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Gilles Pétel
Translated from the French
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‘I give up,’ John said to himself, just as he collided with another group and ended up back on the pavement once more. Carrying his travel bag in one hand and umbrella in the other, he felt his strength diminishing. He was hungry and thirsty. The memory of the Brazilian barman bucked him up. Without further ado and almost without looking where he was going, John pushed open the swing doors, walked in and veered first right and then left, muttering his excuses, finally getting somewhere. But just as he laid his hand on the bar, a drunk came falling into him. Sporting an Arsenal shirt, the guy must have been at least six foot six, and John wobbled under the weight of him. As he tried to step back, the bloke slid to the floor and spewed the contents of his stomach – at least a dozen pints, by anyone’s guess – at John’s feet. A circle formed around them. The barman had already armed himself with a bucket and mop. A rancid toilet smell hit John’s airways. The giant was pissing himself. The barman let out a groan of disgust. The circle of bystanders stood back a good yard.
‘This can’t be happening,’ thought John, as a fellow drinker called over to ask if he and the giant were together. The question left him briefly speechless. ‘Of course not!’ he eventually replied, horrified at the idea he could be mistaken for having such poor taste. ‘Am I really that much of a mess?’ he asked himself, glancing down at his rain-soaked trousers. He had to get out of there, and fast. John now realised that the barman mopping the floor was not the one he had been hoping to see. The Brazilian must have finished his shift. A Pole, judging by the accent, had replaced him. A good-looking blond, yes, but now was really not the time. On his way out of the pub, John passed two paramedics carrying a stretcher. They had come quickly.
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