I
My name is Astaire Bloom, and I’m 34 years old. So far, I’ve had exactly 41 jobs. I won’t describe the boring details of each of them, but let’s just say I’ve got a knack for getting fired. I would love to say I’m a regular person. A good person. But that would be a complete lie, and despite all my faults, lying isn’t one of them.
Right now, I’m walking from the bus stop down a forest path toward my newest job, carrying all my belongings on my back. 34 years of life condensed into one medium-sized backpack.
The forest is as unexciting as it gets. Regular trees covered in leaves standing there doing nothing at all. The sky is low and dim, dark clouds threatening to break out in tears above the green crowns. The screaming of music from my headphones covers any sounds that nature might throw at me. I don’t pay much attention to the path, either, since I have no plans of coming back down here anytime soon. After all, this job requires me to stay on for at least six months. Let’s see if I can even last that long before getting sacked.
I continue until a giant iron gate blocks my path. A red brick wall covered in black spikes stretches into the distance. Metalchains thicker than thighs wrap around the columns, shutting it securely. With no bell or anything else to call someone to open these gates, I look around until I find a place I can cross.
In need of urgent repairs, the bricks crumble halfway down to the ground not far from the gate. Thick vines push through overgrown bushes, conveniently forming a climbable path up the wall. But the building on the other side is not what I expected at all. This isn’t some country house, but a castle. The faded walls reaching several stories high are almost impressive, and the castle grows out of the thicket, ancient and stubborn, defying history itself.
The agency hadn’t given me many details about the job, but I was under the impression this was just a weekender, the kind of place inhabited by a decrepit old man, leftover from a time when things were, according to him, simpler. I imagined him desperately hanging on to life, while his descendants circle around him like vultures until they can sell the place and live off the profits.
I’m grimy and embarrassingly sweaty by the time I walk up the portico steps. Just like the iron gates, there’s no way to ring for someone here either. The oversized wooden gate confronts me with indifference. I pause the tape I’m listening to, and pull my headphones down before knocking as loudly as I can. When nothing happens, I knock again. I stand there for several minutes, wondering if I got the wrong place.
As a cold wind crawls over my raised hand, the sky breaks, and the clouds part. A lonely ray of sun squeezes through the new opening, illuminating the marred wood in front of me. I knock again, much louder this time. My fist freezes mid-air as the door violently swings open. A large man fills the doorway, his angry eyes burning in the shadows.
“What?” he growls through gritted teeth.
I take a step back to put some distance between our bodies.
When I don’t answer immediately, he adds, “What do you want?”
“I’m Bloom,” I say, startled, trying to keep my voice from shaking.
“Why should it matter to me who you are?” he replies, eyes narrowing. His voice is quieter now, almost hoarse, but still seething with anger.
“I…I’m here for the custodian position.”
My heart is pounding so loudly, my eardrums pulsate. The man’s chest expands as he takes a deep breath, before abruptly turning around and storming back inside.
I feel smaller than a fly.
Barely visible in the gloom of the foyer, he stops at the centre and shouts, “How dare you trouble me with trifles like this?”
I don’t dare move or say anything, just try to keep as still as possible on the threshold of this castle. Maybe this way, he’ll forget I’m here.
“Bayard!” He screams the name like he’s done it countless times before.
I hold my breath, as the man’s anger leaches from his body.
“Bayard!” he screams once more.
Rushed footsteps echo through the room, and a new figure appears, an old man. “My sincerest apologies, please…” Bayard says, bowing profusely.
“Cease your snivelling, Bayard. This is unforgivable,” the man seethes.
Bayard’s head lowers nearly to the floor.
“Do not bother me with this again.” Then the man storms off into the building.
Bayard stands still until the footsteps of the angry man are no longer audible. Only then do I dare take another breath.
He straightens up, brushes his coat off, and walks over to the open door as if nothing unusual had just happened. “Who are you?” he asks in an unusually tight tone of voice.
I take a moment to collect myself before answering with my name.
“Ah, yes, Mister Bloom. Please follow me.” He moves to the side, and before I can process what I just saw, he’s already marching down the foyer, his words quiet with each step he takes. “We’ve been expecting you.”
