You Can Smile on Wednesdays by Zdravka Evtimova

Author:Zdravka Evtimova [Evtimova, Zdravka]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-947917-39-2
Publisher: Fomite

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That day the pub near the railway station was closed; however, the TV was on and an enthusiastic TV channel broadcast a EUROCUP football match. No fans watched the heated rivalry; nobody sat at the tables on which anonymous hands had scrawled insights of such depth that even the plastic tops had blushed with shame. The chairs had been neatly folded, their rust-eaten legs quiet, the plastic seats sporting images that looked like female faces or female posteriors — depending on your mood — all produced by local drinking talents. A genius having an affinity for the boundless ocean of poetry had trumped up a poem dedicated to Anno’s white shirts and pants; however, the author’s enthusiasm was primarily concentrated on the charms under the bartender’s garments.

A short sentence was printed on the wall of the best room above the pub, the one in which David, the manager and house cleaner of The Cat, lived. Anno read the text and ran a temperature, his nose bled and a drunk who the fake stone brandy hadn’t hit that hard fetched Doc Stiom. It was the doc that gave first aid to the pub owner. The emotional uproar this set off was considerable. The loyal customers rushed to the wall and read the obscene libel, stars swimming in their admiring eyes.

“Who wrote this filth on the bricks? Great job! Well done! How did the rogue climb up there? Bravo!” The drunks fully appreciated the culprit’s skills. When David showed up, that puny wisp of a hero the foul writing was dedicated to, everyone stood up, applauding, cheering wildly, pointing at his back. Why should they do this? The little feller’s huge white suit had been delivered from Marseilles, France; it used to be Anno’s property a few days ago, dazzlingly clean, immaculately ironed. The jacket shone, putting to shame the sun that had sucked the clouds dry. Anno witnessed the admiration his employee got from the barflies, and his nose started to bleed again. Doc Stoim suspected the bartender was at his wit’s end, so the doc drove him to the village hospital. Fortunately, Anno’s medical A-Z tests said he was still alive and ok, although the man whispered he was on his last legs. The drinking establishment was temporarily closed, a fact that drove its faithful fake-brandy aficionados to despair. The drunks were so attached to The Cat that they scraped off, on their initiative, the filthy text, which had driven Anno to exhaustion and helplessness. When David showed up wrapped to the eyeballs in his white silk, as lonely as the only bottle in an empty cellar, the aficionados bowed down to him, then the neatest one among them dropped a hint, “If Anno cashes in his chips, you’ll be the owner of the joint, eh? We hope you’ll bring down the price of booze, David. Make it sixty cents a glass, won’t you, baby?”

It transpired they’d reckoned without their host. David didn’t throw open the doors of The Cat.

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