Farewell Waltz

came running out of the restaurant carrying a tray with glasses, saucers, and a tablecloth. He put the tray on a nearby table and then leaned over the customers one by one to remove their half-full glasses. He parked these, along with the open bottle, next to the tray he had just put on the nearby table. Then he carefully wiped their visibly dirty table with a dish towel and spread on it a tablecloth of dazzling whiteness. After that he went back to the nearby table to get the glasses and put them back in front of the customers.
“Get rid of those glasses and that bottle of vinegar,” Bertlef said to the boy. “Your papa will bring us better wine.”
The cameraman protested: “Would you be kind enough, Chief, to let us drink what we like?”
“As you wish, sir,” said Bertlef. “I am not in favor of imposing happiness on people. Everyone has a right to his bad wine, to his stupidity, and to his dirty fingernails. Listen, son,” he said, turning to the boy: “Give each of them back the old glass and an empty new one. My guests can choose freely between a wine produced in fog and a wine born of the sun.”
So now there were two glasses per person, one empty and the other with leftover wine. The manager approached the table with two bottles, gripped one between his knees, and pulled out the cork with a grandiose gesture. Then he poured a bit of wine into Bertlef’s glass. Bertlef brought his glass to his lips, took a sip, and turned to the manager: “Excellent. Is it the twenty-three?”
“It’s the twenty-two,” the manager corrected.
“Pour it!” said Bertlef, and the manager went around the table with the bottle and filled the empty glasses.
Bertlef held up his glass by the stem. “My friends, taste this wine. It has the sweet taste of the past. Savor it as if you were breathing it in, sucking in a long boneful of marrow, a long-forgotten summer. I would like with this toast to marry the past and the present, the sun of nineteen twenty-two and the sun of this moment. That sun is Ruzena, that thoroughly simple young woman who is a queen without knowing it. Against the backdrop of this spa town, she is like a diamond on a mendicant’s robe. She is like a crescent moon forgotten against the pale sky of day. She is like a butterfly fluttering against the snow.”
The cameraman gave a forced laugh: “Aren’t you overdoing it, Chief?”
“No, I am not overdoing it,” said Bertlef, and then he addressed the cameraman: “You are under that impression because you merely live in the basement of being, you anthropomorphized barrel of vinegar! You are filled with acids seething in you as in an alchemist’s pot! You are devoting your life to discovering around you the same ugliness you carry within you. That is the only way you can feel at peace for a moment with the world. Because the world, which is beautiful, frightens you, sickens you, and constantly pushes you away from its center. How unbearable it is to have dirt under your fingernails and a pretty woman sitting beside you! And so you have to soil the woman before you enjoy her. Isn’t it so, sir? I am glad you are hiding your hands under the table, I was certainly right to have talked about your fingernails.”
“I don’t give a shit about your good manners, and I’m not a clown like you with your white collar and tie,” the cameraman snapped.
“Your dirty fingernails and torn sweater are not new under the sun,” said Bertlef. “Long ago one of the Cynic philosophers strutted through the streets of Athens in a torn mantle to make himself admired by everyone for displaying his contempt for convention. One day Socrates met him and said: ‘I see your vanity through the hole in your mantle.’ Your dirt too, sir, is vanity, and your vanity is dirty.”
Ruzena could not get over her amazement. A man she had vaguely known as a patient had come to her aid out of the blue, and she was captivated by the natural charm of his behavior and by the cruel assurance with which he had reduced the cameraman’s insolence to dust.
“I see that you have lost the power of speech,” Bertlef said to the cameraman after a brief silence, “and please believe that I did not in the least wish to offend you. I love harmony, not quarrels, and if I allowed myself to be carried away by eloquence, I ask you to forgive me. I want only one thing, that you taste this wine and join me in toasting Ruzena, for whose sake I have come here.”
Bertlef had raised his glass, but no one joined him.
“Mister Restaurateur,” said Bertlef, addressing the manager, “come and drink a toast with us!”
“With this wine, any time,” said the manager, and he took an empty glass from the nearby table and filled it with wine. “Mister Bertlef knows all about good wine. A long time ago he sniffed out my cellar like a swallow finding its nest from a distance.”
Bertlef emitted the happy laugh of a man whose self-esteem has been flattered.
“Will you join us in a toast to Ruzena?”
“Ruzena?” asked the manager.
“Yes, Ruzena,” Bertlef said, indicating his neighbor with a look. “Do you like her as much as I do?”
“With you, Mister Bertlef, there’re only pretty women. You barely have to look at her to know she’s beautiful, since she’s sitting next to you.”
Bertlef once more emitted his happy laugh, the manager laughed with him, and oddly enough, Kamila, who had found Bertlef amusing ever since his arrival, joined them. This unexpected laughter was surprisingly and inexplicably contagious. Out of tactful solidarity the director in turn joined Kamila, then the assistant, and finally Ruzena, who plunged into the polyphonic laughter as if into a gentle embrace. It was her first laughter of the day. She laughed louder