I
“You see,” the old man said, leaning over to fill his companion’s glass, “the problem isn’t your direction. The problem, as I see it, is the atmosphere they were raised in. How can young people be expected to take risks nowadays? The problem is that they were raised in a culture, raised to believe, that depression is a virtue, you see?”
His companion laughed a slow, wheezing laugh, the rest of the room joining in, casually proclaiming their assent.
“Depression, you see, you see?” the first man continued, “pessimism. It’s the thing now, to rationalize your failures, deriding those taking the same risks you did. They get called dreamers, and encourage them to be satisfied with smug…with a smug sort of surrender. And thus the industry is left wallowing in its own banality.” He finished, gesturing about with a cigar wedged between his fingers. The other old men nodded and chortled, trading glasses of expensive brandy and half-heard anecdotes.
“It’s not really a bad thing, you know,” another one said, “it just leaves the stage clear for the next generation of real thinkers, the ones who can and speak of the devil!” for the door to the room had just opened, and a tall, thin young man stepped into the frame. His hair was ironclad, his suit impeccable, though colored in cool blues in defiance of the warmer look currently in fashion. The bright lights and flashes of colorful ball gowns filling the rest of the door seemed to shine through his eyes as if the back of his head were transparent. He was wearing some scent, trendy and carefully tailored, so subtle as to be unplacable even if you consciously noticed it, yet which somehow snuck its way over the stratified layers of smoke to make its impression regardless. His only flaw was a scraggly unevenness in his thin moustache, which he carried proudly regardless. An old man got up and hobbled over, taking the young man by the arm.
“There you are, there you are. It’s about time you managed to find us! I do believe you’ve all met my protégé?” he said, leading him deeper into the room. The drone of the party outside cut out as the door closed, leaving the room filled with quieter, raspier conversation, punctuated by the occasional cough. The old man sunk into his seat as the rest of the room, feeling assured by their fellow that the newcomer was not so out of place, let out a delayed chorus of raised glasses and casual welcomes. For his own part, the young man did not sit, instead folding his hands behind him and addressing the collection of old men, greeting by name those few he already knew (he knew all of them by reputation, of course). As he did, he indulgently examined the dim parlor. The walls were all wood paneling, generations of cigar and pipe smoke robbing the varnish of any color and luster it once held, leaving them as dark and receding as the black-painted walls a theatre’s backstage. The next generation of that same smoke snaked through the air, illuminated by a single dim chandelier. The curtains were drawn, their fabric so thick and heavy they may as well have been iron walls. The paintings were all extremely good, and extremely old; the young man realized this was one of the few places in the manor where sentiment could trump trendyness.
“Will you drink?” his mentor asked, holding up an exquisite decanter.
“I confess, sir, that I don’t drink so much anymore,” the young man said, bowing slightly, “but the night grows long, and I suppose a single glass wouldn’t hurt.” As he took the glass, the young man contemplated that statement. It wasn’t false, per se, because drinking to him implied something one did for the fun of it. True, he had been taking drinks for most of the evening, at dozens of small gatherings like this, yet this was always a carefully calculated measure, done through parsed lips and with the effects of each sip carefully monitored and compensated. He had perfected the art of appearing relaxed and congenial without surrendering an ounce of self control to such a degree that he may as well have been a teetotaler.
II
It was late in the evening, very late, as the young man stepped out onto the wide, nearly deserted balcony. Cool, dry air swept in from the desert as he leaned over the rail, looking towards the bar of light slowly swallowing the horizon. The young man had ended up drinking too much despite his careful planning, and though there were still a handful of people he knew he should be seen by, he elected to make a tactical retreat. He watched the sun playing off the distant mesas, something that wasn’t quite the booze playing in the back of his mind.
“Were you thrown out too?” the voice startled him, he looked over the vase-mounted rail post at the woman he hadn’t quite noticed at first. Brown curls framed a face that could be devastatingly elegant if she tried, which she wasn’t. Her gown, rendered mould-green by the distant sunrise, had apparently slipped a seam or clasp somewhere. It hung low on her shoulders. The young man wondered how she could stand looking so slovenly.
“Not that it’s any of my business,” she said, not looking at him, “It just seems to be a theme tonight. You know…coming here was such a fun idea. I told myself, after working so hard, that the chance to spend some time with him, to let my guard down and think of myself as triumphant. And yet, all it took was one careless word, and suddenly he wants nothing…”
The young man looked sideways at the young woman, wondering how intoxicated she was. He couldn’t hear the drink in her voice, not strongly, and yet –
“Do you ever wonder,” she asked the air beyond the balcony, “if perhaps we…people, that is…have our priorities badly skewed? It’s really ludicrous when you think of it. We’re so unwilling to give up our goals that we end up ignoring –“
“My apologies, Miss,” the young man said, straightening and turning for the door, “but you may want to consider leaving now, lest you embarrass yourself.”
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