SAKURA TAISEN/WARS, MARIA TACHIBANA and all related characters, names and indicia are TM & © SEGA 2004. Actual historical mafia members have been used for reference, their names scrambled, in the following story. Luna's Restaurant at 112 Mulberry Street in NYC has NO Mafia connections known to this author. It was founded by Neapolitan Mama Luna in 1919, though.
Credit to IGN for the review of the Sakura Taisen game characters, I stole from their quote, "We are fond of Maria Tachibana, as she is obviously a freakin' thug."
Rating: PG-13, Language, Violence
"FROM THE ASHES" – From the Land of Ice and Snow
"Quit complaining, Cav, it ain't that cold." I am sick of the cold, too, but I'm sicker of Cav's whining.
"Yeah, easy fuh YOU ta say, YOU dinnit forget yer hat." Cavaradossi's head is ducked against the now driving snow that seems to be coming straight down Mulberry Street, horizontally. His thinning hair is doing little to keep the heat in. "Leas' we coulda done was jump in a Stanley."
"Fuggedabout it, it's…" I gesture, frustrated, down Mulberry. "Two damn blocks!"
"Awww… shit!" Cav curses and stops walking.
I'm halfway across Broome Street, and I stop and turn around. I shouldn't laugh. I can't help it.
"What the hell ya think is so funny, ya goddamn mick?" Cav is scraping off the bottom of his shoe against the stone curb. The horse and carriage had gone by a while back, and snow had cooled and covered the horse's leftovers. Cav found them. I'm still trying to stop laughing.
"Izzat the cleverest insult ya can come up wit', Cav? Geezis… I mean, my las' name ain't even start wit' a Mc. You gonna call me an O?"
"Yeah. Mebbe I will. You call me Cav."
"That's on account a your name is too damn long." Cav catches up and the snow and slush take care of cleaning off the rest of his shoe.
We cross Grand and Hester and come to the door of Luna's, a restaurant with apartments above it, on the east side of Mulberry. I yank open the door and gesture for Cav to go first.
"Mama!" Cav yells as he goes inside, his arms flung open wide. I follow him in and pull the door closed behind me. It is almost painfully hot in here compared to the street – my cheeks and nose are burning. I take off my hat and scarf. The smell of garlic, tomatos and oregano is fantastic, and I remember that I'm starving. If there's one thing the Italians know that the Irish never did, it's spices.
"Ahhhh, buona sera, mio piccino! Come sta?" 'Mama' is not Cavaradossi's mother. We all call her Mama anyway. She's a little Neapolitan woman who opened this restaurant less than two years ago, along with her sons – and to be honest, I have no idea how many of them she has. I know it's more than three, and less than a hundred. Though probably not much less. Mama is short and rather slim – and hearing her call Cav her 'little one' is amusing.
"Sta molto bene, grazie, Mama, grazie," Cav puts the little woman down out of an incredible embrace. Little old women in Italy, I assume, are as unbreakable and ironclad as little old women in Ireland. Mama is unruffled, and fusses about how we must be starved.
"Vincenzo!" Mama bellows, scaring no one. The only ones in her restaurant at the moment are 'family.' A lanky, olive-skinned young man in a pristine apron ducks out of the kitchen with three glasses of wine in each hand, the stems between his fingers. I'm a little amazed. "Il mio figlio!" she proudly introduces him to the gathered. Everyone here is Italian or understands Italian except me, so I'm trying to keep up with what's going on. Sometimes I feel a little left out, coming from a country that was conquered by England so long ago that Gaelic is all but dead. I assume that's her son."E la prima volta che visita gli Stati Uni!"
Vincenzo sets the wine glasses down around the table. One each for the three who were already there, one each for Cav and myself, and one more.
I realize now that she's not here. I glance over at the restaurant door just as she appears in it. The apartments upstairs have a door just beside the restaurant. It is only a couple of metres from her door to the restaurant door. That is the only reason I can imagine why she's not wearing a coat or hat. But she is wearing gloves. At least, she's wearing one on the hand that is not in her pants pocket, the one that pulls open the door.
Winter seems to come inside with her. The snow in her hair is not melting. Her cheeks and nose are not red from the cold. She is as pale as winter itself, and she is not shivering. The gust of icy wind that rushes around her as she steps inside lifts two white linen tablecloths, and one overturns a lit candle. Vincenzo hurriedly rights it before it can start a fire.
The Celt blood in me is tempted to gesture a quick ward against evil spirits, despite how ridiculous my people's superstitions can get. Something about that girl just isn't right. She was easier to deal with four months ago, but when winter came… ever since then, I get the distinct feeling that it's cold in New York because she told it to be. Despite the fact that it's cold in New York every winter.
"Ohime! C'e il vento e nevica! Fa freddo, Kazuar, ed il portello è chiuso!" Mama rushes over to the Kazuar and takes the much taller girl by the arm, dragging her inside as if to save her from freezing. Mama's a bit late for that, the Russian froze over years ago. "Voi state congelando! Qui, qui. Ciò li scalderà." Mama gestured to the seat and the dark red wine.
The Kazuar allows herself to be lead to the chair, her expression impassive. I can't read her, as usual. She looks much better than she did this morning, though. Seems she even got herself a new blazer. Pin stripes suit her well. Though it looks a little like an attempt to seem more like one of the family – which, in all likelihood, it is. Now all she needs are white spats and to take out her revolver, and voila: a freakin' thug.
Directly across the table from the only remaining empty seat is Valentinov. He lifts his wine glass slightly as a toast to his comrade, and she takes her seat. Mama tries again to get her to drink the wine, but the Kazuar slowly turns her frozen gaze to the woman. I can't read it, but Mama apparently can. It is not icy hatred or seething emotionlessness. Mama's reaction tells me everything. It is a plea, something below the surface of the ice, begging to be left alone, begging not to be shown warmth, lest the ice melt. Mama's expression is not one of affront, it is pity and sorrow. She brushes back the Kazuar's blonde hair in an astoundingly motherly gesture, and places a hand against the girl's cold cheek. Then she turns and goes. The Kazuar's fingers are gripped like iron around the arm of the wooden chair, attempting to maintain control after Mama's departure. When she turns back to Valentinov, the ice is healed and refrozen completely.
The table is a rectangle. At the head, Giuseppe Ignazio, the big boss. At the foot, his nephew Joseph. The Kazuar is sitting next to me on one side of the table. Cav is across from me, and Valentinov is across from her. My mind might be playing tricks on me, but it's colder on my right side, where she is.
"Kazuar. Il nostro assassino piccolo. Buono." Giuseppe holds out his hand to her, warmly. He is smiling his trademark smile, the one that means everything and nothing.
She responds to him as only she and Valentinov do, it seems – the proper intent, but a bit of a Slavic touch. She takes his hand in both of hers and kisses it, silently and automatically, and with no smile in return. "Spasibe, gaspadin."
Joseph intervenes on my – and likely his own – behalf. "The Kazuar doesn't speak much Italian. And most of us speak no Russian. English, please."
Giuseppe's smile broadens. "We have a job for you… Kazuar."
Her expression doesn't change. She doesn't nod or prompt him or speak. She simply continues to wait. Her leather-gloved fingers are laced together on the table, and she regards him, sideward, placidly.
After a couple of moments, Giuseppe's affability fades just a little. He'd expected some reaction from her. "Do you not want to know what it is?"
"Will be difficult," the Kazuar begins in broken English, "to do job… if you do nyet tell what it is."
Valentinov reacts in irritation, hissing at her. "Astarozhna, nimnoga suka!"
Now the Kazuar's eyes flash slightly in anger and she turns to Valentinov. "Shto vy skazali?"
"Nichivo," Valentinov is calmed by a powerful elbow from Cavaradossi, and falls silent again.
"Kazuar. Do you want the job or not?" Giuseppe interrupts the little Russian spat. This is a trick question. She doesn't have a choice. Well, she does, but to say no is to ask for death.
"Who?" she asks, instead of answering him. She wastes no time on pleasantries, does not try to appeal to the boss, she treads a very thin line between being valuable enough to preserve and willful enough to destroy.
"Silvio. Lupo's bodyguard."
The Kazuar flicks a glance at Joseph, who meets her gaze, and then looks away again. I have no idea what that little exchange is about.
"Lead time." She prompts Giuseppe again.
"You have one month."
"Three," she demands. I can see the boss steam a little.
"Two," he concedes, but she does not give in.
"I need three."
In one swift movement, Giuseppe's chair crashes to the floor behind him as he rises, and backhands her across the face, solidly. She grabs the table with her right hand and the chair arm with her left to keep from falling over. I grab the arm of her chair too, because she's about to land on me. The chair only tipped a little, and I manage to set it back on all fours for her. She does not turn back to the boss yet. She's staring at the floor between our chairs, holding on to the table.
"Vy s uma sashli? Khvatit…" Valentinov whispers to her.
She releases her grip on the table and drags the back of her right hand across her mouth. It comes away slightly bloody. Her hair is curtaining her face. She stays there for the space of two breaths, then sits up straight again, as composed and placid as before. The only difference is a red mark on her right cheekbone, and a small spot of blood at the corner of her mouth.
"All right. Two months," she whispers.
Mama puts a glass of water in front of the girl, silently, and slips away. I toss her a smile as she goes. Giuseppe is detailing more information for our bouncer-turned-assassin and I'm only half listening as I turn back around. The Kazuar has closed a hand around the glass of water, but she hasn't picked it up to drink it yet. I look at her face. She'll be fine, she just needs to learn her place. Then I realize that it doesn't just seem colder on my right side… it is colder on my right side. I look back at the glass.
It's frosted. Around her fingers. It's frosted. Like… it wasn't frosted before, and now it is… just where she's touching it. The water wasn't cold. And it wasn't hot. It was just water. In a room temperature glass. And that is NOT fogged glass. It is FROSTED. Right through the leather gloves…!
I kick Cav under the table.
"Ow! What's a mattuh fuh you?" Cav ain't subtle, like I've mentioned before.
Valentinov notices. He reaches across the table in a gesture as if to take the Kazuar's hands, and 'accidentally' knocks the glass to the floor, where it spills and shatters.
"Bozhe moy! Isvinitye!" Valentinov makes an attempt at appearing apologetic and sheepish. He is not looking at the Kazuar, but she is gripping his hand hard enough to make the leather of her glove creak, and he, in defense of his fingers, is gripping back – hard. "Maria, zakuritye?" he asks her something with a head-jerk toward the back door, and then explains to us. "Will take her outside to…" here he makes a dusting gesture on his clothing to represent a verb he can't think of, "…off the glass from her… and to take smoke."
"Five minutes," Giuseppe grants it to them, and Valentinov drags his girl outside, grabbing his coat as he goes. Well, well. It isn't being accustomed to Russia that makes this girl innured to the cold. I look at the glass on the floor as Vincenzo comes out with a wet rag to pick up glass shards.
It looks like normal broken glass. Wet, certainly, but not frozen.
I SWEAR it was frozen. I know what I saw. Her hand… FROZE… the glass. She's ice cold. Not just figuratively, literally. I know it. She's cursed. Or… possessed. Or she's a demon. Or an angel…
Just in case, I cross myself.
Italian Glossary:
"Ahhhh, buona sera, mio piccino! Come sta?" – Ahhh, good evening, my little one! How are you?
"Sta molto bene, grazie, Mama, grazie," – I'm very well, thank you, Mama, thank you.
"Il mio figlio!" – My son!
"E la prima volta che visita gli Stati Uni!" – It is his first visit to the United States!
"Ohime! C'e il vento e nevica! Fa freddo, Kazuar, ed il portello è chiuso!" – Oh my! It's windy and snowy! It's cold, Kazuar, and the door is closed!
"Voi state congelando! Qui, qui. Ciò li scalderà." – You are freezing! Here, here. This will warm you up.
"Kazuar. Il nostro assassino piccolo. Buono." - Kazuar, our little assassin. Well done.
Russian Glossary:
"Spasibe, gaspadin." – Thank you, sir.
"Astarozhna, nimnoga suka!" – Watch it, little bitch.
"Shto vy skazali?" – What did you say?
"Nichivo," – Never mind.
"Vy s uma sashli? Khvatit…" – Are you crazy? That's enough…
"Bozhe moy! Isvinitye!" – Oh my god! I'm sorry!
"Maria, zakuritye?" – Maria, cigarette?