Main Character Vibes

There were to be no stars without darkness

In the deep calm of 4:00 am, Toronto was fast asleep. The stillness of the night was a continuum broken only by blowing bursts of howling gales. Bone-chilling October winds crept down upon the city from the northern Arctic; winds that shook the almost leafless trees to create a sort of chime in the air like the hum of a babbling brook traveling between tall buildings in the empty streets before the gust subsides until there is only quietness again.

Even in the city's center, there was no motion. That is, other than the low-hanging clouds racing across the night sky. A night sky whose blackness had been brightened to a navy-blue hue by the perpetual lights of the watchful buildings, towers, big neon screens, and the waning streetlamps. A city that was afraid of the dark even as it slept.

Although in its own right, Toronto was Canada's metropolitan gem and was usually compared to New York City but with better manners. Unlike the city that never sleeps, Toronto needed its full eight hours' worth. Few exceptions did exist; chief among them: Clara Desbiens.

Perched high up in the penthouse like a satellite above the clouds, the brothel was a reflection of the lurid stillness outside, as it always was in the dead hours between 4 am and dawn. Any evidence of the roaring ruckus, of just a few hours earlier, existed only in the aftermath it had left behind. The place was strewn with tired dance marks, confetti that had lost its luster, empty cocktail glasses smeared with lipstick and fingerprints, and ashtrays full to the brim. But there was one place inside the brothel that always escaped the carnage. Always out of sight, always untouched.

Tucked all the way behind the bar in a closed office in a windowless room, Madame Desbiens' face was illuminated at an angle by the desk lamp. It cast an elongated shadow of her head that irritatingly spilled darkness on whatever she was straining to read. Funnily, this interplay of desk lamp light and shadow made the image of a nondescript middle-aged woman sitting at a desk, crunching numbers, absurdly overdramatic. And yet, her face was completely unrecognizable.

Not because it was shrouded behind the horn-rimmed reading glasses she wore whenever conducting office work. No. It was the lines of concentration teetering on the edges of a grimace. A stark contrast to the conviviality of the role she played in front of eager patrons. In the seriousness of this room, she was a mistress of hospitality no more. The way she intently counted the money as the notes of currency ruffled between her thumb and index finger made her seem like a poker table dealer. All she was missing was the clear green visor. But she wasn't dealing. She was meticulously balancing the books and allocating the earnings to her employees. To each their lot.

"Madame Dezzy..." An inquiring voice followed the knock on the office door.

"Come in..." the Madame responded without breaking her concentration. The slender figure of the bartender as she entered had completely disappeared under the cloak of a trench coat.

"I finished bottle inventory..." She yawned as she placed the notepad at the edge of the desk.

"Oh, I also got an email from the cleaning crew, they had a double booking, so they'll be an hour later than usual."

Still judiciously counting the money and placing different amounts in various envelopes, the Madame took the news in. She put her forefinger against her temple and cocked back her thumb as if she was pulling a gun's trigger. They both giggled with the subtle appreciation of how truly heavy was the head that wore the crown.

"Here, hand these out to the rest of the girls," the Madame commanded as she handed the bartender the white envelopes, "and these to the boys." The boys being the two bulky security guards whose graveyard shift always ended by making sure Madame Desbiens' beautiful employees got back home safely in the deadness of 4 am.