SALOME Ch 13

At that, Yekaterina’s face turned vicious. Having nothing to show for herself other than getting into bed and knowing only how to swing her hips, it rankled her that Yuri—a half-wit—acted all noble and lofty just because he was the Colonel’s son. But then, a piece of information suddenly crossed her mind, and her ghost-like, crumpled face smoothed out softly.

She pulled out the hair dye she had been asked to get this morning from a brown paper bag and tossed it onto Yuri’s table, where he was in the middle of assembling his firearm. Unlike his appearance, he was a guy with pride, so he was bound to be annoyed. She curled up the corners of her eyes meanly.

“Since your Spaghetti’s taste is brunettes, do a good job. I’m a ginger, so dye doesn’t take well on me.”

Bringing up the Italian ambassador who was Yuri’s target, she tossed back her long, bright red curly hair as if showing it off. Seeing the hair dye roll over with a thump, Yuri’s face crumpled with irritation. Starting off annoying right from the beginning. They could have at least told me in advance. At Yuri’s discontented face, Yekaterina cackled out loud, as if enjoying the sight. It’ll be quite a sight once I show him this too. Seeing that, Dimitri, who had been silent, gave a warning.

“Yekaterina, stop it. Yuri, you finish maintaining your weapon and go dye your hair quickly.”

“…Yes, sir.”

Following Dimitri’s order, Yuri went and dyed his hair in the bathtub inside the interrogation room next to the training room. When he returned, Vladimir let out an exclamation of admiration, “Oh.”

“Miss, would you like to grab a coffee with us later?”

“…”

Yuri roughly wiped the water dripping from his hair with a towel and threw it with a thud right at the face of Vladimir, who was talking nonsense. Yet, in vain of Yuri’s attempt, the towel didn’t even graze the front of Vladimir’s nose. He lightly caught the towel flying violently toward him.

“My, aren’t we shy. I wonder how you are in bed. I usually prefer someone who’s quiet normally but hot in bed.”

Word is going around so heavily about it, so wouldn’t you mind teaching me a bit too? Yuri tried hard to ignore Vladimir’s sly remarks and stood at the table where his weapons were placed. And on top of the table lay an outfit that was clearly a disguise for the gala party. At that sight, one of Yuri’s eyebrows—now dyed a deep brown—arched upward.

“…What is this?”

The clothing wrapped in plastic was not the waiter’s tailcoat he had received last time, but a cute black-and-white maid outfit that looked like it had popped right out of the Victorian era, something a female squad member would wear. To Yuri’s annoyed question, Vladimir made a habitual gesture to pull out a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, then stopped himself and answered:

“What else would it be? Your Spaghetti is an impotent bastard who doesn’t get turned on unless it’s an outfit like that.”

“You will be going straight to the Italian ambassador’s mansion right after the gala party.”

At Dimitri’s dry answer, Yuri’s expression smoothed out. Rather than smoothing out in relief, it was a resigned, blank expression. Ah, I see. Thinking it was a low-class joke by his squad mates, he quickly understood once he heard it was for work. On the other hand, thinking that perhaps wearing this kind of clothing might actually be better, Yuri took off his shirt, which was soaked from the water dripping from his hair. The dark blue bruise marks all over his body had still not faded. Because usually, guys with these kinds of tastes at least didn’t beat or strangle him like Chairman Glück did.

∞ ∞ ∞

Same day, Christmas Eve evening, Russian Embassy in Brandenburg, Berlin

Heated with Christmas Eve excitement, the banquet hall of the Russian Embassy was filled with stylishly dressed people. At the center of the banquet hall stood a huge Christmas tree—said to have been brought specially from the Siberian forest—towering so tall it almost touched the high ceiling of the hall. Big ornaments, clearly coated in gold, hung on the branches of the tree, capturing the attention of anyone who entered.

Centering around the tree, the men without exception wore white bow ties and long, trailing black tailcoats. The women showcased their charm with voluminous dresses that exposed their shoulders bare, hairstyles that must have taken hours to twist up, and large, colorful jewelry wrapping around their otherwise bare necks.

Besides the adults, young children and teenagers who still looked too young to be considered adults were gathered in small groups, dressed up in their own way. At first glance, the people from various countries seemed to get along well, but a closer look revealed one commonality. The countries belonging to the Allies formed groups among themselves, while those belonging to the Warsaw Pact formed groups among their own, interacting only within those circles.

That scene was no different regardless of age or gender. For an event intended to demonstrate harmony after the end of the war—with the two powers agreeing to alternate hosting every year—it seemed of little use. And in this situation, Cedric, who had met peers from the Allied nations, was feeling a bit disappointed. For instance,

“You’re from Britain? Speaking of Britain, it’s gotta be James Bond! Actually, this coming day after tomorrow, we’re going skiing in Schilthorn, Switzerland, where they filmed James Bond. My relative owns a resort there. Cedric, if you’re interested, do you want to come with us?”

Jean, the son of the French Embassy’s minister, boasted loudly and offered as if letting him in as a special favor, and the guys around him chimed in.

“How about going to Madeira, Portugal in the summer? My family has a yacht.”

At the words of Thor, said to be the son of the Norwegian ambassador, everyone chuckled, saying it sounded great. Then, when a peer with a somewhat gentle impression timidly raised his hand to say he would go too, Jean snapped at him:

“You? Can you afford that on your father’s salary? When he’s merely a consul to Portugal. For a country whose finances are so desperate that they can’t even give up their colonies, isn’t it bad to waste money like that?”

“Of course, of course. Is there anything in Portugal worth making money off of? Ah, I suppose they weave carpets somewhat well. Well, even that seems a bit inferior compared to Turkey.”

And as if joining in, the guy who had been introduced as the son of the Dutch ambassador sneered. The rest nodded and cast subtle side-eyes at the Portuguese consul’s son. At that, the Portuguese consul’s son’s face turned beet red without a reply.

“A consul is a diplomat just the same.”

At Cedric’s defensive remark, Jean and the scoffing crowd stopped laughing and checked Cedric’s expression.

“Ah, of course, that’s true.”

“But the level of importance is different. You know it too, don’t you, coming from a noble family? The difference in weight that a commoner and a noble have to bear. Well, a consul is like that too.”

Cedric felt that the behavior was immensely childish. The kind of fools he often saw at Eton existed regardless of the country—guys acting as if they had achieved their father’s honor or family wealth themselves. Feeling uncomfortable, Cedric took a sip of the champagne with tiny bubbles rising, and trailed his fingertips over the long stem of the champagne glass he was holding. Completely oblivious to his mood, Jean kept talking to Cedric in English heavily laced with a French accent. Cedric’s titles—a Briton from one of the main pillars of the Allies, an Eton alumnus, a diplomat father, and a relative of the Queen—were quite enticing to him.

“Cedric, what do you think? You’re welcome anytime. Ah, and after the party, we’re planning to hang out in a small group with those girls over there at our hideout. Want to come?”

In the direction Jean was pointing, a group of girls in dresses gathered together waved their hands lightly and giggled. However, for Cedric, it was a proposal of no interest whatsoever.

“I don’t know. I already have someone I made plans with. Excuse me.”

“What? Hey, don’t be a buzzkill. If you change your mind, come to Watergate in the Mitte district. I’ll give you a killer night with my favorite strippers.”

Lightly pushing away Jean, who casually wrapped an arm around his shoulder, Cedric slipped out to the open terrace. Through the large windows of the banquet hall visible from the terrace came the laughter of gorgeously dressed people, the sparkling of crystal chandeliers clearly hand-carved by craftsmen, and the performance of an orchestral band echoing through the central garden. Despite the spacious venue and the overflowing crowd, Cedric’s heart found nowhere to settle.

He had thought that peers his age would be more open-minded, even in a stiff situation like this or when talking seriously about the unfolding political situation. Yet, much like the adults—or even more intensely—they were building a world strictly of their own. And that, too, with nothing but meaningless nightlife and entertainment.