Short fiction

Nocturne

It was late and the bar was poorly lit. One of the lights at the far end was out and the darkness hovered there.

There were only two stools standing in the blackness. Both were empty and the foreigner sitting at the lighter end of the bar wondered who would ever want to sit there. The corners of this place were dark, shady booths with enough privacy to keep to yourself, but where inquisitive eyes could still look out on the rest of the place to glare at newcomers. A man would need a lot of privacy to want to sit at the dark end of the bar.

In any case, the foreigner noticed that the bartender did not seem to be in any hurry to replace the bulb, even with only four patrons to deal with. Standing behind the bar, not even trying to look busy, the bartender had a stomach to prove his love of the job. He was bald on top, with white flecks invading the black hair that clung around his ears and stood on end every time the door opened and a cold wind disturbed the beer mats and made glass tink on glass. He was old school, forever cleaning glasses with a white towel, even though his fingers were sausages and his hand barely fit into the glass. Rarely speaking to anyone, communicating mostly through nods and closed-lipped gestures, probably with a name like Bill or George but definitely not Sue. The bartender probably liked the bar dark.

There was a piano in the corner and the foreigner wondered whether it was in tune. He didn’t imagine the regulars would appreciate him attempting to play, and now he had a few drinks in him he doubted very much he could even remember anything. He had stopped playing and sold the piano just after they had their first child. He didn’t have the time for it and they needed all the money they could get. He looked at the piano and wondered how many had tried their hand at some honky-tonk or ragtime down the years, whether any famous musicians had graced those keys. He very much doubted it and picked up his bottle.

He couldn’t get used to the beer in this country. Everything was bottled, mostly lager. It was rare he came across a place offering anything resembling what he drank at home. But it was a drink and that was all he needed from this place. He drank, finished the bottle and held it up to Bill, who brought him another just the same and took his change.

These places were the same all over the country. They had different signs over the entrances but it was usually the name of what he assumed was the owner and they were essentially the same; isolated from anything but the road, with large car parks populated by a couple of pickup trucks. All the locals staggered or drove home drunk. The bar itself was shady, the Bills didn’t want to chat and there was always someone too drunk to stay but with too much money in his wallet for him to be turned out anytime soon.

The beer was cold and that was a bonus. Lukewarm beer was the devil and the devil dwelt in many places on these roads. The thought of that made him laugh. In the early days he’d met a fair few people who believed in the devil, a real physical devil. They didn’t take kindly to sarcasm on the matter and it didn’t usually end politely. One thing that always amazed him though was that however many of these bars he went to, however many times he drove away drunk, he was never pulled over. Either he was a great driver under the influence or the force in these parts didn’t give a damn. He took some pride in believing it to be the former, though both possibilities also bothered him from time to time.

There was another reason he hated these places. Whenever he spoke, it made someone interested. Bill would look surprised and someone down the bar would ask what kind of accent that was. They would usually ask his name. Only in this country could people tell you how to correctly pronounce your own name.

How could places like this not be dying? How many customers could Bill expect to see tonight? In a whole month? Probably the same few faces with the occasional ghost, like the foreign drinker who sat at the bar contemplating who might come and sit in the darkness that hung and thrived far off to his left.

Travelling across a place like this, going from town to town, only there for a day or two and moving on, you’re isolated. He spoke to few people because there was no need and if he actually made friends with someone he’d be gone before the pleasantries were over.

He spent all of his time in half-empty places. Bars, motels, rest stops at the hard end of nowhere, always the hard end. He wondered sometimes if there was an easy end and why he’d never found it. He’d surely travelled far enough to come across it by chance, if it existed.

He had learned one or two things in all this time. Try and get the end room in the motel, try to keep the tank full, try not to look at anybody funny. Sometimes those things were easier said than done but for the most part they came as habit by now. Everything became routine, even when the scenery changed. When you’re in a routine for long enough you stop thinking about what you’re doing and it gives you time to think about what you’re not doing.

It had become routine to forget to call home at an agreeable time. He wasn’t sure whether his wife cared and he was definitely sure the kids didn’t. That was fine. He was busy, they were busy; they were always busy. He loved them all of course but sometimes certain things are easier when you’re apart.

Bill looked disgruntled as glass began to clink and the door flew wide open. A man stumbled towards the bar and slumped into the stool two down from the foreigner. The smell hit immediately and he fought back the need to choke. Bill seemed not to notice as he placed a beer in front of his new customer before he’d had the chance to open his mouth.

“Thank you!” the drunk drawled loudly, upsetting the silence and drawing fiercer stares. “Thank you all for sharing my company tonight! Cheers to everyone who has a beer and, to everyone else, pull your socks up…,” before knocking back the rest of the beer and gesturing to Bill for another. “It’s a beautiful night.” When he spoke it was unclear whether he was really sure he was doing it. He spoke loudly enough to address the room but with a tone more befitting candlelight and nostalgia.

When his second beer came he left it standing on the bar, staring straight ahead like he hadn’t even seen it, trancelike rather than inebriated. Bill walked to the other end of the bar, cleaning his glasses, perhaps now noticing the mingled fog of alcohol and ammonia around his latest customer.

The drunk grabbed at his beer and cradled it to his chest.  The foreigner noticed that his hands were not like Bill’s, they were not worn and calloused like most of the men in these towns. The drunk’s hands were small and feminine. His fingers, like his own, were slender. The foreigner turned away as the drunk faced him, staring intently.

“I know you,” the drunk said, slumping forwards and then, just managing to keep his balance, jolting upright.

‘I don’t think so,’ the foreigner stared back at him.

“Of course I do, I know where you’re coming from. I know all of you...” The drunk paused on that thought before he stood up, toppled towards the foreigner, regained his balance at the last moment and staggered towards the piano. He fell heavily onto the stool and the sound of mashing keys reverberated around the bar. Bill looked up, though not with his usual stare, placing his hands on the bar behind him and relaxing slightly, expectant, while the foreigner sipped his beer and laughed and shook his head, looking down at the bar.

The drunk began to play. He did not play a pop tune or a jingle, there was no blues or jazz. He sat and played Chopin, not with complete confidence, but with enough passion to force the foreigner to stare at the piano, to stare at the drunk, as beautiful strands flowed from the tips of his fingers and once he had found himself he was off and the music was beautiful. The foreigner looked at Bill and he too was staring. He probably kept the thing in tune just for nights like this, just for these hands. The others in the bar stared not their inquisitive stares but looked on contemplatively. The piano lilted on beautifully before ending abruptly and leaving the bar a silence.

The drunk sat at the piano for a moment. Bill went back to his glasses, the regulars returned to their drinks and, in silence, the drunk walked back to the bar. This time he sat directly next to the foreigner. He had left his beer half-empty on the piano and so Bill gave him another.

“I’m Frank,” the drunk said as he offered his hand. Not wanting to be impolite, the foreigner shook it and just nodded at him. He didn’t want to tell this man his name. Frank continued to stare at the foreigner. He thought about complimenting his playing but when he looked up at Frank’s face he saw that his eyes were red and the man was crying, though forcing a smile. “Such a beautiful night.”

The only place he wanted to be at that moment was the dark end of the bar, clouded and covered and hidden from Frank and whatever he had to say and whatever he was crying for.

“I always wanted to tell you, you know, I really really loved her, I did. More than you did. I always hated that but what were we gonna do about it? You never loved her and I did and that’s it, that’s all, it’s simple. It should have been simple. I never meant to do what I did, I never meant for it to happen, but it did and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for it but it was your own fault too, you were never a saint, were you? Were you?! I don’t know, maybe I could, I don’t know, we’ll never know—.”

‘I don’t know you.’ The foreigner cut Frank off and stared him straight in the eye, his brow furrowing.

Before any more could be said Bill came over and ushered Frank from the bar. The glasses clinked as he shivered in the wind and wanted very much to call his wife. Bill brought him another beer to help him to forget all about it.

*

He stood by his car door at closing, watching as the others climbed into their pickups and rode away, and the neon above the bar spluttered and died with a pop and a buzz. It reminded him of the glowing insect traps, only this one had taken on an insect far too big and burned itself out in a gloriously redundant blaze. Pyrrhic victories had always fascinated him.

He used to feel like a character from a film noir, stepping out of the car in his long black coat, with his bag and trilby hat. Now he stood there in front of a bar that was eerily bridesmaided by the great shadows of the maize fields and he felt nothing like Bogart. The maize stretched out infinitely on either side. He hadn’t realized quite how tall they were at first, their stems towering above him.

He thought about getting back in his car and driving to the motel. He thought about the time he’d sat on a stained bed with a pistol in his mouth, staring at the ceiling fan as it danced with the booze and made his head make little circles in mid-air. There was nothing but the taste of metal and oil and the whirring of that fan. The pistol was still in the glove compartment. Unused. He hadn’t even fired it once.

It was a warm night with a heady breeze that blew the great masses of corn in a body and he shuddered deeply as he stood there. He wondered if anyone had ever wandered off into those fields, thick with the darkness. He guessed once they sobered up they’d find their way back to town; but they might not. A few enquiries, a MISSING poster, and a sense that they had done all they could. Maybe a few shreds of clothing spraying from the back of a tractor. He shuddered again.

He reached into the car and opened the glove box, his hand finding the bottle he kept for emergencies and unscrewing it instinctively. He stood there in front of the bar, just staring out into the darkness of the fields.

He tried to think about home and he couldn’t picture much. He couldn’t picture his kids and there wasn’t even a photograph in his wallet to remedy that. He drank again, dropping the empty bottle and hearing a delayed, echoed crunch as it was cushioned by the gravel that was digging numbly into his soles.

Returning to the car, his hand found the glove box again and took out the pistol.

He walked to the edge of the field. He could see a foot or so into the maize, thanks to the spotlights in the car park. A foot of reality and then darkness, a great mass of nothing before him. He held out an arm and parted the rows and stared in and thought about how his feet felt light, as if they could carry him forever.

Craig Bates