That Bittersweet Taste

by Grove Koger

3 June 2023

Dear Paul,

I hope that this letter finds you in good health, at least as good as it can be at your age—meaning our age, of course. After all, who else but people our age writes letters anymore?

I understand that next Friday afternoon the authorities are going to come clean in some sort of press conference. That’s UTC, so I’ll have a chance for a drink or two and a leisurely lunch. Presumably you’ve heard the same thing, so it really doesn’t matter whether this reaches you beforehand. And probably it won’t; I’ve been waiting for a package from the States for over three months now. I regret not having a computer, or whatever might have taken the computer’s place since the last time I looked, but I don’t suppose I’ll be picking up one at this point.

In any case, there have been more than enough signs, haven’t there? I climbed up onto the roof last night with a bottle of grappa to watch, well, whatever those things are. But the lightning drove me back inside. To see a bolt stretch from one horizon to the other and then smell and feel the waves of ozone roll over you was more than I could deal with. (I can’t help but remember how you and Jane and I used to crawl out her window onto the battlements with a few joints. God how I miss her! Which I hope—despite everything that’s happened—you’ll have the good grace to let me say.)

But getting back to the situation here, everybody is on edge, although they still lift their caps to you—those who are left, that is. Earlier this week I watched a poor fellow, he must have been at wit’s end, beat his donkey with his belt in the street. Then the next thing you know he’s weeping and embracing the poor beast, which had stood there mutely the whole time. Even the damn gulls seem to know something’s changed. They’re not flying. Fine fall days like these and they’re not flying. Silent, too. Of course they’re seeing the same things that we are.

It all reminds me of those apocalyptic stories that J.G. used to write. What a pity he isn’t here—or, presumably, anywhere—to enjoy the show.

I’ve just finished laying in some basics: a keg of wine, beans and rice, a crock of those olives you liked so much, a bushel of apples for the cellar. Amazingly enough the building’s cistern still functions. There’s an old man living nearby, and I suppose he’ll continue making deliveries as long as there’s anything left to deliver. Or perhaps he’ll disappear like so many others. There seems to be a tendency in a situation like this for people to head for the hills or the beach. In this case it’s the hills, where several hundred people have taken up residence in caves. Good luck to them!

I’m not a particularly violent man, so I don’t own anything in the way of weapons, although there’s a lug wrench in the old Volvo. If I remember correctly, you used to hunt, so you may be better prepared than I am over here. Perhaps you’ll find some sort of closure in the news. I hope it’s something worth waiting for, some kind of solution. Wouldn’t that be grand?

Well, I’ll definitely have that drink. A Negroni, maybe—that bittersweet taste would strike just the right note, don’t you think? There’s a place down near the quay that has a little television and ought to be able to mix a decent Negroni. Friday may be the day for one. I was thinking about walking, but I think I’ll take the Volvo. It may be a good afternoon to have a car—and a wrench.

Arrivederci,

Grove

Posted on April 30th 2023

by Grove Koger

Impression 1

None So Distant (Story, All Fours, Lore and Order)

Paris Lit Up