Champagne Nights || Shawmila [Completed]

one

The air was thick with cigar smoke, and everyone in there had become accustomed to the intense smell of whiskey. Shawn had, too. For a month now, every night, he had entered the club and stroked the old ivory keys until the tips of his fingers hurt. Maybe it wasn't what he expected to find in New Orleans, but it was still a promising start. Surely, a better alternative to the banker's job to which his father had pushed him. Shawn knew he must have let him down; the man had worked hard for decades to secure him a better future, and he, like the ungrateful son he was, had left in search of luck in the south of the country, with no plan or security. Perhaps it was good that his old man didn't return from the war; at least he wouldn't see the disappointment caused by that decision in his eyes.

When a couple of months earlier Shawn decided to leave, he hadn't left anyone behind. His old man had gone to war a couple of years earlier and had never returned. His mother hadn't been in the picture for much longer. Shawn was not yet five when the woman's weak body surrendered to pneumonia. He didn't have many memories of her, but his father said she was a lovely girl, as sweet as ripe peaches. He had been listening to him talk about her for years when, in the evening, they sat on the porch of their small home and browsed through the small album of photos that collected the grainy image of his mother. His father always said that her laugh reminded him of the blowing wind of a midsummer night when cicadas sing and stars shine, and in the air you can feel the sparkle of expectation of what tomorrow will offer. He said her caresses were as slow and fluffy as the velvety touch of fading dandelions, and her voice was like slowly dripping golden honey. Shawn wasn't sure exactly what his father was referring to with those comparisons, but the image he had created in his mind, thanks to those words, was sharp and defined. It felt like his mother had always been there with him.

His father had always spoken in a weird way. It wasn't bad, just an unexpected oddity. For someone who couldn't finish high school, he had some fine language. It was definitely the outcome of all those books he used to read whenever he had time to spare. Shawn was sure that his father could have been a college professor if only life hadn't played a trick on him. His education had been brutally interrupted when, at the age of fifteen, his girlfriend had confided in him with tears in her eyes that she was expecting a child. And so, after the wedding, his father was forced to leave school to take care of his new family. The man, however, never had any regrets.

Every time Shawn thought of his father, his lips could only bend into a proud and smug smile. He loved that man; it was a shame he couldn't tell him that anymore. The war had been a blow to everyone, even for those who had not experienced it on the battlefield. Families had been halved, many young people had lost their lives, and those who had remained had faced a real crisis. And as if that wasn't enough, the government had decided to make everything harder by banning what could help men forget. Shawn would have never believed that one day he would end up going against the law and living almost like a criminal.

New Orleans was a big, chaotic city, but it offered many possibilities to young people who, like him, had great plans for the future but no idea how to accomplish them. What had pushed him to the opposite side of the country had been his ability to turn the words that passed through his head into melody. In those years, New Orleans was the center of the music scene, and there was no musician who didn't wish to seek their fortune on its old streets. Shawn had found his luck right there, or more precisely under them.

It was a well-known fact that the limits imposed by the government had become only a formality that many ignored. Thus, those that until a few years before had been simple bars, now hid in their basements or in the cellars actual underground clubs. It was right in one of those that Shawn had managed to get a job.

He had heard of George's place from some strangers staying in the same inn as him. They kept babbling to each other about how much that place made them feel alive, how alcohol flowed like rivers, and how people would come and go all the time. Not to mention the singer who entertained the crowd during the evenings. She was a real diva. There was no person in New Orleans who didn't want to see one of her performances at least once in their life. Her voice was said to be so crystal clear that one ended up being hypnotized, like the singing of a mermaid. Shawn had confirmed it after experiencing it on his own skin.

From the first moment he set foot inside George's club, Shawn had been entranced by the little brunette on stage. Despite being tiny and appearing disproportionately small compared to the stage on which she performed, her energy filled the space all around her. She was so confident and sensual, with those long dark waves framing her face and cherry-red lips. She moved as if she were the only one in the room, as if she wasn't performing for an audience. And then, that voice... that voice could have gotten her anything and anywhere she wanted. Shawn was certain that by using it, she could convince him to do anything.

In the last month, he had spent a lot of time observing the young woman. While his fingers danced quickly on the keys of the old piano, his eyes never detached from the sinuous and swaying figure of Camila. It was only when he caught George's frowning expression that he looked away from her. Having her so close every night and being able to do nothing but look at her was a real torture. He was grateful to George for offering him a job, but he hated him for being the man who ended up under the same sheets with her every night.

Since arriving at the club, Shawn and Camila hadn't interacted much. There had only been a few nods and furtive smiles, but no words were spoken. On the contrary, George had a big mouth. From the moment Shawn set foot in the venue half an hour before it opened until he came out after closing almost in the early hours of dawn, George wouldn't shut his mouth even for a second. The man talked, talked, and talked, and Shawn wondered how it was possible that he never ran out of topics. Sometimes it seemed that with all those words he wanted to hide much bigger truths. This wasn't Shawn's business because, at the end of the day, he was just a guy looking for a better future. By the age of twenty, Shawn had left home and was now working in a New Orleans speakeasy, surrounded by strangers and with no idea of how his future would be. So, he was simply grateful to George for the opportunity he had offered him.

What he couldn't stop wondering, though, was why Camila was with someone like George. The man was certainly at least ten years older than her, and seeing them together, no one would have said they were married. Camila was like a star in the dark sky of the night, bright and spectacular without even having to try. She didn't talk much, she often just smiled shyly alongside her husband, and with the exception of her performances, she didn't show up much at the club. George, instead, had been absorbed by that place. There was no minute he wasn't in that crowded basement, serving drinks or entertaining customers. He was an exuberant man who knew how to deal with people, but unlike his wife, he was committed to being the center of attention. Shawn had the impression that having Camila by his side was a way to stand out among the crowd. A somewhat varied crowd...

In the few weeks Shawn started hanging around, he had seen a lot of people. It wasn't just men looking for fun or young kids trying to find some answers in the bottom of a glass. No, a lot more happened in George's speakeasy. Shawn still couldn't figure out exactly what it was, but he had a feeling it was something shady. He had noticed that many of the regulars wore suits much more valuable than a normal citizen could afford, and the cigars that always hung from their mouths were not an item easily found in those parts of the state. Not to mention the women who accompanied them. They were indisputably attractive, so bubbly and vital in their fringed dresses and long pearl necklaces. Their gloved hands were always busy stroking their lovers' shoulders or gripping champagne cups that seemed to never run out.

Shawn was intrigued by the presence of those people who seemed to live in a world of their own. His interest had not gone unnoticed by George, who after a few evenings had warned him, in the kindest possible way, not to meddle in business that did not concern him. George had explained to him that people like that didn't want trouble or snoops, and that sometimes curiosity can kill. All Shawn was allowed to know was that they were people who didn't come to his club just to have fun but had business to run and other people to entertain. George said that was what "the new rich" did for a living. After his owner's implicit threats, Shawn had not allowed himself to investigate further and had limited himself to doing the job he was paid for: playing the piano.