Who Is Martha? (20 page)

Levadski places a hand on the cool glass of Mr. Witzturn’s wristwatch.

“A single memory appears to be sufficient in order to close the circle of life,” Mr. Witzturn says, carefully with-drawing his hand. He pulls a checked handkerchief with a large ink spot from his suit trousers. Levadski wrestles with himself for a few seconds before deciding it is best not to point out the ink spot to Mr. Witzturn, so as not to disconcert him.

“This evening my life has come full circle,” Mr. Witzturn says, wiping a tear of pity from his left and then his right eye. “I have, if you like, been liberated.”

“Let’s drink to it!” says Levadski, vigorously blowing his nose, in which nothing worth mentioning is to be found.

“Lucky you!” Mr. Witzturn smiles. With his inky eyes he looks as if he had been hit with a potato masher. “I wish I could blow my nose like you.” Mr. Witzturn taps his plastic nose three times.

“Touch wood,” Levadski jokes.

“Well,” Mr. Witzturn continues, “my piano player was an eccentric old man. If he were sitting here at the bar, here between the two of us,” Mr. Witzturn brushes his hand over the impressive hunchback of the absent man, “if he were here, he could easily be taken for our son. I mean for one of our sons,” Mr. Witzturn corrects himself.

“You mean the son of one of us,” Levadski gently corrects him.

“For our mutual son,” Mr. Witzturn stresses. “While we are on the subject of it, what role do biological parents play?”

“By all means.” Levadski presses a hand to his chest, while making a dismissive gesture with the other.

“At some point,” Mr. Witzturn whispers, “you are so free, so high, so …” – his eyes of India ink scan the ceiling – “so, how should I put it, hhmm. Where was I?”

“Your piano teacher,” Levadski comes to the rescue.

“Yes, my piano teacher sometimes had the habit of naming the piece being played after hearing only a few bars. How often we went to concerts together. I was a flourishing meadow of pimples, my master an elegant devil. Nothing was too difficult for him. Not even the most obscure compositions. He knew them all. As if he had written them himself.” Mr. Witzturn gives a snort and mops his brow with the inkstained handkerchief. “His hearing was as remarkable as his tonal memory and his knowledge of compositions. He could isolate every single instrument from even the most boisterous orchestral clamor. While I contentedly devoted myself to the music, he would say, That’s all very well, but the clarinet played G sharp instead of F.”

“Unbelievable.” Levadski is amazed and slides back and forth on his barstool several times.

“The best thing,” Mr. Witzturn slaps his hand on the bar, “ha-ha-ha! The best thing … ho-ho-ho,” Mr. Witzturn is rocking on his seat, “was his spyglass. It was a heavy Victorian telescope that my piano teacher was in the habit of taking to concerts. Perhaps my imagination is deceiving me now, but I could swear it was a telescope.”

“How eccentric!” It warms the cockles of Levadski’s heart. “A telescope!” “

Or an ear trumpet, hm, one of the two.” Mr. Witzturn’s eyebrows shoot up. “Of course it was a telescope!

We mostly sat right at the front, in the wrong seats. This was of no consequence to my piano teacher. If someone arrived who had the right tickets he would be sent away with the words, ‘Look for another seat, you don’t know anything about music anyway.’”

“Delightful!” Levadski taps his thighs. To be on the safe side I am getting off the barstool, just in case he gets more amusing, he thinks, placing his feet on the ground.

“And then,” Mr. Witzturn sprays Levadski’s eye with spittle, “from one of the front rows, my piano teacher would stare through his very conspicuous instrument at the virtuoso’s fingers, embarrassing the poor man completely. After being dealt the devastating blow of ‘Wrong!’ he would then turn as white as a sheet. ‘Wrong’ and ‘Bad,’ he would mostly add, and that was that.”

“What do you mean, that was that?” Levadski asks, doubled over with laughter.

“Well,” Mr. Witzturn smirks, “he made them all uneasy that way. Anybody who remained practiced on the quiet, until they really could play. Play elegantly, as if they were drinking a glass of water. The more difficult and unplayable a piece in the music was, the faster and more easily a survivor like that would play it.”

“What happened to the others?”

“The others were unable to cope with the unreasonable demands of my piano teacher, I assume. No loss, God forgive me. Anyone who like a shrinking violet sways in the wind of great art ought to jump in the lake!”

“After us the Flood” Levadski says, holding on to the chair leg, or is it one of Mr. Witzturn’s legs? Like an ark on the high seas, thinks Levadski, an ark without passengers. An ark in a world without animals and human beings. The plants will survive us. It is said that mushrooms grow for years on the ocean floor without sunlight.

Sailor, stop dreaming …

“The pianist has risen,” Mr. Witzturn whispers in Levadski’s ear.

… don’t think of home.

Sailor, wind and waves

Are calling you.

“Well, he needs to keep the guests in a good mood,” Levadski remarks yawning. “There will be some guests who have fallen asleep in their dark corner, won’t there?” Instead of moving his head, Mr. Witzturn rolls his eyes as far as they will go to one side. Like two billiard balls on a sinking ship. “In the dark, it is difficult to see who is sleeping and who is squinty-eyed by nature,” he mumbles. “Maestro, how about a ladies’ cocktail for the two of us?”

Your home is the ocean,

Your friends are the stars

Over Rio and Shanghai,

Over Bali and Hawaii.

“What’s that?”

“I was just telling the maestro that you would like something syrupy, a ladies’ drink, for a change.”

“With pleasure, if you will join me.”

“Would the gentlemen like to take a look at the cocktail menu?” the barman opens a leather folder.

“We can’t see anything,” Mr. Witzturn laughs, “even less than we could two hours ago.”

Your love is your ship.

Your yearning is the distance.

And only to them are you faithful

For a lifetime.

“Something syrupy,” the bartender says, “I am just thinking about what would complement the fruit vodka the gentlemen have already drunk.”

Sailor, stop dreaming.

Don’t think of me,

Sailor, for the unknown

Already awaits you.

“Just mix up something for us,” Mr. Witzturn requests.

“Any old thing isn’t suitable for sophisticated con-sumption!” Levadski remarks in a reproachful voice.

“Is that so?” Mr. Witzturn menacingly asks the bartender, who nods in agreement.

“A bartender, however, would never lecture his guests,” Levadski remarks. “After all, a bar has a cultural and social function, hasn’t it?” The bartender agrees with Levadski again. Mr. Witzturn, piqued, rolls his eyes.

Your home is the ocean,

Your friends are the stars

Over Rio and Shanghai,

Over Bali and Hawaii.

“Just mix up something for us,” Mr. Witzturn starts in all over again.

“My God!” Levadski touches his brow. “Any old thing will neither do for us, nor will it do in the eyes of the young man whose care we are in. Get that into your head!”

“Something syrupy for ladies,” Mr. Witzturn adds.

“Let the man in charge of the bar have his say. What cocktails have you got anyway?”

“Would the gentlemen like to know exactly what we have got? We have,” the barman looks at Levadski and the coughing Mr. Witzturn in turn, “a large selection of bases, each embracing a large choice of cocktails. We have,” he pinches his eyes, “aperitifs, classic drinks, low alcohol drinks, non-alcoholic drinks, hot drinks, drinks for hang-overs and corpse-reviving cocktails …”

Your love is your ship.

Your yearning is the distance.

And only to them are you faithful

For a lifetime.

“… Martini cocktails, sours, juleps, highballs, flips, fizzes, coladas, to mention a few. Then we have the spirit-based cocktails …”

“For example?” Mr. Witzturn asks, yawning widely, as if wanting to spit out an entire egg. A similarsized egg slips out of Levadski’s mouth. At the last moment he manages to hide this embarrassment behind a fist.

“No, we really are interested,” Mr. Witzturn explains, “aren’t we, Mr. Levadski?”

“Tell us about the spirit bases, please, if you would,” Levadski asks, stifling a second yawn.

“For example, Campari drinks are mixed with a spirit base, I am sure the gentlemen know that.”

“Yes, when you go into a café in summer, you frequently see foggedover Campari glasses in the hands of older ladies, don’t you, Mr. Levadski?”

“I seldom go out, especially when it is very hot.” He should leave off saying ‘don’t you, Mr. Levadski,’ Levadski thinks; if he says it once more, I am going to tell him.

“Campari and orange was already a classic before our time – Costa Brava, Bella Donna, Bella Musica, Bella Bella.” Mr. Witzturn is gently swaying on his barstool, on and on, even when he can’t think of any more Bellas.

“And then there are also other Campari drinks,” the bartender cautiously continues, “Cardinal, Rosita, Negroni …”

“What other cocktails are there on the planet? En-lighten us, young man,” Levadski says, turning to the bartender who, according to the rules of the art, has been polishing a glass the entire time.

“Vodka drinks, for example, although nowadays they are more often drunk neat,” replies the bartender, dipping a cocktail glass in a basin of water. “Many people drink spirits neat out of reverence for the drink. I too would probably never mix particular spirits. Gin and vodka or gin and whisky. God forbid.”

“Gin really is something special,” Mr. Witzturn yawns down the length of his flowery tie.

“A bar without gin,” the bartender comes into his own, “is like an eagle without feathers. You can do anything with it.”

“Game for anything,” Mr. Witzturn mumbles, letting his chin sink onto his chest.

“No other spirit has created so many classics,” the barman continues, “Pink Gin, Gin and Tonic, or Martini Dry, would not exist without gin. The more recent hugely popular Alexander’s Sister cocktail wouldn’t either.”

“What is so special about gin?” Levadski’s chin is also seeking purchase on the lower floors of his upper body.

“If I were on a desert island,” says the bartender, “and I had to decide on a single alcohol base in order to mix drinks, I would choose gin. Why? Because gin is easy, down-to-earth, discreet, soft. It is self-sufficient. It is self-confident and doesn’t need any external endorsement, that is to say, it needs no other alcohol.”

“The self is the man,” drones Mr. Witzturn, his chin on his chest like a schnitzel rolling in flour.

What would you be doing on a desert island as a head bartender? Levadski can’t vouch for whether he said these words or Mr. Witzturn said them. Perhaps, he thinks, I was only thinking out loud. Or I only whispered, very softy whispered … a deserted bar, but why on an island?

“Never mix gin with vodka, gin with rum, gin with brandy,” he hears the bartender whispering into the glasses.

“What did you say?”

“Whisky with liqueurs, gin with juice, vermouth with gin, gin with tequila, juice bitters … A bar without an is-land is like a bar without glasses.” The bartender’s monologue is a sigh, a rustling in the wind.

The white jacket flutters like a thousand leaves in the wind, thinks Levadski, white poplar …

“Gin appears to be an ingenious chap,” Mr. Witzturn purrs. Levadski closes one eye. Or maybe he opens it? Inward or outward. This thought does not torment him for long either.

“Lone Tree for example, very popular with the ladies, gin, dry vermouth, red vermouth, a drop of orange bitters, stirred on ice, served up to the old clapperclaws in a martini glass.”

“Hahaha,” Mr. Witzturn grunts, to the accompaniment of the sound of his creaking barstool. “Clapper-claws, I will remember that!” Mr. Witzturn learns the new word as he snores. Entire forests are felled with the axe of his nose.

“Or Flying Dutchman, timeless, simply timeless. Mix gin with an eighth of lime and ice, throw it out the window, done.”

“Or!” the bartender’s voice is attacking Levadski’s nervous system, “the Merry Widow Number One!”

“Number One?” Mr. Witzturn asks, taken aback. Levadski puts his hand to his chest. His dentures are still resting in his mouth. Don’t sleep, he commands himself, don’t bat an eyelid.

“Merry Widow is still a cocktail that many gentlemen like to order for their female company. Dry vermouth, a few squirts of Benedictine and orange bitters, a drop of anisette, gin and a fat lemon, stirred in a mixing beaker and strained into the precooled female countenance. Pure seduction.”

“I’m for drinking neat,” Mr. Witzturn whispers.

The bartender clears his throat. Flying Dutchman is what he would recommend for the gentlemen. Not a syrupy drink, but by all means suitable for ladies. Clear and sleek, soaring flight, sharp descent.

The gentlemen agree.

“I am extremely interested in your piano teacher. When I try and imagine him, I can almost imagine what it is like to lose one’s mind,” Levadski admits. Mr. Witzturn starts rubbing his eyes again.

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

“Suddenly it was as if I were you and your piano teacher were giving me a piano lesson, not you. And it was I that had told you all the stories you gave me the pleasure of listening to this evening.”

“I don’t understand.” Mr. Witzturn loses several invisible eyelashes as he continues rubbing his eyes. “What difference does it make whether you knew my piano teacher or I knew him? He is dead. That’s the only thing that counts.”

“I hope not,” says Levadski, “I hope not, Mr. Witzturn, we know him, and that should count.”

“Your cocktails, gentlemen.” Levadski is elated.

“How beautifully you have prepared the Flying Dutchman!”

“He knew his music,” Mr. Witzturn says and drinks, without looking Levadski in the eye, “my piano teacher.”

“He still knows his music,” Levadski reassures him after a lengthy pause. “Now he is no longer a medium for you, but you are one yourself.”