Mandolin Dream - Chapter VIII.i
[Van] Paris, Now
Previous chapters: TOC | ch.I | ch.II | ch.III | ch.IV | ch.V | ch.VI.i | ch.VI.ii | ch.VII.i | ch.VII.ii
Past events cannot be changed, and there are safeguards in place to prevent this as it places strain on the program as a whole and can end it. But prevention is not enough, as it will always be possible for a hack to get by, to not be taken into account. As such, should a past event be altered, the world is set to absorb the change without incident. You, as an outsider, will obviously remember the world pre-alteration, as will your Hands. They have a subroutine that allows them to hold both versions of the world in memory for certain amount of time. This time varies according to the impact it has on the Hand's immediate condition.
—The Pharmer’s Handbook, Sixth Edition, Addendum 2, page 391
Van walked through Paris lost in thought. He tried to make some sense of the events of the last day. Impossible. None of it made sense.
Every once in a while the sound of hooves would bring him back. There were two mounted policewomen behind him riding their high horses. Were they following him? He wondered. It was early and they were clearly not moving with purpose. Did mounted police simply patrol? They must. "Fucking paranoia", he thought and chided himself. Before he even knew what he was doing, he veered onto a small side street and turned to see if they would follow. They didn't. "Stupid." He took another turn, left this time, to make sure that he was still headed in the right general direction. He forced himself to look around. He needed to concentrate. It was hard. There was a large dam in the back of his mind that threatened to break. He knew, somehow, that it would soon crumble.
He passed a bunch of familiar shops. He knew this place. Anthony had lived here for a while. His flat had been on the next block, across the street. He stopped in front of a shell of a building. It was reduced to floors and support posts, all of the walls, gone. Its innards fully exposed and in ruins. He could see what used to be Anthony's living room, what was left of it. The gaudy fake crystal chandelier still hung from the ceiling. Nothing could kill that thing. It was just too ugly to be destroyed. It looked like it alone was keeping the building from turning to rubble.
He needed a drink. He walked another block to the cafe where they'd spent more than their fair share of mornings, afternoons and evenings.
The door still moaned as he opened. They'd called it the hag. It wailed whenever someone entered or left. Some things never changed. Van approached the counter. "Un crème s'il-vous-plait." The young man nodded and turned to work the old brass espresso machine.
"Trois euros, dix." The man said as he placed a simple espresso in a medium cup topped with frothed milk in front of him. Van reached into his pockets and realized that he had no money, no phone, nothing. "Damn it." He muttered under his breath.
"Est-ce que Philippe est ici?"
The man's eyes lidded and squinted a little. He disappeared through the door behind him, and returned a few moments later with another man in tow.
"Monsieur Van?" The man exclaimed as he saw him.
"Hello Philippe. I'm in a bit of a bind. I seem to have lost my wallet and phone."
Philippe came around the counter, and embraced him. "It is so nice to see you. I never thought you would grace us with your presence again."
"Why not? Because I was dead?" Van blurted.
"Ha! Très drôle. Your money is not good here." He looked at the younger man behind the bar and told him to bring his order, to make another for himself along with deux ballons of Brandy, to a table by the window. Philippe and Van sat down. "What brings the famous Van back to my small café?"
"Philippe, have you seen Anthony recently?"
"Not for a long time."
The other waiter placed everything on the table, nodded to Philippe and left without saying a word.
Van put is hands down in his lap, not ready to pick up either beverage. He noticed the dark stains and rings in the wood of the table in front of him. There was one that looked like a footprint. He remembered arguing about that. Anthony had thought it nothing but a nondescript blob, but had eventually conceded. Van hadn't believed him. It had always felt like a hollow victory. "Philippe. What does this look like to you?" He said as he pointed to the dark patch on the table.
"Monsieur?"
"What does this stain look like to you?"
"I am sure I do not know. Do you want to change tables?"
"No. No. Just look at it. What does it look like?"
"Van. Are you alright? It is just a stain. Nothing more."
"Doesn't it look like a foot? See here is the heel, here the big toe--"
Philippe pushed the brandy closer to Van and covered the foot. Then thought better of it and pulled it all the way back to his side of the table.
"Merde! I am so sorry. How inconsiderate of me." He yelled "Théo!" and the young waiter appeared at his side. He motioned for him to take the brandy away quickly. "I remember reading about your… cure. It was very inconsiderate of me. Please forgive me."
"What do you mean?" Van had actually been looking forward to that drink. He needed it.
"In Rolling Stone, they mentioned you had become teetotaliste, after—"
"Wait a minute. Rolling Stone? The magazine?"
"Si."
"How the hell?" That dam in the back of his mind cracked a little. He reached over, slapped away Théo's hand before he could take touch the brandy. Van quickly picked it up and downed it before Philippe got any other ideas. He was surprised that the liquid burned his throat, and made his eyes water a little. "I'm sorry. I don't understand."
He started to yell to the waiter again, but before he could finish the young man left and returned with a weathered and dog-eared copy of the latest edition of the magazine he'd been about to ask for. He held it in both hands and stared at Van.
Philippe grabbed it. "Théo! I told you that I knew him. Now leave us." He turned to Van. "Nobody believed me when I told them that the man on the cover of Rolling Stone used to be a regular here in my humble café. They laughed. I was hoping you could sign it?"
Van didn't hear Philippe. He couldn't. It took everything he had to process what he saw on the cover of that magazine. Him. He grabbed it from the table, ripped it from the other man's hands. He stared at the cover. There was no doubt; it was him. How? He stared into his own eyes. This has to be some kind of joke. Was it a fake? He tried to take in every detail of himself, looked for inconsistencies. He didn't remember owning that particular white pirate-type shirt, or those jeans, but the kick-ass biker boots were his. And the guitar. It was most definitely his pink paisley Fender Strat. He couldn't help but think that he looked damn good.
He quickly leafed through the magazine, looked for the interview. There was quite the spread with pictures. In one of them, he wasn't alone. He was nestled on a soft brown leather sofa with one arm around her and the other hand holding hers. It was the only picture where he wasn't looking at the camera but at her, a woman he hadn't seen in twenty years. Victoria.
For the first time since yesterday, since 'appearing' at the pub, he stopped worrying about Anthony. He started at the photograph. Victoria. For the first time, he wondered what was behind that dam; he felt a need to poke at it, to know more.
He took a deep breath, rubbed his hands up and down his face. When he reopened his eyes he noticed that Philippe's brandy was still on the table, untouched. He picked it up and downed it.
He turned to look out the window. There were two horses parked across the street.