They stomped and a cloud of dust rose into the air. They didn’t dare attack the master matador who stood with his eyes closed, his chin at a proud angle and his pose defining grace. He unhooked a clasp and his cape fell into his hands. He withdrew a fold on the inside and the cape expanded and unfurled. Somehow, even his clothes seemed to change as pieces fell off here and there.
In the midst of seventy-five bulls, Alejandro Guerra transformed into a being of fighter flawlessness. His attire was black and his matador ornaments were golden. The muleta or red cape that he now held in a fancy pose was so red it looked like he’d just dipped it in a vat of blood. King Death steepled his fingers. He was ready for the show. The band played up, superb Spanish music composed for the face-off. Of course, they expertly wove into their beats the classics, Paso Doble and Mariachi music.
Seventy-five bulls went at Alejandro Guerra with a fury even hell would have found outrageous. The bear of a man, without a break in style, moved. My fingers tightened. We were all rigid in our seats, not afraid for him but in awe of him. He didn’t just move, he performed. There was grace to his every twist, a dance that could only be performed when a bull was your partner, and he had more than one. Such perfect angling, almost as if his mind was linked to each of his horned aggressors and he knew their next trajectory. His muleta flowed like a river, mountainous masses of muscle bucked, gored and ran, often into each other because Alejandro was hard to pinpoint. One second ten bulls wanted to murder him and the next he was making ten more bulls on another section of the arena desirous to see his blood. It was—how would they put it—magnífico.
For the rest of the hour we were all of us entranced. The crowd was agitated with ecstacy and the courtiers, including myself, were on out feet cheering and clapping. We were lost. We were lost in his art. Out of nowhere, Guerra produced a long sword of fine craftsmanship. He brandished it up to the skies and the sun caught it. The reflection blinded us for a split second. The bulls knew the sword. The same weapon had ended each one of them, a slice through the heart. When Alejandro spotted a bull panting, weak, on the verge of giving up, he’d taunt it with his alluring dance that was as aggressive as it was enchanting. If the bull didn’t respond, he would use the sword and end its afterlife. There was nobody in the arena to assist him. He had no picadores or banderilleros, or anyone else who was traditionally part of his team or cuadrilla. He was soloing seventy-five bulls and it was beyond imagining. He used his Vara to perform the Estocada, the final between-the-shoulderblade thrust to the heart.
One by one they fell, sometimes two by two as his sword flashed in practiced swings to end the afterlives of those that sought him harm.The record board said it all, the screens captured everything. The beasts dwindled to sixty-nine, then to sixty-two, sixty-one, sixty, fifty-seven. Slowly but steadily the time came for when Alejandro faced the last bull, his most deadly opponent true to form.
The Spanish guitar captured the moment in a tune that could be hummed for hours. The largest bull was as black as the hair on a Spanish mamasita. He had fury in his eyes, the uncontrolled version of Guerra’s own. His hooves stamped the ground in preparation. This was as much his show, as much his arena. It was star versus star. Like Alejandro, the bull loved to perform. In a sudden and unexpected twist of circumstance, he made the crowd gasp and bring hand to mouth as he turned to His Majesty and bowed. Even King Death seemed impressed. He got to his fiery hooves and bowed back. The mighty horned god of the arena faced his human counterpart and, as the music picked up tempo, they tangoed.
The Bull-a-Rena went insane with excitement. To be honest, I think I will never in all of eternity see anything as grand as this. The one bull gave a better show than the seventy-four who had come in with him and died. The one matador increased his range and danced new steps, new twists, new graces. It was breathtaking but it came to an end. Alejandro Guerra was panting by the time he was finished. His wide chest heaved, his buttons had come undone and he was sweating buckets. The bull foamed at the mouth, it didn’t want to give up without a fight. I think even the gods might have been watching. The duel ended in another impossible circumstance when the bull whose name everyone now spoke, El Diablo, bowed on one knee and offered his heart to the matador who conquered him.
The band played a soft and sorrowful tune but filled with Spanish pride and honor. The fighter knew when he’d lost and it was more honorable than anything they’d ever seen. It was mindless aggression, it was poise and calculation. Alejandro brandished the sword, he angled, he drove, he pulled and swiped the sword clean. Guerra took a knee before El Diablo’s body and the stadium went silent, so silent the swish of the petals left a faint whisper on the breeze. King Death gained his feet and applauded.
The arena followed that silent sound, a thousand claps resounded, and several more petals filled the air. Today everyone praised the bull, even the infamous Alejandro Guerra who was still on his knee. Rumor had it that a single drop of fluid fell from his head. Nobody could confirm if it was a bead of sweat or something more heartfelt. The band picked up where they’d left off. Alejandro Guerra gained his feet in a sudden twist and flair. Just when the mariachi reached its concluding note he yelled, “Ole!”
We were lost. We were lost.
14
The spectacle in the arena was followed by brunch. The Pellanova section was the sole handler of this grand event; their services were bought and paid for. The humanoids comprising Vekvermesht’s team were supposedly more efficient than the Germans from my home planet. They ran a company called Quadrant Catering and although in its initial few decades they ran at a loss and were in more slumps than upward slopes, they pulled through with effective new practices like the stick-n-plate distribution system. The whole race was stocky, hairless from head to toe, had several eyes in unusual places and had all of the best cooks in this dimension. They had been trying to get their hands on Natalya Dunayevsky but the vampire chef was loyal to the Von Heisens and practically called them family. I recall seeing her along with a whole lot of vampires enjoying prime seats at the Bull-a-Rena. Their whole section had been covered with sun-reflector tarp.
Quadrant Catering’s head chef was a stubborn male entity who smacked, prodded, pulled and pushed, even slapped, more than he spoke. It was not a fine improvement from the usually vociferous chefs the rest of his men were used to but they adapted. Over the decades, a handful of female Pellanovas joined, as well as cooks from all other life-systems, human included, until there was a motley mix of fine culinary artists in the company, and it worked wonders for the food. In QC’s case, I can honestly say that too many cooks perfected the broth. Quadrant Catering could cook anything and everything in the known Universe, all known recipes even those that were unwritten but used when preparing meals. By edict of the King, the kitchens needed all the help they could get and so the Von Heisens had no choice but to temporarily part with their beloved Natalya who was probably scaring fellow chefs into submission as she worked her massive way with disappearing ease, playing her talented hand at the multi-versal cuisine. Of course, she joined as a free agent and confirmed the same to anyone who asked.
About that stick-n-plate distribution system. Those important members of Quadrant Catering who called themselves servers performed a method that was a show unto itself. Remember that efficiency I was telling you about, here’s where it revealed itself. The chefs and lower-ranking culinary artists made massive quantities of delicious food and while that was hard enough to do for hundreds of millions of inhabitants in the city, they accomplished the task in layers and stages and kept the conveyor belt of activity rolling. The servers or ‘plate magicians’ as they’d come to be called, worked their art. People had large accomodating stalls to read the menus, choose what they wanted to eat and pay up using their credits. The teller was second witness and they were part of the servers’ union functioning under the wing of Quadrant Catering, therefore they were highly trustworthy and quite recommended. They were more like the machines they u
sed to sift all the orders coming in than actual flesh and blood Pellanovas.
Every meal that was paid for was stamped onto a unique magnetized token chip that the person who ordered had to show as proof or it could be anyone who’d stolen it off them. No token meant no gnom-gnom, and it was starvation all the way. Each token instantly bio-imprinted itself to the buyer’s thumb pattern and immediately went inactive after sending a signal back to base if the holder died or the thumb was brutally sliced off. People would do anything to eat good food, especially the poorer classes who could afford only small rations. Death did invest a special credit package into their accounts, usable only for the festival. Anyway, macabre thoughts during brunch don’t sit well with the belly. I have no idea what kind of intelligent technology can assess so many bio-imprints and not pose a pocket burden. But let’s continue.
The real magic was during what the people had started to call, the ‘Service Siesta’. Pellanovas handled this part well. Their only diversity stood in the kitchens where Italians made Italian food and Jerathorians crafted their signature Googlay mixes, and so on and so forth. These service members would use long sticks and balance multiple plates on them. There were different sticks for different uses. Standing on stilts that rose above the crowd they were appreciative of the people’s patience and lack of jostling. It helped them perform and everyone had their heads tilted up to see it happen. The brunch bell rang and the servers would shoot multiple sticks carrying multiple plates every which way, all across Quadrant City where people and servers were pre-positioned.
We all knew where to go and where to stand as displayed on memo cards that made no sense but offered facts that the Pellanovas could work with. We were all in a state of partial ignorance, which furthered our sense of suspence. The first plates were magnetic and they would approach on long sticks toward a group of people. They would hand their bio-imprint tokens over, which would then disappear but only if the plate’s in-built sensor tech confirmed authenticity. In less than a minute, that token chips would pass through many be-sticked hands and to one of thousands of food stalls set up all across the city.
Like master waiters, the servers knew which chip came from where even if the buyer changed positions, which they’d been politely asked not to do so a few precious seconds could be saved. The long sticks came back carrying the hot or cold meal, as the choice may be, and deposited them into the waiting hands of hungry citizens.
Each food stall was linked to an ambitous underground conveyor system that spanned the curcumferical measure of Quadrant City. And all belts had Rufasia as their hub, the main kitchens built under the Pellanova Quadrant about eighty years ago. Technology and under-tecture—underground architecture—had evolved ever since. Food was constantly on the roll, little to nothing was wasted, and the whole thing was planned from before the beginning. Range, perfection of timing and memory, a combo of technology and skill, speed and efficiency, these were at work for the next forty-five minutes as hours and hours of planning and honing orgasmed into one culinary feast for the senses. The cooks cooked, the tech worked, the servers served, the tokens were verified and fine brunch was served in ideal amounts to every citizen in Quadrant City. The space a few meters above the ground was a wash of sticks and plates as orders were relayed and deliveries made.
After the Pellanovas had done their jobs, they’d bring their stilts together and sit atop them. People could move about, group up as they ate and chatt about the day and each other’s afterlives. Life-forms from all quadrants mixed and socialized. Then people would go to the ordering booths to buy more food, come out and raise their token chips high. Sticks and plates moved once more, though sparingly and wide apart as the magic happened in bursts. By this time, the people were satisfied with the preliminary start of the Service Siesta and were more interested in the lip smacking food they had on their plates. Once they were finished, they’d move to a designated booth on the outer fringes and empty their leftovers. They’d place their plates in specialized compartments that were swallowed by the ground as the cabinets delivered the dirty dishes to a belt system that carried them along an underground route to Mr. D’s Dishwashing, a company that functioned as an utility branch of Quadrant Catering.
In about one and a half hours, well-fed citizens moved to designated venues and those who couldn’t book seats sat before display screens either on roadsides or rooftops. People who had televisions were welcome to view the event from home, and there were ways to know if they didn’t. This was after all a compulsory celebratory day.
The next event was a theatre performance. Since all life-systems had some version of the performing arts, there had been a citywide vote a week ago. The results were revealed only today to a waiting audience. For the tenth year in a row—the play being performed by a new cast and crew—a musical play from Earth won the majority vote. All life-forms apparently wanted to see this show again. It was a play everyone had come to love, adore, worship and cherish, and that lifted their hearts in extraordinary ways. Rumor had it that even King Death had voted for this one but none could tell because the votes were classified, and tallied without any chance at fixing.
Seated on a wonderfully plush divan, laid back with his wings artfully spread to the sides and down, one hoofed leg crooked up at a strange angle, King Death sipped on something I don’t want to know as he sat in the Palacio Opera Grande. The curtains went up and the film crew started the live telecast for those who weren’t among the three hundred thousand seated in the theatre, courtiers excluded; we had a balcony box all to ourselves. I breathed a sigh of thank you for the whole place being air-conditioned. It was welcome relief from the heat of the arena.
The opening scene of the Phantom of the Opera played out and after a few hours ended to a Quadrant City standing ovation. Performed by human actors, it was the most sublime rendition of the play people said they’d seen to date. The set decor was worthy of special praise and the music, well, I have no words for such talent of voice and instrument.
It took me a while to connect the dots but I eventually figured out the orchestra was the same one I’d seen playing at Castle Von Heisen, vampires the whole lot of them with skills honed over several lifetimes, the entire play composed by the irresistible Madame Madeleine Mollere. Strangely enough, the artists who sang on stage were human. I sometimes sat there wondering how much taxpayers’ credits had gone into the fifth-month celebrations. Be that as it may, I saw theatre at one of its best. I, with my popcorn and coffee and sundry other eatables wasn’t too stuffed to be star struck. The music haunted me throughout the day. It was a beautiful sort of haunting.
15
In the next hour while people headed home to take a nap and get ready for the next event, laborers worked to set up wide-open floor and stage spaces all across Quadrant City. They ingeniously used the food stalls and other setups that had gone into brunch and incorporated them into a cost effective construction spree that would soon play host to concerts and dancing. I headed back to my apartment and the other courtiers did too. We changed into evening wear. The weather had a chill bite and we dressed accordingly. I took my umbrella with me before I locked up and headed to the venue shown on the card.
I forgot to mention we had these cards, with dates and places to be, much like a menu but with Moo-Day events written in delicious cursive and distributed freely to everyone. It helped us stay organzied. Today was one of the highest grossing days for a lot of businesses including transportation, be they cars or carriages. People went everywhere and awaited each event with gusto and eagerness.
We courtiers met King Death at the main venue. As soon as we entered the vast canopied space, much like a circus tent, we were dazzled with scintillating lights, sensuous banners of silk and chiffon, an elegant wooden floorspace that was as extensive as it was impressive, and a grand stage up front. Seats and tables lined the outer edges. I went outside and climbed a small hill on impulse so I could get a wider view of this quadrant, where the life-forms from the Her
fester system dwelled. Many such canopies spread on open terrain and I recall seeing pictures of them.
The Herfesters were under-dwellers. They had no homes we could see up on normal ground. This made the venue perfect for multiple canopies and screens to display the main band who would play in the Grand Tent. Without the carnival lights and festival air, this quadrant was the bleakest of them all. Today it was one of the most luminescent. I heard tell of requests for the open ground space to be used for various things. Different quadrants could rent the space. The Hefesters after all lived underground, leaving nothing up top. But they needed the open air for some biological reason so King Death had denied any future requests to this effect.
I went back inside the tent and walked a distance to occupy my seat. King Death was already present and he threw me a steely golden glance. It reminded me of my work or lack thereof. I had found time whenever and wherever I could to complete a shortlist for Death to use at the end of the day. It was late afternoon and I am not proud to say I had completed only fifteen papers and carried them in a waterproof file with me like they were the keys to the kingdom. Fifteen wasn’t nearly enough, in fact it was the most negligible number I could have. I had to have fifty thoousand, maybe even ten times that, so King Death would perform his customary rejection of three-fourth of those papers. In my soul-state I could do that amount of work, at least in theory based on what other Reincarnators had achieved when they were in office. All of them had been reincarnated so I’m left with no mentor to tell me how to perform my duties. I had a feeling Death went easy on me for these past four months because of that, but it was apparently my responsibility to ask and learn and get my act together. I was late in doing so much.
Long Live Death: Welcome To The Afterlife Page 13