Leda and the Swan 01

BGM: The Other Side Of Paradise (T/N: by Glass Animals)

Albarino wasn't surprised when he heard the sound of rain coming through the doorway.

The door was opened without any sound at all – most likely because his door wasn't even locked. When you knew that someone would break in by all means, even if that means breaking down the door, you might as well just open the door directly for them.

He sat in the armchair at the end of the room. The fire in the fireplace was already very faint, but it was still slowly burning, with the smell of a mixture of pine and fresh harsh white grape wine in the air. He didn't turn his head nor did he stand up, feeling the other's knife-like gaze sweep past the exposed skin of his wrist, which was lying on the armrest.

"Good evening." This was what he said to the Pianist.

– It was October 30th, 1:25 a.m.

Being so caught up,

So mastered by the brute blood of the air,

Did she put on his knowledge with his power

Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?

The damp, cold wind swept into the room, heavily resembling the night when Albarino was released from federal prison and Herstal displayed Bob Landon's body to the police. The rain still didn't look like it was going to stop, as it always did in the fall in Westland.

Using the heel of his shoe, Herstal closed the door with a small click. Albarino was still sitting calmly at the end of the room, and only the small warm glow of the fire circling him could be seen. Herstal was right in guessing that Albarino was indeed the type of person who liked fireplaces — with this faint light, he surveyed the interior decoration.

Herstal had looked up the information before and learned that after both of his parents had died, Albarino sold their former house in Westland City to buy this plot of land. Land in the countryside was relatively inexpensive, and about three or four acres of land around the house – including a small part of the forest which surrounded Westland, but of course most of it was weed-filled wilderness – legally belonged to Albarino.

It was one of the best places Herstal could think of to abandon bodies, and Albarino didn't look like someone who would be reckless enough to throw large pieces of bones out. All in all, the story Albarino told before was true: his land was probably not visited by creatures other than coyotes, foxes, rabbits, squirrels and the like. Albarino's house stood alone in the wilderness, with a private driveway lacking repairs connecting to the main road.

It was a two-story house which didn't stand out. Maybe after adding a basement, and the white paint of the house was faded and peeling, it would look like that kind of house where people without pursuit in life would live. However, the interior looked fairly tidy. The decoration did not have any traces of being professionally designed, and it seemed to have been slowly formed by many practical and functional parts – the secondhand sofa which seemed soft enough to swallow a person whole, the wooden floor which had been painted over more then once, a weird-looking wallpaper, and a bookshelf, no matter how you looked at it, seemed like it was handmade – how to put it, it was "the traces of being lived in".

It was not difficult for Herstal to imagine Albarino renovating the house, buying furniture, and even painting the walls by himself, which was secretive, private, and strangely fragile. As such, they both knew this: Albarino's invasion of Herstal's apartment, which was lacking in human warmth, differed in significance from this current night.

The person who was being invaded still remained calm and unhurried. Albarino held his wine glass, with his mind seemingly more on the pale golden liquid inside.

Then, he said in a very amiable tone: "This is a white wine newly fermented last year by the Pazo San Mauro winery, not aged in oak barrels – a wine this young is often sold locally in Spain. It's difficult to get it elsewhere; I put some effort into getting this bottle."

– His unspoken implication was clear: Would you like to try it?

"I didn't know you liked Spanish wine." Herstal's tone still sounded indifferent, and he completely ignored Albarino's implications.

"It's just a habit," Albarino seemed to chuckle softly, or at least, the shadows of the dancing flames drew the outline of the facade of a smile on his face. "When he was alive, my father bought a bottle every year. He thought that doing so was very commemorative."

For the first two seconds, Herstal didn't understand what the other meant, but then his eyes fell on the wine's label: the name of the winery, "PAZO de San MAURO," was printed in bold on the glass bottle. The white grape variety used to make the wine was labeled in smaller letters below it –

"Albariño".

Somehow, Herstal suddenly found this scenario a bit absurd. Not only absurd from a type of wine which was made from white grapes with the same name as Albarino – perhaps it was because of the tone of voice when he mentioned his family, which gave off the illusion that he actually cared about someone.

"this novel was first published on GRain Translations Site. If you are not reading here then you are reading on a pirate site."

In any case, Herstal gave a cold, light laugh in return. Albarino finally deigned to move his chair a bit to face him, his body language still showing laziness.

"After all, my father was fond of the bottle. He met my mother at a wine festival in Spain in August, so he must have thought it was fitting to name me like this." There was mirth in Albarino's voice as he stared at Herstal with engrossing interest: despite the fact that the other was dressed casually – one would never expect a man like Herstal Armalight to actually wear casual wear – and had sneaked into someone's home in the dead of the night, at first glance it looked like he was going to murder for money.

Herstal didn't like the look in his eyes, which seemed as if they were about to penetrate some barrier that didn't really exist. He slowly exhaled, seeing the light of the flames flickering on Albarino's wrist.

"My father once told me that Albariño is a very odd and changeable grape. Even with just a slight change in the temperature or amount of rain, or a minor difference in the wine-brewing process, the result will not be completely identical." Herstal heard the other say matter-of-factly. "As a result, the flavor of the wine has countless changes. Even an outstanding wine taster might misidentify Albariño as other types of wine. When I first drank this wine, I thought it was Chenin Blanc."

"So?" Herstal didn't bother to suppress the piercing tone in his voice, nor did he bother to take the time to decipher Albarino's metaphors when he talked about this subject.

A light chuckle slipped from Albarino's throat as he set the glass back on the table and looked over at Herstal. His examining gaze was filled with curiosity, and then he asked, "Who in your family is the alcoholic?"

Herstal frowned.

"You showed a very disdainful look when I mentioned my father's 'fondness for the bottle'," Albarino's tone was a little too relaxed, but undoubtedly, he never knew how to be serious either. "He's the kind of person who has wine with his dinner every day, and he loves it as much as young people love to smoke weed – but I guess your family isn't like this. Am I right?"

His gaze was frank enough to display the emotion known as "you know there's no use in lying to me". With that, Albarino stood up and strolled slowly toward the other, eventually stopping in the middle of the living room as if he didn't know that Herstal would definitely have a knife in his coat pocket. His back was against the light of the fireplace, which laid a gold-like halo on his chestnut curls.

"I thought that we have already arrived at the time where we can both exchange secrets of this extent," he whispered.

"That can only mean that you and I do not see eye to eye on this." Herstal whispered, "Besides, you know I'm not here for that."

Albarino smiled and fluttered his eyelashes, but even Herstal did not expect what he would say next. Albarino said, "So, let's go back to Elliot Evans – who among your elders sexually assaulted you?"

"What?"

Herstal felt that the question didn't even sound quite like one anymore when it came out of his mouth. Something more – like the blazing river rushing through his veins – submerged him. His gaze was glued onto Albarino, of course unable to wipe the other's smile off his face.

"In 1987, there was a homicide in a small church in southern Kentucky." Albarino stated, a cheerful glint flashing in his mint green eyes. "A deacon and a very zealous local parishioner were hanged in the nave[1] of the church, directly above the altar and on either side of the cross – just like the two sinners who were crucified along with Jesus. The church's own priest disappeared and was never seen again, so the local police listed him as the prime suspect. However, the two men were hanging from the –"

[1] Nave: the central part of a church building.

He didn't finish his words, partly because Herstal walked forward without a word and punched his face with his fist, and partly because soon after they both heavily fell to the floor. Herstal pinned him down with his knees against Albarino's abdomen, his right hand pinning his neck, then punching him in the face once more.

The scene really resembled what had happened to them before the police stormed Elliot's basement. Albarino's lips, which had already formed a scab, began to bleed again as he struggled under Herstal's grip. He twisted his head to the side and spit out a mouthful of blood, while choking out a laugh from between his throat.

"The two victims were hung below the ceiling by the strings of the piano they used to rehearse hymns. This was an enormous workload for a fourteen-year-old teenager, yes?"

Albarino continued to speak with his hoarse voice, gazing straight at the blue eyes who looked down on him.

"There's always been an abnormal disdain for rapists in the Pianist's works. For the case this April, you're the one who cut off Tripp Carolan's genitals and shoved them inside his abdomen while he was still alive."

"So, which of the two of them was the one who sexually assaulted you? Or were they just heartless bystanders, and the real mastermind was the priest who was nowhere to be found. During those years, when your unemployed stay-at-home father was an alcoholic, and your mother was nowhere to be seen, were you more willing to waste your time in the church –"

Albarino didn't finish his sentence as Herstal's third punch struck him in the abdomen, awfully hard that his pinned torso shuddered and tried to curl up in excruciating pain. Albarino retched, gasping for air underneath his fingers. Herstal didn't pay much attention as the blood pounded against his eardrums like giant waves.

Because, undoubtedly, Albarino didn't even need to determine exactly who out of his family members was an alcohol addict by asking him. The man had so many contacts, even having many friends who worked in the police department. What Westland City had were corrupt police who were willing to dig up someone's history by just paying them a little money.

Herstal pressed his weight against his calf, roughly pulling at his hair to forcefully lift his head up. Albarino had a damp red circle around his eyes, his eyelashes trembling, his lips covered in blood. Yet, he was still smiling, an expression which emerged from the pain with difficulty, seamlessly covering his face just like a mask.

Herstal felt like his voice resembled a snarl. "That's why you –"

"Sold you out to Elliot Evans?" Albarino wiped the blood off his face with the back of his hand, the bright red leaving marks on his face like strange oil paint. "You can't even imagine how easy it was to ferret him out from a city. If he hadn't bought a prostitute's service but he couldn't cum, then suspecting that the prostitute was mocking him and inflicted violence on her, I might not been able to find him – You can imagine, Herstal, how weak and easily manipulated he is. How easy it was to get him to pick a victim who already fit his own rules. I didn't even have to say your name in front of him..."

"And you did all this just for –"

"Curiosity." Albarino replied straightforwardly.

Then he swiftly raised his head to hit Herstal's lower abdomen, definitely pressing against the edge of the long wound below his ribs. Albarino heard the other hiss in pain, so he quickly broke free from Herstal's suppression.

"this novel was first published on GRain Translations Site. If you are not reading here then you are reading on a pirate site."

The two of them tumbled and wrestled on the ground. At one point, Albarino had Herstal briefly pinned to the floor with his forearm pressed against his throat. As he leaned down, he could feel blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, falling with a splat below Herstal's eyes.

"You can't imagine what you look like to others, Pianist," Albarino hissed. He could feel the other struggling under his merciless hold; of course he would do so, as it was the essence of their relationship. " – that ruthlessness full of vitality, that insolent madness. I was curious to know your reaction if I did that; would your nightmare still recur on you?"

– The other did not disappoint him.

Of course, it wasn't elegant or refined enough. The moment when they were standing in Elliot Evan's basement, when they were looking at the young man's scattered corpse soaked in the river of blood – yet, this was closer to the Westland Pianist's authenticity. Wrapped under sarcasm and refined paper used for display was his real ruthless self; it was the original intent of these bloody murders.

It was a feast to the eyes.

The next second, Herstal pushed him off himself. The lawyer was quite different from the general impression of their profession in these respects; for example, his movements were frighteningly athletic. Of course, it could have been the work of a mixture of all that rage and adrenaline in his blood.

Albarino staggered to his feet. In addition to his split lip and bruised cheekbone, his nose was bleeding, the blood staining the front of his shirt red. Almost as soon as he stood up, Herstal lunged at him. Albarino didn't really do a defensive stance – or maybe he had other intentions – in any case, he was immediately slammed hard against the wall. Something on the cabinet next to them was knocked over, falling to the ground with a large bang.

This was one of the advantages of living in the middle of nowhere. If this kind of thing happened in the city, the neighbors might have already phoned the police.

Herstal grabbed the end of his hair and brutally slammed it into the wall several times; Albarino wasn't counting. The sound of the thuds were really frightening, but the speed was still extremely fast – although the speed of murder usually was very fast too – until the blood slid down from his hair, soaking it into strands.

Albarino couldn't stop himself from sliding down the wall, only relying on Herstal's tight grip on his collar. He grasped Herstal's wrist tightly, and he could feel the warm sensation of blood sliding down his cheek; blinking the blood off his lashes, he smiled blurrily.

"Are you going to kill me like this?" Albarino asked, his voice still sounding unexpectedly curious.

Herstal stared at him, the color of his irises still resembling dancing blue flames. Like a knife, his gaze was intending to peel away his flesh and blood; Albarino suspected that the same thought was occupying the other's mind as well.

"Indeed, you don't kill people with criminal records because you think you're a judge greater than god. You do it to vent your strong emotions and anger, fleeing the shadows which haunt you like ghosts." Albarino spat out the words, softly and indistinguishably. "But, you also have to admit that I am not the same as them, yes?"

"this novel was first published on GRain Translations Site. If you are not reading here then you are reading on a pirate site."

"You and those people aren't the same type; there's no point in shrinking away from this fact." Herstal replied raspily. Albarino knew this description was not actually a compliment either – for, as Olga Molozer had consistently commented, as a psychopath, the Sunday Gardener did not consider himself to be the same kind of creature as his victims.

"Will you cut me open like how you did for them? Remove my organs, wait for all my blood to be drained out, and hang me up with the piano strings? Will you take away my heart? I like the metaphorical implication of that." Albarino folded up his fingers and circled them around Herstal's wrist, feeling the other's pulse pounding wildly beneath his skin. "Or do you admit that it would be a waste on me? Since, except me, there hasn't been anyone else who could see through you, into your nature – the deepest part of the abyss?"

The Pianist definitely wavered for a brief moment. Because while Albarino did provoke Herstal, he knew that the other did enjoy some parts of this game as well: especially the part which concerned Bob Landon.

In this case, you couldn't just flip the chessboard over just because you were at a disadvantage. It seemed to be a question on the rules, although there probably weren't many rules for this whole thing.

"Remember those white grapes we talked about earlier, Herstal." Albarino suddenly spoke, catching a confused expression briefly flashing in the other's eyes. "They are an interesting, strange fruit which taste different just because of very minor differences during winemaking..."

Herstal whispered warningly, "Albarino –"

The Sunday Gardener gave a low chuckle, which sounded almost like a choking cough given that blood was still dripping down his lips.

"Are you sure you don't want to have a taste, Pianist?"

Author's Notes:

1. The bolded parts in this arc are from Yeats' poem "Leda and the Swan". (T/N: it is a poem about Zeus raping Leda)

2. Regarding the wine mentioned in this novel.

Albariño (Albariño is the Spanish spelling; it's Albarino in English) is actually the main white grape variety in the DO （Denominación de Origen）Rías Baixas of the autonomous community Galicia in northwestern Spain. It is generally thought that wines made from this grape are the best white wines in Spain. However, since wines made from this white grape are very acidic, it is said that some people will not be used to its taste.

3. Pazo San Mauro is the southernmost winery in Rías Baixas.

(T/N: photo of the wine mentioned in the novel I found online)

4. The white wine in this story is classified as Vin Joven according to Spanish classifications – that is, a "normal/new wine" that is sold within one to two years of being made. It is a class of white wine which is not usually aged in oak barrels after being made, so they are not as mellow and rich as other wines, but they are very fruity.

Because this wine is suited to be drank when it's very young – that is, the sooner it is sold, the better, as aging it takes away the fruitiness – it is more often sold locally in Spain.

5. "A wine festival in Spain in August" is referring to International Albarino Day, which is usually held on August 1st.

Bye bye baby blue

I wish you could see the wicked truth

Caught up in a rush it's killing you

Screaming at the sun you blow into

(T/N: this song is great to listen to while translating)

(T/N: this chapter in a nutshell:

Albarino: hey, who in your family was an alcoholic?

Herstal: i don't think we're close enough to talk about these sort of stuff

Albarino: ok fine

Albarino: who was it that raped you

Herstal: fuck you)