The Mint’s Metaphor 01

"Hi," Olga started her night at the bar with these words, "I'm glad to see you're still alive."

"I think if you saw me being turned into a corpse full of flowers, you would be pretty happy too." Herstal replied harshly.

Olga just smiled at him with a calm expression, "Don't say this sort of thing. You know that curiosity and happiness aren't the same thing."

On Friday – exactly twelve days after the Gardener indecently placed the white bouquet on Herstal Armalight's table on Sunday – the death toll due to shootings in Westland was still very high, but there weren't any new serial killers visiting the city.

As Herstal sat down at his usual spot near the counter, the "I quit" bar played its soothing music as usual, but it was eerily paired with flashing neon lights, creating an almost dissociative effect. No wonder how, despite Olga swearing this place had the best cocktails in all of Westland, the store was still not crowded.

Albarino sat by Olga's side as usual, fiddling with the little umbrella adorning a Hawaiian-style cocktail. Herstal wondered if anyone ever told him, drinking that thing would make him seem like he had questionable taste or a questionable sexuality.

Herstal surveyed the drink list with a strict eye – the drinks had outrageous names, and at the bottom of the list it was specifically written that you had to order with the "correct names", otherwise the bartender would decline.

He knew that the other two were watching him with interest, just to see which way the scales would swing between ordering the drink he wanted and spitting out the strange drink names. This tended to make him wonder if Olga had chosen this place just to torture him.

He was silent for a moment, then looked up from the drink list and turned to the bartender with a blank face and said, "Glory hole, please."

As expected, he heard Albarino give a low chuckle from next to him.

"I don't know if I should stand up now and yell 'Oh my god, Mr. Arnalight is finally ordering alcoholic beverages!' Or – honestly, on the whole, that cocktail mainly consisted of a lot of fruit juice. I guess it probably only has a few drops of vodka in it." Olga pointed out with as much interest as if she had discovered a new continent.

"I know, I've had a very rough day." Herstal said honestly.

That was true, he was forced to discuss with a guy who didn't know anything about the law for a full day. The main reason this discussion had to take place was apparently the fact that his son had went too far with BDSM, and had abandoned the body of a prostitute in the river – to begin with, could they use their brains before doing something like that?

In the end, that case and the pungent smell the cigar the client smoked gave him an overwhelming headache; not even the consultation fee of $1,500 per hour could relieve the pain.

Normally, when he was caught up in such a predicament, he would choose to go home, take his medication and have a very deep sleep[1], but the noisy environment of this bar was a far cry from the deadly silence of his home. He sat in place looking at the bright glint of the glass in the bartender's hand, confused for a few seconds as to why he was sitting here.

[1]昏天黑地, idiom, lit. dark sky and black earth, meaning the mind is dizzy.

Indeed, he was confused by many things that had happened to him: customers who didn't seem to use their brains for thinking, the bouquet of white daffodils and ears of wheat on his table almost two weeks ago, the Sunday Gardener himself, who no one knew what the hell he was doing – and Albarino Bacchus, who tirelessly went to Herstal's place for lunch at least twice a week.

Herstal didn't end up kicking the other guy out or turning down Olga's invitation to a night at the bar; a voice in his heart pointed out that it was irrational. He either had to separate himself completely from these upsetting things, or to participate in this weird competition, but not to be on the fence for both of these.

And Olga blinked and said animatedly, "Is your 'rough day' soothed by just 12% alcohol?"

"I'll order a second one." Herstal replied condescendingly.

He was still thinking about these nonsensical things when the cocktail came up, the glass hazily fogged with a layer of mist, the ice cubes clinking at the bottom of the cup. Olga was right, the base of this cocktail was a nearly non-existent vodka, the burning sensation diluted to near nothing; it was just sweet to drink.

Someone would definitely describe it as, "like love."

He sat in silence and drank his first and second glass, although this stuff didn't actually take his mind off the tiresome faces of his customers. Moreover, if he was right, he would still have to spend the next week idling away with these guys.

As Herstal was almost finishing his second glass of alcohol, Olga was saying, "... Honestly, every day I wait for him to fight back."

"The Westland Pianist?" Albarino hummed carelessly, "Bart wouldn't like that you're having this kind of thought."

"That's logical. All of the internet are talking about his bible-themed psychopathic murder showdown with the Gardener. It's irrational that someone like him who really likes to write letters to the police department wouldn't choose to fight back, is it?" Olga said slowly, "While it's terrible to have more people die, I think that it will happen sooner or later. It would be sensible to be mentally prepared for that."

She paused and was just about to continue when her cell phone rang, like it was urging for someone's early death. She picked it up, glanced at it and groaned, "My editor is calling, but I clearly told him I'm dead set on not changing the seventh draft."

But clearly, it was to no avail. Olga threw them both apologetic looks and squeezed through the crowd carrying the phone liken it was a bomb, obviously rushing out to answer the phone. The two men left at the bar were silent for a moment, then Herstal suddenly and abruptly spoke, unexpectedly picking up where they left off.

"Maybe he doesn't care what the Sunday Gardener is doing." Herstal put down his glass and said slowly.

Albarino hummed lightly, the cheerfulness unpleasantly overflowing in his voice, honey adorning the end of his sentence. "Or perhaps he was at a loss for words because he chose to admit defeat to the Gardener."

Herstal sighed softly as the pain that had been building up all day assaulted him, making his temples throb and ache, a sensation that even sweetness could not soothe. He drained the contents of his glass, pushed it back onto the table, and slid off the high stool.

Albarino gazed at him delightfully; it was easy to imagine that countless people would be captivated by that pair of mint-green eyes. Herstal bypassed Olga's empty stool to his side, pressed his elbows into the wooden surface of the counter and looked down at him.

Albarino widened his eyes, unsurprised, merely smiling at him.

"Is this all just a competition in your eyes? Two serial killers leaving a trail of bodies for each other along the way, just to fight over some sort of psychopathic killer's laurel we don't even know?" Herstal pointed out to the other in his usual cold tone.

"That would be a very superficial description, Herstal. Why don't you look at it from a more romantic perspective?" Albarino said softly, his voice low enough in the somewhat noisy bar that even Herstal could barely make out what he was saying. "Or is that the way the lawyers see things: being in court is either only a competition or a war, while lethal injections and life sentences are all the spoils of war which can be used for negotiation?"

Herstal narrowed his eyes, "Do you realize your choice of words? Romantic?"

"Why not think of it that way?" Albarino's smile was almost innocent, "Couldn't it be anything you were expecting? Or is it not enough to inspire the human imagination? – You should know, 'Companions the creative one seeks and not corpses, nor herds and believers. Fellow creators the creative one seeks, who will write new values on new tablets'."

Herstal looked straight at him, "And you? What are you seeking?"

"A good night?" Albarino laughed, "You are well aware of it. A warm and wet – long night."

Those adjectives were curled on the tip of his tongue, said so tenderly and sickly-sweet, so low it was like he was talking in his sleep.

Herstal stared at Albarino. The lawyer who rarely smiled seemingly wanted to frown, or to sigh, but he did neither of those things. Like before, he propped up one of his hands on the countertop, and then without warning, he kissed Albarino's lips in this position.

"Kiss" was an inappropriate description, since it was just superficial contact[2] between the lips and skin. It was as if Albarino could taste the refreshing sweetness of a cocktail, but that was all. In the next second, Herstal straightened up a little, although their proximity was still too close, bordering on rude socially.

[2]蜻蜓点水, idiom, lit. the dragonfly touches the water lightly. Also could be interpreted as a very light kiss

"Wow," Albarino sighed exaggeratedly, exhaling a hot breath that tickled the skin of Herstal's lower jaw. He probably did so intentionally. "Mr. Armalight, how unexpected – Can 12% alcohol make people drunk?"

"There's nothing extraordinary about that," Herstal said lowly. "Perhaps, you've started a game, and now I've decided to join."

Albarino gazed at him for a long time, then revealed a thoughtful expression that was almost a smile: "Should I say 'I'm honored'?"

"It's the best if you do so. Because, unless you are capable of enjoying this moment, here-now, you will not be able to enjoy, ever, anything, anywhere else," Herstal looked down at him and pulled the corners of his mouth into a cold, sharp smile, "Because the other moment is going to be born out of this moment ... Mr. Bacchus."

He could see a slightly confused expression flash across Albarino's face, but before he could ask any questions, Herstal had already backed away. The man unhurriedly strolled back to his seat and sat down, while Albarino saw that an attractive lady in a red dress was looking angrily in this direction from the spot that had just been blocked by Herstal's figure.

"Go deal with your dear Mintha, playboy." Herstal snorted – apparently long before, at least before he went to touch Albarino's lips, he had already seen the lady staring angrily in this direction.

"Oh God," Albarino flinched, "don't."

– but it was too late, for the next second the pretty lady had furiously pushed her way through the crowd, rushed to the side of the countertop, and then punched Albarino fiercely in the face.

In the meantime, Herstal was picking up his third glass of wine, not even lifting his head. He was going to need a lot of alcohol to get through the night.

"Albarino Bacchus!" That lady screamed, in a voice so sharp it sounded like she had scratched her fingernails across glass, "You bastard!!!"

So, when Olga finally finished her call, escaped the clutches of her editor asking for her latest manuscript and returned to near the bar, this scene was what she saw:

Herstal hadn't moved an inch[3] at all in his seat, still drinking something. The high stool stood between him and Albarino as if it were an unbridgeable chasm. And Albarino, the chief forensic pathologist of the Westland Forensic Bureau, was bleeding from his nose, pinching his nose with a tissue while looking at Herstal condemningly.

[3]纹丝不动, lit. absolutely still, meaning one's actions haven't changed a bit.

"You're so childish, you know that?" He said.

"Wow," Olga exclaimed, "did I miss anything good?"

Herstal glanced at her coldly, "Nothing, except that Albarino's girlfriend just rushed over and beat him up – if you had entered four minutes earlier, you would have seen the part where she was asked to leave by security."

"Girlfriend? The brown-haired nurse?" Olga recalled for two seconds, impressions of all kinds of women flashing through her mind.

"That was the previous one. The one now is a pretty dark-skinned beauty named Sarah; although I think this one is also past tense now. But, strictly speaking we're not lovers – none of them are lovers." Albarino carefully moved the tissue away from his nose a little, then let out a low groan and continued to pinch his nose. "It would be foolish to develop that kind of intimacy before making up one's mind to enter into marriage. This I prefer to call 'stable bed partners'."

But clearly, the young lady in the red dress didn't think so. After all, the Albarino style "stable bed partner", in addition to spending the night together, included sweet nothings, breakfast and lunch. He, being a sparkling, charming person that he was, was willing to provide his partner with sweet conveniences.

Unfortunately, no one would think that the man you wake up to frying an egg topless in your kitchen would just be your bed partner.

Olga clearly understood Albarino's logic and the misconceptions the young women and young men would have as a result. She sat back on her seat and shot him an amused look, "But I did tell you not to change bed partners so often, didn't I?"

"It has nothing to do with the length of time. I've never given off the impression of having cheated[4] before anyway." Albarino said while ferociously throwing out a sharp glance at Herstal.

[4]脚踩两支船, lit. (one) foot on two boats, a saying meaning two timer, cheating, infidelity etc.

"Before making such a vow, you should recall those words you said to me today." Herstal retorted. Apparently, after three glasses of liquor, he was starting to talk a bit more.

"Ha, I'll have the decency to break up first if you agree to sleep with me. I'll even get an AIDS test before I start dating you." Albarino snorted, "Mr. Armalight, I'm the traditional type who goes on three dates before sleeping with someone."

Olga made a torn expression, uncertain about which part of that statement she wanted to point out about.

"In short, Olga, today you just let Herstal pay the bill. My fragile mind needs to be compensated for." Albarino said. In addition to his nosebleed, the area under his cheekbone also hurt like hell. That young lady hit pretty hard, so he would probably have purple bruises on these places tomorrow.

Olga gave him a look, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. "But I don't really think you're that upset."

"Because we have to learn to enjoy our mortal pleasures as much as possible, Olga." Albarino was silent for two seconds, then suddenly said, "Besides, at least I'm not completely rewardless."

He crumpled the tissue into a ball in his palm, tossing Herstal a mischievous smile as he stood up. His cheekbones were a little reddened now, but his eyes still looked surprisingly bright.

Herstal sighed and began to reach for his credit card.

The next morning, Albarino was woken up by a sharp knock on the door.

It was a Saturday. He didn't have to work anyway, and he didn't set the alarm. As he staggered barefoot to the door, he could see the gloomy, lead-gray sky outside.

Fall in Westland City was always endless and gloomy, and it would rain for a third of the month. As he pulled open the door, the cool autumn breeze of early October creeped in through the doorway to hit him, intermingled with some raindrops as cool and sharp as needles.

As for Bart Hardy, he was standing grim-faced in front of his house, burying himself into his funeral-like black coat, with two tautly-built police officers standing beside him.

These three men stared at him in unison as if he were a monster – or, as if he had appeared in front of them in the form of the monster he kept deep in his heart – and the scene was a bit eerie.

"Hi, Bart," Albarino flashed a tired smile at the other man. By this time, his cheekbones were completely swollen, aching with every twitch of the corners of his mouth. "What can I do for you so early?"

Hardy looked at him with a complicated expression for a moment, as if trying to figure out how to phrase his words. Then he seemed to give up and only simply said, "Someone's dead."

He said nothing more, but he slowly reached out and showed the photo in his hand before Albarino: it was a typical crime scene photo, the image full of scales and yellow evidence markers, just like the ones he looked at every day. The background in the photo was a bleak scene, with dirty puddles and a gray alley, damp and cold.

In the middle of the photo, a woman lay with her face swollen, her hair disheveled. Her bruised cheeks and cracked lips made a gruesome scene. Evidently, she was dead and had been terribly beaten up before she died.

A knife was stuck in her chest, the glistening blade standing upright between many messy, bloody wounds, blood soaking through the long red dress.

Amidst the dark blood which had congealed, amidst the bursting blood and flesh in her chest, a little sprig of emerald green mint leaves lay.

"... Sarah." Albarino murmured, eventually frowning.

"We got a call this morning; a body had been found in the back alley of that bar you guys frequent. And, Al, I don't know what happened but–" Officer Hardy swallowed dryly and took a deep breath, "There's a fingerprint of yours on that knife."

Albarino froze for a couple of seconds. Somehow, he suddenly wanted to smile, but looking at Hardy's expression, which was as if the sky was going to collapse, he didn't cruelly say it.

"In that case," he muttered hesitantly, "I think I need a lawyer."

Author's Notes

1. Yes, Glory hole is the name of the drink Herstal ordered – some kind of exclusive cocktail at the "I quit" bar, with a base of ("excessively strong") Russian vodka.

2. "Companions the creative one seeks and not corpses, nor herds and believers. Fellow creators the creative one seeks, who will write new values on new tablets."

"Unless you are capable of enjoying this moment, here-now, you will not be able to enjoy, ever, anything, anywhere else; because the other moment is going to be born out of this moment."

Both of these quotes are from Nietzsche's "Thus Spoke Zarathustra: A Book for All and None". German name: Also sprach Zarathustra: Ein Buch für Alle und Keinen (T/N: the second quote is actually from the commentary on Thus Spoke Zarathustra by Indian religious leader Osho, Zarathustra, A god that can dance)

3. Mintha. (T/N: also called Minthe, Menthe, etc)

The daughter of Cocytus, the god of the river of wailing, was originally a water nymph. Mintha was the lover of Hades, the king of the underworld. She thought that the vacant post of Queen of the Underworld would eventually fall into her hands.

However, Hades took Persephone from Mount Aetna as his wife and declared her as the Queen of the Underworld. Mintha was so jealous that she spread the word that she was far more beautiful and of higher ranking than Persephone, and that Hades would definitely return to her side.

The angry Persephone trampled Mintha into dust. In memory of his lover, Hades made mint grow out of Mintha's ashes.