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The Village Vanguard is one of those places where everyone sits way too close together, and no one much minds. As long as drinks stay on the small round tables, all's good. Plenty to take minds off conversation with the jazz musicians, the cream of the crop, up on stage pouring through a blistering duel of trumpets and piano. The musicians themselves are in the thick of the set and rapidly approaching a pause, while the hip cats dressed to the nines are hanging on every note. If they aren't hankering for a cigarette, anyways. Or another glass of wine or a tipple of scotch.
*
Amelie has arrived.
*
Civilization! It's a far cry from the jungles of South Vietnam, and for the first night that Barney is back 'in country', he's kicking back and just enjoying himself. A little darkness, a cigarette or a pack, and whiskey with music is one of those bits that, while he may not have missed it, it is still a hallmark of being 'home'. Dark suit, skinny tie, white shirt, he's settled in at a table, people watching, reorienting himself with the feel of the City. A nod is given to a beatnik, a cigarette passed in solidarity in the darkness, and once again, the flicker of light from a lighter provides some illumination to a dimly lit, smoked-filled venue.
*
Upstairs isn't anything to speak of, a landing and peeling posters. Down in the depths of the Vanguard is the true cult following to jazz, and no place else like it. Something best enjoyed from a corner table if one is Scarlett, though it may suit her guest to be away from the thick of it. The acoustics are still legendary even that far back. "Isn't it lovely?" she murmurs between pauses in the set, instruments being exchanged and the signs from the band leader they may be ready to take an intermission or at least rob the night of everything but a melodious piano solo lasting a minute or three. Legs crossed the bohemian tips a dark glass of wine without actually sipping it. "The other night, I chanced upon the most mesmerizing man. Considering saxophones are the most peculiar instruments ever, that he managed to enchant us with that speaks to how talented he is."
*
It's perhaps ironic with so much war and bloodshed going on in this era, that for Amelie? Most of her inflicted violence had been oh-so-far from Vietnam, often in places that like to think themseves more civilized then that. Tonight however, her mind was not on work but rather on the free time she had found herself with and how best to enjoy it. Wearing a simple but elegant black dress and a handbag slung over one shoulder and her hair tied back as she too slips into the den of music, inhaling the scent of alcohol and smoke past the failing protection of her faintly vanilla perfume. Her eyes look over the patrons, taking in as many details as her senses can clock before she begins to move towards the bar.
*
"It's lovely, yes." The guest in question alongside the red-headed Bohemmiene is doing her best to soak in what culture she can. Absolutely different from the confines of the library and the too-quiet of her apartment (even with Lola the cat present), this is an experience that she's beginning to appreciate. No alcohol for the brunette, not her preference, simply cold water, ice cubes floating and lending condensation to the outside of the glass.
In a simple sweater-dress in deep forest-green that lends a creamy tone to her skin and accent the light-brown eyes, Rosemarie glances over at Scarlett. "He mesmerized with a saxaphone? That's…talented, absolutely." A small smile lends a lightness to her quiet air, thought it remains tinged with the shadow of melancholy.
*
The man who has been calling himself Serrure enters. However, it seems that there is some sort of transformation going on in the bookseller. The more he learns, the more that he identifies with some aspect of Loki, though…none so recent. It is an older confidence, lacking the bitterness of centuries of hate. And it is also an increased fashion sense. To the jazz club he wears a fine, black suit. The pants are cut pretty snug along his long legs. Really, the whole suit seems a little snug, and it wrinkles whenever he moves at all. He is definitely here for a drink, a vaguely predatory look in his green eyes that maybe he's hunting other mysterious things too.
*
Rounds of students and disaffected poets are pulled to venues such as this, revelling in the newly emerging 'counter cultures' where black is the uniform of the day, as is longer hair. Those who smoke and drink seem to get younger and younger, and as they listen to the beats being laid down by the band, there are more than a few who are disappointed that the appearance is that the group will be taking a well deserved break.
At Barney's own table, the cigarette now lit is in one hand, tucked tightly in the crook of the fingers while grasping his tumbler of whiskey. Blue eyes scan the small crowd, playing the game of 'let's identify' without having his gaze linger for overlong on any one. One, done. Two, done… and soforth. It's also a game of 'who doesn't belong', and his attention falls upon and lingers on a couple of 'suspects'. A soft, virtually inaudible chuckle rises, more seen than heard, and his glass is tipped so he can take the swallow of the burning liquid. It's going to be a good night. Yup.
*
"Unimaginable, to think that someone could use a bent brass curve and generate anything remotely bewitching." Scarlett lightly bounces her heel beneath the small table, mindful not to strike the underside with her knee and disrupt her drink along with Rosemarie's. Not enough space for a cluster of beverages, even if they were inclined, and that explains why servers frequently make the rounds. "Astonishing what a fellow can get up to, given the right inspiration and talent in balance." Catching the glimmer of that discomfitted state around Rosemarie, she inclines her head. "Is everything well? You needn't stay should this not be to your taste."
She most definitely fits the 'counter culture' description even if her hair isn't pitch black. Jonquils decorate the braids, making her an oddity. The bohemian, however, freezes midsip and glances askance at the doorway, measuring those who come and go past them. It's everyone given that she and Rose sit parallel to it. Mysteries abound. "Enchanting. My friend the librarian and my friend the bookseller under the same roof. Now we need a writer and a bitter editor to round out the troupe."
*
The music itself is entertaining enough, a smooth beat to enjoy in the background, but Amelie is simply not able to solely switch off some of her mind, specifically that which cannot help but eavesdrops on others. Awareness was key in enjoyment as much as it was survival after all. A raise of a hand to signal for attention and a few soft French-accented words later, Amelie is leaning by the bar as her drink comes to her hand, her eyes quick to fall on the 'predator' that is Serrure and the path that takes him her way, but instead she turns her gaze towards Barney where the man sits alone.
There's a tilt of her head, a raise of her eyebrows as she makes a mimed motion most in this place would be familier with: did he have a light?
*
A bit of teeth flash now, the smile growing truer. For all the airiness of her friend's commentary, it's no less true. Brass instruments never appealed to her anyways. Her leanings were always the piano or the guiter. Scarlett is perfectly perceptive too, which — inevitably — brings a blush to Rosemarie's freckled cheeks.
"Oh, it's nothing." Quick to dismiss the topic of conversation at hand, for all that being caught moping serves as reminder and delivers a painful grazing slice to her heart. She tries to smile again, since psychologists have opined that thinking of smiling generally tends to lend an air of truth to the action.
The appearance of Scarlett's so-called 'bookseller' is certainly enough to yank her attention from delving back into gloomy thoughts. She eyes the gentleman in his suit and the smallest divot forms between her brows. "He's rather well-dressed to be a bookseller… He's missing glasses, at the very least," she murmurs close to Scarlett's ear, her gaze never leaving him. She means well, truly, not an ounce of malice in the conjecture; simply observation on her part.
*
Loki is unaware of being talked about, for the moment, though he also approaches the bar and caresses the top of it like he's had some sort of special relationship with the tree it used to be, the pale pads of his fingers stroking over the surface with thoughtful intimacy before he finally places an order from the tender, "Bourbon." And then he looks around more completely, spotting one face that seems familiar. He smiles faintly in a wordless greeting across the distance, to Scarlett.
*
Barney takes another swallow of his whiskey and sets the empty glass aside before he slides out of his seat. The empty marks his spot for him, as well as a filled ashtray. There's a safety in numbers, so he only walks past with little remark on the way to the bar. As he moves, the cigarette that he's smoking makes it to his lips and his free hand dips into the pocket in order to fish out his lighter in silent response to the inquiry. It is followed up with, "The place should have it's own book," of matches. He reaches over with his free hand to grab said book, but that doesn't stop him from flicking the lighter in order to light Amelie's cigarette.
*
Strings abound in the swell of delirious music soon enough to be introduced in tandem with the pianist on stage. An unusual choice, bringing in a violin, but the band intends to cut a sharp duet inspired a little more by dark and dirty flamenco crossed with something Cuban by way of the bayou than, say, straight neat jazz. Those eclectic designs are part of the reason the Vanguard draws the crowds. Scarlett lifts the wine finally to her lips and sips the contents, albeit rather sparingly. The arch of her eyebrows is quiet invitation enough to Loki, presuming Rosemarie does not protest. "Newfangled thing, booksellers trying to pass as normal individuals, rather than myopic hunchbacks limited to a musty cellar of a shop prone to flooding. Though he drinks the proper beverage, so there one balances an opinion on the sum of unexpected qualities and those utterly required by the role."
Asking her to draw a character sketch could become amusing. Her glass is raised in wordless salute to the dapper troublemaker, though. With Amelie's handbag of all things registering as a curiosity, she traces the path of the possible other literary eccentric through the crowd. A bloom of fire transfixes her gaze but for a moment, then it's back to the others.
*
One might wonder whom would bother to carry a cigarette without the means to light them, but truth be told? They were more a tool then a habit for the French woman. A means of blending in, or meeting another. Whatever the excuse, she moves away from the bar and lets her eyes steal one last glance at the occular fencing match between Loki and the other women before she approaches Barney properly, leaning in with her cigarette as the lighter is offered. "A book?" she repeats, that accent clearly hanging to her words. "What do you mean?"
*
Retreating back to her spot beside Scarlett, the librarian nods in agreement. "I've never understood the lure of alcohol, but I believe you. Is he from around here?" Her cinnamon-brown eyes shift to the woman in the black dress, apparently awaiting a light from another dapper man in this oh-so-dapper place, and lingers. That is a lovely dress. Biting briefly at the faint scarring on her lip, she hides away in her glass of water for a moment before reaching up to scratch behind her ear.
"I do like this piece though," she adds, referencing the Cuban-laced southern melodies. "It has a nice…beat to it. Makes me think of dancing."
*
Loki takes his drink and takes his time, in walking and weaving through the crowd. He pauses here and there, like a curious explorer, but does, eventually, make his way to Scarlett and Rosemarie. When he speaks, there is a rumbling purr to his voice, low in his register. "Did I hear something about dancing? The two of you?" A pale finger gestures between them, clearly insinuating that he wants to see THEM dance. Verdant eyes twinkle with a natural inclination to mischief that cannot be amnesia-ed out of him.
*
Brows rise at the sound of the accent but Barney says nothing of it. It's nice not having to speak French again, and as the flame tickles the underside of the cigarette, his head cants. "Book of matches," is given in explanation, his own accent most definitely midwestern. It's got something of a 'country slowness' to it. Glancing to the side, he wordlessly catches the attention of the bartender, adding, "'Nother whiskey," and before he's done, he's back to Amelie, "What're you having?" The lighter is extinguished and replaced into a pocket, a couple books of matches are taken from a bowl and one is passed to the lovely young lady. "I'll get it." Right now, the music is an easy backdrop, nothing more. As for the others? He's noticed them, but so has he noticed most of the patrons on this particular floor.
*
"Ah," Amelie nods, a slight curl of a smile of her lips with a nod of understanding. "English still catches me sometimes, you see?" A friendly wave is given, after all she'd just got her own drink moments ago and the glass was still full in her hand, but she'll let that smile spread at the offer. "Perhaps next time." With Barney's departure into the dangerous ventures of liquer purchase, the French woman leans against the nearby table and turns her faintly amber gaze towards the two women and Loki, just in time to catch his words and chuckle softly to them.
*
The wine's burgundy tincture briefly stains the bohemienne's lips a darker shade, close to ruby over pink, but a swift blot takes that effect away. She puts the glass down to the tabletop, and then assesses the tight confines with tables littered throughout. "Far be it for me to disappoint anyone." Her black halter dress is cut more than a little differently than the loose long pillowcases donned by so many of her ilk. "The music has a particular spice and fire that someone might harness properly into smoke. Is that an idea you consider enjoyable, mademoiseille, or will I be enduring the confines of this by myself?" Loki's sparks find a decent tinder, then, and that adds a certain mystique for others to catch hold of. "Madam, would you mind if we pushed that table back some?" It won't be slow dancing, then, as her request to Amelie implies.
*
^ Scarlett pose!
*
Cue a nice deep blush beneath those freckles and a quick tuck of her chin. Rosemarie had already been giving the dapper gentleman a disbelieving look, as if she hadn't heard him correctly, but now with Scarlett playing along, she's put on the spot.
"I-I-I — " Oh great, the stutter showed up. A quick sigh and clearing of her throat and the librarian attempts that same level of 'cool' as the crowd around her. "I'm not afraid to, no."
Bold words. She might regret them later. Glancing over, she finds the lady in the black dress is definitely joining them and the blush sticks around.
*
Loki backs up a pace and helps to move the table, then leans against it. He does catch Amelie's eyes at one point, and lifts his drink at her in a casual invite to come closer to the trouble-makers. But, then his eyes fix back upon Scarlett and Rosemarie with amusement and interest. Two ladies dancing together to jazz? Yeah, he'll take that!
*
Curiousity killed the cat, but Amelie wasn't exactly someone who stayed dead, so this a curious entertainment worthwhile. A shrug to Scarlett's words, the woman raises her drink and steps closer, letting the tables be moved as they please. "Oh go ahead," she says lightly with a smile. Apparently there's no opposition in her to the prospect of the dancing pair.
*
The music makes for an easy rhythm and a decadent beat, something swingy and loose to the rhythm. "I suppose," Scarlett murmurs, "I ought to dispose of the remainder of this." Nudging the wine inwards to the heart of the table, she folds her coat to lie over what likely constitutes her purse, a micro-sized container likely able to hold a few coins and lipstick. The jade green gloves she accessorizes with certainly make for a statement as she pulls them on, one by one, opera-length rather than something shorter. Without a bangle bracelet, she needs something to suit the mood.
"It has been a while for this form of dancing. Pray forgive any errors. If you, madame, have any better skill, by all means." A gesture of her hand to the open space allows for someone else to take her place, if they so wish. But better to act than be the fool, after all. She rises and fluffs out her skirt. A swish of her hips and she strides out there, holding out her arm and curving her hand in front of her as she feels out the beat. It's dirty Cuban flamenco with a twist, after all, the rhythm beckoning her to give a flourish and sway her hips lightly, kicking when she needs to. If it's all in the eyes, then she has an advantage. "Or are we supposed to do a proper jazz dance? Lead on, mademoiselle Rosemarie."
*
Oh dear god, her friend went for it. Took the bait. And now she's staring from behind the table, wide-eyed, biting her lip in a precious show of warring inclinations.
"Be right there," she whispers, finally giving in with a twittery laugh of nerves. Her glass of water is left and she makes her way over to the dance floor. She's not as quick to pick up the beat and instead smooths the front of her sweat-dress. "I-I-I th-think you sh-should l-l-lead, Scarlett."
*
So much stuttering! Loki is terribly pleased by it. He looks over at Amelie, "Do you know how to lead? Perhaps they need your help." His voice tempts to try to get HER involved in the jazz dancing too!
*
Amelie chuckles softly, the drink in her hands finally touching her lips as she shakes her head. "I know many things, but one of them is that we should perhaps allow the pair to try before interupting them, no? And after all, what dance would involve three anyway?"
*
Bad influence, Loki de Serrure, know you are indeed. A few of the other spectators have been torn between the jazz audience and the duo about to go dancing. Scarlett holds out her hand to Rosemarie and will do her damnedest not to kick anyone unexpectedly, although asking her to carry the lead is entirely cruel. So be it. "Cyd Charisse or some kind of swingy dance. That hop one." Does this bode ill? It could.
She tips her head to listen to the beat, and then falls in behind the librarian, echoing her motions. That means grasping her hand and guiding Rosemarie through a spin, setting up a pattern of cross steps back and forth as they go relatively in a straight line forward. Her footwork isn't what one should watch, for all she's light as a damn feather. Literally. She then reverses course, spinning them around twice in a turn with a jazzy little kick, always in motion. Or something. Dance poses are hard!
*
She must mean Lindyhop — or perhaps Charleston? Either way, Rosemarie attempts to remember what she can of the swingy steps. She's not graceful, prone to stuttering in body movements as well as spoken speech, but there's an underlying tenacity there. After all, she spoke bravely — must be brave as well.
The brisk pacing means parted lips and that's how the breathy giggle escapes her, nerves sparkling even as the skin behind her ears itches madly.
*
Its odd how and when he disappears. One moment it looks like he's just shifting where he's standing, and in the next, he has blended into the crowd. There's a fond look on him though, stopping here and there to look at the ladies dancing, but he does also…sneak out, all mysterious.
*
A show started by another, but Amelie is content to watch, giving a little chuckle behind the rim of her glass. Had she noticed Loki's departure? Absolutely, but there were more interesting sights in front of her to worry about. The pair? One was clearly more nervous then the other, but that was it's own little flavour to the experience.
*
Rosemarie never expected to be dancing, especially with the red-haired Bohemienne and even more so out in public! No booze, just exhileration, for the first time in a long time, and it chases away the gloom haunting her for many weeks now. The beat is infectious, getting beneath her skin, and she laughs again beneath the jazzy Latin tune.
She misses the bookseller's departure entirely, forgets about the blonde in the black dress, all for a few sparkling minutes in the club. It's a break well-needed.
*