From the outside the bar hadn’t changed much: a small door at the end of a steep cobbled alley, with a big pink neon rattlesnake above it, blinking in the drizzle. It always seemed to rain in that street. The big man on the door had probably been a stormtrooper in another life.
He spotted me for an Anglo immediately and snarled, ‘Members only.’ Then he had second thoughts, and repeated himself in German, ‘Nur für Mitglieder.’
I couldn’t be arsed to struggle with another language, so I kept it natural.
‘That’s me chum: Charlie Bassett – founder member. I even met the rattlesnake herself; I bet you didn’t.’
‘Bitte?’
‘That’s exactly what I’m feeling: very bitter. The buggers want to send me back to war, so I want a drink at my old bar.’ I forgot that I wasn’t supposed to mention the war. This was 1952: the war hadn’t happened, there were no such things as Nazis, and we hadn’t bombed the fuck out of them for trying.
Fritz breathed in, and expanded to about twice the size. He towered above me like Hercules. But he looked confused, and spat, ‘I do not understand.’
‘I do,’ the woman said. ‘This is Mr Bassett, and he is a very bad man. You should never let him in.’ But she was smiling, and pushed past him to hug and kiss me. She must have come through the bead curtain behind the door to see what was happening. Things were looking up. So was I because she was nearly a foot taller than me. I remembered her long straight dark hair, and her perfect heart-shaped face. The last time I’d seen her she’d been Tommo’s girl, and I’d stayed with them in a little country hideaway which had been two railway carriages in a forest sitting on top of half a dozen Teller mines. You really don’t want to know what they were. But I couldn’t remember her name.
I asked, ‘Can I come in from the rain now?’
‘Ja, sure. Let him in, Pauli.’ This last had been addressed to the man mountain who had been clenching and unclenching his fists. I think he’d been looking forward to thumping me. He moved slowly – just to make a point.
Inside she told me, ‘He gets jealous. I think I’ll have to let him go.’ That was the first time I’d heard the particular phrase used about a job; maybe that’s what Old Man Halton was thinking about me. On the only occasion I’d met her before we hadn’t exchanged five words. I thought then that either she was thick, or couldn’t speak God’s language. Now I realized that her English was flawless; probably better than mine.
‘You run this place?’ I asked her.
‘Yes. I own it, too.’
‘Useful.’
‘I thought so too. David put it in my name for tax reasons I think. When he died it was mine: like a going-away present.’
‘Miss him?’
‘Not so much now. It’s been three years.’
‘I do.’
‘That’s because you are a man.’ Birds have been trumping me in conversations like that for years. I hate it. But I didn’t hate her, because she next said, ‘Let’s get drunk and talk about him all night; it’s good to see you, Charlie.’
‘It’s good to see you too . . .’ and then I paused because of the name thing. ‘The silly thing is I don’t think I ever learned your name.’
‘It’s Irma.’
‘Ah.’ Bozey’s bird. Who used to be Tommo’s bird. You’ll have heard all the crap that’s being talked about recycling these days, well we were far better at it in the 1940s and ’50s: the war had taught us how to recycle living people.
I got drunk with Irma, and then she took me somewhere and put me to bed. When I awoke in the morning a radio from another room was belting out ‘Lady be good’ as if it was a bounce – good old Benny Goodman. I followed the noise, and found Bozey tucking into bacon sandwiches.
He said, ‘You’d better get some of these inside you; there’ll be precious few where you’re going – they’re all Muslims over there, so they don’t eat pig.’
‘What do they do with it?’
‘In the war there was an athletic belly dancer in one of the Cairo nightclubs; she had a very interesting act with a pig.’
‘Ow!’ I said, because my head hurt when I moved it. ‘Why don’t women get men to do that sort thing to entertain them?’
‘Because they’re too grown-up already, but I suspect they’ll get round to it eventually. Good morning, boss. Headache?’
‘Yes. Your woman’s a mean drinker. How much did I get through last night?’
‘Less than her. She’s still sleeping it off. I’ll get you something . . .’ He pulled a bottle of PX marked Coca-Cola from their fat refrigerator, popped its cap, dropped in four aspirins and shook it up. When he finally poured it into a tumbler it looked and tasted just like Coke should. It took about five minutes to do the job, and then I began to feel exceptionally happy – as if I could party all night.
‘How did you know I was going to Egypt?’ I asked him. ‘Did I tell you yesterday?’
‘You may have, but Mr Halton called the office after you had gone. He told me; he’s worried about you.’
‘He bloody should be. He’s sold me back to the RAF.’
‘Only for a while, he said.’
‘How long is a while? A long while or a short while?’
‘Don’t know, boss. I’m not that much in his confidence – you are.’
‘Fat lot of good it’s done me.’
