Tango through the night

Chapter one - Below the foam

The cold November rain was everywhere it seemed. One could look and never see a living being walking along the slippery streets. In the reflection of the icy layer nestled on the cobblestones only darkness was visible. Through the freezing storm a shadow appeared on the wall close to the alley. Taking the crinkly fedora from the top of his head, the shadow took a step and reached the shelter of a tiled roof. The rain was so severe that while sitting down, icy drops of liquid were still pouring down silently on his crown. He counted the drops. One, two, three... 

On a whim he stuck out his tongue and after collecting one of the droplets, it felt like he tasted his mother's rich onion soup. He didn't know why exactly the watery substance of the rain reminded him of the meal he enjoyed so many times back home, but he felt a sense of welcome warmth. For a moment he could picture the image of mother serving the glowing pan of soup in their little kitchen, even though the darkness of a rainy night surrounded him. After a few seconds, which felt like hours, he noticed not only the shower of the sky above him was bathing him. Along with the drops of rain slowly making their way across his cheeks, the salty aroma of a delicate tear reached his nostrils. Before long the subtlety of the teardrop was washed away by an avalanche of tears. He cried silently, trying to hide his pain, even though he didn't have to hide it from anyone in the darkness of the lonely night.

His mourning howl of sadness was interrupted by the resounding tones of chimes afar. It prompted him to become silent, the remnants of his tears drying up. He attentively listened to the metallic sound of the tolling and counted the beats: six times did the chimes resound in the dark sky. The dawn was approaching. He stood up, albeit with difficulty (having become seemingly impaired after sitting still) and screwed his leaking hat on the tip of his head. He knew well he had to find a place to eat for the day. Miraculously, bleak rays of sunlight were penetrating the thick and omnipresent cloudy darkness and the pouring of rain gradually softened. By the time he stood on the sidewalk along the small street, the air was dry and a watery yet fierce beam of light lightened his dark skin. He felt a little more at ease, although he realized quickly it would be temporary. With the light of day the pressure of anxiety would once again reappear. With that thought in mind, he shook his feet, deposing of the mud that stuck to the soles of his blackened shoes and began walking to the junction at the utter end of the avenue. 

It was strange indeed for him to notice he did not pay much attention to the people around him. Back home he would have been startled and fearful when being met by the gaze of pedestrians in his vicinity, but it seemed that primal fear was masked by his urge to survive. Survive in a strange and unwelcoming new world. Ironic how he could let go of his anxiety when he knew it would hinder him. His father had taught him that at a young age. 

...

''Henry! Get back in here. Your father is home!'' The booming voice of a woman travelled through the breezy air above the cottonfields. It was the voice of a big, black woman, no doubt about it. ''Henry - how many times do I need to repeat this...'' the yelling continued. In the filthy and partially shattered glass of the windowsill the woman looked at the cottonfields around. Pushing and squeezing the cotton plants that were packed together, the small yet strong frame of a young black boy appeared from the seemingly endless field. His black skin contrasted fiercely with the snow-white appearance of the cotton. Opening his mouth, the pearly white teeth of the boy shone as brightly as the cotton. ''Yes, ma, I'm comin'!'' he screamed at the top of his lungs. He climbed the steep raise surrounding the cotton fields and slowly walked to a house along the winding dirt road that was Alabama's main infrastructure. The house was not much more than a collection of neatly constructed timber, topped with a roof of bundled green straw, bleached by the scorching sun that shone right above in the azure sky. 

Opening the door, the boy walked evenly to the table in the middle of the rather modest room. Expecting a greeting from his father, he stood still, awaiting the spontaneous reaction of the man sitting at the end of the weathered table. The smile of the boy quickly disappeared from the moment he saw his father looking sternly, as if he were pining about very grave matters. Mother walked in and sat down at the right hand of the table. ''Go on and get your father some milk, won't ya,'' she mumbled loosely. He nodded affirmatively and turned around, walking to the back of the house, all the while thinking about the unusually serious expression of his father. 

The boy reached out and grabbed a bottle of fresh milk off the crate. He was lost in thoughts, but soon snapped out of it while shuffling through the grass behind the house. ''Martha. We gotta do somethin' about this. It ain't gonna work out no more.'' It was the distinctive deep and gravelly voice of his father. It was the first time he spoke since he saw him sitting at the end of the table. The intonation of his speaking sounded worried and stressed, much more so than what he usually heard. The boy stood still and pointed his ears towards a hole in the wall. ''Bert. I understand your worries, but I'm sure we'll be able to pay them off. We have always managed to do so.'' his mother responded in a quick way. ''No, no, no,'' father moaned softly ''it is different now. They think I did 'em somethin' wrong. They said I would need to pay more this time. We barely had enough dough last time, how we supposed to pay 'em even more now?'' 

Curiosity, mixed with a sense of concern, got the better of the boy. He swiftly shuffled to the door and stomped into the room. Looking in, only then he noticed the red patches on his father's light blue overall. Was it blood? Closing his eyes for a second and taking a deep breath, he gave his father the bottle of milk. ''You've done well, Henry. Now go on and get outside. This ain't no business of young folks. Your mother and I gotta talk alone.'' Father stared into the boy's eyes. He could not refuse, even though the question burned in his throat: what happened to father? Was he wounded? How? With his back tuned to his father, he paddled in the direction of the field, the yellow sun shining as brightly as ever. 

...

A splash of dirty water moistened the cuffs of his trousers as he accidentally stepped into a pool of freshly fallen rain. The strangely satisfactory feeling of the cold liquid splashing against his lower legs woke him up from a daydream. At the corner of the street he stood among several distinctly stately men dressed in formal suits, probably businessmen. One was reading the newspaper. The crinkly paper made an almost scratching sound when the bespectacled gentleman alongside him slowly turned the page. He was reading the financial news, which was not interesting to look at any longer. Turning his eyes away, his gaze met an high and partially dilapidated building at the other end of the alley. It intrigued him, but it wasn't until he stepped closer that he noticed a poster pasted to the frontage.

Adjusting his eyes to read the distinct handwriting, he could make out: 

''I provide shelter to anyone willing to pay. Proper commensals are wholeheartedly welcome to stay the night in exchange for a favor.''

Mere moments after scanning the text, thoughts began racing through his mind. As if it were automatically, he stepped to the nearby door and knocked twice on the wooden structure. In the meantime, the watery sun had been replaced by a bright light shining high above. The air was humid yet comfortable and before long people were walking along the street en masse. The faces ranged from small children playing to elderly ladies shuffling about. The distraction by the passers-by meant he did not give much attention to the time that passed. He did not realize it had been minutes since he had knocked on the door, yet it was not opened. He tried it one final time, using all his might to delicately knock. With a terrible creak, the wooden door slowly opened. His eyes had to adjust to the darkness that was present in the hallway before him. He could slowly see the silhouette of a woman standing in the doorway. A hand reached out to him.