Moonlight Binding Magic

by Charlotte Munich

  It took two more seconds before he stepped back and turned to let us in, gesturing towards the darkness inside.

  “Come on, come on, don’t be shy.”

  Yeah, he was high, all right.

  I sighed and stepped over the threshold, feeling the cold stone floor resonate under my spiky heels. Jesus, the place was as badly heated as our house. Thom followed, and I could hear Sam protest as Linus shoved him inside after us.

  I took in our surroundings. If this was an old barn, it must have been transformed and renovated at some point, though not recently. The little room looked like a lobby of some kind, with a stone floor and hooks along the wall to leave your coat, something I had absolutely no intention of doing in that cold. The only window was almost completely obscured by thick velvet drapes that seemed to be a very dark shade of maroon. What little light there was came from the moonlight outside, until the strange guy plugged an LED lamp into a wall socket near the floor. Dry flowers in a vase seemed to be dying their second or maybe third death on a wide stone windowsill. A broken wicker rocking chair, with a gaping hole in its seat, was probably waiting for a ghost to rest in it. As small-town venues went, this one was pretty atmospheric.

  “I suppose you could say we’re slowly redecorating,” the strange, nameless, very high guy said, rounding his shoulders and shoving long white hands into his front trouser pockets. He looked at me again. “Oh, is that a ukulele?”

  “Yup,” I confirmed, feeling my cheeks warm up a bit.

  “And can you play?”

  “Of course I can. As I’ve said before, we’re musicians.”

  “Wonderful,” he said. “I’ve been dabbling in music myself now and then.”

  I smiled benignly. It was the job of artists everywhere to try and relate to enthusiastic amateurs at every level of commitment.

  “That’s very nice,” I said politely.

  Now that we were all inside, I was anxious to see the manager but didn’t want to seem too pushy, either.

  “How do you think we should call it?” the guy asked.

  “Call what?” I asked, slightly miffed.

  “This place. The Bar-n? The No Future Club?”

  I shrugged. “I suppose that’s for the owner to figure out.”

  “Yeah,” he said, dancing from one foot to the other like a lean bear and showing no inclination whatsoever to lead us inside.

  I decided to take matters into my own hands and turned to the closed door that faced the entrance and had to lead inside. But as soon as I touched the handle, the guy stopped me, covering my hand with his very big palm. His skin was so cold I felt it through my gloves.

  “Allow me. I’ll just go check with the owner. I’ll be a minute. In the meantime, please make yourselves comfortable.”

  Not waiting for an answer, he slid between me and the door, opened it swiftly, and disappeared through the gap before I could say anything.

  As soon as he’d shut the door behind him, I heard something click. I tried the handle: yup, locked. I turned to look at my bandmates. Sam seemed uncertain, Thom was unconcerned, and Linus gave me a thin smile.

  “You know what I like in this milieu? The colorful eccentricity.”

  I sighed. “Yeah. Was it me, or was the guy completely drugged out?”

  “Totally stoned,” Thom agreed, nodding.

  “Maybe he has some good weed in there,” Sam added hopefully—his personal supplies were dwindling.

  I snorted and resigned myself to waiting. The air smelled moldy and even wetter than outside. This place didn’t look ready to receive customers at all, and I was really starting to think Bertrand had been pulling our leg. In this part of the country, it wasn’t uncommon for people to get bored and play jokes on each other. The winters could be very long.

  But two minutes later, I heard steps on the other side of the door. A key turned in the lock again, and someone opened.

  Aaaaand…it was the same guy as before. I was positive about that. He’d just changed for some reason, into apple green nylon pants and a giant purple faux-fur vest. He was also wearing orange sneakers, big dark shades, and an enormous shaggy-curly wig that reminded me immediately of eighties’ pianist-singer Michel Polnareff, except, instead of atomic blond, it was hot pink. It was a complete mess. But even with that strange attire, he couldn’t have hidden how white he was, and I could have recognized his mouth anywhere. Same guy, definitely. What was he getting at?

  “Hey, hey, hey, sorry to have kept you waiting!” he greeted us in a slightly different accent. “I’m Tristan, and I run this godforsaken place. We’re still not ready to open, but getting there, definitely getting there. Trust me. My assistant Clovis tells me you’re a band? Awesome. I’ve been looking for artists to perform in the very near future. Let’s talk, come on, come on, follow me please.”

  Thom complied at once, nearly elbowing me on his way. Sam followed him, and I stayed behind, seeking Linus’s attention.

  “What’s he doing? You can see he’s the same guy as before, right?”

  Linus frowned. “No, I don’t think he is. I gather we were talking to Clovis before, he’s the assistant, and now this guy Tristan is the manager.”

  “But Clovis and Tristan here are the exact same person,” I insisted.

  Sadly, Linus didn’t look as though he believed me. Checking the shoulder strap on my lucky ukulele bag, I shook my head and went inside, following the guys. There were four of us, and only this one clown in a wig. We had nothing to be afraid about, and everything was going to be all right. Weird, yeah, for sure. If worse came to worst, I’d still get a song out of the whole encounter.

  Behind the mysterious partition door, I discovered a huge area that did, indeed, look like it was set up to cater to an audience. The cold welcome and the horrid front room had not prepared me for the sense of peace that drew me in as soon as I stepped into the huge main hall. It was very dark, with heavy drapes shut on every window. The only light came from a big spot half-hidden behind a dark purple curtain, above a wide wooden stage at the far end of the room. Tiny specks of dust danced in the white light, instantly reminding me of summer somehow. For a second there, I even forgot about the piercing cold.

  A wood and metal bar ran along the wall on the right, about half the length of the deep room, softly gleaming in the light. Most of the center space was occupied by rows of unmatched, dusty wooden chairs, all facing the stage. This wasn’t a bar. It was an old theater.

  3

  “Shall we sit down? Come on, let’s have a drink,” Clovis—or was it Tristan?—boomed in this deep voice that felt so at odds with his slender frame. He wasn’t bony or sickly in any way, but you expected some kind of paunch on a circus manager who talked like that.

  Thom and Sam kept following him, asking no questions, propelled by their own confidence and unhindered by doubt, blessed be their thick skulls.

  Tristan scratched his head under his wig, readjusted his glasses, and went behind the bar, indicating high stools for us to sit on. He grabbed an old towel that looked none too clean and started fake-drying tall glasses that had been waiting on his side of the bar. There was dust everywhere: on the glasses, on the bottles, on the towel, flying through the air, and that strange impression overcame me once again, of a glorious summer waiting right around the corner.

  Thom and Sam hopped onto two seats although they had a really thick layer of dust on them. Linus looked at the third one, rubbed it clean-ish with the sleeve of his coat. I just stood there. Tristan looked at me quizzically for a second.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” he said, almost dropping the tall glass he’d been manipulating.

  He went around the bar again and rubbed the dust out of a seat for me, using the very same towel.

  “Where are my manners?” he muttered. “I’m sorry, you see, I just bought this place, and there’s still a lot of work to be done. You know how it is, you start a business, you invest your last dime in some nice old theater because it’s magical and quasi myt
hical, only to discover you’ve been robbed, the roof is caving in on you, the plumbing and the electricity need to be redone completely, and you have no freaking idea what you’re doing.”

  “Yeah, I know the feeling,” I joked, even though I had no idea what he was talking about.

  The guy just looked lonely and a little lost, I thought.

  He was back behind his bar again, playing proprietor, picking up one dirty glass after the other to clean it with the same uber-dirty towel, until he seemed to consider them all drink ready. I could see no difference.

  “So, what’ll it be? I think this place has some very nice Scotch whisky. Single malt, old as dirt. Just wait a second…”

  He turned towards the shelves behind him and rummaged through bottles that were almost black with dust.

  We all accepted a glass of whisky. Tristan gave us extra-healthy doses. I dipped my lip in the amber-colored drink. It was surprisingly good, never mind the filthy glasses. Tristan gave us coasters that looked like they dated all the way back to the 1920s. I set my glass on mine, crossed my still-gloved fingers on the dirty bar counter, and decided it was time to talk.

  “So, we’re a local rock band with some experience of the stage, and we were wondering if you’d be interested in having us play here once or twice a week, once you’re finished setting the place up, of course. We could do covers, and we also have our own set of songs, whichever you’d deem more suitable for your clientele…”

  I couldn’t see Tristan’s eyes under his dark shades, but the quality of his attention was unnerving. When he listened to you, the guy didn’t move. At all.

  “Excellent,” he said, quite ambiguously, when I’d finished.

  “Unh, you did plan to transform this place into a bar?” I checked.

  “Of course, of course.”

  He’d been serious for a while, but now, the circus manager persona seemed to be making a comeback.

  “Because you seemed to imply that this place has had a special past as a theater? I never heard about it, though.”

  But before Tristan could answer, Thom added, “Yeah, are you sure you can get this place up to speed any time in this century?”

  Tristan’s attention switched to Thom, with all its eerie focus.

  “And do you mind taking off your glasses?” Thom added. “You’re kinda hard to read.”

  Tristan laughed, and just like that, the con man vibe was gone again.

  “Opening date’s Saturday in three weeks,” he said, suddenly very serious. “You’ll play Thursdays and Saturdays. I expect you here for sound check on the third of February. I’m afraid I can’t pay you at first, but you can ask the audience for tips, and any kind of merch you can bring, feel free to sell it and I’ll help,” Tristan said.

  And he didn’t take off his huge, kitschy sunglasses.

  “Well,” Thom started.

  He was going to try and negotiate when clearly there was nothing more we could ask at this point, so I cut in before he could make a fool of himself.

  “Why don’t we start like that, and we’ll reevaluate after six weeks?” I offered. “We play covers and our songs, too. You find a good placement for our merch at the bar, front and center. And we’re free to break the deal anytime.”

  “As am I.” Tristan smiled, turning back to face me.

  I gave him my hand, and this time, he took it. His cold fingers were long as they slid against mine, enveloping my hand up to my wrist, where the glove ended and my skin was exposed. It should have been a horrible handshake, except somehow it wasn’t.

  Only afterwards did it hit me that I hadn’t asked for my mates’ agreement, which was uncool. Linus didn’t seem to mind when I glanced at him. He hadn’t said a word, and his serene smile had not faltered once. Thom scowled at me and said nothing. Sam took it upon himself to close the business part of the conversation and move on to small talk.

  “So where are you from? I can’t quite place your accent, dude.”

  That’s because it’s a fake accent, you idiot, I thought and said nothing. I just smiled and decided I was entitled to another sip of the weird whisky-and-dust cocktail.

  “Will there be other musicians?” Thom asked.

  Tristan shrugged. “I sure hope so. This stage wants to be played. Music, dance shows, cabaret and burlesque, whoever comes to me with a good offer will get an open-arms welcome. Feel free to tell your friends.”

  I could see he wasn’t counting on immediate success, which would have been quite foolish of him. But there was a kind of serene confidence in his tone that could only indicate two things: either he was stark-raving mad or he possessed near-magical abilities.

  4

  When Linus and I confronted him about the bar the next day after lunch, Bertrand admitted that his advice to go there for employment had been some kind of a joke.

  Bertrand had a little farm further down the road from us. Unlike most of our neighbors, he didn’t raise cows. He had goats instead, which was rather unusual in this area. But he must be good at what he did, because goat farmers from all over the country brought over their ladies for Bertrand’s bucks to charm. As we went to talk to him, he was just coming back from tending to his prize billy. He’d invited us into his kitchen for a cup of coffee. The kitchen was toasty warm thanks to the old stove, a huge green glazed tiled piece with bas-relief that featured fighting dogs and hunting scenes. It should have been nice to enjoy all that heat. The problem was that Bertrand also reeked to high heaven. It was so bad that even his coffee tasted of pungent, dominating buck. I’d been fantasizing about fresh coffee all morning, and now it was spoiled for me, possibly forever.

  Bertrand was forty and of average height, with short, thinning hair and round, dull blue eyes. He had studied agriculture at the university, only to come back home and do everything exactly as his father and grandfather had done before him. The country had a way of hypnotizing you, I’d found.

  He also liked to hunt. And he loved to tell grisly stories about sordid love affairs and bizarro accidents involving either fishing and hunting gear or enormous trucks. He had cousins he hated, and he sometimes told us how he’d paid a witch to put the evil eye on them or to remove it from this or that. I kept trying to incorporate him into a song but could never capture his true essence. He was completely alien to me.

  “So, there really was a bar?” he asked, laughing. “That place has been closed for decades.”

  “There will be a bar,” Linus said with complete serenity. “We wanted to thank you for sending us there. How did you know it had been bought by someone?”

  Bertrand shrugged and scratched his belly under his yellow promotional polo shirt.

  “I wasn’t sure. I just heard the real estate guy talk about some weirdo stranger looking into it. It would be funny, wouldn’t it, if all of you punks came together?”

  Linus nodded ever so calmly while I seethed.

  “Well, that was very nice of you.”

  Apparently, defusing one of his jokes was the worst thing you could do to Bertrand. He deflated right before our eyes, and we took our leave from him, hoping we didn’t smell of goats too much, just from talking to him.

  On our way over town, we decided to check out the bar by daylight. I was starting to think that maybe I’d dreamt the whole thing up. The day was warmer, sunny for once, and I was determined to bask in the heavenly rays for as long as I could.

  “Heat,” I moaned, turning my face to the sun.

  Linus laughed. We walked with our eyes shut for some time, pushing each other gently whenever we came close to one another. It was a silly game, and there was always the risk of stepping into something weird left by some cow, which only made it more fun.

  When I opened my eyes again, we were in sight of the barn. A group of trucks were parked in front, and the atmosphere was saturated with loud shouts, hammering, and sawing noises. Curious, Linus and I approached the building.

  We came across two construction workers carrying long, rotten wood p
lanks out of the barn. The door to the old theater was open. As I stepped inside, I noticed that someone had opened all the drapes to let the sun into the first room and thrown out the old rocking chair and the vase full of dead flowers. In less than one day, the walls had been stripped of their wallpapers and water-stained plasters.

  “Wow, that was quick,” Linus commented.

  Chaos had similarly erupted in the main room. All the old chairs were gone. Three carpenters were working on the stage. Someone had gotten rid of the old bottles behind the bar and opened all the windows and curtains to let in some air. In clear daylight, you could see the massive stone walls. They would be handsome once rid of those rotting old plasters.

  “Holy shit.”

  A compact, muscular guy clad in jeans and sneakers was coming towards us, a deep frown on his face.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “We’re looking for Tristan. Or Clovis,” I said.

  “Mr. Rentier’s not here,” the guy nearly barked. “And this site isn’t open to the public.”

  “Do you know how we could contact him?” I asked.

  Now that we were here, I really wanted to see if the owner was as strange in broad daylight as he’d seemed the night before.

  “Nope,” the man said. “Can’t help you.”

  I insisted. “But you must have a phone number? Something?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “Where is he staying?”

  The man squinted at me and repeated slowly, as if talking to a moron, “I am not at liberty to say.”

  I sighed. “Okay. Thanks for your help.”

  We had no other option than to get out of there. I spared the room another glance. It had gone through dramatic changes in less than twenty-four hours, yet the timeless, peaceful feeling I’d gotten the night before was lingering in there somehow. Now I was really hooked. How on earth had Tristan, or Clovis, or Mr. Rentier, or whatever his name was, succeeded in getting a construction team in here that quickly? Yesterday this place was so dead it seemed impossible it would ever come back to life. And now, it was bristling with energy.