The Fireplace - Chapter 8

The second day Florence came back, but he had black rings under his eyes. His brother (Fern had just realised the day before they were brothers – of course! Their names matched perfectly) had not come back after leaving yesterday.

They sat in silence. Nobody moved a hair, nobody even dared to approach them for there was a drain of sadness and anger around them. They sat in silence, not moving a hair.

They all knew what Venice’s absence meant.

He might be walking in the door tomorrow, or he might never come again.

Three days later Florence disappeared as well. The poets’ section was abandoned.

Fern got drunk. It was not a good idea, but he didn’t care by this point.

He had now approved of Sage’s schedule wholeheartedly.

Having long abolished the friendship with alcohol, he had almost forgotten how wonderful it was to be in the haze of nigh-on unconsciousness. He regained that happiness now.

He had taken a sofa for himself, putting it next to Sage’s. The fact that another man in the room was as drunk as him gave him much comfort, like an erring child with an accomplice. He had replenished his alcohol stash in his room, having taken many bottles from Diaz’s stock. Every day he would drink beer in the SNC, and every night he would curl up in his apartment and sleep.

He wasn’t creating anymore, and it scared him to the extent that sometimes he didn’t even want to come to the SNC anymore. He didn’t think the environment would be beneficial to him. Once upon a time, when he had just newly arrived, the people were friendly, they were new, they were idealists, and they were good friends. Now, with the banishment of Venice and Florence’s teetering, tottering dilemma of following his brother or staying in this wonderful utopia, Fern didn’t think it was a good place anymore.

And unfortunately, that was what he voiced to Sage one February afternoon, his voice not exactly a shout but not low either. It was a fatal mistake now he thought back to it.

He doesn’t even remember what he said that night, but it was to the effect that he thought it unjust to have treated Venice in such a way, and that they should not be treating technology with such vehemence. And the effect of his drunken outburst, while Sage was trying desperately to shush him – the good man still had half an ounce of sense in him while Fern was dead drunk – was that he was also thrown out of the café as well.

He dimly remembered that Sage also came out after him – perhaps not forced but out of his will. And on a comfortable February evening, the two of them were bereft of their circle of friends.

But it was quite alright for Fern then. He had tired of the environment of the café and now returned to the same state he had been in before going to the SNC.

Sage was walking behind him; Fern enjoyed his companionship. They had come to know each other quite well through their days curling on the sofas, and Fern was glad he was not alone.

They walked into the city for some reason. It had been a year and a few months – perhaps one and a half years? – since he had last stepped into the ring of neon-clothed towers.

He stopped at a window showcase, where second-hand objects were being sold. They were all familiar to him and it was a startling effect. Sage walked up beside him, and it was evident he identified them too.

It was an ‘antique’ shop, a modern antique shop, selling postmodern pre-modern objects. There was an old tobacco pipe from the 1980s, probably a cast prop more than anything. There was a pair of leather boots that had long gone out of fashion. There was a notebook with a leather cover and a pen.

He bought the notebook and the pen.

And in the soft snow that just started to flurry, he turned. He and his lost friend stood in the streets, looking back at the café he had dedicated his love to, disappearing in the snow that blocked the view.

He turned and gestured to Sage to start walking. On the way back, he imagined his fireplace lit with beautiful, beautiful flames.

THE END