“Have a good evening, Mrs. Krause.”
I tuned my ear to see if I detected any of the malevolent tone from the previous night, just as I’d done all evening, but found none.
“Yourself as well, Kenneth.”
I left the dining room and walked toward the stairs, my body in gradual rebellion with each step. The whole of the Menger felt cavernous. Silent and dark. I could not will my foot to touch the first stair, could not bear the thought of ascending the next. I glanced at the clock. Not quite ten. Still early enough for a cup of coffee. Or tea, perhaps, to be less jangling to the nerves. And while I could have such sent to my room, I chose the only other option.
The bar.
It seems unconscionable to be this far in my tale and only now bringing Bert to life, especially given the role he will play in my troubles. And my salvation. I do not want to give the impression that this was my first visit to the bar, nor to imply that my visits were a regular occurrence. Never mind that Theodore Roosevelt himself had been a regular patron. A lady simply didn’t hoist herself on a barstool or lounge in a booth with a drink.
And yet there had been nights like tonight when there were no prying eyes, no one to pass judgment other than Bert, who proved himself instantly to be a trustworthy friend.
“Good evening, Mrs. Krause.” He smiled in a way that no other man in this place ever smiled at me—as if he’d been anticipating my arrival and was genuinely glad to see me. “Looks like you can have the seat of your choice.” At this, he gestured expansively, a coded message that I was, indeed, alone. No patrons lurking in the dark corners.
“Good evening, Bert. This will do.” I took a chair at the table closest to the bar, out of the sight line of the door.
“Coffee? It’s a cold night. It’s fresh.”
“That sounds lovely.” Though covered neck to wrist to toes, I felt the chill.
“I could heat it up for you, if you like.”
“That sounds even lovelier.” More code. Heating up the coffee had nothing to do with the temperature, only the added ingredient. Whiskey.
I anticipated the warmth of it even as he walked out from behind the bar, carrying the steaming white cup. He set it down on the table and lingered at my side in a way none of the waiters in the dining room would ever dare.
“Is there anything else I can get for you, Mrs. Krause?”
His voice was deep, dark, and smooth—matching the taste I anticipated from my drink, nothing like the rasping, grating speech of the night before.
“Would you join me, Bert?” The question was out before I could even consider the consequences, but by the time I asked, I found myself desperately wanting him to comply.
He looked to the door, seeming to gauge the probability that one more lost, chilled patron might arrive. Then, without a word, he strode across the room and locked it. Then back again to lock the street entrance, turning the sign to CLOSED. All of this, wordlessly. Clandestine. Soon he was seated across from me with his own steaming cup. Straight—I watched him pour. A single candle burned in an amber glass between us. I studied his face, boldly. No coquettish glance. He did the same, and I thought, He knows. He knows that despite my demeanor, my speech, my jewels, my person, I’m no better than he. Born no higher—even lower, I would have wagered at the time.
Finally dropping my gaze, I sipped my coffee, savoring the burn of it down my throat. When I looked up, he was still watching.
“Is it to your liking, Mrs. Krause?”
“It’s perfect.” The resurgent heat kicked. “Strong.”
“You seem…not quite yourself. Lost, tonight.”
“And you think this will help me find myself?”
“I don’t think it can hurt.”
A companionable silence followed, and I realized how long it had been since I shared such a moment. Before my husband died, in the lingering days of his illness, there had been long stretches of quiet—he in the bed, me sitting beside it. All the time after, with his sons at the table, or in the lawyer’s foyer, the silence had been stifling. Condemning. My survival in San Antonio conditioned itself on conversation. Chattering, stringing one mindless word after another to keep a man’s attention. Here I took the time to study Bert—his handsome face, beautiful almost, clean-shaven with a rounded jaw and soft mouth. His eyes were something close to bronze, his lashes—dark and dense enough to look almost kohl-lined—curled up along the top. I’d spent enough time in the Deep South to recognize the coloring, the close-cropped dark hair. The realization brought a new thrill to the idea of the two of us sharing a dark table in an empty room. It was a thrill that might have been a fear under other circumstances, but I’d had quite enough of fear already.
“How long have you worked here, Bert?”
“At the Menger?” He looked up, calculating. “I’d say close to thirty years.”
I nearly choked on my drink. “Thirty years? But you, you look—”
He laughed, rich and rolling. “I started when I was a kid, back with the brewery. Not even ten years old. Runnin’ errands and such. I carried bags of barley as soon as I was old enough to lift them, carried blocks of ice as soon as I was strong enough to do that. Worked in the laundry, the kitchen. Pretty much wherever I was needed.”
“How did you end up behind the bar?” It was a reasonable question. A good bartender is a prestigious position, not usually attained by the kitchen help, and never, in my experience, by a man of any color other than white. Bert cocked his head and nodded, understanding the essence of my question.
“One day a few years back, I carried in a keg. It was middle of the morning, not a soul around, so I set it up, tapped it. Manager at the time came in, and I think was ready to tear into me, and I asked him if he wanted a beer. Nice and gentlemanlike. “Can I draw you a beer, sir?” And he looked surprised, like he didn’t know I could speak beyond ‘Yassuh, Mr. Boss-man.’”
He broke off with a rueful laugh, but I did not join him. In that single fragment of speech, he’d transformed himself from the elegant man behind the bar to something unrecognizable.
“The power of vocabulary and syntax,” I said, knowing my own past was riddled with simpering, cooing phrases.
“That, and a perfect pour. And silence about havin’ a drink before noon. He advanced me five dollars to buy a suit, get a good shave and a haircut. Told me if a single customer ever had reason to complain about having a Negro behind the bar, I’d be fired.”
“And what,” I said after a beat, “do you think he would say to finding you sitting alone, late at night, with one of your more desirable guests?”
He shrugged, letting me know he appreciated the humor of the question. “What do I care? He died years ago. Then Sylvan came, and he and I haven’t met but twice.”
“He doesn’t drink.”
“Not a drop.”
“And he leaves you to yourself.”
“I have it well under control.”
“I envy you.” My guard dropped enough to let a hint of wistfulness come through. His brow furrowed, and he reached a hand across the table. Close to mine but not touching. We both knew better than that. The inch of space between us carried the burden of centuries.
“Why are you in here, Mrs. Krause?”