The space was a complete disaster, but not in a physical sense. There were no overturned tables or even broken chairs. The disaster was auditory, it was human.
The uproar invaded everything the moment you crossed the threshold. Some people celebrated loudly, banging their glasses on the table; others argued heatedly over debts or old grudges that alcohol had unearthed.
A few, already dead drunk, babbled nonsensical songs with glazed-over eyes, and in the darkest corners, several couples were doing the kinds of things couples do, though only within the bounds of the establishment's rules: nothing too scandalous, nothing that would force the bartender to intervene.
But make no mistake. The place wasn't a seedy dive. In fact, it was immaculate. The polished cement floor gleamed faintly in the dim light, and on a small stage at the back, a group of musicians played soft melodies on lutes and flutes. It was a perfect contradiction: calm music floating over a sea of raised voices, as if trying, unsuccessfully, to remind people that this was still a civilized place.
The smell of food—roasted meat, freshly baked bread, sweet spices—invaded your senses without permission, awakening your appetite even in the midst of chaos. And hanging from the ceiling, like tiny captive stars, dozens of magical bulbs encased in cut crystal illuminated the tavern in warm yellow tones.
The light danced on the dark wood walls, creating cozy shadows that invited you to stay. It was a strangely welcoming place for a spot where, at any moment, someone could end up with a black eye.
Boisterous laughter mixed with heated arguments and the sharp clink of whiskey glasses hitting the tables. The constant clinking was like rain on a zinc roof.
At one of the central tables, a group of men celebrated with the enthusiasm of someone who had just escaped the guillotine.
"I heard your wife finally gave birth. How do you feel, being a father now?" said a bearded, adult man, taking a slow, deliberate sip of his drink. "Congratulations on that, truly."
"Oh, brother, I am so... so happy!" exclaimed the new father. He was probably in his mid-twenties, but at that moment he looked like a kid with a new toy. His smile was so wide it threatened to split his face. "I couldn't wait for my wife to give birth to our beloved child. It's a boy! My firstborn!"
"But don't you think you took way too long to make us uncles, huh?" muttered another friend, a skinny, mischievous type with a raised eyebrow. "You had us waiting like... how many years of marriage? We almost thought you didn't know how it was done!"
"Ha, ha, ha!" The father's laugh was a bit forced, mixed with embarrassment. His face reddened, more from awkwardness than alcohol. "It's just that I didn't have much time. You know, work, travel... That's why I couldn't have a kid before. But he's here now! And the boy is so strong!"
"Ha, ha, ha! You were the only one left! But now you're a father too!" another shouted, raising his mug. "Let's celebrate this great blessing! To the little one!"
"A toast to our dear, great brother!" the bearded man interjected, standing up and raising his glass as if it were a sword.
Clink-clink. Clink-clink.
The liquor bottles chimed as they touched, a chorus of crystal celebrating life.
"To our great brother!" they all repeated in unison around the table, and the wine flowed down their throats like a river of joy.
---
At a separate table, in a corner where the light from the magical bulbs didn't reach as strongly, the atmosphere was quite different.
"Don't you plan on paying me my money, huh?" growled a large man, a veritable bull in a shirt. His hand, the size of a shovel, gripped the neck of a much smaller man, who was weakly kicking his feet.
"B-brother..." stammered the debtor, a skinny guy with a frightened look, his face flushed. "I'm gonna get you the money... just have a little patience... please... I swear..."
"Two days!" the loan shark spat, bringing his face close to the debtor's. His breath stank of onions and threats. "I'm giving you just two more days. If you don't get my money, you know what's going to happen to you, right? Remember what happened to Limpy? I don't even have to tell you again."
And with a brutal shove, he let him go.
The debtor stumbled backward, crashing into an empty chair. The collar of his shirt was torn, a clean rip revealing the red mark of fingers on his skin.
"Damn..." he whispered to himself, as the loan shark returned to his table with the leisurely air of a satisfied predator. From there, the big man made a gesture with his fingers: index and middle pointing to his own eyes, then turning his hand to point at the debtor. I'm watching you. Don't even think about running.
The debtor swallowed hard. The taste was bitter, metallic. He thought about the door, about the dark night, about freedom.
"I should get out of here, no..." he whispered, shaking his head. "If I do that, everything will be way worse. That animal has friends everywhere. He'd find me. And I don't want to die. Not like this."
"Damn, damn, damn," he muttered through his teeth as he sat down. He grabbed his glass, still half-full of cheap whiskey, and downed it in one gulp. The liquid burned his throat, a minor punishment compared to the one awaiting him.
Thump!
He slammed the empty glass on the table, a gesture of impotent frustration. Then he brought both hands to his head, burying his fingers in his sweaty hair, while keeping his head down. His elbows dug into the dark wood as if trying to anchor him to reality.
Every now and then, he'd sneak a glance up, like a mouse stalked by a cat, and look toward the table of the man who had lent him the money. And every time he did that, the loan shark was already looking at him. With a smile. A smile that didn't reach his eyes, cold as the edge of a knife.
---
A few minutes passed. The tavern door, a massive oak slab with iron reinforcements, suddenly opened.
Not violently, but with a calm that was even more striking.
And then, it happened.