Moonlight Binding Magic

by Charlotte Munich

  The door opened, and I pushed it. I searched for the light switch on the nearby wall. At last, I found it and flipped it on. More flickering fluorescent light. I stepped into the bare concrete room. It was roughly ten square meters, a good volume, considering what was inside: five cardboard boxes sealed with thick black adhesive tape and piled neatly in one corner.

  Again, I had no memory of putting them there.

  Linus exhaled slowly, which in turn made me realize I’d been holding my breath. I sighed then laughed uneasily. At least there was no rotting corpse in there, no foul smell, no rats.

  “You want to take a look first?” Linus asked.

  “No. This place gives me the creeps. I just want to leave.”

  He took two boxes piled on one another. I bent down and retrieved one. We’d have to come back. I shivered.

  “Don’t forget the key,” Linus said.

  I checked my back pocket. “Got it.”

  We did as fast as we could. The boxes were big, and the car’s small boot only fit two of them. We piled the other three in the back seat.

  When we were finished loading the car, I ran back to the office to give them back the key, but it was closed. Everything was dark, except for the huge neon sign on the roof. Dora Vinok really didn’t take her job very seriously. I tore off a corner of the file and wrote a note on it before sliding it under the door with the magnetic keycard. And off we went.

  Linus and I remained silent during the whole drive back to our house. We’d talked about seeing Moulins and we’d joked about selling the contents of the boxes, but in the end, we had no energy to follow through. I just wanted to get back home. I didn’t even want to open the mysterious boxes. I just felt really tired.

  When we finally arrived at the house and found Sam and Thom waiting for us, I hugged them both fiercely. It made Sam laugh, and I knew Thom thought I was acting weird. I let the three guys unload the boxes in an empty part of the building that doubled as a garage. We closed the door on them, and I forgot about them entirely.

  7

  The days that followed were busy and dedicated entirely to mundane matters. Since our gig at the old barn wasn’t going to bring in any quick money, we now desperately needed to find jobs. We wanted to take advantage of Tristan’s offer to sell merchandise and needed some funds to invest in it. It would mean taking a risk, and maybe the old barn wasn’t going to attract as many customers as we all hoped, but on the longer term, we already knew there would be more money in T-shirts and mugs than in passing a hat around. So we needed some cash, because we wanted to do things right.

  We did the rounds at the local supermarkets, farms, and shops to see if we could offer our services. We all had formed contacts here and there in the past months, and as nice as it was to spend the days composing and rehearsing, we had to eat and needed to accept that.

  It was Thom who first hit the jackpot, when he found out that a nearby cooperative was looking for a cheaper accountant and they took him up on his offer to do it. He wasn’t certified, but he had a cousin in Paris, a music lover who would support us by vouching for Thom’s work if he did all the heavy lifting. Thom wasn’t happy about the prospect, but it was money, and he could keep rehearsing at night.

  Sam said he wanted to grow and sell pot, but we managed to dissuade him from doing that, and he found a job in logistics at the same cooperative as Thom, which was handy, considering we only had the one car. Linus reverted to his online job as a translator from French and English into German. The German ebook market was still booming, and he could make some money if he worked quickly. We didn’t have wifi, but he asked our neighbor Elise if he could use hers to do emails and back up his work every day, and she agreed to help.

  That left me. I didn’t want to be a dead weight, because I knew the sooner we had some cash again, the sooner we could get back to starting our career as a band.

  Since we only had the one car, I decided to focus on the places of business that were within walking or cycling distance. Let’s just say they were scarce. Bertrand “offered” me a job as his assistant, but he did so with such a weird smile on his face that it took everything I had not to run away screaming.

  After two days, I’d rung at every door, but no one needed a girl, and when help was required, they turned to family members first. The economy, my dear.

  Sam and Thom took to leaving very early in the morning, and Linus started at the same time, pounding away at the keyboard on his computer. We’d decided the rehearsals would take place early in the evenings, so the hard workers could get some sleep.

  Not for the first time, I was questioning our choice of headquarters. Living in a rundown country house was very cheap and sounded very romantic, and it was, most of the year. But there were definite disadvantages to it. Now I felt like a kept and trapped woman, and I hated it.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Linus said to me one day, after patiently listening to me complaining for most of an hour. “Just write us some beautiful songs. It’ll be a long-term investment.”

  The trouble was, after a week, I’d written exactly zero songs. Guilt and boredom were eating me alive.

  But Linus obviously didn’t want to talk—he had a deadline and wanted to send this translation to his client before the end of the day, so I had to get out of his hair. Leaving him in peace, I decided to go wandering in the neighborhood instead. It soon became a pattern. Day after day, I spent a lot of time outside walking in ever-widening circles and achieving exactly nothing.

  One evening, I was so fidgety we even got into an argument about it. I was trying to write a song but was unable to focus. Linus, on the other hand, was on a deadline—again—for a client he felt could become an important one, if he didn’t mess up this one assignment. When he couldn’t take my pacing and fretting anymore, he just lost his patience.

  “For the love of all things rock ’n’ roll, Victoire, go to your room.”

  “I’m not a kid,” I replied sulkily.

  “Go take a walk.”

  “I don’t have anywhere to go.”

  “Just go to the store and buy some bread. Anything.”

  This was as close as Linus came to being annoyed, and I left the old house with a sinking feeling. It was getting dark and cold, and I was useless.

  I decided to go to the old barn and find out how soon they could open. I was sure they would need someone to man the bar one day. Since Tristan and Clovis were one and the same, he was quickly going to be understaffed in that huge space.

  Ten days had passed since our first visit and since the rehabilitation work had begun. I’d seen with my own eyes what a quick start the construction crew had had on the place. But even so, nothing had prepared me for what I found when I got there.

  The workers were done for the day. A last crew of two were piling their tools into their truck. There was a sign over the door now, proclaiming “Victory Bar” in big, gothic letters, lit red and white. It wasn’t such an unusual name for a bar in western Europe. The old wooden door had been replaced with a new one, dark oak with intricate wrought-iron work, reinforcing the gothic theme, but in a subtle way. The walls, though, were just as blind as before, no light at all shining out through the windows.

  I tried to knock, felt silly, didn’t find the doorbell. The door was open, and I just came in unannounced, prepared to get thrown out like the previous time I’d tried to sneak in.

  The front room looked nothing like it had when I first came to the place. It was dry and clean now, and not at all haunted. Three of the walls had been painted white. The fourth wall had been done in black, probably to showcase that giant colorful painting featuring a couple of tango dancers. The terracotta tiles on the floor had been cleaned and polished until they gleamed softly in the subdued light from a tall modern wrought iron lamp. The door was ajar, and I took that for an invitation to take a peek at the rest.

  The main room had been beautifully renovated as well. The ramshackle chairs had given way to a series of small da
rk wood cabaret tables. The floors had been redone in red tiles everywhere, except for the spot-lit stage which was now hardwood. They’d changed the stage curtains, from purple to a deep aubergine, and the drapes on the windows all matched. The bar itself looked gorgeous with very little work done, I supposed, apart from a good, thorough cleaning and new bottles on the shelves, ones that were actually drinkable. I’d liked this place on my first visit, but now I understood why. It was gorgeous.

  It was also empty, yet not silent. Somewhere behind the dark curtain, backstage, someone was playing the guitar and, I thought, maybe, singing softly.

  Very carefully, so as not to disturb the peace, I crossed the room and went to see for myself. There were a few steps on the side of the stage, and I climbed them, my heart beating fast. I knew I was intruding but felt too curious to back away now.

  I heard the melancholy guitar and the deep, but soft, masculine voice more clearly now. Yet I still couldn’t make out the song. I stepped around the curtain and into the darkness on the side of the stage. For a country theater, this one was quite well designed and sophisticated, I thought, looking at the sets of pullies, levers, and counterweights. Glancing back, I spotted the sound and lighting booth opposite the stage, on a mezzanine above the entrance. A lot had been done to the place, and in a very short time.

  I debated announcing myself. It would undoubtedly have been the polite thing to do. Except I wanted to listen to the song and see the man performing it, and that wasn’t going to happen unless I was a little indiscreet. Good thing I was wearing sneakers and not heels like that last time.

  Backstage consisted of a bare room at the end of a short corridor and down again a couple of steps. There was very little light, just a candle flickering on an empty table. The musician sat with his back turned to the entrance, huddled over his instrument. From time to time, he turned his head to check on his chords, and I could see his profile from behind, in candlelight. It confirmed what I’d known already: the man playing was the owner of the barn, Clovis, or was it Tristan? From the side, lit by the tiny flame, his eyes looked even weirder than I remembered, purple, nearly luminescent even.

  “Come on in,” he said, interrupting his singing but not the strange guitar melody.

  “Sorry I’ve disturbed you,” I said, not very truthfully.

  “Ah! Victoire,” he said happily, turning around on his stool to face me. “What’s new? Is it the third already?”

  For someone who had the astounding organizational chops to renovate a building like this one in record time, he didn’t seem to have a very good grasp of time.

  “No, today is actually January 29th. We aren’t scheduled for sound check until next week. I just wanted to see how the bar was coming along.”

  He smiled. “I’d say it’s nearly finished. What do you think?”

  I grinned back at him. “It’s beautiful. I love it.”

  That seemed to make him happy. “Good, good.”

  “What were you playing just now? I didn’t recognize the song.”

  “That? Oh. It’s just an old medieval theme that I’ve been playing with. A friend bet me I couldn’t bring it into the 21st century, and I’ve been trying to prove her wrong.”

  I smiled. “Wow, you and your friend have some interesting ways to pass the time.”

  “You have no idea.”

  There was a gap in the conversation. Time to spill the beans.

  “Listen, Tristan,” I said. “I know it’s early, but I was wondering if you were going to need a waitress later on…or any kind of help, really. I’ve been looking for a job.”

  He frowned. “What did you call me?” He looked at his hands, surprise on his face.

  “Tristan?” I hesitated. “Oh, sorry. You prefer Clovis?” I bit my lip. “I don’t… It’s just, as I was addressing the manager of this place, I thought…”

  He laughed uneasily. “I like Tristan just fine. It’s just, my name is Clovis.”

  I blinked in confusion and felt the need to come clean. “I’m sorry, but to me, it’s obvious you are one and the same person.”

  The shock registered on his face. Oh, boy. Maybe this hadn’t been the most brilliant idea, confronting a possible madman in his lair when no one knew I was here.

  “Oh, dear,” he said. “Are you sure? Because I might have to kill you, now that you know my deep dark secret.”

  I took one step towards the entrance with my heart hammering in my throat.

  “Oh, no, no!” he cried out in alarm, almost dropping his guitar as if in panic and catching it at the very last minute, so that the chords sang briefly. “Please, don’t run. It was just a joke. A really bad one. I’m sorry.”

  I frowned. “What?”

  He sighed. “I invented myself an assistant to look more important on certain occasions. It’s just a game. Please go along with it.”

  “But why?”

  “I just told you. It’s fun, and sometimes people consider you differently when you’re a team instead of a lonely loser.”

  I just stared at him, dumbfounded. There were so many questions I wanted to ask. He really thought this trick was working? Well, after all, it sure had worked on my bandmates. But come on. And when had he been perceived as a lonely loser? What was that story again, about him getting robbed when he’d bought this place? But he obviously still had money, and plenty of it, too, given the amounts he must have sunk into these very extensive renovations.

  After a moment, he cleared his throat.

  “Yes, you’re right. I’m going to need some help. Are you interested? Don’t you have better things to do?”

  “You mean, things like starving?”

  He laughed, and I insisted.

  “Listen, you obviously have money, and you already cheated us on the music deal. So I’ll need a real salary this time.”

  He thought about it then let his guitar rest against the nearby table.

  “Okay. What if you replaced poor old Clovis, since you made him out, and I hire you as an assistant/waitress, starting tomorrow? But I have to warn you, Clovis handled some strategic tasks for me.”

  “Like what?”

  “Managing the workers, the talent, the suppliers when I can’t do it, manning the bar when I’m not there. And some other things.”

  “When would you need me?” It sounded like a lot of work. Basically, I’d almost have to be his shadow.

  He hesitated. “Well, I keep very late hours, so I’m rarely functional in the morning. Or even early afternoons. So that would be when I’d need you the most.”

  I considered it. The hours would keep me in sync with the rest of the band, so that was rather a good thing.

  “What about the evenings?”

  “You could come help some nights, when the bar’s most busy. I have other people I could ask, too.”

  Maybe this was exactly what I needed.

  “Let’s talk money,” I said.

  8

  Fragile but warm midwinter afternoon sunshine filtered in through the high windows. The Victory Bar was obviously not designed to operate during the day, but man, did the sparse rays fall gracefully on everything once they’d managed to fight their way inside. I was growing fonder of the place by the day. I wiped the wide expanse of the bar once again, even though it was pristine. I just liked touching it. Tristan had kept the old, dark wood and the vintage brass, and I loved to see it gleam. It was like petting a dragon or a very expensive sports car. After six days of working there, I still felt that the place gave off this comforting vibe of serene power.

  It made every fiber in me more confident somehow. I’d never been one to enjoy making phone calls, but I’d just finished talking with a local wine producer, and it had gone wonderfully well.

  I’d spent my first few days of work crossing the t’s and dotting the i’s before the big launch, scheduled for the following Saturday. Tristan seemed to think the bar was going to be an instant success. At least, he acted like it. Not that I’d seen a lot of him
lately: he was never there. I hadn’t talked to him live once, or even over the phone, since he’d given me the job. We communicated exclusively through handwritten notes. He’d leave me a to-do list on the bar every morning, and it always started with a rather formal greeting, followed by an order to go and make myself a good strong cup of coffee, which I scrupulously obeyed, of course, being a frustrated caffeine addict.

  Tristan, and not only for this quirk of his, was a good boss, albeit an elusive one. The pay was very good, and I was kept busy by all the details of the grand opening. I started very early in the mornings, leaving home at the same time as Thom and Sam. I was usually done with my tasks by three in the afternoon and went home to get a quick nap before the band got together for practice.

  The only problem was that all this activity and glorious money-making was taking its toll on our music, in that we weren’t composing anymore. I didn’t like that. I hated losing touch with inspiration. Playing, singing, adulting, and making money couldn’t ever be enough. I wanted to write. So today, I was going to stay a little longer at the bar to do so. I’d taken my lucky ukulele with me. I hoped Tristan wouldn’t mind it too much that I enjoyed the comfort and warmth of his bar after my work hours. After all, I was doing nothing wrong, and I wouldn’t be staying too long.

  Stepping away from the bar, I picked up my ukulele and chose a quiet table in the middle of the room. I wasn’t going to scare my muse away by taking the stage right now. I just wanted to get acquainted with her again after that long week of not talking to one another. I pulled one of the handsome wood chairs and sat down with my instrument, setting my notebook on the table with my trusted only-green-left-now four-color ballpoint pen.

  Pretty soon, I was dreaming and composing. I didn’t really care what came out of it. I just enjoyed the process, the feel of the chords under my fingers and the echoes of my voice in the huge empty hall.