The Sweetest Music

Chapter Two

Smoke Gets in Your Eyes

***

Shivering, Lyra took off her boots, placing them in the corner right next to the stairs she'd just traversed. The little corridor - more like a half-room, really - met her with its usual cosy homeliness: the newspapers in the corner, the shoe stall in another, the other half of the corridor leading to the toilets. And, of course, the Great Opening - a little peek-through, un-curtained, un-doored, leading to the Room: the bar counter, the round tables, and, of course, the Stage.

The Stage: the sacred, bawdy place where the angels and demons of blues (and sometimes the newborn - or newly-being-born - 'jazz') indulged in their holy blasphemy of horns and guitar, and the keys, and the drums, and the rusty vocals, and the smooth backup, and the soul, and the deep equinity of music, and compassion - the compass in the world of disorientation.

Lyra coughed in a short fit: her throat was still sore and ticklish from the cold, but it wasn't worth staying at home. Had been worth taking an early leave from work, though. The mint pony turned towards the manager. "Lyra Heartstrings."

The manager nodded and left her spot near the security pegasus, leading the lyrist into the Room: the shrine of food and drink, and smoke and music, and the calm wildness of the patrons' mild excitement, the kind of excitement that builds up inside gradually but demands instant release: first, you're tapping your hoof against the floor, then your forehoof goes clicking against the table, your head is shaking, your lips break into a smile, and then you're up and going on the floor, dancing the night away.

Lyra took her seat at the round table next to the VIP lounge - a similar table, just a little bigger, with cushions instead of chairs. She liked her place, though: the wood of the table - the speciality of this bar - always made a nice contrast to the usual metal nakedness of Canterlot tables: a Manehattan trend, no doubt. Besides, it was the only table on this side of the bar, with a clear view of the stage; all other tables were on the other side, and that added a pleasant touch of solitude.

Lyra took up the menu. The VIP lounge erupted in laughter. The mare took a glance at the nearby table: all stallions, all laughing out loud, holding their drinks and smoking their cigarettes. Nothing worth paying attention to. Not that she wanted to, of course: stallions weren't in her particular field of interest. Still, she couldn't help but overhear bits of their conversation.

"Can't get a show in Ponyville," one of the stallions lamented, sipping on his gin-and-tonic. "Town's taken by the blues guys, meh."

"Oh come on!" His friend gave the stallion a playful punch at the shoulder. "You used to be a blues guy, too, you know."

"All better than Los Pegasus," a stallion in the far corner called out. "Imagine what: after a show, this guy approaches me, okay?, and he's all like, you know?, huggy. I got all careful, of course, and then he tries to lean in!" An expression of severe disgust crossed the pony's face. "Had to kick the homo good and get out of that damn place. I'll never play a gig there - Celestia forbid!"

Lyra lit up a cigarette, watching the smoke curl up to the ceiling, vanishing in the dim light of the bar. Apparently, they're musicians, she thought idly, toying with the lighter.

"Why didn't you call the police?" The first speaker wondered.

"Nah. You know I don't like those guys." The table erupted in laughter once again.

Lyra puffed out a veil of smoke. Who does, though? A waiter came up to her.

"Ready to order, ma'am?"

Lyra nodded. "You still have that daisy salad, right?"

The waiter shook his head apologetically - even though he didn't look apologetic in the slightest. "Sorry, ma'am, not serving that anymore. Maybe you'd like something else?"

The mare sighed. "An Old Fashioned." She buried her eyes into the menu. "And bring me those tomato sandwiches."

As the waiter took his leave, Lyra looked around, slowly, taking in the Room. In the corner, four mares and two stallions were sitting around a large table, cake resting on it gorgeously. Must be a birthday. The few tables next to them were occupied by couples, mostly, save for the two in the corner: one table was occupied by a pair of stallions, sitting next to each other, casting short, scared glances, exchanging private messages. Their hooves rested close to one another, only a few centimetres away - a valid distance. Good for them, Lyra thought, her mind immediately recognising two ponies in a secret love affair. Limit your exposure. It felt as if she were sending this mental message not only to the two colt-cuddlers, but also to herself: a reminder of what she needed to do. What all of them needed to do.

The other table hosted two young mares, one of whom Lyra found disturbingly pretty. Those two, however, weren't so skilful at concealing their feelings: long, longing, loving stares, hooves resting atop each other, even occasional pecks. The ponies around them made an effort not to look. And so did Lyra.

The drink arrived and the mare took a sip. The pleasant warmth of whisky was softened by the cold touch of water and ice: not something she'd want on such a cold winter night, sure, but still, the drink was good. Lyra flicked the cigarette against the glass of the ashtray.

"Have a smoke?"

Lyra raised her head briefly to see a brown earth pony, his beige mane already sweaty and dishevelled. "Sure, here you go." She levitated a cigarette, which the stallion caught in his mouth with a casual, "Much obliged." Passing by the table, he swished his tail against the little candle, making the light flicker. Lyra sighed. It was one of the few disadvantages of her table, with its being in the way of all and any passer-by.

The sandwiches arrived, and Lyra wasted no time munching on one. Tomato juice dripped onto her chin, and she wiped it off with a napkin. A gulp of her drink - and she was ready to enjoy the show.

And the show was about to begin indeed. The stallions next to the mint mare rose from their seats and swiftly trotted onto the stage, taking up their instruments: sax, trumpet (that looked suspiciously like a sax), drumsticks, bass, guitar. Vocals mikes. No piano. Lyra raised her brow.

"Gooood evening, friends!" the drummer greeted the audience, waving his drumsticks in the air with his telekinesis. The ponies in the Room erupted in applause. Lyra tapped her hoof against the ground. Because, of course, we are all friends here.

In fact, many of them were, as it seemed: ponies conversed freely and, even though Lyra frequented this place often, she didn't have this feeling of brief friendship; or any sense of belongness at all. If there was a word to describe her current situation - or maybe her whole life? - it was unbelongness. A pleasant unbelongness, too. In some way, it gave her a feeling of certain exemption, leash-freedom, uncircumscribedness.

Meanwhile, the guitarist took up the mike, "We're gonna play some hot dance tunes - none of that blues stuff - so I ask all mares to go down on the dancefloor and swing!"

"Swing." Lyra lit up another cigarette, watching mares of all colour and complexion assemble on the dancefloor. That's what they call this new music? Sure, this whole 'jazz' thing was nice, but... the blues appealed to her more, with its sombre, kind word of empathy and compassion, and not the 'forget all problems, dance and swing' attitude of jazz.

"What about the stallions?" one of the already drunk birthday-mare-companions called out.

"Weeell, we don't wanna see sweaty stallions on the dancefloor, if that's what you're wondering," the drummer replied with a short laugh, shared by the audience, "but I'm sure the mares here would like to see some guys dance with 'em!" Lyra had a sudden desire to hurl the ashtray against the wall.

Accompanied by good natured - or was it? - laughter, the band began to play. Stallions rushed to the dancefloor and took up mares, and swirled in a wild dance as the guitar and the trumpets sang their jazz. This music, this jazz... This was new. But this particular band? They were ahead of their time, music-wise. Lyra found, to her surprise, that she just couldn't dislike them. Homophobia was the trend of the whole society, not just the band. The law prohibited homosexual relations. Hell, if anything, it was she, Lyra Heartstrings, who was in the wrong, in accordance to the morals.

The mint mare just watched the ponies dance, step here, step there, and spin, and spin again, and hit her table - of course they would - and spin again, and step here, and hit her table again. And so on. She didn't dance, one of the few ponies in the bar: along with those two evidently gay stallions who just watched the dancefloor nervously. She didn't know how to dance, on one hoof; and, well, on the same hoof, she didn't want to. The feeling of unbelongness demanded her abstracting from the dancefloor.

One of the obviously lesbian mares swung jovially with her 'special' friend, shaking her flank right before Lyra's face. It took some effort to look away. Finally, one of the table-bound stallions smiled weakly and moved onto the dancefloor, picking up a mare to dance with. His... friend's eyes were fixed on him all the time, concern and understanding evident in them.

They are covering up nicely, Lyra mused. Good for them. Meanwhile, one of the filly-foolers hit the table with her flank accidentally. "Oh, sorry!" she called out, immediately diverting her attention from Lyra and carried on with the posterior-swinging.

The lyrist's eye twitched. She sighed. Time to get freshened up.

***

Cold water was a blessing. Lyra was perfectly sure of it as she washed her face all over again, for what seemed like a good ten minutes. The arousal was gone, and there was nothing to keep her from being calm and restrained. She didn't want to come off as a filly-fooler. Even if she was one. One way or another, doing time in prison wasn't exactly what she dreamed of.

Lyra felt a familiar urge and, with a grunt, directed herself towards the stalls. Great, and now I'll have to wash my hooves all over again. She leaned against a stall door and pressed it in.

As she stepped inside, the sight of two very familiar mares met her eyes. Those two mares, one of whom possessed what seemed to Lyra a perfect flank. Those two mares, making out. Don't you people just lock the door, dammit?

The mares stared at the mint pony in horror. Finally, the one with the Perfect Flank spoke in a trembling voice, "Please... Don't tell anypony! We just started dating, and..."

"You people," Lyra hissed through gritted teeth. Was she this irritated because she couldn't have what they had? Was she this angry because she didn't have a mare of her own, all be it a secret affair?

"Please..." Perfect Flank's marefriend begged.

Lyra just narrowed her eyes. "I give you one good piece of advice: Limit. Your. Exposure." She sighed and leaned against the wall, shapes dancing behind her closed eyelids. "Now get out. Just... get out."

She didn't watch the mares leave. Her heart was pounding in her chest, jumping all the way to her throat. It was probably round about midnight.

She was ready for another drink.

***

The clock had struck two - well, it would have, if there were a clock in the bar - and the dancefloor was going wild. Most ponies had occupied their seats once more, but the ones that carried on with the swinging - how come the band didn't get tired? - were going overboard. In all aspects: the two lesbian mares had, apparently, forgotten their previous horror, and were making out in alcohol-soaked bliss. Other patrons pointedly tried to avoid looking at them - which wasn't really hard, with most ponies being wasted.

Lyra couldn't get drunk, though. An Old Fashioned after an Old Fashioned, and the alcohol didn't even hit her. Her head was still clear, and the grimness was stepping in. The kind of grimness she had to fight. She cracked her hooves in an attempt to not even start stepping on those dangerous mental grounds. For now, she was successful.

"Down! Everypony down!"

In an instant, Lyra found herself plastered to the floor, her face hitting the wood of the dancefloor after a well-placed kick. Screams filled the Room. The mare grunted but kept lying still, having encountered police raids before. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the two filly-foolers weeping openly as two pegasus stallions in fine police barding grabbed them violently, dragging them across the dancefloor, towards the exit. The pressure on Lyra's back was released, and the mare stood up cautiously. She glanced at the policepony.

"You all right, ma'am?" he wondered innocently. The contrast was so vivid that Lyra couldn't collect her thoughts for a while. But of course. That was perfectly normal: policeponies were supposed to hit you on the back and then wonder if you're all right. Then why didn't she find it normal in the slightest?

"Yes, thanks." Lyra looked at the two filly-foolers. The one with the perfect flank glared at her fiercely, whispering something under her breath. Then they both disappeared, taken away by the police. The police pegasi retreated as well. The sudden silence in the room, the silence that nopony had recognised prior to this moment - the silence that took over the moment the police broke in - was unbearable.

Lyra watched a brown earth pony stallion, beige-maned, veil-eyed, look over the Room for a moment, standing in the always-open doorless doorway, and leave after the police. Her gaze lingered for a moment, and she returned to her drink.

The band continued to play.