The Bitter Wine Memento

We drink in silence. I can tell it disturbs this Mr Pomeroy, much like it disturbed the waiter before him. But the free wine is enough for him to take the silence. An offer like that doesn’t come every day. He finishes quickly.

"Bloody good wine. Thanks for that."
Philip Pomeroy gets ready to leave, putting his jacket on hastily. But I smile and reply drunkenly.

"It is on the house."

He stops to look at me. A new smile crowns his lower lip.

"Nice knowing you, then, stranger."

He walks always, hunched over, making heavy sounds of steps on the carpeted floor. I call after him.

"Mr Pomeroy! Come join me again, what’s the rush? The night is young and I have stories to tell."

He turns slowly, facing me. I can see in his face that he prepares to make the same choice as the waiter did. “Am I just a drunkard to the likes of this Philip Pomeroy, professional piano player?” I think to myself. Then he surprises me by walking steadily back to me.

"I don’t see why I cannot spend a while longer here. It’s not like its any better at home. The wife’s there, you know."

Pomeroy expects a laugh, one which I do not give him.

"Did you know I was married once?"
"No, I didn’t. But then again I don’t even know your name, man."

The piano player tries again to get us formally introduced. I do not bite his hook.

"Laura. She was lovely. I loved her. She loved music."

"That’s better than Mrs Pomeroy! Sometimes I think that all she loves is pancakes and pantalets."

"Then there was Dana Sue. She loved me, loved me like a child loves her puppy. I loved feeling needed, which was less than she deserved. Poor thing."

At this point Pomeroy accepts defeat. I am not going to laugh and I am not going to introduce myself. He leans back in his chair, listening with a critical wrinkle on his forehead, sucking the brim of the empty wine glass. Perhaps he expects me to buy him more if he stays. I leave him under that impression.

"You know the truth, Mr Philip Pomeroy? I shouldn’t even be here. I should be dead. I would be dead had I not killed a man. The Germans broke through the fences one night. Were you in the war, my piano-playing friend?"

"No, was found non-suitable due to an old injury, so I was never draft. Wouldn’t know what it was like."

"Lucky. We sat huddled, what remained of us. In my lap I had the field doctor, trembling as if in the shivers of death. I had shot him when my rifle misfired. Or perhaps I was just a lousy shot; I never stopped to think about it. He was the only man I killed in the war, imagine that. When I heard them coming I crawled under his stiff, cold body and pretended I was dead as well. They killed everyone, everyone but me. Once they were gone I managed to get myself to a house belonging to a German couple. I swore I would kill them if they would not help me, so they did. The rest, I guess, is what you’re looking at. An empty cartridge case, a bow without its instrument, a ladder that leads nowhere.

"I understand… well, what can you do but drink up?"

The little man seems uncomfortable. He wriggles in his chair, probably hoping he had gone before. The light is now dimmer than ever. The darkness is only cut by a few living candles, including the one on my table still hanging on. The men in the corner are now putting on their coats and hats. Their shady business is finished. The hour is so late that even crime is going to sleep. I am tired.

"No. You do not understand! I tell you that I am supposed to be dead, when in reality it would make very little difference. I am dead, my friend. Immensely, thoroughly and truly dead. Hollow. Invisible. Pointless. Loveless. Breathing. By god, breathing!"