A Spanish Cafe

The met at a Spanish café on the tiled river front of Paris. Short story writer, Jack Hare, arrived early and smoked, slyly, slowly, so he could see the ins, and the outs, of his lungs. A shy, modest man, whose ugliness forced him to commit acts of great kindness. He wrote deliberately playful short stories with phrases that tripped across the tongue, spinning, toppling, stinging like pins and needles. His drink, in a simple, un-ornate glass, was a white wine, dry, non-committal, and he sipped, fingers tip tapping, while he waited. He was halfway through refilling, glug by glug, when a voice said:

“Drinking all ready, old chap?” said the boisterous, moustached, long coat wearing voice of George Moore. He and his wife, stood over him, like Pallas Athene and Perseus, with their arms linked like white breaded croissants.

“I couldn’t help myself,” Jack said, “had to spice it up. The loneliness, I mean. Can’t think of anything worse. Alone and sober. Terrible.”

George laughed, as he did at anything that was intended to be funny; a nice social habit.  Unfortunately, he also referred to people by their gender rather than their name.

“This guy,” George said, pointing, “me and this guy spent so much time rowing one time that I couldn’t move my arm for a week.”

George laughed again.

“I want you to meet this Gal, old chap,” George said, “rumour has it, I’m going to marry her.”

The girl blushed and Jack, brushing a stray hair, looked at her for the first time. She was alarming. She slipped, like water, into the seat opposite Jack and held out her hand. At first, Jack thought she wanted him to shake it and held out his hand, only to realise it was tipped topside for him to kiss.

Her little avian bones, four sharp ridges, wrapped in a soft, silky white, could not really be skin at all, but had to be some other, better fabric made just to look at. George had decorated that hand with a year’s worth of silver, glinting and wrapped around a single finger. Jack kissed the hand and tried to make the moment into one of those memories that cannot be forgotten.

“How do you do?” she said.

“I do,” Jack said, “I do fine.”

“It’s awfully rude of me, old boy, but do you mind pouring some of that wine into a glass that isn’t your own. I’m parched. And the lady, well, she’s a lady, isn’t she?”

They all smiled.

“What’s your name?” Jack said, pouring two glasses of wine. “It must be something fantastic.”

“It’s Victoria,” she said, “I forgot my second name, one forgets their second name when they are getting married, after all, they’ve no use for it.”

Jack poured them two, sparkling, glasses of white wine. The sun, drunk after shining through the three glasses, did a little dance on the table.

“This boy writes short stories,” George said.

“Oh, really,” Victoria said, “I love a good story, especially when they are short, then they don’t waste my time.”

“They are nothing really,” Jack said. “Just little drabbles.”

“They’re worth a lot of money those little drabbles, old chap. Did you know, darling, a Jack Hare story fetches around two hundred pounds? And he writes three a week, sometimes four. Rarely five, but, when he gets hungry, he writes five.”

And he laughed, ha, ha, ha.

“You’re Jack Hare?” she said, a cocktail of awe and admiration in the twinkling notes of her voice.

“Try not to boast,” he said.

He had spent last night rehearsing that line and it came out stilted, like a little heap of sound.

“Why! I love your stories,” Victoria said. “Honey, why didn’t you tell me you knew Jack Hare?”

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” George said. “You know, he helped me publish my book.”

In truth, it was a terrible book and would have never published, unless Jack had put his name in the front. It was a shame because it was a work of good, old, rusty sentiment, belonging in a better time.

“But why don’t you write a novel? Old boy, surely you have enough money now?”

“Oh no,” Jack said, “Quite comfortable with short stories. I’m not like you George. Would get far to bored.”

“I don’t know how he did it,” she took a sip, “I struggled to even read the thing.”

“You’ve got some tongue!” George said.

“It gets bitter,” placing down the empty glass, “when there’s no wine on it.”

She smiled at George, George smiled back. They kissed.

“I love your bitter little tongue,” he said.

“And I love your bitter little book,” smiling, “I lied about struggling, I’m just showing off to Jack.”

Jack looked out onto the river, it was less sickening. They drank the wine and passed some time talking about the weather and the smaller, inconsequential stories in the newspaper. George had read a story about a man who had lost his hat in Switzerland and found it again in Amsterdam, Jack said this was purely coincidental, but George insisted that it was all fate, if ever anything like that ever happened, then it was always, without question fate. Victoria said fate to contribute. Then George said:

“Old boy, let’s go to the bar, I haven’t been to a bar with you in a long time.”

They went to the bar; it was cool and dark inside. There was a little fan and a little ambience from a jazz flute.

“What do you want, old boy? Gin and Tonic, we used to be mad for Gin and Tonic.”

George was leant on the marble bar as if he belonged there.

“I’m still mad for it,” Jack said.

George laughed. He held up his middle finger and his forefinger, the barman stopped polishing glasses and started pouring them their drinks.

“She’s a fine gal, hey?”

“She’s very fine.”

“She’s a treat.”

“She is.”

“What’s the matter, Jack?”

“Nothing,” Jack said, “nothing at all.”

Their drinks came; they had flotillas of lime and ice in them. The ice rattled around the glass, making fluttery, wind chime music. George turned and placed his elbows on the bar, he sipped his drink like that. Jack kept himself leant on the bar.

“Do you have a girl, old boy?”

“No.”

“That’s a lie. Have you been fighting?”

“I don’t have a girl George.”

“You know, Jack, for an author, you are a terrible liar.”

“There is no girl,” Jack said and looked over his shoulder at Victoria.

“Would you like my girl?” George said. “Is that it, you’re welcome to her.”

“Don’t tease me George, I don’t like it. Old. Boy.”

Jack said it with a sneer, so George would know he really didn’t like it. George looked at his glass and then patted Jack on the back, softly, with real care.

“I’m sorry Jack,” he said, “I didn’t mean to get rough. Perhaps we should have something stronger.”

Jack nodded and slammed down the empty glass. George finished his, but slowly, not taking his eyes off of Jack.

“You know I didn’t mean it, don’t you?” George said.

“Yes,” Jack said and nodded. “I know.”

George slid the cup back onto the bar. He held his two fingers up.

“Double it this time,” he said, then turned to Jack. “Listen Jack, me and Victoria are going to a party, you should come. It will be like old times. Don’t you think it will be like old times?”

“Depends on the party.”

“Will you bring this girl?”

Jack blew out breath for a while. He glanced over his shoulder at Victoria.

“I haven’t even spoken to her.”

“Oh, come on Jack, is that it?”

“Don’t get rough.”

“I’m not getting rough; I just thought I knew Jack Hare.”

“Perhaps you don’t.”

“Well, girl or no girl, I want you to come to the party.”

The waiter came with the double gin and tonics.

“I need something for the lady, old boy,” George said.

“What were you thinking?” the waiter said.

George looked at Victoria with a smile, she looked up from her makeup mirror, she smiled back. It was one of those wonderful bits of synchronism people in love often experience.

“Something strong,” he said, “I want her slightly dizzy. She’s a hoot when she’s dizzy.”

The waiter came back with a pitcher of sangria and three of those pretty little V-shaped cocktail glasses. He put an extra three shots of brandy in the glass and charged double. George smiled despite this and the pair headed back to the table.

“Oh, yummy,” Victoria said as George placed the pitcher on the table.

“I was telling Jack about the party tonight.”

“What were you telling him about it?” Victoria said, pouring the sangria into her glass, the chunks of fruit splashing, Victoria darting away every time, yelping, hissing almost, it might as well have been acid.

“I said it would be like old times,” George said and then to Jack, “Didn’t I, chap?”

“What rot. What did you tell him that for? No one wants old times George, no one wants to do something twice.”

“There are some things worth doing more than once.”

“That’s different every time darling.”

Jack shuddered, they were the kind of couple that publically acknowledged they slept together; he thought, often while alone, the habit always displayed a sense of sexual insecurity, especially in married couples, or to be married couple. It is best to keep it a secret, he thought; else you might as well invite voyeurs.

“Are you coming Jack?” she said.

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, you should come, darling,” she said and touched his arm, “I would love to see you there. And, god knows, it might even be fun.”

“Yes, come on, old boy, what’s stopping you? You can bring that girl.”

“Oh, yes, bring a girl,” Victoria said, “we can pretend we’re middle aged and middle classed with nothing better to do that meet other couples. Oh, it will be darling.”

Jack downed his Sangria.

“Fine,” he said, “fine, but you have to buy me a drink there,” pointing, refilling, gulping, “I can’t stand parties sober.”

“That’s the boy I know, see darling, I told you, I told you,” George said, “good man, good man.”

He patted Jack, hard, on the shoulder; Jack was shook, he couldn’t pick up his sangria, it would go all over the table.

“It’s been so long since we talked,” Jack said. “I don’t even know how you met one another.”

“Oh, it’s not that extraordinary,” George said and proceeded to tell the story of how he and Victoria met.

They met on a cruise for rich people. George, then newly rich, had decided he would celebrate the publishing of his new book with the lazy sort of gallivanting that is cruising. Victoria was the daughter of a rich man who owned an oil company, or whatever it was that made people rich at the moment.

They had met at a dance on the cruise. Apparently, the cruise held dances every three nights, although people never attended all of them, that was unfashionable. They had danced the foxtrot and then a waltz and then another foxtrot. At some point in that cavalcade of steps, they had fallen in love. They spent a happy month together, visiting George’s private suite every afternoon and getting ‘razzled’ every evening.

The cruise came to a stop at Paris and the pair bought an apartment. They soon got bored, so George decided to propose, it seemed like a good few months of entertainment to the pair. Jack couldn’t help but wonder if, after a few months married, they might spice up their marriage with children, or a divorce. Whilst George was telling this story, Victoria was getting steadily drunk and by the time he finished she began giggling to herself.

“Will you make a short story of us?” Victoria said and hiccupped.

“I will have to,” Jack said, he was in a much better mood now.

“And you’re coming to the party?” George said, he was glancing at his watch and packing up the conversation, it was clear he was leaving.

“Yes,” Jack said, he looked at Victoria, she hiccupped again.

“I’m so happy you’re coming Jack,” Victoria said, “I can’t wait.”

She leant over and kissed him. She got unsteadily onto her feet, it seemed as if the ground was spreading out beneath her. Her heels played a solo on the tiles. George got up and steadied her.

“Now, darling, shall we get a cab or walk?” George said to Victoria.

“How much will a cab cost?”

“Oh, not much.”

“You should convince those people over there to buy your novel.”

“I’m not going to-”

“Excuse me, excuse me,” she shouted, waving at the table where three sectarians were playing bridge.

George clamped his hand over her mouth, a rosy smile over his lips.

“Victoria, old gal, be quiet, you are embarrassing Jack. Jack, old boy, we have to leave before she does something terrifying.”

The pair left like that with George’s hand over her mouth. Jack watched them leave. He smoked for a while after they left. It is not so bad to smoke on your own, he thought. At one point, he ordered a ‘whisky and soda’ and felt awfully American for a while. He touched his arm and thought of her fingers, pausing, just there, for a second too long.