — aimed directly at the mirror. If only a bullet could ricochet like light and bounce back through the barrel into his skull. A strange night. Thoughts-thoughts-thoughts. A schizoid, slightly childish fit of submission. Cillian Rhee, just the way he is. No use running anymore. He’ll never change. His eyes will remain the same greedy pits, his nose just as tiny, and his lips will keep cracking. For life. And what is he supposed to do with that? — Live. Drink whiskey. Learn to play guitar. Get financially literate. Find a job. A woman. A more or less attractive one. Have kids. Cil, what kind of stupid questions are you even asking me? — You’ll never really get what I mean, will you? — You dive too deep, Cil. You just need to fall in love. That’s it. That’s the whole formula for happiness. Cillian Rhee has been in love with Billy Valentine for exactly seven hundred and thirty-one days and thirteen hours. — Doesn’t even have to be a woman. Could be a man. A job. The best is when it’s a job. You know what I mean? — I think I’ll go see Laurence. — Can I finish your whiskey? — Go ahead. Don’t go to the gym today, Billy. You’ll catch a cold. Cillian Rhee has been in love with Billy Valentine for exactly seven hundred and thirty-one days and thirteen hours. Cillian Rhee will never admit it.

***

Billy Valentine was surprised. Six bullets. The cylinder held exactly six bullets. Virgin-fresh, almost fragrant, as fiercely and sweetly as lilacs in bloom. Absolutely green in their primal innocence. Ready to fly. How strange. Had Mr. Calico deliberately left them there, or had he simply not cared? Billy Valentine gave the revolver another shake, and the cylinder clicked back into place. Incredibly beautiful in its plainness and simplicity, the weapon was stunning precisely because it was so ordinary. Cool and tempered at once. A small horse engraved on the metal grip. Bill set it back on the table and chose to surrender, retreating toward the bottle that had become a sort of glandular twin. The scent of Cillian followed the source and then disappeared from the kitchen. Cillian smelled of pear-scented shampoo and tobacco. What else could he smell like? But it wasn’t just a scent. Cillian wore it like a verb — he scented the room, deliberately and with precision. Bill didn’t know how he did it, but he accepted it quietly, like a guerrilla in hiding. If only Billy could fall in love with Cillian. If only he could teach himself to surrender. But he couldn’t. And he wouldn’t. Even though it would’ve been better — a million times better — for both of them. Billy knew. He knew everything. Hiding it from him was like trying to hide a cigarette under an umbrella. Eventually either the rain stops, or the cigarette burns out. Either way, it all comes to light. In Billy’s case, he knew from the very start. And why the fuck had he told him that shit about finances and women? Maybe he just wanted to see how long he could hold himself together before breaking down and crying out the whole goddamn arsenal. How much longer he could survive before confessing. Maybe it won’t be this — but something is definitely going to happen soon. That, too, Billy knew for sure.

***

— You're quiet today. — Well? I'm still paying for this. — Fair point. But it’s not about the money. — Then what, Lawrence? Don’t pretend it’s about righteousness or something pure and naive, like your precious — eye contact — or those damn nods of yours. — What is it about for you, Cillian? Lawrence Trauberg was sharply dressed today. Just like Tuesday. And even a week ago. For two days and two years, he'd been flawlessly, irritatingly dressed — always composed, always charged, like some sterile machine. A white man in a white tracksuit from a white room with white chairs. Pale as death. Not even a single dust mote on his bald crown or the damn vases. For two days and two years, Cillian Rhee had loathed this space. It clamped around him like hydraulics — the pressure was unbearable. This was how Cillian experienced their sessions. And he knew: this one would be the last. He hadn’t yet decided on the excuse, but he already knew. Lawrence Trauberg sat perfectly upright. So upright, a protractor would peg his spine at a dead ninety. His glasses, more fused to his face than worn, gleamed artificially. The lighting triggered a flicker. Like sandpaper along Cillian’s temples. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want anything, really. Except Billy. To watch him speak. Those strange, sky-scented strands of hair — colored like the sweetest thing, but not sugar-sweet, not crossing into saccharine. His hands, thick-veined, manly and aimless. His eyes — God, those eyes. Why the eyes? Why them? Why them and not any of the usual, slop-wading nobodies? Why him? Why not someone else? What the fuck for? — You’re not planning on staying silent for all sixty minutes? — It’s already fifty. Time’s oil, you know. — You look like something happened. Want to talk about it? — What the hell would I share with you? So you can nod, mumble something digestible, and end with glancing at the clock? Lawrence, we’ve been chewing on the same shit for two years. You ask the same damn questions. Every time. Tuesday–Saturday–Tuesday–Saturday. It’s nauseating. — Then why keep coming? Good question. Why does Cillian keep coming, instead of spending his table-wiping money on more weed? He never really thought about that. Maybe because too much weed is a bad thing? — The foundation mandates it. — Forget the foundation. Have you ever actually thought about what you want? You, Cillian Rhee. A free, self-governing man living in arguably one of the best cities on earth. Even I commute from Tacoma. What do you want from me, Cillian? You’ve been silent for five sessions in a row. Sure, we can keep doing this routine, but I’m interested in your words, not your silence. — You’re not interested in anything. Blockade. Blockade. Blockade. He could kill him with bare hands. Didn’t even realize the depth of his irritation. Just knew he hated him. With every scrap of heart that remained. These walls, those drilling stares, that lone open window flooding sun, that pudgy face, that fake understanding. All of it. Billy, Billy, Billy, Billy, Billy. — Why do you think that? — If you actually cared, you wouldn’t charge me two-forty a month. — You’re very perceptive, Cillian. Very perceptive… What the fuck does that even mean? — What the fuck does that even mean? — I mean… Sorry, you can’t smoke in here. We’ve been over this. — Last time today. Let me have at least one pleasurable moment in all these goddamn sessions. Fair trade, isn’t it? — You think these sessions are supposed to be pleasurable? — What else should they be, Lawrence? There’s no pleasure in my life. Just rot. Just you and your dumb questions. How’s work? Any dark thoughts today? Lawrence, all my thoughts are dark. All my intentions are suicidal. I’m a goddamn abyss. Anything that doesn’t pass through me sinks. All my money. My so-called surroundings. Billy. Billy! — What about Billy? — What about Billy? Billy’s fine, as always. Same lens. Same one-way stance toward the world. Just living as he lives. — And how do you feel about that? — I don’t. What am I supposed to feel? — Well, for example, I can understand his worldview, his priorities. I also perceive you two as two very different from one another. That’s objectively apparent. — So is it objective, or is it the "I perceive"? Cillian felt it — his misplacement. For all these two days and two years, everything remained loyal to whiteness and sterile order in this tragic room, while he stayed dark and stormy in his threadbare overcoat. Where were his medals? His ribbons of insignificance? His honors in loneliness and ache? Where was the help the social fund promised so earnestly? Where was his wholeness? Did anything change, besides his feral love, the one thing that still barely tethered him to existence? When will that magic click happen, when the hat reveals more than air? Where’s the miracle? What the fuck is a miracle? — Cillian, you do realize there’s no dialogue here if you keep stonewalling. — And when has there ever been one? Remind me. When did we ever have a dialogue? It’s just monologues bouncing off a wall. A wall as white as Lawrence, in that benevolent getup. He blended into the room. Cillian never really saw him. — And about Billy and me — you’re wrong. — I’d be glad to hear your perspective. — My perspective? You piece of shit. Glass stabbing the sockets. Tears threatening but not yet arriving. Holding on. One flick, and the trigger snaps — Cillian Rhee blows apart right there in that goddamn chair. Nothing left of him or Lawrence. Just a collision with his personal sky, and the ghost of his scent on the pillow — pear and tobacco. Someone stab him in the heart already. He wants to die. But death doesn’t come. So he provokes it. — What are you feeling right now? — That I’ll either leave right now or kill you where you sit. I swear to God. — The choice is yours, Cillian. I only ever tried to help. Then — a firecracker beneath him, launching him upward. His body slams into the ceiling. One second from pulling the trigger. He wants nothing. Feels nothing. Just a cigarette in his left, a revolver in his right. Incredibly beautiful in its plainness and simplicity, the weapon was stunning precisely because it was so ordinary. Cool and tempered at once. A small horse engraved on the metal grip. Six bullets. The chamber held exactly six bullets. — Not saying anything before goodbye? — You never asked why I’m here for the last time. — I didn’t need to ask, Cillian. I know you’re a child. Weak and dumb. You can’t face truth. Can’t talk to yourself. Can’t respect yourself. You haven’t got the balls to look inward and answer your own questions. You’re just a sufferer. Worthless. Brain-dead. That’s why you’re leaving today. — Wrong answer. Then he backs toward the door, slow and thoughtless, like a cat just before leaping toward death. Right hand behind. Silence. Three-second stretch. Then, quietly: — This is our last session because I’m going to kill you, Lawrence. The hand jerks forward. One, two, three, four — all miss. Fifth hits the shoulder. Sixth — the head. How he shot that well, he doesn’t know. He knows nothing now. But Cillian knows. Billy won’t judge him.

***

When Cillian walked out of the white office — now semi-red walls and a fully red chair — the rain slapped the back of his head again. Finishing the cigarette, he cooled. Something reabsorbed into his angular mind — maybe a virus. Fever? Maybe truth. Maybe reality. He spun the revolver again. Never did tuck it back in his belt. He spun it again. He'd explain, give it to Billy, and Billy would understand. He spun it again. The chamber peeked out. Six bullets. The chamber held exactly six bullets. He never did kill Lawrence Trauberg.