Vinegar Soup by Vinegar Soup

Author:Vinegar Soup [Soup, Vinegar]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Canelo Books
Published: 2017-10-05T00:00:00+00:00

13

Frank leaned back in his chair and gazed out at the night forest. The air was warm and hissing with insects. Fifty yards away the trees appeared as frozen fountains, fantastic shadows against the sky. Through the feathered peaks of these shadows he watched stars drifting like sparks blown from a brilliant fire.

Veronica, beside him, was talking to Boris. She was talking about Olive and the Hercules Cafe, about Gilbert’s stories of Sam and how, when she was flying, she thought she would die. She spoke in a whisper, afraid of disturbing the sleeping forest, and kept pausing, frowning, searching for words while Boris listened, soft as a priest.

‘I’m glad you’ve come,’ said Boris gently, when Veronica had finished. He sat with his back to the forest, shoulders pressed against the veranda and a bottle of brandy in his fist. A moon the size of a dinner plate hung in the darkness over his head. ‘You’ve come. I shall stay. You want to see the hotel? Yes. Tomorrow. Don’t take long. No one here. Empty rooms.’

‘You’re closed,’ said Frank.

‘What?’

‘You’re closed because of Sam.’

‘We never closed,’ exploded Boris. He laughed and sloshed the brandy into glasses. ‘Sam said we was like the Windmill. We never closed but somehow we never looked open. We had problems. Difficulties. It hasn’t been easy these past few months.’

‘What went wrong?’ asked Veronica.

‘Don’t matter,’ sniffed Boris. ‘Finished. Sam said Gilbert would fix it. Sam always had plans for the place. Sam was like that. Crazy bastard. God rest him.’ He took off his hat and fitted it tightly over his knee. His hair was long and bleached by the sun. He wiped his nose. The hat had left a yellow crease on his burnt red skin.

‘God rest him,’ said Veronica.

‘I’m glad you’ve come. You sitting there. Me sitting here. Sam sitting at the bottom of the garden. Let’s drink to Gilbert.’

He pressed his glass against his mouth, jerked back his head and the brandy disappeared. He snorted and sucked air through clenched teeth. Frank and Veronica tried to imitate him.

‘It goes to my head,’ wheezed Veronica. She laughed and coughed and wiped the tears from her eyes.

‘It’s French,’ said Boris, as if that explained everything and he gave the bottle a little shake.

‘Lovely,’ gasped Veronica.

Boris nodded. ‘I save this bottle for something special. Drank the others when old Sam died. Poor bastard. Broke my heart. He loved brandy.’ He carefully refilled their glasses and replaced the bottle between his boots.

Frank thought again of Gilbert standing over the grave of his friend. For a long time he hadn’t moved, he hadn’t spoken, but stood pressed forward against the barbed wire. When they had helped him away his face looked grey and swollen. His clothes were torn. There were flies crawling over his hands. It was one of the few times in his life that Frank had seen him defeated, as if all the sorrow and disappointments, the little pains and defeats of twenty years had squeezed with the strength to burst his heart.

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