When I told him this, the man looked me in the eye, steadily. He seemed entertained.
“You’re quite a fascinating person. …Listen, since you’re here, would you be interested in hearing me talk about old times? The story of how I acquired this power of immortality, and the curious tales surrounding it… It would be a good way to pass the time.”
That did sound like an intriguing story…but was it all right for me to hear it? After all, we’d just met.
“It doesn’t matter. Even if you told others about it, I doubt they’d believe you.”
I told him, firmly, that it had better not be anything religious. There was somebody immortal right in front of me, and I’m not sure why I was so calm. Looking back, I think I was a complete moron.
“Ah, don’t worry. It’s nothing to do with anything like that. It really is just a simple way to kill time. …Although I suppose a demon does make an appearance in this story.”
The man who’d called himself a Camorra contaiuolo, a man who was apparently immortal, ordered our food from the waitress, and then slowly began to relate his “legend.”
“All right. Then I’ll begin… It’s the tale of a man who drank the demon’s liquor and gained immortality. That miserable man’s lonely, lonely yarn. The stage is Prohibition-era New York. It’s a story of the peculiar destiny surrounding the sudden appearance of the ‘liquor of immortality,’ and of the spiral of people who found themselves drawn into it…”
PROLOGUE
1711 The Atlantic Ocean The Advena Avis
Alchemy.
Believed to have originated in ancient Egypt, it was an academic discipline, a skill, and at the same time, a culture.
Having sprung from Egyptian arts, it came to Western Europe via the Arab world during the Renaissance and deeply permeated the society there, fusing with Greek philosophy and—via Hermetic thought—religious concepts as it did so.
It sometimes sought, as its name in certain languages suggests, to transmute base metals into gold; at other times, it attempted to create artificial life divorced from the hand of God, and in the end, it pursued eternal life. …No, even that couldn’t be called the end: There was no end to the heights sought by the alchemists. They devoted themselves to daily study, endeavoring to make the impossible possible; if they managed it, the impossible would be possible. Their ultimate goal would fade and grow dull. They seemed likely to vanish into their own knowledge and desires, or possibly their sense of mission, as they pursued further impossibilities.
In early modern times, as alchemists were hampered by those around them and occasionally targeted by envious looks—a mundane whirl of small minds misunderstanding great ones—they continued to pursue various skills and to meet with failure. However, their actions were not in vain. They made a variety of contributions to modern science, beginning with the alchemist Newton’s discovery of universal gravitation. Alchemy was by no means a system of pseudoscience.
Still, from time to time, there were some who attempted to fuse it with fields apart from science. With magic and thaumaturgy.
Generally, alchemy and magic tend to be considered synonymous, but the two are completely different. Among alchemists, there was a tendency to discount magic and prayers, viewing them as unscientific things that relied upon external forces. However, some of them actively dabbled in these fields.
After all, if their existence were confirmed, even magic and demons would become possible. They would be no more than tools to break open the next impossibility.
The ship was enveloped in the dark of night.
In that darkness…all they heard was a voice.
The alchemists had left their homeland and were bound for the New World.
Onboard the ship, at long last, they had successfully summoned a demon.
“So you call me a demon, do you? Well, I suppose that will do. …But have any of you ever seen God or an angel? I’d imagine the word evil has meaning only when there’s an object for comparison. Well, never mind. It’s been 103 years since anyone took the trouble to summon me. If you’d been three years earlier, it would have made for a nicer number… Well, never mind. Ah, ‘Well, never mind’ is an idiomatic quirk of mine. Just ignore it. Although I suppose it’s odd to call it an ‘idiomatic quirk’ when I’m communicating directly with your minds. Well, never mind.”
In accordance with the oath by which it was bound, this unusually loquacious demon promised to bestow knowledge on the alchemist who had directly summoned him.
“I want to know everything regarding immortality,” the alchemist said.
“In other words… You’re hinting you’d like me to make you immortal? Well, never mind.”
On the deck of the ship, in the center of the group of alchemists, there was a vessel filled with liquid.
“If you drink that, you will become immortal. Decide what to do next on your own. I’m immortal myself, but impressions vary widely. …Wait, wait, calm down and listen to this next bit. I’m a generous soul. There’s enough of that elixir for everyone here. Share it. Don’t fight. …All right: if you tire of immortality and wish to die…”
The demon proceeded to teach them a method by which immortals could die.
“Go find someone else who drank the elixir. If someone asks you to, lay your right hand on their head and think, ‘I want to eat.’ You just have to think it forcefully. The one who wished to die will be absorbed into your right hand, and their life will end. Eating means you’ll inherit all the other person’s knowledge. That means the last of you will accumulate the knowledge of all thirty. If that last one tires of living, summon me again. When you do, I’ll ‘eat’ you. That means I make out well: I’ll gain the knowledge of thirty people… By the way, just so you’re aware…there is a risk. Once you drink that elixir, you’ll be unable to give a false name. That limitation will be set on your spirits. If you’re passingly giving your name to an ordinary human, you won’t have any trouble, but among immortals, you’ll only be able to use your real name, and your body will refuse to allow you to establish a false identity in society. …If it weren’t for that, you see, you’d never be able to find one another.”
The alchemists thought for a little while. Then they divided the elixir among themselves and drank it. The elixir tasted like liquor.
“Oh, that’s right… I promised to teach you everything, didn’t I? I’m not sure what ‘everything’ should consist of, but for now, I’ll tell you how to prepare more of the elixir. Mind you, I’m not telling everyone here. Only this man, the one who summoned me. If you want to know, ask him later.”
With that, the invisible demon gave the alchemist who’d summoned him “knowledge.” The man was still young, and he didn’t understand what had happened. He only knew that knowledge he hadn’t possessed before had been planted in his memory.
The demon’s voice went silent.
The man who had obtained the knowledge thought about it for a night.
His younger brother was with him on the ship, and he began telling his sibling the secret of the elixir of immortality. When he’d related about half of it, he had a sudden epiphany.
The next day, he made a statement:
“…I’ve decided to seal this knowledge forever.”
Voices of protest rose from among the alchemists, but his mind was made up.
And that night, it happened.
The man who’d acquired the knowledge was cautious. In the middle of the night, he felt someone’s presence, and when he opened his eyes… One of his companions stood in his cabin.
This companion’s hand rested on the head of the alchemist’s younger brother, who slept in the opposite bed…
In an instant, the man was fully awake, but it was too late: Like magic, everything his brother was disappeared into the right arm of their companion—or rather, the one who, up until that moment, had been a companion.
“…I didn’t think they’d start this soon,” the demon, who was watching from the darkness somewh
ere, murmured to himself. “Allowing that I did set them off, after a fashion… That’s the human race for you. Greedy things. Granted, this is entertaining to watch as well, but…”
The being they’d called a demon continued. It sounded a little lonely.
“…I did think that this time, perhaps…”
The demon’s voice was gone. Only darkness that gave the illusion of being infinite remained.
And time passed.
DAY ONE
1930 November New York
The sky was the sort people call crystal-clear. The town was illuminated by the transparent light of the morning sun.
Buildings of red and yellow brick were packed together as though they were trying to cover the entire city in color. That said, the people who walked in their midst didn’t feel crowded by them.
In fact, the automobiles that had begun to make their presence felt in recent years pressed the pedestrians much harder.
The time was Prohibition. All sorts of social currents had converged, and the country had elected to become a “dry society.” Consequently, though, the appeal of liquor had actually increased, and even those who hadn’t previously indulged began frequenting illegal taverns. …In other words, ironically, the result had been the creation of more criminals.
A general store stocked grape juice on its shelves, accompanied by a written warning:
If you let this sit for a while, it will ferment and turn into wine. Drink it before that happens.
This grape juice practically flew off the shelves. It was that kind of era.
The Jazz Age had passed its peak, and the previous year, the Great Depression had gripped America. The redbrick buildings that filled the city seemed somehow faded.
Still, in the shadows of the city, there were “protagonists” who had the power to resist the Depression. In general, they were lumped together as “the Mafia,” and they had acquired vast power using the sale of bootleg liquor as a foothold.
In other words, the government’s Prohibition policy had become a perfect hotbed, helping them—the enemies of the law—to rapidly advance in society.
All sorts of legends, great and small, sprang up among them, with Al Capone and Lucky Luciano topping the list. That was what 1930 was like.
Their legends always began in the back alleys.
“Change? Spare any change?”
The emergency exit of a bank. Between tightly packed tenements. Where restaurants threw away their leftovers… Frankly, as long as there was a narrow, gloomy road, anywhere was fine. It didn’t matter whether it was crowded with people or nearly deserted. The season or the hour didn’t matter either, of course.
“You can save this miserable man with just the tiniest show of human feeling.”
A panhandler’s voice sounded behind the hat shop. This voice, echoing in the alley, might actually have been where it all started.
Every time someone passed through the alley, a middle-aged man in shabby clothes badgered them, persistently asking for change. When they stepped out onto the street, he’d give up and go back to where he’d started… A monotonous cycle.
“The good Lord sees what you do. It won’t be long before your actions call down his blessings upon…
“What I’m trying to say here is—”
Abruptly, the repetitive cycle was broken.
The man who’d spoken to the panhandler… It might still have been all right to call him a boy. He stopped suddenly, turning to face the bearded man attempting to cling to him.
“Why are you dropping God’s name all over the place like that?”
Neither his tone nor his attitude matched his age. At the unexpected question, the panhandler’s expression grew puzzled.
“What do you mean, mister?”
“Are you a devout Christian? Have you ever gone to Sunday worship, even once? Did you give to the Church before losing your job? Can you tell me the difference between Catholics and Protestants? If so, you shouldn’t be invoking God’s name and begging in a place like this. Either get yourself to a church and help the nuns with their volunteer work, or look a lot harder for a job, or else blame God for leading you to this state and become a Satanist.”
The panhandler was overwhelmed by the tone of the boy’s quiet harangue, but as soon as the lad paused, he howled an objection.
“But mister! What about donations to the Church, then?! They use God’s name, and they get thousands—no, millions—of times more money than a bum like me!”
“Except you were only thinking about your own pocket, and you know it. …It just means God turns his back on self-centered louts like you. The Great Depression probably landed you on the streets, but even so, the guys standing out on the avenue with signs saying, ‘Give me a job’ are taking life a lot more seriously than you.”
The panhandler tried to make some sort of retort, but he couldn’t think of anything clever. Even as he struggled for a comeback, the boy continued his own selfish lecture.
“And anyway, there’s an art to panhandling, too. Some who make a living at it stand out on street corners in tatters, even though they’ve got money. A few of them actually break their own arms or teeth, for effect. When they beg, it makes passersby tear up even more than the sight of someone truly infirm. Compared to them, you’re a total amateur.”
At this point, the boy glanced upward briefly, then pulled a leather wallet from his jacket.
“Huh?”
The panhandler had no idea what was happening. Based on the direction of the conversation, naturally he’d held out no hope of getting any change. …So why had the fellow before him withdrawn his wallet?
“—Ordinarily, I wouldn’t bother with an amateur like you, but…”
He produced a few coins. However, the panhandler’s eye had been caught by the thick stack of bills in the billfold. It wasn’t a sum that anyone, especially a boy like him, should have had in this Depression. Even an adult with an honest job would have been hard-pressed to get that much money. That was how fat the wallet was.
“Today’s a big day for me, see, and I’m in a real good mood. Go ahead and take these, and consider yourself lucky you spoke to me.”
After a few moments, the panhandler’s face crumpled with joy.
“Oh, ohhhhhh, thank you ever so kindly, mister! I’ll remember this good turn for the rest of my days!”
“Nah… I don’t care if you forget it, just hurry up and take the money.”
The boy urged the panhandler on, not quite sure what to do with the coins spread out on his palm.
“Ahhhh, the good Lord will surely bless your actions, too.”
“Look, I told you, quit pretending you’re religious when it’s convenient…”
“I know! Say, I’ve got some flowers I picked this morning. It’ll be proof of the kindness you did me. Go on, mister, take one.”
No sooner had he spoken than, without taking the money, the panhandler began rummaging through the dirty paper bag he was holding.
“They’re probably wilted by now, anyway.”
“No, no, I’m sure God will make ’em bloom again, nice ’n’ pretty.”
The panhandler peered into the paper bag, his face still warped with delight. And then…
“A big, bright, bright red flower…!”
The calamity struck in an instant.
A small, ferocious calamity that inflicted itself upon the poor paper bag.
A dully gleaming bowie knife sprang cruelly from its shredded belly.
“!”
The bearded panhandler screamed something inarticulate, his face well and truly happy.
And almost before his weird, ecstatic cry had ended…
…it transformed into a shriek of shock and pain.
“Gaaaaaaaaah! Gah! Gwaah… Ah!”
Just before the tip of the blade reached his gut, the boy slapped aside the hand wielding the knife, simultaneously twisting his body lightly. The blade sliced through air, skimming past the boy’s side. In the n
ext instant, he’d grabbed his opponent’s outstretched arm, wrenching it up with ease.
These were the only moves made in the interval between exhilaration and excruciation.
“Hup.”
Little by little, as if leaning into his assailant’s back, the lad put more of his weight behind the hold.
He heard the knife strike the pavement but paid it no heed.
A definite creaking sound became audible from the vicinity of the joints in the man’s arm.
But that noise was drowned out by the man’s screams.
“Waugh… Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! Ah! Kha! Augh! St-st-st-st-st-st-stop…!”
When he saw the panhandler’s will dominated by pain, the boy shoved him into the dark red brick wall. The man fell to his knees with a dull thud. Then, moaning, he slowly tipped over, rolling around on the ground.
Watching his attacker from the corner of his eye, the boy picked up the coins that had been scattered by the brief bout of violence.
Then, when he noticed the bum had stopped moving:
“C’mon. Get up.”
Taking the man’s arm with a certain wariness—his assailant was about twice his size—the boy pulled him to his feet. Then he leaned the panhandler’s back against the brick wall.
“Your mistake was flagging me down. I’m not a pious guy. Unfortunately for you, I’m not self-sacrificing enough to stand there and let you stab me.”
Breathing roughly, shoulders heaving, the man let the boy’s sarcasm slide. He glanced away quickly, moving only his eyes. Even under these circumstances, he seemed to be searching for some way out.
“Planning to make a break for it? Don’t be hasty.”
Spreading the coins he’d picked up across his palm, the lad held his hand under the man’s nose.
“Remember what I said? Consider yourself lucky…”
He balled his hand into a tight fist, squeezing the coins hard.
The Rolling Bootlegs Page 2