Tales from Glasstown - Chapter 3
Night at the Blue Dome
The moon was setting over Glasstown.
The young man looked at the reflection in the glass, which was a dirty, unusable shard he had taken as he was leaving the factory. The patch of cloth his colleagues had put on the wound was already damp with blood. He could see his skin turning yellow near the edges of the patch.
"Rol!"
Carcas was staring at him. Everyone at the table was. Rol put the shard away and took a sip from his mug, trying to ignore the rest of the crew. Slowly, the others went back to their chatting.
Except for Carcas. The old worker set next to Rol.
"You'll get no good by keeping your nose stuck to that thing."
Rol said nothing. Carcas took that as an encouragement, and pressed on.
"Enjoy the evening. Drink another mug. Desert," he said before letting a couple of coins fall on the table in front of Rol's mug, "have another one on me."
"That's the, huh, least I can do, really," added Carcas, a slight tremble of guilt in his voice. He was too experienced a worker to believe he could have done anything to prevent Rol from getting the wrong side of the whip on his face. Still, he felt bad for how he had run out of the room.
But Rol didn't seem angry at him. He didn't seem angry at all. His face was swollen and red, but what made you feel sad for him was his expression. He was miserable.
Rol muttered something.
"What?" said Carcas.
"It'll show forever."
Carcas couldn't come up with anything sensible to say. He'd love to stand up and take another seat; to head out of Rol's cone of silence and misery. But he couldn't move himself to leave the boy alone at the table.
"Pretty crowded tonight. Your first night at the Dome, isn't it?" said Carcas coming up with a kickoff for a chat.
Rol looked around, like he was taking notice of their surrounding for the first time. The Blue Dome was full of people, in fact. The main hall, the lowest level, open to anyone from the streets, hosted mostly small groups of workers like them. To those men and women the couple of hours per day they could afford at the Dome was like fresh air. At the Dome they were owner of their time. At the Dome it was them who paid. At the Dome they were kings and queens of their table. It wasn't much, but was more than enough for most of them.
Carcas saw Rol looking all around. Maybe he'll relax, hoped the old worker, just a bit. But when he looked again, that hope vanished.
Out of nothing, Rol was angry, Carcas could see that. The one eye left uncovered by the cloth patch was furious. The old worker followed Rol's gaze, and stiffened.
At another table, a huge man laughing with a band of similar-size peers. He had a head full of grey hair and held his mug with a man large as Carcas' head. Carcas recognized him immediately. He was trouble.
"That, that bastard," uttered Rol, his hands clenched on the table. "What's his name?"
"Why do you care? Empty your mug, lad. Best for everyone."
"You know it or not?"
"Sure I know it! I know everyone working their arse at the factory. But what do you care what he's named?" said Carcas. He put a hand on Rol's shoulder. "Look, you're angry. I get it. Still, it is what it is. We mold, we get paid, sometimes we get punished. Everyone's here got a couple of scars. You been here for... what, three weeks? You'll got used to."
Without looking away from the other table, Rol stood up and left the table. Carcas coughed. He went after the boy, who was pushing his way through the crowd.
"Okay," said Carcas stopping in front of Rol. "He's called Olon, okay? But he's just a monitor. He's no brute. That's just his job. Now, let's go back and have another drink."
"I don't want another drink! That bastard scarred me for the rest of my life, because of a, a fucking pot! And he's there, laughing at me now!"
"He's not laughing at you. Rol, please, come with me. That's trouble there, okay? You're hurt, you're angry, but there's nothing there to make you feel better. Come on, lad. No more beer. We get another table and we, we talk. You never told me about your journey, didn't you? come on, this is a good time."
Rol seemed torn. He accepted Carcas's arm on his shoulder, and let the old man guide him back. Then, the man named Olon laughed, and Rol heard him. He snapped out of Carcas' embrace, and run.
When Rol appeared in front of the table, the conversation didn't stop. Olon noticed him first. He became quiet and took Rol's resentful stare without blinking. One after another, Olon's peers noticed too. The table was now silent.
Rol was breathing heavily as his mind was engulfed in fantasies of violence. He recognised the other men at Olon's table as other monitors from the factory. The rational part of his mind took notice that they came to chill at the Dome just like himself.
"Are you Olon?" asked Rol.
"Yes" said the man. One of his eye looked down as if he couldn't control it. But the one looking back at Rol had a steady, focused gaze.
"Do you work at the factory of Birkam?"
"I do."
"You" started Rol, but Olon interrupted him.
"I remember you, kid. The crack in the velvet pot. I know your face." He stood up. He was much taller than Rol. The young man took a step back without noticing it. His wound hurt more.
"It's just my job," started Olon. "They pay me to scare, hit, and yell. I've got monitors too. If I passed your pot and a high up took notice, I'd lose a week of pay. So, I played my part."
He took a small pouch from inside his jacket. "To you, however, I did badly. Too heavy with the whip. I always try not to hit the face, but did a poor job today." He shook the small pouch. It clinked.
"It's my pay of the week. Take it. I'm sorry" said Olon. He extended his hand, open, waiting for Rol to shake it.
Rol slapped Olon's hand away. "You scarred me, you bastard! I'm horrible now, a freak! You think you give me fucking coins and apologies, we shake hands, and we even? Not at all."
One of Olon's peers stood up, his fists closed. Olon gestured him to sit back. Then, he crossed his arms.
"I want no trouble, kid. I'm just a slave, like you," he said, pointing with his chin at Rol's right forearm. The black mark of a permanent tattoo was visible on the boy's skin. "I want no trouble. So, you make no trouble. I'm sorry for the wound. I mean it." He paused. "Got a son like you back home. I owe you one."
Rol was now shaking. Tears were flowing down his cheeks. "I don't care about your son, your daughter, your, your anything. You ruined my face. I'll never be the same. Because of a crack in a fucking pot. What did I do to get this? What did I do?!"
Rol pushed Olon. The monitor barely moved. All of his burly peers, though, raised to their feet. This time, Olon didn't ask them to sit back. The people around their table took notice of the incoming trouble, and an empty space between them and the tight crowd of customers formed in a second.
Just when Rol was going to push Olon again, Carcas grabbed him from behind. He had stumbled around the scene at a safe distance, unable to decide whether to intervene or not.
"Olon" said Carcas, "please, let's just forget this." Rol struggled a little between Carcas' arms, then gave up. He was crying in silence with clenched teeth, looking down.
Olon nodded to the old worker, then placed the pouch into one of Rol's hand. "I'm sorry," he said before sitting back at his table. The rest of his group relaxed, and soon they were chatting again, minding their own business.
Carcas uttered more words of apology as he dragged Rol away, out, to get some fresh air and bring the shame of the boy away from the peeping crowd of the Dome.