“After us the Flood” Levadski says, holding on to the chair leg, or is it one of Mr. Witzturn’s legs? Like an ark on the high seas, thinks Levadski, an ark without passengers. An ark in a world without animals and human beings. The plants will survive us. It is said that mushrooms grow for years on the ocean floor without sunlight.
Sailor, stop dreaming …
“The pianist has risen,” Mr. Witzturn whispers in Levadski’s ear.
… don’t think of home.
Sailor, wind and waves
Are calling you.
“Well, he needs to keep the guests in a good mood,” Levadski remarks yawning. “There will be some guests who have fallen asleep in their dark corner, won’t there?” Instead of moving his head, Mr. Witzturn rolls his eyes as far as they will go to one side. Like two billiard balls on a sinking ship. “In the dark, it is difficult to see who is sleeping and who is squinty-eyed by nature,” he mumbles. “Maestro, how about a ladies’ cocktail for the two of us?”
Your home is the ocean,
Your friends are the stars
Over Rio and Shanghai,
Over Bali and Hawaii.
“What’s that?”
“I was just telling the maestro that you would like something syrupy, a ladies’ drink, for a change.”
“With pleasure, if you will join me.”
“Would the gentlemen like to take a look at the cocktail menu?” the barman opens a leather folder.
“We can’t see anything,” Mr. Witzturn laughs, “even less than we could two hours ago.”
Your love is your ship.
Your yearning is the distance.
And only to them are you faithful
For a lifetime.
“Something syrupy,” the bartender says, “I am just thinking about what would complement the fruit vodka the gentlemen have already drunk.”
Sailor, stop dreaming.
Don’t think of me,
Sailor, for the unknown
Already awaits you.
“Just mix up something for us,” Mr. Witzturn requests.
“Any old thing isn’t suitable for sophisticated con-sumption!” Levadski remarks in a reproachful voice.
“Is that so?” Mr. Witzturn menacingly asks the bartender, who nods in agreement.
“A bartender, however, would never lecture his guests,” Levadski remarks. “After all, a bar has a cultural and social function, hasn’t it?” The bartender agrees with Levadski again. Mr. Witzturn, piqued, rolls his eyes.
Your home is the ocean,
Your friends are the stars
Over Rio and Shanghai,
Over Bali and Hawaii.
“Just mix up something for us,” Mr. Witzturn starts in all over again.
“My God!” Levadski touches his brow. “Any old thing will neither do for us, nor will it do in the eyes of the young man whose care we are in. Get that into your head!”
“Something syrupy for ladies,” Mr. Witzturn adds.
“Let the man in charge of the bar have his say. What cocktails have you got anyway?”
“Would the gentlemen like to know exactly what we have got? We have,” the barman looks at Levadski and the coughing Mr. Witzturn in turn, “a large selection of bases, each embracing a large choice of cocktails. We have,” he pinches his eyes, “aperitifs, classic drinks, low alcohol drinks, non-alcoholic drinks, hot drinks, drinks for hang-overs and corpse-reviving cocktails …”
Your love is your ship.
Your yearning is the distance.
And only to them are you faithful
For a lifetime.
“… Martini cocktails, sours, juleps, highballs, flips, fizzes, coladas, to mention a few. Then we have the spirit-based cocktails …”
“For example?” Mr. Witzturn asks, yawning widely, as if wanting to spit out an entire egg. A similarsized egg slips out of Levadski’s mouth. At the last moment he manages to hide this embarrassment behind a fist.
“No, we really are interested,” Mr. Witzturn explains, “aren’t we, Mr. Levadski?”
“Tell us about the spirit bases, please, if you would,” Levadski asks, stifling a second yawn.
“For example, Campari drinks are mixed with a spirit base, I am sure the gentlemen know that.”
“Yes, when you go into a café in summer, you frequently see foggedover Campari glasses in the hands of older ladies, don’t you, Mr. Levadski?”
“I seldom go out, especially when it is very hot.” He should leave off saying ‘don’t you, Mr. Levadski,’ Levadski thinks; if he says it once more, I am going to tell him.
“Campari and orange was already a classic before our time — Costa Brava, Bella Donna, Bella Musica, Bella Bella.” Mr. Witzturn is gently swaying on his barstool, on and on, even when he can’t think of any more Bellas.
“And then there are also other Campari drinks,” the bartender cautiously continues, “Cardinal, Rosita, Negroni …”
“What other cocktails are there on the planet? En-lighten us, young man,” Levadski says, turning to the bartender who, according to the rules of the art, has been polishing a glass the entire time.
“Vodka drinks, for example, although nowadays they are more often drunk neat,” replies the bartender, dipping a cocktail glass in a basin of water. “Many people drink spirits neat out of reverence for the drink. I too would probably never mix particular spirits. Gin and vodka or gin and whisky. God forbid.”
“Gin really is something special,” Mr. Witzturn yawns down the length of his flowery tie.
“A bar without gin,” the bartender comes into his own, “is like an eagle without feathers. You can do anything with it.”
“Game for anything,” Mr. Witzturn mumbles, letting his chin sink onto his chest.
“No other spirit has created so many classics,” the barman continues, “Pink Gin, Gin and Tonic, or Martini Dry, would not exist without gin. The more recent hugely popular Alexander’s Sister cocktail wouldn’t either.”
“What is so special about gin?” Levadski’s chin is also seeking purchase on the lower floors of his upper body.
“If I were on a desert island,” says the bartender, “and I had to decide on a single alcohol base in order to mix drinks, I would choose gin. Why? Because gin is easy, down-to-earth, discreet, soft. It is self-sufficient. It is self-confident and doesn’t need any external endorsement, that is to say, it needs no other alcohol.”
“The self is the man,” drones Mr. Witzturn, his chin on his chest like a schnitzel rolling in flour.
What would you be doing on a desert island as a head bartender? Levadski can’t vouch for whether he said these words or Mr. Witzturn said them. Perhaps, he thinks, I was only thinking out loud. Or I only whispered, very softy whispered … a deserted bar, but why on an island?
“Never mix gin with vodka, gin with rum, gin with brandy,” he hears the bartender whispering into the glasses.
“What did you say?”
“Whisky with liqueurs, gin with juice, vermouth with gin, gin with tequila, juice bitters … A bar without an is-land is like a bar without glasses.” The bartender’s monologue is a sigh, a rustling in the wind.
The white jacket flutters like a thousand leaves in the wind, thinks Levadski, white poplar …
“Gin appears to be an ingenious chap,” Mr. Witzturn purrs. Levadski closes one eye. Or maybe he opens it? Inward or outward. This thought does not torment him for long either.
“Lone Tree for example, very popular with the ladies, gin, dry vermouth, red vermouth, a drop of orange bitters, stirred on ice, served up to the old clapperclaws in a martini glass.”
“Hahaha,” Mr. Witzturn grunts, to the accompaniment of the sound of his creaking barstool. “Clapper-claws, I will remember that!” Mr. Witzturn learns the new word as he snores. Entire forests are felled with the axe of his nose.