Balthasar's Bar

Notes: First part of a novella. John is a once-successful, now-failing author on the verge of discovering a story ripe for publishing - so long as he can find out the plot-twist before its storyteller dies. Without it, he knows he will never publish anything of worth ever again.

John walked against the flow of traffic on an unusual autumn day. It was early afternoon, yet the clouds above were sunset orange and gave the streets a summer evening glow. He had seen some announcement on the news this morning about scheduled chemical burn outside the city. Clearly the wind was bringing it in. In slow rolling movements they tumbled over each other, gathering speed; encroaching in on the city like a dusty tidal wave. Below the burning clouds, the network of streets choked on grey fumes. The roads were packed with autos which in turn were crammed with office workers eager to leave the city. Seeing the dying trees on the avenue, John shivered and huddled into his dishevelled brown suit, despite the cold sweat in his pits. He turned the corner, moving faster than the autos beside him. He would need to take an auto home later.

John overtook three before he reached the bar. He checked the contents of his satchel again and then the pockets out of a compulsive habit. Three leather-bound notebooks and a collection of his second favourite pens neatly packed, as they had been when he’d left the apartment on the other side of town. In the right pocket of his overcoat, John felt his city map and notebook (something for tourists, really). Ambitious to publish a tale or two of his city, it was imperative that John always had a map about him, even in spite of the repetitious nature of the blocks. He tapped the left breast of his suit jacket and felt the pen his mother had given him for graduation. (First class honours in Ancient Classics and World Literatures turned out to be as useless as everyone had said for finding work). The pen was cheap, but it was the all the esteem she could afford. John had others worth more, but he had assigned it good-luck-charm status. He never used it now, except for masterpieces, but he’d used it to pen his first and so John always took it with him in case another one occurred.

He pulled out his second phonecard, touched the screen of the small, slim card, lighting it into action and then turned it off. John had silenced his other phonecard after he’d reached Sandra’s place last night. That one rested motionless against his leg and John did not expect it to ring tonight. Ellar was giving him the silent treatment. He stopped outside his destination and patted down his right breast pocket. His fingers pressed against the curve of cool glass. He nodded to himself and then John pushed against the heavy dark-wood and tinted glass door to Balthasar’s Bar.

From outside, its large tinted windows and black wood encasings blended into the grey bricks of the block. Inside, Balthasar’s bar was a cave made of those same dark colours; it stretched back far and dropped down into a small room at the rear. It had been an up-and-coming place to meet sometime in the middle of the last century, but the 20’s revival of several centuries agp had never arrived. Once sophisticated, now it was old, but John fully intended to breathe life into the 1920’s US prohibition era in his next novel. This was where he had first discovered it and he felt he owed it to the place. Tonight, he’d uncover the twist in the plot, and then he was free to tie things up as he saw fit. His editor would be pleased.

John walked down the length of the rosewood bar. The bar was unattended and the booths were empty. He headed to the small room set into the ground at the back of the bar. A woman in a purple dress was bent over. Sadie was setting up for her show.

“All right, Sades?” John asked, taking in the form bent over before him.

Sadie turned around, catching his gaze under dark, made-up eyes.

“I’m well, thank you John. How’re your girlfriends?”

John smiled, “They’re okay. You know I’d give them both up for you.”

“Once a cheat, always a cheat,” Sadie turned her back on John to fiddle with speakers.

“You’ve used that one before,” John said, stroking the stubble of his five o’clock shadow. “Running out of ways to say no?” he asked, but walked away to the bar without an answer.

Cas was at the bar, staring at the till with pained concentration.

 “John.” Cas greeted him without pulling his gaze away from the screen.

“Cas,” John nodded. He took a seat.

It was some time before Cas seemed able to tear himself away from the monitor. He tore his eyes away and slowly moved to get John’s drink. He seemed stiff and slow to John. His skin looked too orange under the low-hanging lights, like his skin had been bleached of its own colour. He often looked this way after a late night of deep and depressing conversations. Cas was not just a barman, but also a fully-fledged therapist, pharmacist and euthaniser.

“Up with another one?” John asked as Cas turned for a whiskey bottle.

He hadn’t had to ask Cas for his drink for some while now. He had become a regular. The thought made his chest expand as a sense of belonging gripped him. John grabbed the glass of whiskey the moment Cas put it before him. The barman raised an eyebrow.

“What?” John stared at Cas.

“You weren’t here last night?”

John shook his head.

Cas ground his teeth together, flexed his jaw. “Bothering some other poor soul?”

“Me?” John blinked. He thought about it for a moment. “You could say so; I was with Sandra. Why, what did I miss?”

 “Oh, you missed a lot, believe us!” Sadie called from her room. She walked up to join them at the bar. John watched her, wondering whether the swing of her hips was really there, and if it was, whether it was for him or not. She folded herself on the barstool next to him, moments away from his knee.