Last Friend
The red-shirt kept the knife out, circling Yuri, ready to strike. Yuri shook his head slowly, turned away, resting his arms on the bar. He took his beer, chugged it, pushed the glass to the side.
“Do what you like,” he said. “I don’t care anymore.”
The red-shirt took a confident step forward, but stopped at the sight of the bartender with a cricket bat. He smirked.
“You want to play, old man?” he asked.
“Who’re you calling old?” said the bartender.
The red-shirt walked closer, face full of cocky fearlessness. He waved the knife around.
“Let’s do it.”
The knife was hit across the room before he knew what happened. A second later, five of his teeth met the same fate. He stumbled back to his feet, blood pouring from his mouth, and tried to get his bearings. The bartender held the bat ready for more. His face was devoid of emotion.
“Get out,” he said. “Before I get mad.”
Red-shirt and his friends backed up, pointing at Yuri with some unspoken threat, and rushed out the door. The bartender waited until the door closed behind them, and poured Yuri another drink.
“You all right?” he asked.
Yuri shrugged, put his head down on his arms on the bar. Neither man said a word for some time, until the bartender tapped his shoulder, nudged the beer closer.
“Don’t waste it, Yuri. It’s on the house.”
Yuri looked up, took the beer and began drinking.
“Thank you, Bernard,” he said.
“What’s wrong?” asked Bernard, “You’ve been coming here a long time, but I’ve never seen you this bad. Is it Anya? How’s she doing?”
“Worse,” said Yuri, and left it at that.
“Damn bureaucrats,” cursed Bernard. “Still no word on the health care? Nothing they can do?”
“No word,” Yuri said. “It is not so surprising. I cannot take it personally. Is like this everywhere now. If you want to survive, you must make your own way.”
“Tell me about it,” said Bernard, wiping down the countertops. “Economy’s in the pits. I can tell by my weekly profits. Haven’t had any for months. Don’t know what else to do. My daughter moved into the projects they built in the old shipyards, what, three years ago? And they’re being torn down. Owned by Kenyans now. Kenyans, Yuri. How did we get here?”
Yuri said nothing, just sipped his beer.
“I’ll tell you what,” Bernard continued. “We used to take care of our own here. The ones that made something of France. Now the only ones left are the bums, the hooligans, and the ones too poor to run. No offence.”
“None taken,” said Yuri.
“Have you seen the cars on the streets now? None built domestically. Every last one of them an import. It’s sickening. Sickening.”
Yuri downed the rest of his drink.
“Is the same in Russia,” he said. “And they had no investment in tourism. Nothing to lose, but somehow they lost everything.”
“Screw them,” Bernard said. “They voted the wrong way. They deserve what they got.”
Yuri nodded, said nothing.
“How’s work?” Bernard said, sensing the shift in mood. “You’re busy?”
Yuri stared into his empty glass.
“It has been better,” he said. “And worse.”
Bernard swapped in another pint, sat down with his own.
“There’s no work anywhere. Be glad you have something. Most of my regulars don’t come anymore, since they lost their jobs. King/Western folded with the Abu Dhabi spaceport. Took the soul out of France.”
“The soul left before that,” Yuri said. “The UN made sure of that.”
“What do you think of this new Secretary-General?” asked Bernard. “She seems to know what she’s doing.”
“Oda? Maybe. I will believe it when I see it. I do not know anyone can survive that place.”
“Amen,” said Bernard, holding up his glass.
They sat in silence for a moment, Yuri playing with his glass, turning it in circles, biding his time. When he spoke, he didn’t look up.
“Bernard,” he said, “I need a loan. For Anya.”
“Oh, Yuri. Please don’t do that.”
“I’m sorry. If I had another choice, you know I would take it over this. I can’t—”
“Yuri, I don’t have anything to loan. The fools I kicked out tonight will probably be the end of me. The only consolation I have is that I went out on principle, you know?”
Yuri nodded, but his face was white. He pushed the glass forward, looking away.
“Another, please?”
Bernard smiled, filled it up.
“Why not,” he said. “My retirement party.”
Yuri closed his eyes.
“Why don’t you ask Pellier for a loan?” Bernard said. “He’s keeping half the city afloat these days. What’s one more? He might even have a soft spot for a sick little girl if you tell it right.”
Yuri shook his head.
“I already owe Pellier money. Too much to go back for more. And I do not think he has a soft spot in him. He seems cold straight through.”
Bernard nodded, sipped his own beer.
“You must know someone else, Yuri. Think hard. You don’t have friends anywhere?”