3 bar menu

The Bridge Builder – Part 01

Silent Night

Silent night, holy night

All is calm, and all is bright

Round yon Virgin Mother and Child

Holy infant so tender and mild

Sleep in heavenly peace

Sleep in heavenly peace

Silent night, holy night

Shepherds quake at the sight

Glories stream from Heaven afar

Heavenly hosts sing, “Hallelujah!”

Christ the Savior is born

Christ the Savior is born

Chapter 8: The Bridge Builder

The lush greenery of the Miracle Garden, hot as flames during midday, now basked in the glow of the setting sun. Darkness began to cloak Manhattan. Flowers swayed gently in the breeze, and the distant laughter of men echoed from the streets outside.

The door of the seashell-shaped Carousel opened. Victorique de Blois stepped out slowly, clad in an elegant pink dress adorned with five layers of soft frills. Black velvet ribbons trimmed her collar and waist, and a mini hat with a black rose perched on her head. Shiny high heels peeked out from under her dress.

A gust of wind blew, making her white-blonde hair flutter. The golden, lizard-shaped pipe in her hand trembled in the breeze. She narrowed her eyes, deep-green as an ancient lake, and stepped onto the verdant spiral path.

Kazuya walked beside her, holding her hand. Ruri, the cook, and Rokushou followed. William and Mitch trailed behind, bickering in hushed voices.

Victorique, small and beautiful, seemed to float above the ground like a fairy entering the stage. Kazuya, sincere and strong-willed, walked firmly. The pretty Asian mother and son in kimonos held hands. The young black woman in vibrant traditional clothing walked cheerfully, almost dancing. Further back, a handsome white youth in a fine suit and a shabbily dressed white man continued their heated argument.

Victorique de Blois, like the new queen of this melting pot of races and cultures, led the diverse and peculiar procession down the green path.

On the outskirts of East Village, in front of the Miracle Garden, organ music drifted from the church across the street. A delivery bike passed by, its bell ringing.

Broad-shouldered men in suits spotted William and approached him. They seemed to be staff waiting outside. William spoke with them in hushed tones, nodding.

“We’re heading back to the hotel,” Ruri said.

“Hotel?” Victorique muttered.

“Hotel Arlianton.”

William turned and said, “Oh, that’s where I usually stay.”

“It’s a temporary home while traveling,” Ruri said. “Not as comfortable as a real home, but a bit of luxury is fun now and then. Oh, I should give you the hotel’s contact information. Kazuya grew up so gloomy, so I’ll give it to his wife.”

Kazuya tripped and stuttered, “Oh? What?”

Ruri handed a note to Victorique, looking at Kazuya. “Oh dear, you’ve tripped!” She chuckled.

“A temporary home. I see,” William mumbled. He then told Kazuya, “We’ll meet at the Brooklyn Bridge later,” handed him a pass for the event, and left. Mitch hurried off too.

Victorique poked Ruri’s arm. “What is home?”

“What?”

“What I mean is,” Victorique said, growing irritated, “what does it feel like to be uncomfortable in a temporary home?”

Ruri still wasn’t sure what she was getting at. Kazuya got up, brushing off his knees.

“Victorique has never lived in what you’d call a home,” he explained.

Ruri straightened her posture, taking on the firm demeanor of a schoolteacher, her expression strikingly similar to her younger brother’s. Victorique gazed up at her with eyes as cold and hollow as a doll’s. Her long hair flowed in the wind.

The main street of East Village remained noisy. Carts, carriages, and automobiles rumbled past. Tattered laundry flapped like national flags between buildings, while inside, parents scolded children and couples quarreled. Women and children with dark skin, hair and eyes, and large men with blond hair and blue eyes passed by.

In this Eastern European neighborhood, the small, beautiful, silver-haired Victorique looked otherworldly, like a mythical creature.

“What is home? Hmm…” Ruri inclined her head. “My family’s original home was built by our ancestors. We moved into our current house because of my husband’s work. So, it’s not a place I chose myself. But I love it. Now, why do you think that is?” Posing a question like a teacher, she called, “Yes, Victorique!”

Victorique only stared blankly. Ruri raised her own hand instead.

“Ma’am! It’s because I had my parents, my brothers, and Kazuya with me. Now, I have my husband and Rokushou… and you and Kazuya. I believe it’s because my beloved family is there.”

“Family,” Victorique quavered.

The image of the lost mother wolf faintly resurfaced in the summer wind. Her golden hair danced, and her green eyes glinted fiercely.

In Victorique’s emerald eyes, something sparkled, like ice, like tears. Her eyes were looking far into the past.

“Run, my daughter.”

The voice of the mother wolf echoed in Victorique’s mind.

“I won’t let you escape, Gray Wolf. My daughter…”

Her father’s terrifying voice followed, sending a shiver down her spine. Kazuya reached out his hand, and she grasped it tightly.

Suddenly, the cook’s head popped out. “As for me!” Her loud voice shattered the haunting memories. “When I was a child, my family left the South and crossed the continent to Manhattan Island via the Brooklyn Bridge. We lived in a ghetto in Harlem. It was an unsafe neighborhood, the rooms were shabby, and I hated it at first. Then one day, my father gave me a set of paints he’d stolen from some rich folk’s house. I painted the walls and furniture in our tiny space, and I started to like our home. My father even said I was good at painting.”

Victorique listened quietly.

“So that’s why you like painting?” Kazuya said.

The cook puffed out her chest. “That’s right.” She smiled at Victorique. “Miss, you should try putting or painting something you like too.”

“I get it.” Ruri nodded in agreement. “I brought the table I used at my school all the way to America. Then my husband bought a set of cushions in Chinatown.”

“Putting something you like, huh?” Victorique took out a blue radio from her pocket and stared at it.

They moved along the main street and reached an intersection. Cars, carriages, and bicycles bustled past. The sidewalks were crowded with people and stalls.

Ruri bade goodbye and turned right, while Victorique and Kazuya turned left.

“So, those scary-looking cushions were Mushanokouji’s taste,” Kazuya muttered as they walked.

Victorique looked up at him curiously. “What is it? You seem unusually dissatisfied.”

“Well, I just can’t believe someone with that kind of taste married my beautiful sister. I mean, it’s fine. But he has zero artistic sense.”

“You gave me a golden skull, didn’t you?”

“Ah!”

“Is this what they call a brother-in-law? Hmm.”

Kazuya turned bright red. “Uh… Well, you see… I mean… Uh…”

“So you’re upset because he took your sister.”

“N-No, I’m not!” Kazuya vigorously shook his head. “Anyway, you came here with nothing but the clothes on your back. You don’t have anything like Ruri’s table.”

Victorique looked at the blue radio again. Her face was cold and emotionless. She put it back in her pocket and resumed walking.

“Oh?” She stopped.

Across the street was a store with an entirely white window. This morning, she wondered why it was white. She stretched her neck from the sidewalk and nodded. Kazuya looked confused.

“Hmm. It’s the same principle, Kujou,” Victorique said, stretching and pointing at a cart piled with vegetables and fruits. There were tall glass jars packed with red items. Upon closer inspection, they were jars of pickled tomatoes and strawberry syrup.

“What do you mean?” Kazuya asked.

“The jars look red because they are filled with red things. The window is the same. It’s not truly white. It’s filled with many white items.”

She walked across the street, not looking left or right, but somehow managed not to trip or bump into anything. Kazuya followed.

“Ah, I see now.”

Peering into the window, they saw various white shirts with different collar designs hanging inside. It was a busy shop, with many people inside. A store clerk stood before male customers, measuring their shoulders and waists.

Kazuya nodded to himself. “So, the white shop is actually a store that sells shirts. That’s why it looked completely white from afar.”

Victorique narrowed her eyes, her small, well-shaped nose wrinkling like an angry beast’s. She stared at a peculiarly designed shirt in the display. A poster with a photograph of a handsome blond gentleman advertised, “Trendy in Europe! A double-tie shirt designed by a rising actor.” The dress shirt had a unique collar that allowed two ties to be worn side by side.

Kazuya sighed. “I’ll have to try and buy clothes for you.”

For some reason, Victorique suddenly bolted away from the store.

“Hey, Victorique?” Kazuya called, hurrying to catch up.

Victorique pointed at the sky between two buildings. “Look, Kujou, there it is again!” she said.

Kazuya looked up. A figure leaped nimbly from the rooftop of the building on the right to the one on the left. It was a dangerous act, but the person seemed used to it.

“We saw someone doing that this morning too,” Kazuya said. “When we looked up, a section of the morning paper fluttered down.”

As they exchanged glances, a sun-tanned, energetic girl emerged from the left building. She had a cloth bag stuffed with newspapers slung over her small shoulder. She jumped into the building on the left.