John Walsh was born in Derry but now lives in Connemara. He’s published three collections of poetry, including, Chopping Wood with T.S. Eliot  (Salmon Poetry). He has read at events in Ireland, the UK, Germany, Sweden and the USA. He is organizer and MC of North Beach Nights in Galway, Ireland’s leading monthly performance poetry event. Border Lines is his debut short story collection.

Winter Sun

‘Sir, I have a history to tell you.’ The Cuban waiter stood at our table, his hands clenched behind his back. ‘I am not waiter really. I open my first bottle of wine twelve days ago. And I make big mess.’
We stared at him, wondering what it was that made him tell us this.
‘I study physics, five years, you see. Then I get job, how you say?’ He made a brush gesture.
‘Sweeping the streets?’
‘Yes, yes. I love physics. But I have no work. Here I say to boss, I cook. Boss say I need waiter. I say him I am good waiter.’
We were tucked away for a week of winter sun. Everything was closed in our part of Fuerte, except the fish restaurant in the old harbour. We drove over in the evening to watch the sun sink into the bay. Each sunset got points out of ten. But nobody clapped, not like they do down on Mallory.
Maeve, Sandra’s sister, was getting over her break-up with Connor. It had dragged on too long. She didn’t want to talk about it anymore, just put it behind her. She went crazy about the cats, fed them our fish-leftovers and watered-down milk. Sometimes so many of them turned up it got out of hand.
‘My boss never smile,’ Ruben said. ‘He always very serious. But good boss. He not see when I open my first bottle of wine. I turn my back like this and I make big mess. Now it is better.’
We wanted to ask him if he had a villa in Cuba where we could holiday next. But then he told us his story and we were glad we hadn’t. The other waiter was called Juan Carlos.
‘Like the King of Spain,’ he said.
‘Where is your kingdom?’ I asked. But he didn’t understand. They stood waiting to clear away the plates the minute we had finished.
Normally Sandra and I holidayed on our own. But right now Maeve needed us. And it was okay. I took off whenever I could to the other side of the island, past the wind park, where the waves were rough like our Atlantic waves. I climbed the mountain that every evening brandished like a shield of flame in the intensity of the sun. It was an ancient portal towering over the miles of sand dunes.
There was something final about the way Ruben told us his wife had left him. ‘She abandon me.’ His five-year-old daughter he had to leave back in Cuba. ‘My heart break.’
We looked at one another, there was no easy reply. She could come to him when she was old enough to decide for herself?
‘In thirteen years? When she is eighteen?’ There was a flash of anger as if we had said the wrong thing. ‘But now I have new wife,’ he said eventually and smiled towards the back of the restaurant.
Maeve didn’t want anyone new. Sometimes after enough wine she thought she wanted Connor back. Other times she was glad it was finally over. I supposed she and Sandra had long conversations about him. But maybe I was wrong and they were only lapping up the sun. Filling in the spaces between the deserted beach bars.
‘The man of your dreams just walked by,’ I said to Maeve when she came out with the sliced lemon. We were on the terrace enjoying our g’ts.
‘What did he look like?’ She made a show of looking around for him.
‘Like Sting.’
Anyone like Sting would make her happy. Then he passed by again and she said he didn’t look like Sting at all. The cats played around our sun-beds, just out of reach. They never came close enough to be touched. Maeve longed to touch. To coax one onto her lap. The grey one or the black one. But they wouldn’t let her.
Our last sunset was an eight. Maeve said an eight-and-a-half. In its wake a cold breeze swept into the harbour. Ruben was waiting at the door for us as we hurried into the restaurant.
‘Sir, I have question,’ he said as he led us to our table. The three of us managed to smile. ‘You have eat Cuban?’
‘No,’ we replied in unison.
‘Then you come to my house to eat.’
For a moment we were lost. ‘Tomorrow is our last evening,’ Maeve told him.
Her words startled Ruben. ‘I start work tomorrow eleven thirty. I must be here all day, boss say.’
I felt embarrassed, sorry we were leaving.
‘Then next time,’ Sandra said. ‘We will come back. Will you be here?’
‘I don’t know. But next time. Okay.’
Ruben came back ten minutes later with a number scribbled on a wine label, Viña Berceo, the one he always recommended. ‘Sir, you call me, when you come back next year. We eat Cuban together.’
I fumbled for words. ‘What do Cubans eat?’ It was pathetic, I knew. But Ruben explained to us and seemed to be happy.
‘Next year,’ he repeated and left.
‘Sir, this is Lis, my new wife.’ Lis gave us a shy smile. ‘Next year Lis and I make Cuban food for you.’
We nodded and laughed. Ruben poured the Rioja with the usual ceremony. Tinny Elton John music sounded over the speakers. The blades of the wind park stood still in the sand-hills. Near the Supermercado a German couple waited in a glare of headlights. In the distance Costa Calma was a neon nightmare.