The Bitter Wine Memento

The tinkle of the bell above the door brings me back from the street outside the herbal shop. It is my trusty waiter leaving at last. He has thrown on a long black coat over his white shirt and looks near exhausted. I watch him through the door, once a window, the dark panes turning him into a silent film actor on a sepia-coloured scroll. Outside a girl waits for him. She is wearing a golden dress, or at least that is what the smutty windows have me believe, which is too short and too chilly for the season. You can tell she has spent a long time curling her hair, plastic and black, as it is spiritlessly pinned to her head like a movie star. Even though her little face lights up as she sees the well-built man step out to meet her, a small part of her seems betrayed. Through the glass, on my personal silver screen, my mind lets me fantasize. She has been waiting for almost an hour. “Finally, dear! Why are you so late? We said to meet at midnight, no later. It is royally cold, you know” I have her say. “Customers, Violet. I had to do my job”. My waiter is annoyed by her childish behaviour. “I know you do, you always say, but you also told me that you would be let off by midnight”. Violet, as I have named my character in gold, grabs the once polite man by the arm. “Don’t be so foolish! Let us just get out of here, before the rain gets under my skin”. He brushes her hand off and takes the lead by walking promptly away. She follows, hurt but with acceptance.

Passing my table is a face I recognize, the great body mass cutting me off from the imaginary reel. I cry out instinctively.

"Hello, my friend. If you would come and join me for a sip of bitter wine."

The stout piano player, just leaving his shiny black beast of an instrument looks down on me. His eyes walk between my cloudy gaze and the label on the bottle in my hand. At last he grabs a chair and an empty glass from another table and throws his mass down on the chair hard. The jacket he was carrying over his shoulder is put in his lap.

"Bitter, you say? I thought good wines were oaky? Or smoky? I forget which one it is, if they are not the same, that is."

The little man with his sweat-lacquered face gives me a tired, crooked smile. His voice is high-pitched and he has a strong Irish accent.

"This one tastes like resin, cigarette ash and rotten almonds."

The piano player laughs hoarsely.

"Bitter, then?"

A while passes while I manoeuvre the neck of the bottle over our two glasses. I fill them until the bottle is emptied.

"Not a god damn drop left."

I mumble it under my breath.

"Cheers, then."

The Irish dialect is drowned in the eco of the glass’s cup as he throws back half of it. He comes back out of his deep gulp with a face of liking.

"By the way, my name is Philip Pomeroy."

Pomeroy holds out his little, plump and shiny hand. I look at it, but do not take it. The inner of my mind debates what the point of that is, so close to the end. After a few seconds Pomeroy lowers his hand and a slight look of disappointment flickers across his face. He returns to the rush of the deep red wine.