Prologue A: Deliz

The working class of Port Vallago scampered off the streets, competing for the closest refuge they could find. It had been a cloudy day that odd September morning in 1976, yet no rain for over two hours. It’s only a matter of time, they would think. The moment I leave, it will rain. Heavy.

Their fears weren’t unfounded. While most residents of this bustling seaside town remained Godless, many did believe in a higher power. Its sole responsibility—To make life miserable. As much as possible. Any day that didn't compete to be the worst day of your life was a waste of its omnipotence. Your home would be burgled only on the night you lose your job. Your favourite neighbour would pass away only on the morning before the most important conference of your life. Your lockdowns would never be announced when your booze is stocked up.

None of it was ever desirable, but in Vallago, tragedy was timed so perfectly. The residents stuck between heaven and hell, face an unending series of trials. Hopeless characters in the works of a twisted playwright, always demanding more story—more suffering! All they needed to start one of those days was one bad morning. One dash through the ice-cold rain. One grimace. One ‘It can't get any worse!’

Near the southeastern edge of the town stood a little shack. The Deliz 24/7 Diner—an establishment as characterless as its neighbourhood. Its origin didn’t involve a chef with a passion for fast food and cheap beverages, but three well-off businessmen assessing traffic and feasibility. Projections were slightly more lucrative than a bank deposit, and there weren't many better options. They hired the staff who accepted the lowest wages and purchased ingredients that saved the most.

Aside from a few loyal customers—off-duty night guards, insomniacs, single parents without time to cook breakfast, it remained sparse so early in the morning. For the first six hours after dawn, two servers and a cook were all that was needed.

With the threat of a raging sky above, however, the diner was almost packed to the ambitious limits of the architect. Most customers hovered around the tiny halls. Eight orders for coffee, four for tea and three for light to medium meals. A brave few took refuge with no intention to spend any money. A tired mother argued with the cook for access to the bathroom as he tried to explain that she needed to make a purchase first. Few strangers shared the booths, though conversations never went deeper than the weather.

In front of the telephone was a queue whose length increased by the minute. Folks apologised to their bosses for the delay, as if they had a choice but to stay. Maybe you can sprint to work and make it before eight! No, even the workaholics knew their limits. I’m so, so sorry, I’ll come as soon as I— Yes, sir… Yes, sir, I’ll stay late today. The dejected ones sulked before the cook. More caffeine. More tannins. That was the solution to this! Can I please get a refill already?

Tired, annoyed and looking for an emotional offset. A wrong order, a minor delay, anything to set them off. The situation was tense, but this is where Julia shined. No one would yell at Julia. No one was allowed a reason to yell at her. She felt her moment about to arise, becoming the defining event in the history books of Deliz. If only the manager was there to see her in action...

To interview for this underpaid position, Julia had rushed in on a workday without warning and demanded to see the manager—Ms O’Reilly immediately. She’s not available, today. Schedule an interview on call. Julia, however, opted to wait until she was available to come out and talk. Four hours had passed before O’Reilly saw the girl leaning against the counter, took some pity and conceded.

In the informal, impromptu interview at the corner booth, Julia bragged about her assertiveness (with no further evidence demanded), her leadership and her ability to handle pressure. Her resumé was filled only with details about her four years volunteering at an emergency clinic for less than liveable wage. Best she could do without a formal medical license. Education—almost none. Experience—none. Personal life—none.

She was too perfect to be true. Her future was so apparent to O’Reilly—She’d barely earn a living, marry a middle-income customer who took a fancy to her, have a big wedding and spend the remainder of her life paying off that debt. There was nowhere for her to go. No need to ever have to train another server. O’Reilly hired her on the spot, hoping that this overactive personality would slowly fade away.

It didn’t, though, no matter how hard Deliz tried. On that day, Julia dashed around the counter like no one had ever seen. Her vigour for serving poorly-brewed coffee would’ve given anyone the impression that she was dedicated to this work. A small notebook in one hand, a pot of coffee in the other. The customers at the counter held their cups out and she would fill them all within seconds. The coffee pot was never perfectly upright, always ready to pour more. When she needed to use the notebook, she used the sa,e pot as a base. Her hand jotted down the orders so fast, one would think she was scribbling nonsense until Jonas—the cook—delivered the accurate meals and teas at the pass.

Once the first round of coffee was served, she placed the pot back on the counter and guided the mother to the restroom. A shrug was her only response to Jonas reminding her that this wasn't allowed. When she returned, she took not even a moment to regain her flow.

She wouldn’t have, at least. Upon her arrival at the counter, there was a new distraction her eyes had to tend to first. Marcel had turned corners and come into her line of sight.

Marcel... Lean, short-stubbled Marcel, sporting a poor haircut and a wrinkled shirt. Not suited for service at all. He wasn’t even a quarter way through his batch of customers. His soft greetings and nod-at-everything nature brought him so much struggle whenever the manager came to observe. “But the customers love him,” Julia would lie. “He knows how to connect to those weird types that come here early mornings,” she said, knowing O'Reilley would never wake up so early to ensure.

Only a year earlier, she didn’t even consider him a friend. No, he was a rival. His hiring meant less work for her, making her more dispensable. She spent every free moment looking for reasons to have him let go. And she gave O'Reilly so many reasons in those early weeks—unlikeable, slow, unfocused—yet she never listened to Julia. Give him time. Julia wouldn't believe empathy to drive her frugal manager. No, she knew he was cheaper than the law allowed. An off-the-book hire. Or leverage, in case she ever tried to fire her.

When she discovered him to be so docile and soft-spoken, so replaceable, that drive to compete started fading, yet that keen eye for observation stayed on him. Marcel was moderately interesting, but her curiosity would have died too if it hadn’t been for that voice.

Marcel’s accent was—on the rare occasion he spoke directly to her—completely standard for Vallago. Heavy emphasis on double consonants and almost none on the late vowels in a word. She'd often try to get him to say the name of the town. “Vlaa-go”, most non-natives would pronounce it, yet he didn’t fall for that trap. A slower tongue than most, but normal otherwise. He thought for a good few seconds before he spoke to anyone. No sentences over five or six words. Occasionally, though, Julia could hear what—she was sure—he tried to hide.

Often, she got him talking when he was too tired to keep his mouth in check. When she succeeded, she heard it. His true dialect. It sounded like—well, that voice from the songs that played every evening on the radio. That singer—whatshername? Maria Vegh. That girl whose face was everywhere the night before. Her accent. That had to be it!

Julia wanted to bring it up once, but the two weren’t there yet. Marcel treated her as little more than an acquaintance. He never asked her questions, never told her jokes. He never eavesdropped on her anecdotes, not even the fun ones. She tried to flirt with a sketchy customer in front of him one time, yet he never even tried to protect her! Stop! I won't let you hurt her! If Jonas saw, he would've said so. But Marcel wouldn't care.

This wasn’t how her life used to be. Jonas—and her patients back at the clinic—always made her feel so entitled to attention. Her flirty customers made her believe that her kindness was a commodity she could always exchange for rewards. Tips, usually. Sometimes, answers to her many questions about their clothes, hairstyles, all that was superficial. Without even realizing it, Marcel shattered this comfortable delusion of hers.

Julia used to know how hard one had to work to earn respect. She had forgotten what it meant to not be wanted. A drive that got her the job she was working. Whenever she looked at him, she felt that drive to win retrigger. He was not the competition; he was her new trophy. If she needed to master patience for this victory, so be it.

His head shifted towards her before he could move on to the next booth, and she had to quickly look away.

Her chest stiffened under the weight of her breath. Did he notice? He must have. She was almost gawking! He was heading her way. Now? Here? No, it could be anything. She finally exhaled and shut down the panicking voices in her head.

“Julia,” Marcel called out. She slowly turned towards him, her eyebrows raised as if she only just noticed him.

“Hey, Marcel,” she greeted, her voice a little softer with him than the customers. “How can I help ya?”

A part of her wanted him to say it. Then and there, no more games. I want you. I want to tell you everything. No secrets to hide anymore. Only you can save me. Only you can understand me. I can no longer live without showing you who I am! Oh, what an unexciting conclusion that would be to her quest, but an acceptable one still.

“Julia,” he repeated her name. His expression was casual, yet one that didn't suggest he would indulge such playful thoughts. “Take over the booths for me. I need to leave for... Just take over.” Before he even finished, he had already crossed her and headed towards the kitchen.

Her brow folded. More than the words, it was the way he asked them. Soft consonants at the end and the Ts almost entirely silent. So much effort to hide that strange accent, yet now, in a diner filled with almost a score of customers, he made not even an ounce of effort to mask it. It insulted her sense of curiosity. Almost a year of intrigue and he—

“Wait, take over? I’m swamped here!” she shouted, her cheeks fluttering to the whole crowd. Marcel, however, didn’t stop. Instead, he raised his hand halfway up, open palm, without even turning back, almost commanding her. Silence!

“For how long?” she asked, her jaw half-dropped. No answer. “Where are you going?” No answer. Even at his most silent, this was never his behaviour. He didn't ignore questions. She wanted to be a lot more annoyed. No, she wanted to feel wrath. She would yell, “Come back—Now, or never again!” in the voice O'Reilley used to adopt.

All she could do, however, was feel odd, second-hand dread for this man. Even through the empty chatter of the crowd, his sharp exhale cut through to her heart. Was that… fear? No, that wasn’t all. She could’ve sworn this was something more specific. This was a sound her urgent-treatment patients made when they realised what they were about to lose. A finger, a leg, even a beautiful, unscarred face… That concealed whimper. They wanted to seem tougher than they were. They wanted to act as if they were done with something they loved so much. That’s what she heard.

How does one feel that in Deliz—At a stupid, good-for-nothing-but-a-roof diner?

Turning towards the booths, she started assessing the weight of her new responsibilities. Suddenly, Marcel was her least important concern. The number of customers under her wing nearly doubled. She traced his path back from the first booth, where she did her interview so many centuries ago.

At that seat were four men clad in business suits, barricading themselves with newspapers and avoiding conversation. Three had coffees while one rebel awkwardly sipped his tea. Complete strangers, Julia deduced. At least three worked far away from any people.

On the next table, a man and a woman on opposite ends, each one with a cup of tea. The woman, with her eyes so baggy and her eyebrows so uninviting, leaned close to discuss something over the chatter of the diner. She had her face so close to his, they might as well have started to kiss. Julia had a radar for this, and there was something there. He knew but she didn’t, so he pretended not to either. He tried to look away from her as she came closer and closer with no intention to touch lips.

On the next table was the first customer without something to drink. The first customer that was left unserved by Marcel. He sat at the four-seater all alone. No one from the standing crowd attempted to sit beside him.

Like many other patrons, his eyes were loosely fixated on the sky. They traced the clouds as they gently glided away from the sea. Unlike the other observers, though, he wasn’t annoyed or anxious. Through his long stubble, his lips pierced out to deliver a warm smirk to the window. He seemed to be inviting the rain like a child waiting to dance on the streets.

“You seem chipper,” Julia commented as she brought with her an empty cup from the utensils tray and flashed it to him. “If you want tea or food, I can get it for you. Coffee I have with me now.”

“Neither,” he said, his smile sharpening even more at the sight of her. “I was just leaving.”

She scowled. “You live nearby?”

“No.” He put his left hand on the table and pointed towards the window. “Far, far away.” Something about his voice… It was different, but not like Marcel’s or that musician lady's. No, it was slightly heavier, his words more defined.

Despite his answer, Julia placed the cup in front of him. “It’ll rain soon,” she insisted—quite intentionally. To acquire so much energy for her job, she snuck in her breaks wisely. He was taking up a whole booth. I was just trying to tell him he can’t be here unless he buys something! Very little effort, yet important nonetheless. “Not rain, no—It could be a hurricane near the ports. Typhoons as you Easterners call it. If you’re new to Vallago, you should know—Our weather isn’t kind. The rest of these people aren't cowering to hide from a mild shower. We know what’s coming.”

“You do, I’m sure.” He wrapped his fingers around the cup and raised it up upon concession. Julia started pouring the coffee.

“It’s this calm that fools you tourists. Give it another few minutes.”

“Ah, but that’s what excites me. If you listen closely…” Almost surgically, he raised his gloved finger. Julia tried to focus out of the crowd’s chatter—reach the wavelength his index finger was trying to point at. Nothing. The finger tilted towards the window. The barren echo of a timid, fearful town was being amplified.

“Julia!” yelled Jonas, his voice piercing through the silence. “What are you doing? The pass is full! Where’s Marcel?”

“He—he…” Julia regained her composure, and spun around on her spot, scanning the whole shack. The chatter of the crowd had returned, and so did the chaos. “Didn’t you see him? He went towards the kitchen.”

“Didn’t come through here,” Jonas assured. “Did he go outside?”

“That’s rubbish, it’s about to… I’m sure he—” Two more customers rushed in. She turned back. “I’m sorry, sir, I have to go.”

“No, I’m sorry to hold you, darling. You go ahead. I’ll be fine here.”

“I’ll be within earshot, only. Call me when you need your refill.”

He raised his glass into the air once more before he started sipping, his eyes tracing Julia until she was out of sight.

*************************

Julia opened the back door with a strong push of her right leg. There was a clear, sunny sky above her, yet the alley was shadowed entirely by the shack. Both her hands were occupied with large black bags.

As she passed, she grumbled her decision out loud, as if hoping for her colleagues to overhear her. Her voice was breathy, on the verge of a tearful whimper. “I'm done with them. Just... just done. Never again.”

For the past eleven hours, she carried the weight of the world on her back. Not a cup of tea or mug of coffee unserved, not a meal delivered cold and not a coin missed when collecting. What did O’Reilley have for her? Good work today, everyone! Everyone? What did anyone else do? Jonas messed up two orders (It’s her chicken-scratch handwriting!) Marcel abandoned her outright. When Julia complained, her boss ignored the complaint. Oh, the rubbish is overflowing. Jonas, sweep the floors. Julia, you should’ve emptied the bins already.

All the tips she accumulated no longer felt privileged. No, they were earned—Due since the first day of her life that she gave away to this run-down shack. The others didn’t deserve any share of it. All day, she felt more self-aware about herself than ever. Every mistake she ever made was scarred all over her body. The shallow wrinkles on her forehead that weren’t supposed to be there for another decade. The early signs of crow's feet. Her whole face, really, that had been garnering her less and less attention.

She was aware of the stretch marks on her shoulders and her waist. The hair she found in her drain that morning, hoping desperately it was her roommate’s. She had a roommate. She worked fifty-five hours a week at Deliz and had to share a bathroom with someone.

Her head hurt. Her eyes hurt. Her shoulders really hurt. This was, she decided, as much as she could take. There was nothing more for Vallago to throw at her to make her life more miserable.

When she reached the large black bin, she released both her hands and lifted them off. Ripppppppp! The second bag in her left hand tore open, spilling tea bags and used napkins all over the wet, uneven cement.

For a few moments, Julia only stood there as the trash seeped into the cracks in the ground. Then, she giggled. She had forgotten the one rule of living in that town—Never challenge Vallago to make you more miserable. Now, though, she was sure she had won. Now, she was sure that nothing—not a bolt of lightning nor spontaneous flooding to sweep her away—nothing could bring her further down.

She bent over to start picking the pieces one by one. To her right, leaning against the bin was Marcel—his aghast face staring right at Julia. Her colleague, her rival, her crush and her tormentor sat down still on the wet cement with a deep, narrow wound on his left chest.