I sat there in the shady cool of a dimly lit cafe thinking of what was to come and of things that had already happened. I looked down through blurry eyes at the cold whiskey in its heavy-bottomed glass and began to recall hiking across the mortar-scarred hillsides and down to the river where the blood and vermouth flowed in equal amounts.
I thought of taking the train through the prados and the fly fishing and the little rocks underneath the surface of the water and barrels and barrels of wine Alfonso and I would consume on our fishing trips and that time in Cuba where a she-woman cracked a porcelain ashtray over my skull for the crime of having eighteen rums in a single afternoon.
The white-hot sun illuminated the city square outside the cool and not-too-bright barroom and I still sat, quiet in thought. I thought of German boot prints in the snow and the machine gun fire coming from the tattered farmhouses and from behind the corpses of livestock and all the other beautiful and horrible things that come with a good war. I thought of all the ale we drank. At night to go to sleep and in the morning to greet the day and still more ale to help us get wobbly enough to dodge all the machine gun fire.
Everyone in the streets and through the square was dancing and bulls were gouging people and the red blood reminded me of the same red of the cherries that rest atop a perfectly made Manhattan at the Ritz back in Paris and the red of Gelhorn’s lipstick when she would wave from the train. Gelhorn never could stand to be a worse writer than I was. But her jealousy never tasted as sweet as the feeling of getting tight with some strong aperitifs and liqueurs and getting your fishing hook into a great beast and forgetting all your troubles and injuring your thumb in the strong line of the reel and drinking even more to celebrate the fish and the sea and the delightful wound that only the bravest of fishermen can defeat.
These good and true and brave things are not forever. The whiskey and the wine and the vermouth and the ale and the scotch and the vodka and especially the rum – these things can be fun but ultimately perhaps I should give a shot to having some fun while sober. Maybe find joy in one of my wives’ company without starting a row. I suppose one can fish without being soused. And I suppose I might have shot more accurately in the blown-up mountains of Italy and perhaps would have not had my own leg so badly destroyed if my head were more clear.
As sure as this tavernita was cool and dark and the stone streets outside were hot and and white and full of raucous cheer and of course the bulls, I knew there was more to life than booze. I could resolve to find out what is good and true about yoga and meditation and the health benefits of functional mushrooms like lion’s mane.
It was then the waiter’s shadow fell upon the empty table I was staring down at.
“Another whisky, señor?”
“No. I’ll have a chai latte and a shot of wheatgrass.”
As the mesero headed back towards the kitchen, I called to him.
“Roberto,” I said. “Just fucking kidding. I’ll have another whisky. And make it a double, por favor.”
