Song to No One
Who: Elle and Dutch
Where: A cafe
When: Early afternoon
Elle's morning at the theatre had been one filled the hum of gossip. While people worked on their part of the production they relayed stories from yesterday. First and third-hand accounts coupled with accompanying theories and rumours about the cause of the gangs' rioting. Some of what was said was completely ridiculous. There were some who wanted to make out that they'd been in the thick of it. That they'd been some kind of hero quelling the foe of devilish children. Or that they'd played peacemaker. Even Elle, who was prone to swallowing tall tales, had to raise an eyebrow once or twice. Some of them were so good at convincing others of their great deeds that they were wasted on working backstage for the play.
When lunch time rolled around, she decided to venture out. There were a few nice cafes dotted about not too far away. Without a particular one in mind, she strolled through the streets. One of the places caught her attention - not because of its menu or aromas wafting out but because of the music coming from it. Something for the festival, no doubt.
Upon entering the establishment, she found it was a lone violinist. His piece was a slow number tinged with a hint of melancholy. Elle interpreted it as such, anyway. She found herself a table with a good view and sat herself down. From her vantage point she could see the man's expressions. It added so much to the performance, drawing her further into the music. A waitress coming to take her order distracted her for a moment. Elle quickly scanned the menu and scribbled out her order. As soon as she was done, she rested her chin on her hands, back into the world the musician was creating.
.
Dutch today was a very different man than yesterday, and even more so than the day before. The day before yesterday had been his last in the usual vein, spent as always in the shop and detailing their plans for Tuesday. And yesterday? Well, he'd been an angry man, every inch of the glower in his face and muscle in his eyes as he whiled away the hours sitting outside of his shop with an overlarge wrench to deter the roving fights. No one had gotten too close.
He'd waited until long after the fights actually ceased in his neighborhood before heading home to survey the damage to his apartment building. And as much as he hated seeing his neighbors be terrorized? He had a distillery above the shop, and those workings were volatile, not to mention set on top of three hundred grand in blood money.
So he'd woken today to say goodbye to the old Dutch, at least for a day or two. Dutch had gone out for a professional shave, a long sit in a sauna, and a haircut. He'd left his suitcoat behind, but otherwise was looking unusually sharp in his vest and fresh-pressed shirt. Later tonight he'd go out, learn to pace his drinking again and remember how to act in finer company.
For now he was already working on that last task, heading to a decent cafe instead of slugging down coffee from his shop. Or that was the plan at least as he headed in, taking a moment to adjust a cufflink before he moved to place an order somewhat awkwardly. Pointing to an open table to show where he'd be heading, Dutch moved to drop into a seat with a curt nod and somewhat anxious smile at Elle, the nearest patron in sight.
.
Elle blinked, surprised by the greeting. She offered the newcomer a little wave and a friendly smile in return. Why his had been kind of nervous, she didn't know. The thought of someone being nervous of her was a strange one. Of course, she could have been nothing to do with it. Although that made her wonder what the source of it might have been. Her attention wavered between the violinist and the man. Settling on the stranger, she gave a thumbs up followed by a thumbs down, asking his opinion of the music.
The waitress returned and placed Elle's order of a sandwich and an apricot pastry. In a last minute addendum, Elle wrote down a request for a hot chocolate. The waitress stooped slightly to read the note and told Elle that it would be right with her.
.
Well, this was apparently a strange choice for his first outing back into polite company. Dutch was a bit dumbstruck by the note to the waitress, brow lining as he wondered just what it was necessitating that. Of course, he didn't wonder for long before the unspoken question got an answer in the form of a less-gnarled-than-usual hand giving a thumbs up. He hadn't been witness to classic musicianship in far too long, and it might've just been the mostalgia of his youth making him think he'd heard better. Dutch was willing to believe that, and to give credit to the violinist for doing something that he couldn't do himself. "That looks fantastic," he offered with a nod to the sandwich, "Can't say I ever ate here before, you recommend it?"
.
Pleased by the fact he'd enjoyed it too, Elle's smile was big and bright. Her own critique came in the form of two quite enthusiastic thumbs up. Sometimes it paid to be easily impressed and delighted.
It's very good, she told him with a nod. I've been here a few times and I can't ever remember being disappointed. In her opinion, the desserts were particularly noteworthy, hence the pastry. Although her penchant for treats may have made her biased. Backtracking a little before she sang the praises of the cafe any more she added, Sorry about the notebook. It's just the best way for me to talk to you. Elle topped the words off with another smile to appear less awkward, but the expression had a self-conscious undercurrent.
.
She was mute? That made more sense to Dutch; he could remember his older cousin Vito suffering from the same handicap, though at least Elle didn't have a scar where someone had cut her throat like Vito had. "No apologizin' needed, miss," Dutch assured her with what he hoped was a more friendly smile, "Had a cousin who couldn't speak above a whisper, and even that'd tire him out quick."
He paused long enough to thank the waiter as two cups of espresso were set down, adding a sandwich of his own to his tab and raising one of the smaller cups in a toast to Elle. "And I suppose I'll be finding out for myself, now," he added with a soft chuckle. "It's a treat findin' a friendly face when you're on unfamiliar ground," Dutch noted as he sipped his coffee, then offered his free hand across the gap in their tables. "I'm Eli, most folks call me Dutch."
.
That made Elle's eyebrows go up. It was one thing to encounter people who were accepting of her condition but another thing entirely to meet someone who had already had an experience with something similar. There was a kind of reassurance in it, the fact that she wasn't the only oddball out there. Out of morbid curiosity, she wanted to ask what had happened to the cousin. If he'd been born that way or if something had happened to him. Like it had happened to her. But it was far too forward, far too rude, to delve into the subject. So instead she gave Dutch a grateful nod along with, I'm sorry about your cousin.
She beamed at the friendly face comment, wanting to offer some reassurance in return. I'll make sure you're alright, she wrote back, intending it to be sort of a joke. He really didn't look like the sort of man that needed someone to look after him, especially not a little blonde thing. Elle shook his hand then penned, I'm Elle, and it's very nice to meet you. Dutch is an interesting nickname. Do you prefer it?
.
"Can't rightly claim to prefer one or the other," Dutch answered earnestly, brow creasing deeply in consideration. "These days more folks know Dutch, that's for certain, so I'm more accustomed to it." And it was weird to even offer the shortened version of his real name, but it wasn't proper to go by the more gruff sobriquet.
"And no condolences needed, Elle. Vito got by just fine for a good span of years after losin' his voice, it's my experience that silencin' someone's not so easy. We're a stubborn lot," he offered, sipping his espresso carefully. Which sounded kind of grim to his own ears. "Good to know I've got some protection," Dutch added belatedly, grinning just a bit with the hopes that playing along might keep him up to par on the social level.
.
Unsure of exactly what to say, Elle hesitated in writing something back. She would have assumed that he went by Dutch as he wasn't keen on his given name. The reason for the nickname was another line of inquiry that she decided not to pursue. Didn't want to overstep the mark and all. I like Eli, she finally wrote, albeit a tad shyly, leaving him free to correct her if he so wished.
Although she nodded along with what he said, Elle's eyes were cast down at the tabletop. Stubborn. She hadn't considered that before. Maybe she wasn't strong enough not to be silenced. She didn't know why she was stuck in an echo, no one truly did, but maybe she hadn't tried as hard as she'd thought to break it. Snapping herself out of her thoughts, she put on a smile. That's why I decided to use the notebook. It gives me the opportunity to talk as long as I like. Or until someone stops me, at least. The smile widened, grew a little more genuine.
.
He'd wanted to be in this kind of moment for nearly seventeen lonely years now; a chance to comfort a teenage daughter. Elle's awkwardness was obvious, though Dutch supposed she could've been done looking at his weathered mug. Couldn't blame her, he thought with a small grin, nodding thanks as his food arrived and waiting for the server to leave before he spoke again.
"I'd wager some folks take it strange," he said frankly, guessing that socialization didn't always go well for either of them. "They're poorer for it. You seem like a good sort, Elle. Lovely handwritin' too, mine looks more like a gorilla got hold of a pen," he complimented with a grin that definitely shed a few years.
.
The pen hovered above the page, poised and ready to write something that wouldn't immediately come. Thank you, she put first as it was easiest to address the kind words. There was another brief but noticeable pause before anything else followed. Yes, people can find it strange. Not that I blame them. It's not exactly the most everyday thing. Even if it may have been the least strange form of communication she had, she thought wryly to herself. But everyone's strange, I suppose, in their own way. Some sorts of oddness are just more obvious than others, that's all. There. That was a nice, reasonably positive thing to say. To both lighten her own mood and satisfy a bit of curiosity she penned, Write something happy. Then she put the pen down on the notebook and pushed it towards him.