Budapest » [Clintasha]

Chapter Sixty-six: A Soviet Anthem

Clint felt out of place in the palatial foyer of the theatre, he was the farm urchin, turned classless carnie and amateur criminal, turned noviciate agent.

Socialites, bureaucrats and decorated military officials all attended, the pungent smell of perfumes and cologne clouded around them like a fog in their dinner jackets and evening gowns; and the floral scents intermingling with the potent masculine aftershave was starting to give Clint a headache: he was breathing in more scent-sprays that air.

He tried to force his gel-less hair into a presentable style, slicking it back with his sweat-slick palm, dressed in his barely presentable trouser suit.

"Hey, guy!" Clint called obnoxiously at a waiter, clicking his fingers above the mingling masses. A tray-ferrying server turned his head; the exasperation was written across his face and he barely concealed an eye roll at the extravagance of the young, poorly dressed boy with his crooked bow-tie. "Yeah, you!" The man slipped carefully through the crowds and behind the bar that Clint was perched at. "Get me a martini, shaken not stirred!" He demanded, with a suave smirk, raising an eyebrow like Roger Moore. "But hold the alcohol!" He flapped a hand.

The waiter blinked, stunned. "Sir?" He asked with a rich English accent, polished like his shining eyes, out of place in the nattering of foreign tongues. His eyes were moss green, with earthy flecks of brown, captivatingly lively. Like faceted gems, they glinted under the glare of the bar lights.

"I just wanted to say the line... Sorry," he chuckled apologetically, a blush high on his cheekbones. "You couldn't get me water in a cocktail glass, could you?" The man nodded. "Make it look like a martini? With the olives and stuff?" Clint still had an aversion to alcohol, unsure of the adverse effects it might have on him; it would've been irrespectable and irresponsible to be drunken and brawl at the ballet.

The man turned to the cold water tap with an affirming smile - condensation in dewy beads dripping off the polished brass handle - and plucked a martini glass off the shelf; filling it after an ostentatious twirl with the stalk of the cocktail glass. 'Charles Anthem' his glossy black name tag read.

The theatre foyer was an open space, with a biblical Renaissance scene painted onto the roof in dulcet tones that had faded over the years; what was once perhaps Titian reds of togas, royal blues of dresses, and the dark swathes of brush strokes that once made up seas of dark hair had all become variations of beige, and dust coated, peeling in places.

Staircases curved around the edges of the atrium to cordoned off doors to the upper circles, with staff posted loyally at posts to redirect ardent visitors and surveyors of the show.

Balconies were made of marble, carved into columns, imitations of Roman ionic ones, curled tongues at the tip and base, and egg-and-dart patterns threaded around the sides.

Red curtains fringed with gold trim hung around arched lead-crossed window, red carpets stretched across the floors, red sofas stationed around, it was a building fit for a king, and the red a reflection of the blood spilled pulling the Soviet empire together.

But it was the red haired beauty that really caught his eye, lingering at the peripheries of the room, avoiding conversation and arts connoisseurs.

Clint played with his lips, watching as the man artfully whirled the glass, and then piped up again. "Actually do you know what?"

The waiter with his dark curled hair looked up, trying not to bite out the words. "What, sir?" He gave him a strained smile, more bitter than the bottles of gin on the shelf.

"Stuff the olives." He flapped a hand.

A look of dismay passed over the man's face as he threaded the olives onto a cocktail stick. "The olives come stuffed-"