Whenever I sit at a bar drinking like this, I always think what a sacred profession bartending is. The bartender, with the stained-glass shelves of many-colored bottles behind him, moves precisely about in a shining crystal vestibule, like a priest conducting a ritual. Pouring the holy liquid into a glass, he listens with a reverent, sympathetic smile as the customers recite their woes.
At the far end of the bar is a pair of unattractive Mesdames with coarse skin and too much makeup. They're disgustingly drunk-or maybe only pretending to be. Their dialogue alternates between whispers and squeals. Something? the bartender intones, beaming his smile in their direction.
Next to the Mesdames is an obviously newlywed couple. I suppose they've just held the wedding reception at this hotel, and now they'll spend a night here before leaving on their honeymoon. Neither of them is saying much. The groom takes tiny sips at a glass of house whiskey and water, and the bride is drinking in her surroundings as the ice in her mai tai melts, turning it a cloudy orange. Shall I bring you something to nibble on? the bartender inquires, sweeping his smile their way.
Next to the newlyweds is a lone American man in a dark suit drinking a Schlitz. Foreigners always order beer. The guidebooks tell them that the prices in Japanese hotels are outrageous, to stick to beer if they drink in the bar. Next to the American a young woman and a much older man are drinking champagne cocktails and virtually necking; next to them is a pair of the half-assed sort of rich men you find in any hotel bar; and next to them is me. There's an empty stool between me and them, however. She's late. I'm drinking by myself, not talking to anyone, and I can't really judge how drunk I am. I wonder how many I've had now. Shall I fix you another? the bartender asks with a smile, and I nod. Bourbon splashes into a glass. Busy? the bartender says as he pours. Well, at least the location work is over, I tell him. Now it's just a matter of editing the film.
I'm a director for a television production company, and our specialty is overseas documentaries. Until two years ago I was involved with musical variety shows.
The bartender never rests. He lines up the glasses, chills the champagne and white wine, chips rocks out of a block of ice, replaces ashtrays, serves up platters of sausages or raw oysters. No doubt all nine of the people sitting at this bar are looking for sin tonight. The circumstances are different for each, of course, but all have the same destination in mind. No one gets drunk in order to elevate their moral standards. The bartender, sure enough, is a priest of sorts.
Maybe I should tell a joke or two and laugh while I can. Tonight I have an unpleasant task ahead of me. Maybe I'll share a little joke with the kindly bartender. For the past six months or so I've been documenting slums. Calcutta, Manila, Rio de Janeiro, Montevideo, Bogota . . . When you're in the slums you begin to wonder if the whole world isn't a slum, to feel as if slums are the normal state of affairs. I heard a lot of good jokes in those places. A dead baby was floating in the sewer in Calcutta, and an Indian fellow I knew said something really funny. What was it again? Ah, well, it's about a dead baby. I'd have to tell it just right or it wouldn't be much of a joke.
"Sorry!"
Here she is. I haven't seen this woman, this mistress of mine, for a long time. She looks wonderful. She isn't my mistress anymore, though. Why is it that when you stop having sex with a woman, the moment you've distanced yourself, she starts to look even more beautiful than before?
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