Table of Drops: A Work in Progress
Ashley Bell
BY THREE O’CLOCK in the afternoon Adelio Navar was drunk, and after finding the Maker’s Mark to be too palatable had in an unprecedented act of clarity and self loathing switched to ouzo. He needed to slow down, and, since not drinking had long ceased to be an option, he ordered one. Adelio hated licorice, so ouzo was the logical choice, and an hour later through a cloud of putrid anise and sweat the waiter appeared with round four.
One can become accustomed to anything. And even the childhood memory of having gagged on oily licorice whips provided by a sociopathic grandmother every Christmas brought up an unwelcome sentimental twinge. After the waiter arrived with round five, Adelio realized that it was time to move on to the Cynar. He had tried the artichoke derived libation once in Seville after being awarded both ears and a tail in the finest performance of his life. High on his conquest and at the prodding of his father he downed the foul astringent, promptly throwing it up onto the table along with an adrenaline infused lunch as his picadors laughed politely and squeezed his shoulders in camaraderie. He had just turned sixteen and this would be the greatest moment of his life. Now, at forty-two in a café on the outskirts of La Paz, blocking his eyes from the glaring Bolivian sun, Adelio tipped the bitter liquor onto the back of his throat. It was as poisonous as he had remembered. But the memory of it was still sweet.
At eight o’clock, the café switched to its dinner fare. Tourists and third generation Germans, whose genealogies had been conveniently obscured by the Bolivian government after the war, took to the empty tables on the sidewalk surrounding Adelio. The blithe demeanor and guiltless ease in which they moved among each other infuriated him. The scraping sound of iron legged tables being pulled into place made his skin crawl. The way they sat in the iron backed chairs, slumped yet alert in self conscious leisure, pulled him further into despair. If the “sins of the father” ever applied to anyone it applied to them. Yet to Adelio their inherited sins only amplified his own more prescient sin. The one of personal disgrace. Where theirs, inexcusable as it was, remained only an accident of birth where his had been one of direct action.
One can become accustomed to anything. And even the childhood memory of having gagged on oily licorice whips provided by a sociopathic grandmother every Christmas brought up an unwelcome sentimental twinge. After the waiter arrived with round five, Adelio realized that it was time to move on to the Cynar. He had tried the artichoke derived libation once in Seville after being awarded both ears and a tail in the finest performance of his life. High on his conquest and at the prodding of his father he downed the foul astringent, promptly throwing it up onto the table along with an adrenaline infused lunch as his picadors laughed politely and squeezed his shoulders in camaraderie. He had just turned sixteen and this would be the greatest moment of his life. Now, at forty-two in a café on the outskirts of La Paz, blocking his eyes from the glaring Bolivian sun, Adelio tipped the bitter liquor onto the back of his throat. It was as poisonous as he had remembered. But the memory of it was still sweet.
At eight o’clock, the café switched to its dinner fare. Tourists and third generation Germans, whose genealogies had been conveniently obscured by the Bolivian government after the war, took to the empty tables on the sidewalk surrounding Adelio. The blithe demeanor and guiltless ease in which they moved among each other infuriated him. The scraping sound of iron legged tables being pulled into place made his skin crawl. The way they sat in the iron backed chairs, slumped yet alert in self conscious leisure, pulled him further into despair. If the “sins of the father” ever applied to anyone it applied to them. Yet to Adelio their inherited sins only amplified his own more prescient sin. The one of personal disgrace. Where theirs, inexcusable as it was, remained only an accident of birth where his had been one of direct action.
The bull emerged on the far side of the piazza, then evaporated into the gloaming of the Bolivian sunset. Not yet, thought Adelio.
Adelio had been selected for the final round of three contests. At twenty-three, the darling of the corrida de torro, his good looks so typified the continental aesthetic that the bulk of his already obscene income were supplemented by endorsements of everything from automobiles to hair cream. On that final day of his glorious career the two bulls that he would engage were selected by a drawing of straws. His friend and competitor Cayetano held them surreptitiously in a clenched fist, allowing Adelio access only to a sure loss, a betrayal overlooked by Adelio in the thrum and thrush of what he thought would be his greatest victory. He had picked the two largest and fiercest bulls on the docket. There was no backing down.
In the tercio de varas of the first bull, Adelio was relieved to find its movements and tack to be mostly typical. The bull was faster and more aggressive than he would have liked, but speed and momentum taken into account, Adelio had found his initial passes to be satisfactory. At the end of the tercio de varas with his back to the animal, head proudly raised to the audience, he snapped the cape in a final flourish nodding to the picador prima the OK to ride out on his horse and deliver the first lance into the beast’s neck. The horse stalled at the gate refusing to go any further. The picador drove in his heels and pulling hard on the bit caused the horse to stumble sideways toward the bull where it stalled again two yards from the confused bull. In a final violent yank, a broken molar flew out of the horse’s bloody mouth. It reared in agony as the picador slid unharmed to the ground. In replay, the result was as beautiful as it was horrible. At the top of its rearing the horse took what seemed to be three distinctly bipedal steps. The bull hesitated for moment as if out of curiosity then surgically impaled the horse’s heart in a deft act of what seemed to be compassion.
More horses are killed in the bullfight than bulls, at least until relatively recently. But that contingency doesn’t play well with modern spectators. That fight was called off, the bull lead out of the ring to either die or sire depending on the public mood. The larger and angrier bull was scheduled to appear in less than an hour. Adelio was terrified. He immediately thought up a scheme.
Fabricio, the picador segunda, at twenty-nine was six years Adelio’s senior. He had fought in the lesser leagues with some success, but due to a lack of charisma and a tendency to shake uncontrollably during a kill (he was fine up to that point) he had been forced to decide between espectáculos cómico-taurinos, comedic bullfighting, or hanging in the shadows of the professional circuit. He had chosen the latter. As embarrassing as it was to concede to the superiority of someone like Adelio Navar, he did so out of admiration and respect. Adelio’s request therefore, as unethical as it was, would be an honor to commit; and with Adelio’s promise to promote him to picador prima for the next season, the deal was set. As the preliminaries for the next fight began, Fabricio emptied half the contents of a tranquilizer dart onto a tightly wrapped ball of gauze, and inserted it gently into the anus of the waiting bull. Even before the bull hit the ground, after it had destroyed Fabricio’s left knee with a deft reactionary kick, Fabricio swore he would never tell. Such is honor within the profession.
At the start of the next tercio de varas, Adelio was rightfully concerned that Fabricio may not have succeeded in the implementation of their plan. The bull was livid, most likely still feeling indignation at his recent violation. At first it would charge with an unholy purpose, stop suddenly, then gaze glassy eyed into the stands as if searching for a word to explain its erratic behavior. As Adelio snapped his cape, the bull would become interested again, repeat its charge, then as before stop in mid attack. It began to circle Adelio listlessly, only vaguely aware of the dramatic flaps of the cape at the center of its course. It was then that Adelio realized the mission had been a success. Perhaps too much so. Had Fabricio used the entire contents of the tranquilizer dart? or had the half he had suggested been too much. The crowd sensed something. Adelio nodded to the saddled picador prima in the gate to come out. However as terrified as the other horse had been in the first fight, this one seemed oblivious to its position. Enough so to stop and inspect a bit of crabgrass before sauntering off to where the bull stood, where it paused as if trying to piece together the events of a previous drunken evening. Confused, the picador looked at Adelio for guidance. Adelio gestured frantically for the picador to make the first cut -- The picador obliged, and, as the lance drove into the bull’s neck, it raised its eyes to Adelio with little more than mild disappointment, then waivered off to the gate from which it had come.
It bled to death on the linoleum floor of the waiting pen, the lance having been delivered slightly below its intended target. The next day blood tests were administered. Drugs were found. Adelio was done.
By ten o’clock the Germans were replaced by a younger crowd of more or less authentic Bolivians. They sat mostly inside the café while those on the outside had turned tables and chairs to watch through breath-steamed windows the wide screen TV, which hung on the wall above the bar. Thirty years ago it would have been the same crowd huddled around a crystal radio listening to the results of the world cup or even a bullfight -- one in which Adelio may have even been the star attraction --, but tonight the excitement was over the third manned earth orbit by a Bolivian citizen. Given that the year was 2015, the effort seemed redundant. More than a half century had passed since Shepard, Grissom and Glenn had made that voyage with what would now be considered prehistoric technology. However, things are now as they were then, and like then, this was nothing more than a political gesture. One renamed, Space race: South of the Border. Due to ultimately untraceable cultural crosscurrents, an antagonism between Bolivia and Argentina had been born, each pitted against the other by an invisible hand in a race to be first South American on the moon. Western Europe, Canada and the United states backed Argentina’s enterprise; while China, Dubai, and the Newly Reformed Congress of North Korea were behind Bolivia. Nothing of merit was to be gained by any party. This was just posturing frou-frou. The competition simply replacing the World Cup and the NFL as prime time entertainment. The youth screamed in delight over a successful reentry. The moon landing is next, if Argentina doesn’t get there first. A holy pall descends for a moment. Then in unison all --
Sverisdöttir! Sverisdöttir! Sverisdöttir!
Adelio had been selected for the final round of three contests. At twenty-three, the darling of the corrida de torro, his good looks so typified the continental aesthetic that the bulk of his already obscene income were supplemented by endorsements of everything from automobiles to hair cream. On that final day of his glorious career the two bulls that he would engage were selected by a drawing of straws. His friend and competitor Cayetano held them surreptitiously in a clenched fist, allowing Adelio access only to a sure loss, a betrayal overlooked by Adelio in the thrum and thrush of what he thought would be his greatest victory. He had picked the two largest and fiercest bulls on the docket. There was no backing down.
In the tercio de varas of the first bull, Adelio was relieved to find its movements and tack to be mostly typical. The bull was faster and more aggressive than he would have liked, but speed and momentum taken into account, Adelio had found his initial passes to be satisfactory. At the end of the tercio de varas with his back to the animal, head proudly raised to the audience, he snapped the cape in a final flourish nodding to the picador prima the OK to ride out on his horse and deliver the first lance into the beast’s neck. The horse stalled at the gate refusing to go any further. The picador drove in his heels and pulling hard on the bit caused the horse to stumble sideways toward the bull where it stalled again two yards from the confused bull. In a final violent yank, a broken molar flew out of the horse’s bloody mouth. It reared in agony as the picador slid unharmed to the ground. In replay, the result was as beautiful as it was horrible. At the top of its rearing the horse took what seemed to be three distinctly bipedal steps. The bull hesitated for moment as if out of curiosity then surgically impaled the horse’s heart in a deft act of what seemed to be compassion.
More horses are killed in the bullfight than bulls, at least until relatively recently. But that contingency doesn’t play well with modern spectators. That fight was called off, the bull lead out of the ring to either die or sire depending on the public mood. The larger and angrier bull was scheduled to appear in less than an hour. Adelio was terrified. He immediately thought up a scheme.
Fabricio, the picador segunda, at twenty-nine was six years Adelio’s senior. He had fought in the lesser leagues with some success, but due to a lack of charisma and a tendency to shake uncontrollably during a kill (he was fine up to that point) he had been forced to decide between espectáculos cómico-taurinos, comedic bullfighting, or hanging in the shadows of the professional circuit. He had chosen the latter. As embarrassing as it was to concede to the superiority of someone like Adelio Navar, he did so out of admiration and respect. Adelio’s request therefore, as unethical as it was, would be an honor to commit; and with Adelio’s promise to promote him to picador prima for the next season, the deal was set. As the preliminaries for the next fight began, Fabricio emptied half the contents of a tranquilizer dart onto a tightly wrapped ball of gauze, and inserted it gently into the anus of the waiting bull. Even before the bull hit the ground, after it had destroyed Fabricio’s left knee with a deft reactionary kick, Fabricio swore he would never tell. Such is honor within the profession.
At the start of the next tercio de varas, Adelio was rightfully concerned that Fabricio may not have succeeded in the implementation of their plan. The bull was livid, most likely still feeling indignation at his recent violation. At first it would charge with an unholy purpose, stop suddenly, then gaze glassy eyed into the stands as if searching for a word to explain its erratic behavior. As Adelio snapped his cape, the bull would become interested again, repeat its charge, then as before stop in mid attack. It began to circle Adelio listlessly, only vaguely aware of the dramatic flaps of the cape at the center of its course. It was then that Adelio realized the mission had been a success. Perhaps too much so. Had Fabricio used the entire contents of the tranquilizer dart? or had the half he had suggested been too much. The crowd sensed something. Adelio nodded to the saddled picador prima in the gate to come out. However as terrified as the other horse had been in the first fight, this one seemed oblivious to its position. Enough so to stop and inspect a bit of crabgrass before sauntering off to where the bull stood, where it paused as if trying to piece together the events of a previous drunken evening. Confused, the picador looked at Adelio for guidance. Adelio gestured frantically for the picador to make the first cut -- The picador obliged, and, as the lance drove into the bull’s neck, it raised its eyes to Adelio with little more than mild disappointment, then waivered off to the gate from which it had come.
It bled to death on the linoleum floor of the waiting pen, the lance having been delivered slightly below its intended target. The next day blood tests were administered. Drugs were found. Adelio was done.
By ten o’clock the Germans were replaced by a younger crowd of more or less authentic Bolivians. They sat mostly inside the café while those on the outside had turned tables and chairs to watch through breath-steamed windows the wide screen TV, which hung on the wall above the bar. Thirty years ago it would have been the same crowd huddled around a crystal radio listening to the results of the world cup or even a bullfight -- one in which Adelio may have even been the star attraction --, but tonight the excitement was over the third manned earth orbit by a Bolivian citizen. Given that the year was 2015, the effort seemed redundant. More than a half century had passed since Shepard, Grissom and Glenn had made that voyage with what would now be considered prehistoric technology. However, things are now as they were then, and like then, this was nothing more than a political gesture. One renamed, Space race: South of the Border. Due to ultimately untraceable cultural crosscurrents, an antagonism between Bolivia and Argentina had been born, each pitted against the other by an invisible hand in a race to be first South American on the moon. Western Europe, Canada and the United states backed Argentina’s enterprise; while China, Dubai, and the Newly Reformed Congress of North Korea were behind Bolivia. Nothing of merit was to be gained by any party. This was just posturing frou-frou. The competition simply replacing the World Cup and the NFL as prime time entertainment. The youth screamed in delight over a successful reentry. The moon landing is next, if Argentina doesn’t get there first. A holy pall descends for a moment. Then in unison all --
Sverisdöttir! Sverisdöttir! Sverisdöttir!
Adelio had just moved back to Maker’s Mark when the ghost of the bull appeared half asleep under a table where a noisy clique of chubby Brazilian girls vied for the attention of badly overdressed men twice their age. It stared at Adelio in profile as those chubby horny feet kicked through its non corporeal form. It had the same question in its eyes as from nineteen years ago when it had stumbled out of the ring, falling mortally asleep in the spread of its pooling blood on the linoleum floor of the waiting pen.
To Adelio, drunk or sober, the apparition would appear with the mien of a beleaguered host or a disappointed father. The visits were unannounced and arbitrary. If it showed up when he felt rotten (which was usually) and the guilt -- usurped self pity would give a moment’s respite from that chosen pastime. Those feelings of self pity and guilt would of course merge into a new low, lower than any low before. Sometimes it showed up when he was in a state of joyful peace (which was rarely, and usually after sex which was even more rare). At these times Adelio would spire downward into a mire of shame; and as the sole accountant of the ledger of his life found guilty by a jury of his own selection. Self pity emerges, followed by the guilt -- then the bull. Even those momentary flushes of joy are so poisoned as to remain untenable.
Church bells and party horns sounded the successful touchdown of the Luna Nova Module in the Pacific two-hundred miles east of the Fiji islands. The bartender turned off the TV. Glassy eyed youths began their diaspora from the closing café to one of the countless post-landing parties strewn though the city; any one of which, Eydis Sverisdöttir could make a surprise appearance. That was the rumor at least. A handful of kids lingered before departing, speculating on the most promising venue. Adelio stood to leave, and through a double vision haze attempted to parse the contents of his tab. A skinny French Canadian in drag clapped Adelio hard on the chest. His fierce enthusiasm and enormous height kept Adelio’s usually ready fist in check.
-- Man! Isn’t she great man?
Adelio shrugged. He understood the question, but not the context.
-- No English? OK. But she’s so great, man. You know? A true Bolivian. Skál!
The boy bounced off into the dark, grabbing the waiting hand of the most beautiful girl Adelio had ever seen. That had been him at one time, free from an intractable past. Easy on the eyes, and the envy of every reasonable man. One day that boy will be where I am now, he thought. And that thought disgusted him.
-- Eydis Sverisdöttir . . . you know.
The boy made an upward gesture with his hand, meant to indicate the arc of the rocket ship that Ms. Sverisdöttir was scheduled to man for Bolivia’s first mission to the moon in November. Adelio shrugged again.
The boy held out the crumpled poster as an offering and explanation for his previous amorous indiscretion.
-- This is why we are so happy man! Skál!
Adelio took the poster and nodded politely. The boy turned and jogged to meet his friends. For a moment Adelio imagined himself bounding off arm-in-arm with the glad crowd as he watched them disappear around the corner of hotel Emara. He smoothed the poster of future astronaut Eydis Sverisdöttir onto the café table he had occupied for the last ten hours. It was the same one that plastered the walls of every café, boutique, and municipal building throughout the city. In fact, he couldn’t remember a wall anywhere without it. The image of that raven haired beauty with the green eyes was so ubiquitous that he had never realized how lovely she actually was. He stuffed the poster in his jacket, and headed home finally realizing how drunk he had become. Re-carpeting the elevators in the morning would be painful, but doable. The fight that afternoon however . . . He had to get some sleep.
Ashley Bell lives in Richmond, Virginia.
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