La Taberna del Escocés

Capítulos: 1 2 3

II

The Scot’s Tavern. I’d heard about it, famous poker parties had taken place there. It looked terrible, but not as bad as the other taverns next to it. The smell of wood was stronger that that of piss. That was a point in its favour. Behind the bar, there was a guy washing the glasses which he would put against the light and seemed satisfied with moderately deficient hygiene.

- Do you have any good whisky?
- Depends. What do you mean by good whisky?
- Don’t know… Cardhu?
- Is Glenfiddich ok?
- You fucking have Glenfiddich…

He looked at me disapprovingly, as if I had hurt his feelings with my scepticism. He finally asked sternly:

- What is your name?
- What’s that?
- What is your name.
- What’s that all about?
- I know all my customers.

I looked around me. There was no one in the room so I decided to fool around a bit. That’s what you get when you’re rich.

- Well I think, right now, you don’t know any of your customers.
- You’re no customer until you have a drink. And you won’t until you tell me your name.

Quite the character this fucking dish washer had!

- All right… Touché.
- Sorry, I don’t speak Italian.

He didn’t smile. I couldn’t even tell if he was being serious or not.

- My name is Geoffrey, Geoffrey Chaucer.

I held my hand out. He turned it around and looked at my palm. I finally seemed to have passed the inspection and he shook my hand. Crushed it rather. I felt I was going to need a cast on for three weeks. I tried to get some of my dignity back.

- I’m a writer.
- Have you written anything I may have read?

I looked at the newspaper on the bar.

- More than likely. I’ve written the horoscope page in that newspaper for the last three years.
- Aha. So you’re Golden Chaos, then? I like your style. Slightly repetitive… I guess that comes with the format.
- Yeah, possibly. Any way, Golden Chaos has passed away now. Now I’m a real writer… although, to be honest with you, I have no story at the moment.
- Plenty of stories here. Even good ones. Not right now, of course… but come around after ten o’clock. - As he talked he dropped two ice cubes into a high-ball glass and poured three fingers of Glenfiddich. - This one’s on me.
- Thanks. - I liked him. Although the truth is I’m pretty easy going when it comes to liking people. - I wish it was that simple to come up with stories…
- Ummmmm… I’ll tell you a story. It happened in my home town a few years back. Father MacKenzie had a scarce but very devout parish. He was about to turn 58 years old, 34 of which he’d devoted to preaching the word of the lord. God had never spoken to him, though. Up until that moment, of course. He had found god in the service to his fellow men and women, in the simile of a child,… in all that kind of bullshit. But all that was nothing compared to what he had just experienced. Sitting, his hands crossed on his lap, he had just finished giving communion and was wondering why god had chosen just that moment and, especially, that message to make Himself patent in his life. He finally decided he just couldn’t ignore it. He left the nave, to his parishioners’ astonishment. He closed the doors from the outside, using the locks they used when there was the northern gales. He then went up to the choir, he set fire to the old velvet curtains, went down the outside stairs and sat on the grass to watch the church burn down in flames. it was an old building, with no emergency exits, far form the fire station, and to make things even worse, the only two fire extinguishers were outside the nave, in the parish priest’s office.

Silence.

- Is that it?
- You didn’t like it?
- It’s an absurd story. Are you trying to tell me that god asked the priest to burn down the church with the people inside?
- Well, the police had a hard time understanding father MacKenzie’s confusing story, really. The two people who could’ve given some light to the matter were part of the barbecue that Sunday. - I lifted an eyebrow. – Well yes, I’m talking about Colm Ferguson and Sean McSeamus. The two fifteen-year-olds that thought mass would be a lot more fun if they poured some acid in the chalice.
Well. The story could be written. I finished my whisky. I definitely like this place, I said to myself.

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