This is a story set in Farmina that I wrote 12 months ago. Your thoughts and comments would be greatly appreciated. Hopefully, I'll be able to post a few more short stories when I get a chance.
Some dance to remember, some dance to forget
Sometimes it’s hard to talk. War does that to even the hardest men.
Or at least that’s what Dr Flynn told me. But those are simply empty words. Comfort words.
Therapy – a refuge of the weak, the broken and the mad. What isn’t there to be ashamed of?
I did try to talk about it. But it’s not what I know. Since I could talk, I was ordered to listen.
Dr Flynn says being unable to talk is nothing to be ashamed of. But I’m paying him – of course he would say that.
Since I wouldn’t talk, he suggested I write about what happened. I did try to write about the war – when the Messians attacked our nation – but even on paper the words were hard.
So he suggested I write about what I did last night – and what that made me think about. Other than a detailed description of my dinner (a very nice mutton stew) – there wasn’t much on the paper.
So he suggested that I should write about what happened on Saturday night, and add anything that comes to my mind. And that’s what this is: this is the story about my Saturday night.
It feels rather pathetic really. Writing about Saturday night. They are all very similar. None of them are particularly significant. I survived bullets and planes and tanks – yet I’m reduced to this.
Anyway...
After a brief meal at home I got ready for the night out. I didn’t spend too long getting ready. I put on a clean white shirt, a pair of jeans and my favourite leather jacket. I combed my hair, but no matter what I tried – it remained a scruffy mess.
It was about half-past-seven when I arrived. I go to the same place most Saturday nights. It’s a jazz bar on top floor of the new Casino Verica. I suppose it’s not new now. It’s been 4 years since the war. Still – I think everyone remembers the history of the old building fondly. President Grey took so many dignitaries visiting Farmina to that casino. The photographs lined the entrance – that’s all gone now. The price of victory, I suppose.
Anyway, back to the jazz bar. Jazz might seem a bit old hat these days. I still remember when jazz was first legalised. I’m not old mind you – I suppose you would call me middle aged. I was young enough to go to war – but old enough that everyone else looked like a kid.
I took my seat across from Veronica. She smiled and passed me a drink she had already ordered. A glass of red wine. I have a serious weakness for a good drop of red – a sign of my Catholic heritage I suppose.
I took a sip of the wine. Typically cheap – but drinkable. Veronica was holding a cocktail of one sort or another. It was blue – made me think of kerosene. I’m not a big fan of that fancy crap. Plus, alcohol laws in Farmina change every other week – by the time you work out whether what you are drinking is actually legal, the laws have all changed again. But with red wine you are always safe. Thank God that we Farminans are Catholic people.
Veronica put down her glass. I remember her exact words, “Shall we dance.”
I probably need to clarify – Veronica is not my wife. That sounds wrong. Veronica and I are just friends. Does that sound like a hollow denial? Well it isn’t. We are just friends – and dance partners. I am a married man – a widower – but still a married man.
“Let’s,” I responded, putting down the wine glass. Yes, the conversation was very brief – but what else was there to say.
We went over to the floor – as the band hammered out the faster jazz tunes. As the night went on, the tunes would slow. But that was later.
I’m not much of a dancer – but that’s not the point. Some dance to remember, some dance to forget.
I clearly remember smiling at Veronica, and her smiling back at me. I don’t smile often these days – perhaps why that moment was memorable.
My slowly our eyes crept around the room. As always, the women far outnumbered the men. Even on Saturday night – the scars of the war were unavoidable.
I muttered something like “Imagine how bad it must be in MES.” Veronica must have heard me because she nodded and said something I didn’t catch. Farmina may have lost a lot of young men in the war – but they were a drop in the ocean compared to the far larger Messian casualties. Where our republic faces a generation with half the number of young men – the half-generation – the Messians have seen nearly an entire generation exterminated.
For a moment, I tried to imagine the nightlife in MES. Were all the clubs empty? Were they full of women dancing by themselves? Were the women so alone they danced with each other? The thought of such perversion made me shudder.
Were clubs still open in MES? Or had the music fallen silent across their broken nation?
But thoughts of war were not things I wanted in my head. “Another drink.” I said it several times – progressively louder – before Veronica finally heard me above the music.
Veronica took a seat. I went to the bar to order another round of drinks. I couldn’t remember what the blue things are called – so I just got Veronica a glass of champagne. I need something more – a pint of lager with a whiskey chaser.
When I brought the drinks to the table – Veronica was quietly studying those still dancing. I passed her a drink – but she was somewhere else. Veronica used to come to the old club with her husband, before the war. She doesn’t talk about him much – but she loved him. When she looks silently at the dance floor – I imagine she sees a younger version of herself dancing with him. She dances to remember him.
Her husband died during the war. He caught a sniper bullet during the advance on the Messian capital. They have two sons and a daughter. The elder son went to war and came back in one piece. The younger son just avoided the draft. The daughter married herself a soldier boy. He’s stationed as part of the occupation force in Trinity – so she moved there to be with him.
Janice and I didn’t have any kids. We were never that close. I was sad when I heard the news of her death, but I wasn’t distraught or in grief. This might sound horrible – but I was sort of glad that her funeral allowed me to get some time away from the front.
I guess I haven’t said how she died. It wasn’t bombs or bullets. She died during the war – not because of it. Not directly anyway. Complications following cancer surgery. Doctors and medicines were in short supply – the Messian were wreaking havoc with shipping lanes and any medical supplies we could get were needed at the front – as were doctors. Sometimes I wonder if, indirectly, the Messians killed my wife.
Veronica finally said something. It was along the lines of, “Still not prepared to pay for a decent hair cut.”
Like I said earlier, my hair was scruffy. A good hair cut might have helped. But it’s just hair. And the top barbers in Farmina cost a small fortune – it seems they died in disproportionate numbers during the war. Besides, it’s what’s on the inside that counts.
I told her, “It’s not really worth the money.”
She put down her drink and gave me an understanding look. “Of course you are worth the money.”
She must have misheard what I said.
On the topic of money – things have been that bit tighter since the war. Don’t get me wrong – I’m not going hungry, but financially I’ve had better days. Probably a good thing my wife and I never had children – otherwise the money would be stretched rather thin now.
I had a good job before the war – I managed a small refrigerator factory. When I was called up in the draft – my boss didn’t take long to replace me. And by a woman, of all people! During the war, a lot of women came into the workforce to take the jobs men had been doing. Unfortunately, when the war ended, the women kept the jobs and a lot of men had to start their careers over again. This was certainly the case for me.
It leaves a rather bitter taste in the mouth – I risked my life for the country and was rewarded with a demotion, yet those who avoided the front were given an untimely step up the ladder.
The scars that Messians carved into our nation are deep, numerous and enduring. Sometimes, I take pleasure in the fact that the Messians were scarred far worse. And other times I feel nothing but pity for them.
However – that’s another story. This is about last Saturday night. This is a story of dancing and drinking in a dark room.
Veronica and I didn’t return to the dance floor until several drinks later. Veronica didn’t match me drink for drink – she said “it’s not a competition – you don’t need to prove how much you can drink”. I know that. I don’t know why she says it. She says it every week. I tell her every week that I’m not competing, that I’m relaxing. You think she would take a hint.
It was approaching eleven by the time we returned to the dance floor. The club was packed and music had slowed. Good thing too – as my wits were not what they had been a few hours earlier.
I became lost in the sound and the colour and the energy. I went back to the bar a couple more times – I think. I remember that Veronica told me she had enough.
I barely remember how I got home. The club closes at midnight – we must have left then. I clearly remember waking up at home – waking up to the hangover. But for a few short hours – it didn’t hurt.
