_______________________
A.R.Yngve
PARRY'S PROTOCOL
_______________________
Chapter 37
THE SWEAT LODGE BAR & GRILL
CENTRAL WESTMOREHAM
The bar was smoky and half full; a local country band was playing a ballad for the buzzing customers, of which the majority sat by the tables around the tiny scene.
By the sparcely populated counter sat Abram, leaning heavily over three empty whiskeyglasses. His eyes were hazy, his scalp a tangle of wisps. He was gloomily studying a couple of photographs in the opened wallet lying before him. The bartender, a puffy man with a ponytail and American Indian features, laid his elbows over the counter and gazed down at the pictures.
"The wife?" he asked, neutral.
"Yeah," Abram said shortly.
He set his eyes and showed the photographs to the bartender. They pictured Abram, ten years younger and with long dark hair, next to a buxom woman with short, blond hair and dimples around squinting eyes. Both of them were smiling to the camera.
"Divorced?"
"Dead."
"Sorry." The bartender pouted apologetically, then asked: "When?"
"Seven years."
"Sick?"
"Cancer."
"Tough."
"Yeah."
"Alone?"
"Yeah."
"So's she," the bartender said, nodding at a middle-aged woman who sat a few chairs away, glass in hand.
Abram looked in her direction, smiled weakly at the bartender, and muttered: "Thanks."
"Keep on truckin'."
The bartender moved his attention to the other customers. Abram drew his scalp hair back into a semblance of order, and peered toward the woman. He caught her eyes. He nodded, lifting his drink in a little toast. The woman, wearing jeans and a blouse, raised her glass in reply and managed an uncertain smile.
Abram stood up and moved closer, sitting down with one chair between him and the woman. They looked each other over for a second. The woman had short, straight brown hair and a face which was soft despite the lines of age. She wasn't wearing much makeup; her eyes were dark and clear, half-closed, and her nose seemed a little small in the wide-boned face.
She looked him in the eye and asked "New in town?" in a firm, friendly voice.
Abram stopped squinting, and said: "Yes. Making an extended field trip to the Institute outside town." His voice was getting to sound sleepy.
The woman smiled with just a hint of skepticism: "Oh, you're a psychoanalyst."
"Not quite," he said casually. "I study patients rather than cure them. Some use instruments, but I do a lot of interviewing too."
"Sounds like an exciting job. What're they like, back on the funnyfarm?"
"Well..." Abram stared curiously up into the rough ceiling boards, scratched his beard, and once again looked her in the eye. "May I ask you something."
"Yes?"
"Could a man act crazy, for more than five years, without really going insane?"
She frowned, confused and replied: "Aren't you supposed to know those things?"
Suddenly, Abram seemed very tired. His gaze dropped, and he muttered voicelessly: "It's what I used to think."
They were both silent for a few seconds; Abram finished his drink and asked for another one.
He added, without looking her way: "And anything the lady wishes." She smiled at him, but he didn't notice it as he continued brooding down into his glass. She ordered a new drink for herself and took a sip, throwing casual glances at Abram.
After a minute, she asked: "So, what's the story about the man who's been acting crazy for five years."
Abram clenched his last glass.
"Look, I'm sorry I mentioned it. I was just thinkin' out loud, I'm not supposed to discuss these people's misery in private."
A guilty expression crossed her face: "Sorry, I didn't mean to... you mean they're suffering a lot?"
He blinked, and fixed her with grave, wide eyes: "They are the most lonesome beings in the world. All lost in themselves, completely estranged from the community of others. They could just as well have come from another planet." He gulped his whiskey, making a little laugh to himself, and added: "Then again, some of them believe just that."
The woman appeared to ponder the statement for a second, then said to him: "You know, I have a friend who's joined one of those weird cults. And she's been told she's actually come from another planet, only she's been suppressing it to hide her mental powers from normal people. Like she was Supergirl in disguise."
"Oh, that old merde." Abram sat up a little, assertively raising his voice. "Funny, that if enough people believe a crazy thing, they are considered sane. You can go around claiming all sorts of impossibilities. That you're Elvis. Or God, or whatever. And if only your followers are many enough, or you're powerful enough, nobody admits tu est fou!"
He threw out his hand. "Maybe we should close down the asylums and turn the maniacs into popstars or something, that'd make them a lot happier. Not any less crazy, but happier."
The bartender, eyeing the couple from another end of the counter, gave Abram a hard look. He saw it, and settled down.
"What was your name again?" he asked the woman in a more delicate tone. Her face softened.
"Annie. Annie Two Heads Collett."
"Abram Lemercier." He took her hand and kissed it. "Madame," he added with an ironic smile.
She laughed, flattered and embarrassed at once, then leaned closer with her hands held up before her chest.
"You're French?"
"Quebecois. Went to the U.S. as a student, met a girl, and got married. But that was long ago." He took a sip. "Are you American Indian?"
"'Native Americans' they call us today." She smiled wryly at the bartender, who gave them a little nod. "Not long ago, we were just 'redskins', and before that, 'red savages'. So I guess we've come a long way."
Abram smiled, and said: "Who knows, in ten years they might even call you 'human'." He made a short laugh and raised his glass. They clinked their glasses together.
"To progress," he said.
"To progress," she smiled, and clinked glasses again.
Minutes passed, neither of them saying anything; watching each other, the other guests, and the musicians. The band ended their instrumental piece and received an applause.
The bearded singer spoke into the mike: "Our next song was written by the band long ago, and you've probably heard it before." There were whistles and noises of approval from the audience. "It's called 'A Love To Believe In'."
On cue, the bass-guitarist began; the band joined in. It was not an unusual Country & Western song in any respect:
When I look upon this world today
I see so little that's true
People telling each other lies
Getting all strange and blue
So give me a love to believe in
The one I'm trustin's you
The one I'm trustin's you
We may not be young and fair
We have seen better days
There's gray lines growing in your hair
My eyes are not like new
But you give me a love to believe in
The one I need is you
The one I need is you
The land is there like it's always been
The air is still for free
The water's not as clear as it used to be
The air smells wrong to me
But your love's still there to believe in
I love the scent of you
I love the scent of you
And when our days are over
And winter comes too soon
We'll ride out in the country
Lie pale under the moon
They'll say it was a love to believe in
They'll know our love was true
They'll know our love was true
When Abram and Annie applauded the band, one of them had moved closer to the other. The next moment, they were leaning against each other.