Where There's Smoke (8 page)

*

It is John's last day in Nice. Early next morning he will set off for Dubrovnik for his conference, where they will be discussing, it seems, time before the beginning of time, time after the end of time.

‘Once upon a time I was just a child who liked peering through a telescope,' he says to her. ‘Now I have to refashion myself as a philosopher. As a theologian even. Quite a life-change.'

‘And what do you hope to see,' she says, ‘when you look through your telescope into time before time?'

‘I don't know,' he says. ‘God perhaps, who has no dimensions. Hiding.'

‘Well, I wish I could see him too. But I do not seem to be able to. Say hello to him from me. Say I will be along one of these days.'

‘Mother!'

‘I'm sorry. I am sure you know Helen has suggested that I buy an apartment here in Nice. An interesting idea, but I do not think I will take it up. She says you have a proposal of your own to make. Quite heady, all these proposals. Like being courted again. What is it you are proposing?'

‘That you come and stay with us in Baltimore. It is a big house, there is plenty of space, we are having another bathroom fitted. The children will love it. It will be good for them to have their grandmother around.'

‘They may love it while they are nine and six. They will not love it so much when they are fifteen and twelve and bring friends home and Grandma is shuffling around the kitchen in her slippers, mumbling to herself and clacking her dentures and perhaps not smelling too good. Thank you, John, but no.'

‘You do not have to make a decision now. The offer stands. It will always stand.'

‘John, I am in no position to preach, coming from an Australia that positively slavers to do its American master's bidding. Nevertheless, bear it in mind that you are inviting me to leave the country where I was born to take up residence in the belly of the Great Satan, and that I might have reservations about doing so.'

He stops, this son of hers, and she stops beside him on the promenade. He seems to be pondering her words, applying to them the amalgam of pudding and jelly in his cranium that was passed on to him as a birth gift forty years ago, whose cells are not tired, not yet, are still vigorous enough to grapple with ideas both big and small, time before time, time after time, and what to do with an ageing parent.

‘Come anyway,' he says, ‘despite your reservations. Agreed, these are not the best of times, but come anyway. In the spirit of paradox. And, if you will accept the smallest, the gentlest word of admonishment, be wary of grand pronouncements. America is not the Great Satan. Those crazy men in the White House are just a blip in history. They will be thrown out and all will return to normal.'

‘So I may deplore but I must not denounce?'

‘Righteousness, Mother, that is what I am referring to, the tone and spirit of righteousness. I know it must be tempting, after a lifetime of weighing every word before you write it down, to just let go, be swept up by the spirit; but it leaves a bad taste behind. You must be aware of that.'

‘The spirit of righteousness. I will bear in mind what you call it. I will give the matter some thought. You call those men crazy. To me they do not seem crazy at all. On the contrary, they seem all too canny, all too clear-headed. And with world-historical ambitions too. They want to turn the ship of history around, or failing that to sink her. Is that too grand a figure for you? Does it leave a bad taste? As for paradox, the first lesson of paradox, in my experience, is not to rely on paradox. If you rely on paradox, paradox will let you down.'

She takes his arm; in silence they resume their promenade. But all is not well between them. She can feel his stiffness, his irritation. A sulky child, she remembers. It all comes flooding back, the hours it would take to coax him out of one of his sulks. A gloomy boy, son of gloomy parents. How could she dream of taking shelter with him and that tight-lipped, disapproving wife of his?

At least, she thinks, they do not treat me like a fool. At least my children do me that honour.

‘Enough of quarrelling,' she says (Is she coaxing now? Is she pleading?). ‘Let us not make ourselves miserable talking about politics. Here we are on the shores of the Mediterranean, the cradle of Old Europe, on a balmy summer evening. Let me simply say, if you and Norma and the children can stand America no more, cannot stand the shame of it, the house in Melbourne is yours, as it has always been. You can come on a visit, you can come as refugees, you can come to
réunir la famille
, as Helen puts it. And now, what do you say we fetch Helen and stroll down to that little restaurant of hers on avenue Gambetta and have a pleasant last meal together?'

GUNS 'N COFFEE

A.S. PATRIC

I work in the middle of the damned city. I start when every other son of a bitch is about to clock in as well. It doesn't matter where I go, I can't get a coffee without waiting for fifteen minutes in a queue. No one likes lines, right? I'm not saying I'm different, but lately, these coffee lines seem to be slowly moving us along like a hissing snake, swallowing all our minds in a milky swirl of white poison.

These days there's less space in front and behind. The breath of those who haven't eaten or brushed since the day before, spiced up with a cigarette or two before coming into the crowded café and snuggling up right behind my shoulder, is the kind of stuff that is going to challenge the most equanimous. Me? I only know what ‘equanimous' means because it was word of the day on my screensaver yesterday.

If it's not that, then it's those women with that angry industrial-strength perfume that burns like a corrosive through my nasal passages and leaves a chemical taste on my tongue. I used to think they had lost their sense of smell. Now I know it's an attempt to get some space in these coffee queues.

None of this is going to explain why I brought a handgun along with me today. I'm just saying, there's too many people in this damned city, and they're all starting work around the time I need a coffee.

*

It's a modest gun. I'm not a closet Dirty Harry wanting someone to make my day. I only want someone to make my coffee.

When I pull it out for the first time the woman in front of me blinks sleepily and goes back to daydreaming about her strong latte with two sugars.

‘Hey,' I say to her. She's ignoring me so I give her a wave of black steel near her right ear. ‘Hey,' I say again. ‘I'm not kidding.'

I fire the gun through the wide doors of the café and out into the street. The shot travels above the heads of the masses of people pushing along the footpaths. The bullet shatters a pane of thick glass in the fashion store across the road. People get a bit cut up from the crashing glass and a man begins screaming like someone has cut off his toes. The pedestrians keep passing, barely pausing, crushing the glass beneath their shoes as they make their way to work.

My wrist is limp from the kickback. I transfer the gun to my left hand as if it's all the better to display the weapon. The double-sugar-latte woman steps aside. The rest of the folks in the line follow her example.

Bradley the Barista knows how I like my coffee. His arms move with speed and precision – a perfection of machine engineering in human form. It's as though I press his fast-forward button and then the stop button when he finishes my ristretto-strength long black with three grips and three sugars.

I pay him and tell him he can keep the change on a ten-dollar bill. It's only polite to show an appreciation for good service.

‘How's your day been, Brad?' I ask after my first satisfying sip.

‘It's been pretty busy, Mr Bushnell. This is the first time I've had a moment of stillness for two hours.'

‘Are you enjoying it, Brad?' I ask.

‘I am indeed, Mr Bushnell,' he replies, and adds, ‘There's something about a loaded gun that makes one appreciate a moment like this. Thanks for that, Mr Bushnell.'

‘Glad I could do that for you, Brad. I'll now have the pleasure of strolling to work rather than the unwelcome power slalom through those frustrated crowds outside. I'm going to have a lovely amble to work today.'

As soon as I move away from the counter the line resumes its shape, longer and angrier than ever. A rattler of a line extending outside the front doors, the furious tail shaking with the anger of twenty smartphones going off simultaneously. It's a soothing sound when you have discovered the ways of the snake charmer as I have.

*

I come in the next morning with a smile in my stride and a spring in my face. I'm eager to display my Kimber 1911 Compact again. I want to get that snake dancing out of my way.

I don't have a problem until I arrive at the head of the line and a high-powered exec smiles like his teeth are made out of diamonds and he eats crystal croissants with his coffee. He's been held in the purgatory of the line for the last fifteen minutes and can't swallow me moving past everyone with a royal wave of black steel. Maybe he didn't see my warning yesterday but I can tell he is a natural-born hero.

‘You are not going to shoot me for a coffee. That's ridiculous! It's only a few dollars and a few moments. You can't kill a human being with such little motivation.'

‘What's your game, Mr Suit?' I ask him.

‘I don't want to play. I'm just going to get a coffee and go to work.'

‘Well, Mr Suit, I'm not going to go into a lengthy analysis of the situation here. But I will say this – it's not about a few minutes or a few dollars. It's about an accretion of time that mummifies my brain and turns my thoughts into sand. More than anything, it's about the brief, black, bitter taste of liberty in those cups. You're standing in the way of my freedom, Mr Suit. I advise you to step aside and give me a moment with Bradley the Barista.'

‘I don't think so,' Mr Suit tells me with his diamond grin.

‘Mr Suit,' I say and step forward. I raise the gun to the height of his heart. ‘Reconsider, please,' I say and wiggle the Kimber 1911 Compact. I polished it last night and I know it has a lethal gleam.

He looks at it like it's a water pistol and turns around and asks Bradley for an affogato. It's more of a dessert than it is a coffee. An affogato! It also happens to be the most time-consuming thing he could have asked Bradley to make him. I take it as a personal affront. Mr Suit says he also wants two scoops of icecream and not just one. I give him two bullets instead and I'm not sorry.

Mr Suit dies in a very elegant creaseless crumple of the best Italian fabric and design. A macchiato stain of blood spreads across the immaculate collar of his white shirt and drips onto the black marble of the café's floor. Everyone lines up behind me. Bradley's hands fly to the handles and dials of his Gaggia Deco D espresso machine.

*

The next morning I walk into the café and feel sure there will be no more need for gun-waving and I won't have to kill anyone to get a coffee. I had a difficult night getting to sleep. For hours I tried to rest my mind and body. Even when I managed to drift away I found myself waking in a fevered state, my sheets wet right through and my pillow soaked. In short, too much coffee. There have to be limits even to these dark pleasures, I suppose.

The line is long and I can barely get through the doors of the café. I announce myself but no one moves.

The double-sugar-latte woman stands before me again and I tell her, ‘Surely, my mettle has been tested. My resolve can't still be in question.'

She turns around and a wash of her perfume breaks over me in a dizzying ocean of petals and pollen, bouquets of sweet-smelling chemicals rushing down my throat. I take a step back but I stumble and grab a chair to steady myself.

‘You don't look good,' she tells me.

‘I didn't sleep very well,' I explain. ‘Frankly, my experiences in the toilet haven't been too pleasant either. I'm sweating a lot and my stomach feels uneasy. Queasy, I feel very queasy.'

‘Coffee's not for everyone. Perhaps you should drink tea instead. Take a few moments every morning, perhaps – treat yourself to a pot of Orange Pekoe leaf. You'll find it's better suited to your nervous system. Our culture has so many problems and diseases that stem from stress and anxiety, and there's nothing that generates and promotes these things like the addiction to the coffee bean.'

I'm starting to feel disorientated. People are pushing past me to get into the store and others are coming out with steaming takeaway cups filled with the delicious beverage that will give me the boost I need to get through the next few hours of my life. ‘Shut up, you scandalous hypocrite. You're here for the same reason I am. You need the coffee bean as well.'

‘I drink decaf.'

‘Decaf?' I say. ‘Decaf!'

‘Yes, decaf. Decaf indeed.'

‘Don't talk to me about decaffeinated coffee. It's like taking a shower in a raincoat.'

‘I don't think so,' she says.

‘It's like eating one of those burgers made out of lentils and cabbage.'

‘No, it's not,' she says, looking at me like I'm someone to be pitied.

‘Should I remind you I'm carrying a weapon?' I reach below my arm and remove my Kimber 1911 Compact from a holster I bought for it yesterday afternoon. ‘You don't require further demonstrations, do you?' I pull it out and hold it before her.

‘It's not a good idea. There's a room full of coffee drinkers here, after all. Every single one of them desperate for that first hit, just like you. There's no way you can keep a trump card like that in a room full of losing gamblers.'

‘What?' I blink at her. ‘Just move!' I wave the gun with two sharp movements to the right.

She steps aside with a sorrowful expression. I see the line has changed. Everyone in it has removed a firearm from a pocket or handbag and they all have these guns pointed at me. Thirty barrels are trained on my head, chest and stomach. I blink. I can't really take in the image of all these respectable city workers armed with such deadly weapons.

I look over to Bradley the Barista and ask him, ‘What's going on here, Brad? Didn't I invent the game? It's my ball, isn't it? I get to say how we play. Bradley – tell these people!'

The Barista wipes his hands with a tea towel and a regretful look passes across his face. He says, ‘I'm sorry, Mr Bushnell. No more coffee for you.'

‘What?' I ask the question meekly but I feel my heart kick in my chest at the thought of never having another morning jolt from Bradley's beans. ‘What?' It comes out as a roar this time. ‘You can't be serious. I've been coming here for years. I've been working in this damned city …'

*

My anger had begun to foam like milk in the bottom of a metal jug and I was spitting with my eyes closed when I said ‘damned city.' My weapon might have been raised. It was more a gesticulation than an intent to harm anyone. Coffee drinkers are jumpy though and their fingers get twitchy.