In the Skin of a Lion - Michael Ondaatje [12]
He muttered as if continuing his conversation with the bird, in the large empty room. From noon till two it was full of men, eating and drinking. Kosta the owner and his waiter performing raucous shows for the crowd – the boss yelling insults at the waiter, chasing him past customers. Nicholas remembered the first time he had come there. The dark coats of men, the arguments of Europe.
He poured a brandy and pushed it over to her. “You don’t have to drink this but you can if you wish. Or see it as a courtesy.” He drank quickly and poured himself another. “Thank you,” he said, touching his arm curiously as if it were the arm of a stranger.
She shook her head to communicate it was not all right, that it needed attention.
“Yes, but not now. Now I want to sit here.” There was a silence between them. “Just to drink and talk quietly.… It is always night here. People step in out of sunlight and must move slow in the darkness.”
He drank again. “Just for the pain.” She smiled. “Now music.” He stood up free of the table as he spoke and went behind the counter and turned the wireless on low. He spun the dial till there was bandstand. He sat down again opposite her. “Lot of pain. But I feel good.” He leaned back in his chair, holding up his glass. “Alive.” She picked up her glass and drank.
“Where did you get that scar?” He pointed his thumb to the side of her nose. She pulled back.
“Don’t be shy … talk. You must talk.” He wanted her to come out to him, even in anger, though he didn’t want anger. Feeling such ease in the Ohrida Lake Restaurant, feeling the struts of the chair along his back, her veil tight on his arm. He just wanted her there near him, night all around them, where he could look after her, bring her out of the shock with some grace.
“I got about twenty scars,” he said, “all over me. One on my ear here.” He turned and leaned forward so the wall-light fell onto the side of his head. “See? Also this under my chin, that also broke my jaw. A coiling wire did that. Nearly kill me, broke my jaw. Lots more. My knees.…” He talked on. Hot tar burns on his arm. Nails in his calves. Drinking up, pouring her another shot, the woman’s song on the radio. She heard the lyrics underneath Temelcoff’s monologue as he talked and half mouthed the song and searched into her bright face. Like a woman with a fever.
This is the first time she has sat in a Macedonian bar, in any bar, with a drinking man. There is a faint glow from the varnished tables, the red checkered tablecloths of the day are folded and stacked. The alcove with its serving counter has an awning hanging over it. She realizes the darkness represents a Macedonian night where customers sit outside at their tables. Light can come only from the bar, the stars, the clock dressed in its orange and red electricity. So when customers step in at any time, what they are entering is an old courtyard of the Balkans. A violin. Olive trees. Permanent evening. Now the arbour-like wallpaper makes sense to her. Now the parrot has a language.
He talked on, slipping into phrases from the radio songs which is how he learned his words and pronunciations. He talked about himself, tired, unaware his voice split now into two languages, the woman hearing everything he said and trying to remember it all. He could see her eyes were alive, interpreting the room. He noticed the almost-tap of her finger to the radio music.
The blue eyes stayed on him as he moved, leaning his head against the wall. He drank, his breath deep into the glass so the fumes would hit his eyes and the sting of it keep him awake. Then he looked back at her. How old was she? Her brown hair so short, so new to the air. He wanted to coast his hand through it.
“I love your hair,” he said. “Thank you … for the help. For taking the drink.”
She leaned forward earnestly and looked at him, searching out his face now. Words