Work Text:
In fairness, it is unclear why Mr Colbert opened a beer-shop in this part of town, or why he decided it would be a good idea in the first place, or indeed how he had come by the money to open the shop in question. Little is known of his past, though there has been much idle talk in the streets all around since the heavy wooden door of his establishment opened to let in the first customer – a Mr Espera – a foreigner, of all things, and an old friend of Mr Colbert, as it turned out. It is quite obvious that Mr Colbert is a retired military man, but beyond that, little is known about him other than the fact that he keeps company with foreigners – there is a Mr Reyes, another friend of his that has been seen in Colbert's Beer-shop – and, combined with Mr Colbert's bearing and character, that is scandalous enough to create quite exciting rumours, because people amuse themselves however they can.
Mr Colbert is a tall, lofty man of pleasant countenance, but no one would accuse him of trying to make himself agreeable to others or exhausting himself with politeness. On the contrary, his neighbours and the patrons of his establishment alike found Mr Colbert rather cold and condescending whenever they tried to bestow upon him the joy of their company and opinions; so icy was his demeanour – and so cutting his remarks – that they quickly learned to leave the man and admire his scowl from afar, for lack of anything better to do. And so Mr Colbert usually spends his days at the shop, carefully overseeing his business and making sure everything is in perfect order, without the dubious pleasure of conversing with people whom he finds tiresome and likely to copulate with their not so distant relatives and smaller livestock.
Despite the nature of his business – or perhaps because of it – he has never shown fondness for strong liquor, and although he has occasionally been seen generously sampling his own goods in the company of a few old friends in his beer-shop (all of them retired military men like Mr Colbert, as promptly became clear from their manner and their speech), even the worst gossipmongers in the neighbourhood have to admit that he does not frequent other drinking establishments or the local public-houses.
If Mr Colbert has a secret vice, then it must be related to all those strange books and queer contraptions that are regularly delivered to his rooms above the beer-shop. They say that he makes metallic constructions and devices that have quite a mind of their own – all this modern technology is a devil's ruse, surely.
One must be careful and not voice any of these assumptions in the beer-shop, though, for not only does Mr Colbert have a deadly glare and hands that could easily wring a bull's neck, he also has a terribly talkative young man serving as a waiter (and as a skivvy, and as a rabid dog to ward off unwanted visitors); this perpetually filthy but terrifyingly quick-witted man by the name of Person is more than likely to end the sorry existence of the one daring to doubt Mr Colbert's worthiness. (But whether Person would do that by slicing the poor soul's throat or simply by talking them into an early grave still remains to be determined.)
The beer-shop itself is clean and warm, much nicer than the other two on the same street; the counter is gleaming and polished, the booths modest but comfortable. It's a tidy place that smells like malted barley and no regrets; a nice place where to hide from the evening chill. Nice folk come here sometimes, too, and not just old friends from Mr Colbert's mysterious past.
Like that gentleman sitting in one of the booths and reading the evening newspaper, clearly enjoying his beer despite the fact that this is one of the busier nights and it is noisy and slightly hotter than comfortable inside. He comes often; obviously he doesn't mind the dirtier street if this is where he can have a good time. (Mr Nathaniel Fick is his name. A proper gentleman.) He looks at Mr Colbert behind the counter from time to time; the man is busy at work, but tonight, for some reason, there is a hint of a grin hiding in the corner of his mouth. One would wonder why Mr Colbert appears almost pleased with something, all of a sudden.
Of course, no one knows that Mr Colbert receives Mr Fick in his rooms at least two times a week, and that their private companionship has a very long history, and that Mr Fick, for all his sweetness and boyish looks and manners of a perfect gentleman, enjoys panting filth in Mr Colbert's ear when then night is cold and dark.
If one watches Mr Colbert and Mr Fick, even very carefully, there is really nothing to suggest that anything of the sort is taking place.
It all appears very proper, if one is inclined to care about such things.