“Give me that corkscrew,” I told him.
I took down a bottle of whisky from the shelf, opened it, and handed it to him with a glass. For myself I chose a stiff brandy with very little soda, and then another. After that my hand wasn’t shaking so much.
I looked at my companion. He was taking his whisky neat, out of the bottle.
“You’ll get drunk,” I said.
He paused and turned his head toward me. I could have sworn that his eyes really saw me.
“Get drunk! Damn it, I am drunk,” he said scornfully.
He was so perfectly right that I didn’t comment. He brooded a moment before he announced:
“Gotta get drunker. Gotta get mush drunker.” He leaned closer. “D’you know what? I’m blind. Thash what I am—blind’s a bat. Everybody’s blind’s a bat. ’Cept you. Why aren’t you blind’s a bat?”
“I don’t know,” I told him.
“？’S that bloody comet. Thash what done it. Green shootin’ shtarsh—an’ now everyone’s blind’s a bat. D’ju shee green shootin’ shtarsh?”
“No,” I admitted.
“There you are. Proves it. You didn’t see ’em: you aren’t blind. Everyone else saw ’em”—he waved an expressive arm—“all’s blind’s bats. Bloody comets, I say.”
I poured myself a third brandy, wondering whether there might not be something in what he was saying.
“Everyone blind?” I repeated.
“Thash it. All of ’em. Prob’ly everyone in th’world—’cept you,” he added as an afterthought.
“How do you know?” I asked.
“？’S’easy. Listen!” he said.
We stood side by side, leaning on the bar of the dingy pub, and listened. There was nothing to be heard—nothing but the rustle of a dirty newspaper blown down the empty street. Such a quietness held everything as cannot have been known in those parts for a thousand years and more.
“See what I mean? ’S’obvious,” said the man.
“Yes,” I said slowly. “Yes—I see what you mean.”
I decided that I must get along. I did not know where to. But I must find out more about what was happening.
“Are you the landlord?” I asked him.
“Wha’ ’f I am?” he demanded defensively.
“Only that I’ve got to pay someone for three double brandies.”
“Ah—forget it.”
“But look here——”
“Forget it, I tell you. D’ju know why? ’Cause what’s the good ’f money to a dead man? An’ thash what I am—’s good as. Jus’ a few more drinks.”
He looked a pretty robust specimen for his age, and I said so.
“Wha’s good of living blind’s a bat?” he demanded aggressively. “Thash what my wife said. An’ she was right—only she’s more guts than I have. When she found as the kids was blind too, what did she do? Took ’em into our bed with her and turned on the gas. Thash what she done. An’ I hadn’t the guts to stick with ’em. She’s got pluck, my wife, more’n I have. But I will have soon. I’m goin’ back up there soon—when I’m drunk enough.”
What was there to say? What I did say served no purpose, save to spoil his temper. In the end he groped his way to the stairs and disappeared up them, bottle in hand. I didn’t try to stop him or follow him. I watched him go. Then I knocked off the last of my brandy and went out into the silent street.