The Black Russian That Melts Away Shame
On the television, the caster's voice rang out, pitched high with excitement.
Every time the line spilled out of the speakers, the shoulders of the girl seated at the counter drew in a little tighter. She hung her head with a face too tangled to read—one moment it looked as if she might burst into tears, the next as if she might bite someone.
"Yes. Shinano is my superior, but... with the Exchange Tournament today, I doubt she'll even have time to come."
I answered her and pressed the remote. The broadcast snapped off. The roar of the crowd and the blaring background music that had filled the café vanished in an instant, and a peaceful quiet settled into the space they left behind.
I took hold of the wall display behind the counter and eased it slowly to the side. A grinding scrape... then a thud. Behind the café's ordinary cabinet, the one that had been catching plain sunlight, a secret case revealed itself—bottles of fine liquor lit from within, gleaming like jewels.
She stared at the sight, dazed. The bottles with their gaudy labels, the shaker gone cold, and above all a corner where not a single camera was pointed at her: she seemed to find relief in that. The arms she'd kept crossed over her chest loosened, just a little, and she sank deep into the chair.
"Ha... shit... I can finally breathe."
What came out of her mouth was language unbecoming of a magical girl. Even so, a thick fatigue lay under the roughness of it. Her face was still flushed red as she slowly swept her palm across the tabletop.
"This is real, right? Mister... no, owner? Whatever."
Desperation clung to her voice.
"If I don't drink something today, I'm seriously gonna cause a scene. Give me whatever you've got before I flip off one of those broadcast cameras."
She was still embarrassed enough to cross her legs and try to hide the hem of that short skirt, but the look she sent me was desperation itself. The frills of the cheerleader outfit spilling over her shoulders trembled faintly in time with her breathing.
A magical girl in a cheerleader uniform. Every time I saw what the girls wore when they came to this sanctuary, it was something new. Shrine maiden robes, a nun's habit, gothic lolita, and now a cheerleader. Magical girls, it seemed, had no dress code.
"Haha... don't worry. There are no cameras here, and no one's eyes on you."
I went on, keeping my voice gentle.
"This place was made so you can rest without minding anyone at all."
Only then did she loosen the fist she'd been clenching. Suspicion still in her eyes, she slowly looked the room over once more—the lake beyond the window past the counter, the empty chairs, the jazz drifting quietly through the air. Only after she'd confirmed there were neither cameras nor an audience did the strength begin, little by little, to leave her shoulders. Above the collarbone I could see from across the counter, a faint flush of embarrassment still hadn't faded.
When I picked up the shaker, her gaze followed my hands of its own accord.
"You want to flip someone off... understood."
She flinched and turned her head, but the faintest smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. A bartender who volleyed her own words straight back at her had apparently been outside her expectations.
From the cabinet I took a bottle of vodka, chilled through, and a coffee liqueur of deep brown. I filled a rocks glass with large cubes of ice. Clink. The ice settled into place and knocked together, and the sound rang through the quiet café.
First I poured the vodka. The clear liquid slid over the ice and ran down. Over that I slowly followed with the dark coffee liqueur, and clarity and darkness met inside a single glass, staining it black. I took the bar spoon and drew it gently through the ice; with a bright little sound, the sweet scent of coffee began to spread around the counter.
As if she wanted the perfume of this unfamiliar alcohol to cover the shame that had been hounding her until a moment ago, she flared her nostrils and breathed the scent in deep. At last I carefully slid the finished glass of black liquid in front of her.
"A Black Russian. Don't let the sweetness fool you. There's vodka in it."
She listened, then slowly reached for the glass. The moment the fingers that had been clenched into a fist touched the cold surface, a small sigh escaped her. And the instant she took a sip, her expression crumpled all at once. It wasn't displeasure. The sweetness of the coffee liqueur wet her tongue first, and the alcohol of the vodka chased after it, a heat running down her throat. It was the face of someone slowly savoring an adult flavor she had finally found.
"Hahh... damn it, this is it! This is what it takes before a throat that's been choked shut finally opens up!"
She set the glass, nearly half empty, down on the table and let out a rough breath. Maybe she didn't like how high and sharp her own voice had come out. Or maybe the burn of the strong vodka had begun to thaw a body that had been frozen stiff. Either way, her back tipped more loosely against the chair.
But because she leaned as if she were lying back, the thin off-shoulder strap that had been clinging precariously to her shoulder slipped down her arm with a soft drop.
"Ah, shit..."
She hunched her shoulders in a hurry and yanked the fallen scrap of fabric back up. Over the smooth white line of her shoulder, her rough hands crossed busily as she straightened her clothes.
"Hey, bartender. I nearly caused a massive disaster on live TV today, you know? You know what those bastards at the network said to me? Since I'm a supporter, every time the camera swings around I'm supposed to smile all bright and cute and strike a pose. What am I, a doll in a display case?"
Anger seemed to surge up in her again, and she clamped her hand hard around the rocks glass.
"An ability that buffs my party's stats with cheers? Fine. I'll give them that much. But why the hell does the outfit have to be like this? Running around in a scrap of cloth that barely counts as clothes, in a skirt so short my thighs are on full display—does that make any kind of sense? I only signed the contract because I wanted to live. Why do I have to be a spectacle?"
Bloodshot, she glared down at the black cocktail lapping at the bottom of the glass. Her breath had gone rough with anger she couldn't swallow, and her modest chest rose and fell hard while the trim of the thin cheerleader uniform trembled as if it might give way.
"You contracted because you wanted to live... I got tricked into a high-paying part-time job. I thought some retired rich folks had opened a café in a place with fine mountains and good water, and were using it like a vacation home to pass the time. When I actually showed up for the interview, Shinano was the one sitting there."
At my flat confession, the hand carrying her glass toward her lips stopped dead in midair.
Quietly, I took a small plate from beneath the counter. On it were biscuits studded with grains of coarse salt, salty enough to taste just by looking at them. I slid the plate across the bar and set it in front of her hand. A fine partner for cutting the Black Russian's heavy sweetness and the vodka's rough punch.
"Pfft—!"
In the end she couldn't hold it in, and a short laugh burst through her lips. The bristling edge that had been standing on end lost some of its bite. She picked up a biscuit with her fingers and shook her head as if she couldn't believe it.
"Ha—hahaha! Hey, you... you're not right in the head either, are you? You interviewed in front of that cat? Just imagining it is awful."
She popped the biscuit into her mouth and chewed it loud enough to hear.
"I thought I was the only person in the world whose life had gone to hell, but the bartender here's screwed up just as bad, huh? You show up thinking it's some nouveau riche vacation house and end up cleaning up after magical girls. That woman Shinano is really..."
With her guard lowered, she no longer bothered trying to tug down the hem of the short cheerleader skirt. She sat with her legs comfortably crossed and sipped the Black Russian. Sunlight was still bright beyond the window, but inside this bar, shut away behind the closed display case, time belonged only to the two of us.
"Still... well, it's not bad. At least compared to those goddamn camera lenses, this nasty drink you pour me is a hell of a lot more human."
"I'm glad. Then... may I have the name of someone in the same situation as me? I have to report who came, or my... pay doesn't come through."
She started to bring the glass to her lips, then faltered. At the word report her brows furrowed on instinct, but the utterly practical reason that followed—pay—left a drained look on her face. For a long while she slowly swirled the Black Russian in the glass, making nothing but the clink of ice against the wall of it.
"...Kim Haru."
A low voice slipped out between her lips. Unlike the rough way she'd spoken before, the answer was limp, as if the wind had gone out of it. As though saying her own name were some kind of crime, she avoided my eyes and slowly traced the rim of the emptied glass with a finger.
"You don't have to report the surname or the nickname, right? Just write Haru. And for... that cat, leave out the part where I was pounding drinks in here. Something like, mental care for one supporter, complete. Write it like that. Got it?"
Whether it was the alcohol, or the shame of having her real feelings seen, she grumbled with even the nape of her neck—bared above the off-shoulder collar—flushed red. But in the eyes that looked at me, the sharp wariness from when she had first flung open the sanctuary door was already washed clean away.