It became a nightly ritual, slipping out of the Senora’s apartment after she had gone to bed . . .
The damp metro station. Dirty air; sooty, humid. A creaky turnstile with a single homeless person sleeping on the granite. The solitary tram car. Loud, metallic vibrations through cavernous tunnels.
Two police officers usually stood at the top of the stairs when he came out of the Metro. It seemed as if they were guarding the empty plaza with four trees and a couple stone benches. Tall cups of coffee in their hands, each with a cigarette burning, the officers barely noticed him. They were having their nightly conversation.
Above the officers, the sky was rounded, black and studded with stars. The palpable air woke him out of his slumber and filled him with a subtle appreciation for the universe. He passed the officers nonchalantly, trying not to make eye contact. He remembered to take a different train on the way home.
The Senora must be sleeping now. In fact, most of the city must be sleeping. It was a week night, after all.
There were some voices from the bars; a couple strolling arm in arm, half-drunk.
The comfort of being alone contrasted with the comfort of having a lover, or even a friend to pass the time. Lethe looked at the lovers jealously. The female was French and extremely attractive. Her boyfriend looked Austrian and aristocratic, like he belonged to the Hapsburg family. Lethe strolled through the plazas, swinging between moods, swinging between his subtle, giddy appreciation, and his resentment of others.
The Reggae bar, a hot spot on the weekends, had the shutters open and a few tables under a canopy. But the bar stools were empty and shadows crossed in the center of the room. Jamaican beats filtered a laid-back rhythm through the speakers, and the high pitch of the steel drum rang out. Lethe sat in the front of the bar, beside the sidewalk and the street and bobbed his head as he waited for the delinquent waitress.
The waitress was some post-punk chick with green and blue dreadlocks and a stud in her chin. Lethe ordered a drink and waited for her to disappear so he could lite up his pipe. He was sitting in a sort of cubbyhole, where the shadows still crossed the tables and disguised him in patches of darkness. Occasionally, he turned his head to blow smoke into the streets.
Lee "Scratch" Perry came on through the 70's speakers mounted in the corners of the room. The sound quality was horrible but it heightened his sense of detachment. The bartender wore hemp bracelets and stacked boxes off to the side. The post-punk waitress smoked a cigarette at a table by herself, occasionally throwing bitter glances at the bartender. There was nobody except these three, until a Moroccan sauntered in.
He was gangly and slightly emaciated but he held himself like a king and stood proud in a jeans jacket slightly torn at the arms. From the moment he appeared in the bar, he seemed to set his eyes on Lethe and walk toward him. He kept staring, until finally he sat down at Lethe's table. There was a cigarette hanging vertically from his mouth.
"Do you like this place?" he said, his cigarette flapping up and down. "It seems kind of empty to me." Then he moved closer toward Lethe and whispered, "I can get you whatever you want."
"I'm cool," Lethe replied. "But thanks."
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