The sudden silence is so loud, so brash, so charged, I stumble. My bare heel slips out of my platform shoe and I grab at the nearest chair to catch myself. My glasses steam up and the silence jumps an octave. I force my heel back into my shoe and rub my glasses with a finger. The Café Royal melts into focus.
The serving bar, a long fat oval, is in the centre of the room. Everything in it and about it is flashy and tiled and chandeliered. Johan had chosen the bar and I wasn’t surprised. On-line at least, he’s a flashy sort of guy.
There are mirrors of mirrors of mirrors. Multiples of multiples and shattering vulgar light. I’m confused. Are there five people or ten or fifty? I settle on around twenty including the three barman.
Across from me a woman leans on a chair by the door. She is older than me, and flustered. She is wearing the same yellow shoes. The same cropped jeans. The same neat black jacket. I frown at her and she frowns back. We blush together as we understand our idiocy. I want to scan the bar for Johan but now I’m too humiliated to look.
Still, no one speaks.
A barman, neat in a moustache and a tight black waistcoat with a tea towel draped over his shoulder, studies me. His appraisal is slow and deliberate. I pull my shoulders in. Shrink inside. He releases me, turns away and leans over the counter to a young bloke in a suit. They exchange whispers and money.
The young bloke swivels on his stool and faces me. He’s looking but not looking. He has a banknote in his fingers that he rolls and unrolls. Something gold flashes around his wrist. He doesn’t seem to blink. I drop my eyes. Sticky acrid bile catches the back of my throat. I imagine it yellow. Then green. I cough. The bloke keeps looking not looking rolling unrolling.
Still, no one speaks.
The bar is dim and cool. Everyone in it is cool and dim. Except me. I am hot. I cannot control my breathing.
I cannot control my breathing. Breaths coming short and fast. Too short and so fast. What’s wrong with these people? It can’t be me. How could it be me? I try looking to my right.
There’s a trio, standing in an alcove. A fiddler, a guitarist, and a woman who probably sings. She’s in a red dress with matching flat shoes. They are not playing music. But they’re not resting. They’re a livestream on pause. The fiddler, a tall man with angles and rough cheeks and a blistered nose, still has his fiddle under his v-shaped chin. The arm with the bow is stuck, crooked in the air. He sways lightly. He is looking at the bloke on the stool. His eyes seem distressed.
The guitarist is also looking at the bloke on the stool. He has more of a querulous look. His guitar hangs on his chest from a leather strap over his shoulder, and his right hand is a frozen pick at a fret. The woman in red has her belly out and her mouth open in preparation for a high note that does not come. She is looking at me. Where is Johan? He must have seen me by now.
Still, no one speaks.
My short fast breaths need reassurance. My hands are sticking with sweat. I try looking to my left. There’s an old woman sat on a high chair at a fruit machine. She’s wearing a sleeveless crocheted waistcoat, nicotine taupe, over a rumpled white shift. Her eyes are pulled to the line of odd fruits. Her fingers are on the red button. The fruit machine is not flashing. Its lights are stuck on glare. The woman’s right shoe makes a rapid tap tap on the wooden footrest below her. It’s the only sound in the bar. The only sound apart from my short fast breaths.
The silence blisters. A mobile phone. It rings and rings until it rings out. It comes from the far corner of the bar, the corner I can see. It comes from a group of four men with dominoes splayed out across their table. Two of the men are looking at the bloke on the stool. The other two have their hands flat on the table.
Still, no one speaks.
I feel sick. This is why I never go into bars first. Why I always wait outside. Wandering about on the pavement pretending to make a call. Maybe this is Johan? A test? A test for a first date? But how would he set the whole thing up? He wouldn’t know all these people. The woman at the fruit machine sneezes. She wipes her nose on her sleeve. I’m the only person that looks.
I need to leave. I let go of the chair. I set my face in an air of oh well nothing happening here I’ll just head home. I swing around on my platform shoes. The bloke on the stool hops down. He is bigger than I expected. He moves fast. He moves to the spot between me and the door. He is close enough to touch. He smells of onion and metal. My adrenaline roars.
I look back around the bar for help. To the trio of musicians. To the woman at the fruit machine. To the men with the dominoes. To all the others sitting in silence with their gazes anywhere but here. Someone drops a coin on the floor. Someone on the other side of the musicians. The coin bounces and spins. I can’t help but watch it. The bloke in the suit has breath that is warm and gummy across my hair.
The coin settles. It settles beside something red. Blood red. A trail of blood. The trail leads to a man. A man lying face down all crooked under a table with a couple sat each side of him. No one bends to retrieve the coin.
And still, no one speaks.
Postscript. This was a writing exercise on building tension.
SANDERLINGS 