Baccano! - Volume 17 - Chapter 1.5

Interlude—Victor Talbot’s Report (Excerpt)

This report is a copy of a document I have already dispatched by mail. I do not know who may read it, but there is a matter of which I wish to inform them in advance. As this report has been preserved in its original form, the language used is extremely informal.

However, please don’t misunderstand—I am not the sort of person who would use such language in an official report.

This report is a special one, as it is also a letter to a trusted individual with whom I am already well acquainted, and it is composed of rather light, casual prose.

Therefore, even if this document becomes public after my death—let it be understood that it is, at most, no more than my personal composition. I have not the slightest intent to diminish the authority of the House of Dormentaire, nor to insult the family of my employers.

Please bear this in mind as you read on.

Hey, how’ve you been?

Have you been lonely without me and my letters?

You’ve been pestering me so much for a report, so here I am, writing you one. You know old Szilard’s report will be stiff as a board, so I’ll just write mine the way I always do.

I’ll bet you like it better that way, too, don’t you? It’ll be more like talking to me.

Next time you can’t sleep, read it and imagine me by your pillow.

Well, now for the report.

We made it to the town in good time, but what the hell is that ridiculous piece of work out on the ocean? Strassburg is even more of a mad genius than I’d heard. And so are you Dormentaires for bringing that leviathan to life.

(Omitted)

As for the town itself, it was nothing like what I expected.

I’ve only been here a day, but let me get to the heart of it:

This town is bloody insane.

I’m reporting this opinion in an official capacity.

When I first saw it from horseback, I actually felt sorry for them. I’d assumed some miscreants had been making those counterfeits and drugs beneath the noses of an incompetent ruling class, and now the House of Dormentaire was coming to rain down hell. I thought the poor bastards had lost their town because of a few bad apples.

But when night fell and I met the spy, [ ] (n.b.: the name of the spy was not copied), and got more of the details, I could hardly believe what I was hearing.

The ones making drugs were the ordinary townsfolk. Just regular people. Bloody hell. Can you believe it?

Apparently, it started when one alchemist made the drug on orders from an aristocrat named Avaro. Nobody knows where the original went or how it spread, but then the townspeople started making a cheap imitation.

Every damn person, from the sailors in port to old ladies selling vegetables, was in on the plan. They bought children from slave traders and made them work and breathe in the smoke until they lost their minds and died!

When I asked how many had died, [ ] seemed frustrated. He said, “If I’d started working as a spy sooner, I might’ve saved a lot of those children.” I think he’s taking it too seriously. If we’d found out sooner, you would’ve stepped in earlier and stolen the drug concessions, wouldn’t you? If you’d left it to me, I’d never have used child slaves. Old Szilard might have tried, but I’d have flogged him before he could.

Although, if you’d left it to me, I’d have been against the drug to begin with, as I’m sure you already know. Stuff like opium, say; what the hell’s so much fun about filling your brain with fog? I know it has its uses in medicine, but really.

Come to think of it, I met an alchemist named Begg in town today. Says he only makes drugs. From what I hear, he’s the original creator of that drug, the one commissioned by that aristocrat. I don’t think I’ll ever like him.

Still, he’s a colleague of [ ]’s, so I’ll keep those thoughts to myself in front of him.

By the way, did you know all this already? The spy should have sent you a report, too.

So you should know that this town is a barrel full of bad apples, and it’s actually the aristocrats who are ethical and decent.

If you assumed I was going to cause a scene, you drastically underestimated me. But the whole thing makes me ill, damnably so.

If I’d known before I came here, I might not have wanted to come at all. After I heard about it, I thought the whole damn town should try being enslaved for a while.

It was all so…foul. A truly sickening story.

I don’t know how much you know, but at the Meyer family that [ ] works for, there’s a servant girl named Niki. Would you believe it—she was one of the slaves back then. She told me all about it without hiding a whit of it, as if it didn’t affect her at all. But I think it was so painful that she had to maintain that distance to be able to speak of it at all. She may be younger than me, but I was impressed by her strength.

Oh, but don’t you worry. You’re a finer woman than she is. I’d never let my eyes wander, even if you do have a different man or woman in your bed every night.

Ah, I’m digressing. Actually, I’m digressing on purpose.

What Niki told me was so revolting that I wouldn’t be able to bring myself to write about it if I didn’t interject a joke or two.

So I’m writing it one more time. I want to emphasize this.

All the adults in Lotto Valentino are rotten bastards.

…And yet they walk around pretending to be decent people who committed their crimes to survive. They’re ugly, tedious, and irredeemably vile.

Well, maybe there are a few exceptions. As a matter of fact, from what the spy says, not everyone was involved.

According to the spy, the lady who runs the patisserie partway up the hill categorically refused to have anything to do with that lot. I may go over and buy some sweets from her tomorrow. If they stand a chance of surviving the journey, I’ll send you some next time.

I’m digressing again, but I’m here in the midst of nameless ordinary townsfolk who don’t understand their crimes. It’s sickening.

What I was hoping to find was something out of some heroic drama, an evil secret society, and I’d expose their dastardly deeds myself.

When I told old Szilard about it, he wouldn’t stop mocking me.

What’s wrong with that, though? Alchemists can dream, can’t they?

Well, my travelogue isn’t what you want to know, is it?

I think Carla’s report will contain most of the same information, so I’ll keep mine more subjective than hers.

Today, there was an incident.

Ironically, from what they tell me, this is the one-year anniversary of the day the House of Dormentaire’s ship was set on fire. I’m currently investigating whether that’s got anything to do with it. Look forward to my reports from next week on, but all I can report in this letter is the fact that an incident occurred.

I wasn’t sure where I should start my story, but I’ll begin with what happened at noon.

After Carla and I parted ways, I took a stroll through the port district, and I ran into a couple of extremely odd fellows.

I’m not sure how to explain… They were foreign, yes, and their skin was a different color from mine, but I don’t mean any of that. They were just…weird.