Short Story

Cheyne Walk Wine Bar: April 2, 1980

by

Daniel A. Olivas
 

"Jews," she says.

She startles me with this pronouncement. I turn away from her and look through amber light and swirls of cigarette smoke, trying to discern the faces the mostly British pub-patrons. My eyes burn from lack of sleep and too much beer and all this goddamn smoke. I wonder if anyone heard Miriam. .

"Jews," Miriam repeats and then she takes a long drink of her Spanish sherry. I turn my eyes back to her. The low watt bulb that hangs above our table emits enough light to travel through her drink, deep red sparkles of light dance helter-skelter on her face and neck. .

The only word I ever think of in describing Miriam's face is "exquisite" because her face is simply that. Like an ancient statue. Like a darker Grace Kelly. Miriam lowers her glass; I lift my pint of Guinness and put it to my lips without drinking. "That's what I said," and I take in a mouthful of the thick beer. .

"No," says Miriam. "You did not." .

We've just attended Hamlet at the Royal Court Theatre at Sloane Square and it was shitty. The English Stage Company could usually be relied upon to do decent if not great Shakespeare but this modern take on the play was simply too much. Miriam is pissed that we just wasted our last graded assignment on such a production. But she doesn't fool me. I know that she takes more joy out of lambasting a play than praising it. .

"Jews," she says yet again. "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Jews." .

I want to hush Miriam but I know damn well that it would be useless. I look around the pub again and this time, one or two pale patrons look up from their drinks and stare at Miriam. I blush when I notice this and turn back to her. For some reason, my eyes focus on Miriam's white neck. Against the purple silk of her blouse her skin becomes incandescent. Miriam wears only purple. She's one of the most theatrical English majors I've ever met and I wonder why she doesn't plan to be an actress. .

"You shouldn't be afraid to say that someone is a 'Jew,'" she says looking down at her fingers as they rap slowly and purposefully on the table. "I hate it when people say 'Jewish' because I think they're trying to soften the reality of the word 'Jew.'" .

I finally begin to understand her point. I prefer being called "Chicano" not "Hispanic" or even "Mexican-American." Being "Chicano" is in-your-face while the other terms give a hat-in-hand and please-forgive-me-for-telling-you-who-I-am messages. Especially "Hispanic" because the government thought that one up. Miriam keeps her eyes trained on her fingers - on elaborate Indian silver rings on both of her thumbs and index fingers - and I allow my eyes to slip down to her breasts. She wears a bra but with great effort I try to make out a hardened nipple or two. No luck. God. Why don't we just sleep together and get it over with? She looks up as though she can hear my thoughts and I quickly shift my eyes to my pint. .

"I'm a Jew and I'm proud of it." She finishes her sherry in a quick gulp and dramatically puts the empty glass down between us. .

I pull from my jacket a well-worn Annotated Shakespeare and thumb through it until I find what I'm looking for. "It says here that Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were notable Danish names in the 1600s and that at the Danish royal coronation of 1596, fully one-tenth of the aristocratic participants bore one name or the other." I shut the thick paperback and toss it on the table. .

Miriam sneers at the Bard's face that graces the cover of my book. "Shakespeare was probably anti-Semitic, anyway. Look at the Merchant of Venice." .

I ignore this and say, "Let me get another round. It's my turn." I down my Guinness and take our glasses and start for the bar. .

"Get me some matches while you're at it," she says. I turn and see that her eyes are staring at me, crotch - or ass - level. Miriam doesn't care that I notice and she pulls a narrow box of Dunhill's out of her purse without shifting her gaze. The number of laughing, stumbling bodies has increased dramatically in the short time we've been here so I have to do a little rumba through the crowd to get to the bar. .

I finally win my battle to the bar and order the drinks from a bartender who looks like Margaret Thatcher with very little hair. A large red blotch shaped like the state of Maine lurks over his right eyebrow and across his forehead - some kind of birthmark I guess - which is kind of funny and makes me laugh a little. I mean, poor guy, if you're stuck with a birthmark that big, it should be shaped like something British - like Big Ben - instead of some Yank state. .

When the drinks come, I pay while staring at Maine - which the bartender doesn't particularly appreciate - so I leave him a good tip and that makes his otherwise grim face move into something resembling a smile, I think, and I grab a book of matches from an ancient looking wooden bowl. Probably commissioned by the 2nd Earl of Humpty-Dump in 1728. Everything is so goddamn old. When I started my overseas semester here, it seemed pretty cool. All this history everywhere you looked. But now it's kind of irritating. I grab the glasses while keeping the matchbook tucked safely in my right palm. .

I turn ever so gingerly trying not to spill the drinks as I begin my excursion back to our table. Elvis Costello's "Red Shoes" blasting from the speakers doesn't help, either. I like Elvis but the song's beat forces everyone to move even more erratically making my mission that much more difficult. Giving up on neatness, I look up to our table as I inch my way closer. Miriam's red-brown hair hangs straight down to her shoulders and it glistens even in the dim lighting. She's looking down at the program from the play and holds an unlit cigarette in her left hand dangling at her side. .

I arrive with the drinks and put them down. With a flourish, I put my left arm behind my back, open the matchbook with my right, bend one match out with my index finger, close the cover, bend the match in half with my thumb and, with a flick, the match bursts into a little orange and blue flame. .

Miriam's eyes widen like a child who sees her first magic trick. She puts the cigarette to her mouth and brings it close to the match cupping my hand with hers to guide the match. She draws on the cigarette and blows out the match. "How the hell did you learn to do that? You don't even smoke." .

"Watergate," I say as I sit down. .

This is our little game. In answer to a question, the answer has to begin with something that doesn't seem to be in any way connected to the eventual and complete answer but, in the end, it all makes sense. .

"Oh, this is going to be good," Miriam says as she takes a long drag. .

I take a drink and then clear my throat. "During the Watergate hearings, 60 Minutes did these little profiles on the Senators, you know, the ones who were most interesting." .

"Yeah. Go on." .

"Well, one night, they did one on Senator Daniel Inouye of Hawaii. He lost an arm in World War II. He told a story of how he woke up in the hospital and his arm was gone, or something like that. Anyway, he needed a cigarette real bad and asked the nurse for one. Do you know what that nurse did?" .

"Don't tell me." .

"Yeah. She throws an unopened pack of cigs on his chest along with a book of matches. He stares at her like she's either nuts or just plain cruel and probably hated the Japanese. So, just to show her, he rips open the cigs with his teeth and fumbles with the matchbook trying to get a flame. He said he struggled for about twenty minutes but eventually lit his cigarette even though the pack was left mangled and he had used up almost every match. His face was dripping with sweat but he said that he enjoyed that cigarette so much and realized that the nurse did him a favor. I mean, he had to get used to having only one arm. Why not start then? So, you see: Watergate. That's how I learned to light a match with one hand." .

Miriam puts her cigarette to the side of her mouth and claps slowly. "Bravo! You're the master." Little bits of ashes gently fall from her cigarette like snow. .

I pantomime a gracious bow. .

Miriam suddenly says, "God, I could go for a Wimpy Burger right now." .

"They taste like shit," I say. "The English do not know how to do hamburgers." .

"They can't do most food, but Wimpy Burgers have a semblance of American food." Miriam looks smug as though she has just brilliantly compared Thomas Gray to Robert Frost. .

"I don't want to leave just yet," I say. "Let's get some pub grub." .

"This isn't a pub," she says. .

"Oh, goddamnit, Miriam. Can't I say anything without you correcting me?" I say this while smiling but I mean it. .

"Look at those words," and she points to the window. "It says 'Cheyne Walk Wine Bar.' That's what it says and that's where we're at. This is a bar." .

"Words, words, words," I say. But I want to get back to the subject of food. "I could actually use a huge plate of enchiladas and rice and beans. That's what I could use." .

Miriam's eyes pop wide open and she takes in a huge breath with flared nostrils. "Oh, God! I would just orgasm if we could go to El Cholo's right now! And their Margaritas blended with all that wonderful ice! The damn Brits don't know from ice!" .

I laugh as I think about the Mexican restaurant on Western Avenue not too far from my home. It's a popular hangout for business people and college students who don't mind venturing into that part of town. My part of town, that is. .

"You know, George Salisbury was from England." .

"Who the hell is George Salisbury?" she says as she takes a drink. Miriam pulls another cigarette from the pack and lights up using the dying butt. .

"Back in the late 1920s, he worked as a dishwasher in the first El Cholo restaurant farther south of downtown. That was owned by Mr. and Mrs. Borquez. George fell in love with their beautiful daughter, Aurelia, and together they opened El Cholo's on Western shortly after they married. And they were famous even back then for their Margaritas. So, the Brits can't be all that ignorant of ice." .

Miriam laughs as smoke leaks from the sides of her mouth and slowly rises into the light bulb that hangs too low over our table. She looks like a beautiful dragon. "You made that up!" .

"I'm not shitting you. It's true." .

Miriam starts to peruse the meager menu but abandons it quickly. She reaches for the Hamlet program and turns to the upcoming productions. I start to admire her breasts again. I saw them, up close and bare, last week but so did about twenty other students. We were all part of a student production of Stoppard's Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead and performed it at Cliveden for the locals. Afterwards, of course, the cast got roaring drunk and ended up at the pool. When someone yelled "Skinny dip!" Miriam immediately stood up and stripped down to nothing and jumped in.

I guess I sort of knew that I loved Miriam then. I admit, other than our love for literature and our unusual status as second generation Angelenos, we have little else to tie us. I'm rough around the edges and grew up, the middle of five kids, without much money. And only-child Miriam has a smoothness - and elegance - that well-to-do carry off so well. Anyway, Miriam got out of the pool and slapped her wet feet over to the diving board and I couldn't breathe anymore and all the guys hooted and cheered and I felt crummy. Suddenly, Jillian, the director, nudged me with her elbow. Jillian is just a sophomore but she's brilliant and also perky like Sandy Duncan right down to the haircut. .

"Let's blow this joint," whispered Jillian. "I can't take these jerks." .

I knew what she had in mind. I looked over to Miriam. She dove and then came up laughing and started splashing and flirting with several guys. .

I turned to Jillian. "Okay. Where to?" .

Jillian grabbed a fresh bottle of champagne from her side, a gift to the cast from Professor Stuart who teaches narrative poetry. "My room, of course." .

I'd only slept with two other women before: my first girlfriend during freshman and sophomore years, Bonnie, and then a one-night-stand late into my sophomore year after Bonnie and I broke up. But I was drunk and jealous and agreed to go. .

"Goddamn!" says Miriam and I snap out of my trance. "Look here," she says as she points to the Hamlet program. "They're doing Seduced by Sam Shepard in mid-May. Goddamn it! We'll be back in the States by then." .

"Oh, well. But they'll probably screw that one up, too." There's silence while Miriam continues to study the program. As I look at her, I feel my heart beat so hard I think she can hear it. I know that it's going to be difficult to get words out of my mouth without shaking. Why am I so chicken shit? Finally, I speak: "Miriam." .

"Yes, my dear," she says without looking up from the program. .

"I like being with you." I keep my eyes on her. .

She looks up. Her eyes are shiny from the alcohol and smoke. She smiles. "And I you," she says in a British accent that's near perfect. Then, anticipating where the conversation is headed, adds: "You know, Claudio, you and I have a wonderful future behind us." .

I try to decipher what she just said and suddenly realize that it's something "clever." .

"No," I continue, like an idiot. "I'm serious." .

Miriam lights another Dunhill. "So am I." .

My face burns and I feel a little sick. What the hell am I doing? I drink more Guinness and stop looking at her. The patrons all look so pale and ridiculous to me. Some crazy song by XTC comes on. Just then, Miriam puts her hand on mine. .

"Well, my lad," she continues in her British accent. "It's time for a Wimpy Burger. Let's go, my dear." .

We stand up. Miriam slips her arm around my waist and uses me to steady her. When we get out to the street, she pulls closer to me and puts her head on my chest. The streets are glistening from an earlier drizzle and the cool air rouses us from our alcohol-induced drowsiness. I feel better with Miriam close to me. Her hair smells like smoke and strawberries. I notice an auburn mongrel just ahead of us. It doesn't wear a collar. As it trots happily - its ears bouncing up and down and tongue hanging out - it suddenly decides to make a dash across the busy street. Miriam and I stop. The dog instinctively dodges cars - no one honks for some bizarre reason - and it miraculously ends up on the other side of the street. We let out our breath and start walking again. .

"He dared the cars to hit him," I say. .

"Gotta' live life that way sometimes." .

I rest my lips on Miriam's head and inhale deeply taking in as much of her scent that my lungs can hold. She pushes in closer to me. .

"It's cold," says Miriam. .

"Yes, it is," I answer as we amble down Cheyne Walk in search of a taxi. I turn my head to catch a last glimpse of the stray dog but it has already disappeared.

§ § §

Daniel A. Olivas' first collection, Assumption and Other Stories, will be published in spring 2003 by Bilingual Press. He is also the author of a novella and his writing appears in many journals including MacGuffin, Exquisite Corpse, THEMA, Pacific Review, and In Posse Review. The author is featured in several anthologies including Fantasmas: Supernatural Stories by Mexican American Writers (Bilingual Press, 2001), and Love to Mamá (Lee & Low Books, 2001).

The author practices law with the California Department of Justice in Los Angeles and makes his home with his wife and son in the San Fernando Valley. E-mail: olivasdan@aol.com .

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