Free The Attic by John K. Cox

spaghetti
    Mistral with orange
    Mistral in olive oil
    Mistral from the grill
    Mistral in a tin can
    South African diamond
    Gavial of Celebes
    Tahitian pictor
    White Tahiti-flower with rice
    Rouge-Gorge of the Adriatic
    Rouge-Bleu of the Adriatic (with cream)
    Tomatoes with Greek olives
    Tern with eggs
    Bouquet de mari é e with mustard
    Cleaning lady in lemon juice
    Shark à la Sumatra
    Ageronio Atlantis
    Catenofele salicia (Nymphalisis)
    Hvar Guitar without Sordino
    Hvar Guitar with Sordino
    Bra č shipwreck in white wine
    Rose of the winds
    As he pored over the menu, a cut diamond in the shape of a skull and crossbones twinkled on his short index finger. I observed the way his fingers slid perplexedly over the snakeskin.
    But, finally — after he had drunk an absinthe — the man said, “ The specialty of the house, please. ”
    His voice wasn ’ t trembling when he said it.
    “ How ’ s that? ” blinked the old man Barba-Umberto, whose eyes were following Leontina ’ s butt under her black apron as she walked away.
    The man with the swollen eyes cast a brief glance at Leontina, who was washing glasses behind the bar. Then he repeated:
    “ The specialty of the house. A Desperados ’ Pistol . . . That ’ s what it ’ s called, isn ’ t it? ”
    Barba-Umberto blanched.
    “ They promised me that they would look out for her. I said: ‘ Boys, if anybody so much as taps her a single time on the . . . ’ ”
    Then Igor jumped in:
    “ What may I bring you, sir? ”
    “ A Pi-stol. A Desperados ’ Pistol. How many times do I have to repeat myself? ”
    “ Excuse us, ” said Igor, wiping the crumbs off of the Bra č marble in front of the man with a white napkin.
    “ Our interpreter is a bit hard of hearing . . . ”
    “ A double. Don ’ t forget: a double. ”
    “ As you wish. ” Billy bowed formally and headed to the bar, as the man called out after him:
    “ Noch ein Bier ! ”
    Igor bowed.
    The man had hooked his short little thumbs into his suspenders and was watching the dark, wintry sea through the window. A black and white ship was trying to draw up to the breakwater through the waves. From time to time its howl could be heard over the wind and it immediately awakened in me the memory of a train embankment, of Eurydice.
    Next to me I sensed the haste with which Igor was working. He unfastened the pistol from its hook (where it hung over the bar like a museum piece), and then I heard him cock it and eject the four remaining bullets from the magazine. After he had inserted one bullet into the barrel, he brought out a silver dish from under the bar. He wiped it off and then laid a small white silk napkin, folded into a triangle, onto it. Carefully he placed the pistol onto the napkin. He was then ready to head to the table but something else occurred to him. I noticed that he was agitated, although his hands weren ’ t trembling. He moved the napkin with the pistol over to the side of the tray, and on the opposite side he placed a mug of foaming beer. Then he nodded to Barba-Umberto and handed him the tray, motioning with his head toward the guest with the skull-and-crossbones. The man was still watching the ship roll around right outside the entrance to the harbor. Without a word Umberto took the tray and set it in front of the customer. The man with the suspenders glanced at the pistol, poked around at it intently with his small index finger, and then drank down his beer. Then he sat there for another quarter of an hour, immersed in the sight of the ship. Then he gestured to Umberto to bring the check.
    “ This is too hard, ” he said in German. “ An excellent imitation. Eine sch ö ne Imitation . But very hard. I don ’ t want to bust my teeth. Auf Wiedersehen ! ”
    Umberto brought back the tray with the empty mug and the pistol. He was muttering something to himself, of which I was only able to catch the words: porca miseria, porca miseria .
    The stranger had not left a single dinar as a tip.