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mainecoon76 Author's Notes: Prequel to "Precious", set during Holmes' time in America just before "His Last Bow". And yes, I know that this should be written in early 20th century American slang. I have no idea how to do that, unfortunately, so maybe you could just imagine someone transcribed it into more traditional English for better readability?
And it's still unbetaed. If someone would like to do it, you're welcome! :)
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Rating and warnings: Definitely G. Just people talking about their problems. It seems to be the only thing I can write. *sigh*
But there's still slash implied, though I suppose you could read it differently if you really try. Still, the easiest thing would be not to read it if you don't like the idea.
Regrets
Forty-five years, if you come to think of it, are a very long time. During forty-five years of being a barkeeper in a city like Chicago, I have met all kinds of people and listened to all kinds of stories; because for me, the job is not just about offering food and drink, but also an open ear to all who need it. You get better at this over time, because the types of people and stories repeat themselves over and over again as the years go by. Still, from time to time, you meet somebody who leaves a lasting impression, and whom you keep in your memory long after he has left your life.
I don't remember the day Jack Altamont first came into "Charlie's Place". It must have been a cold and unfriendly day, because it was always cold and grey and unfriendly during those last weeks of 1913, shortly before Christmas. When I began to wonder about him, I was sure that I had seen him several times before, always sitting at the same table in the corner if it was free, always on his own, always taking a modest dinner and a whiskey with a cigarette afterwards. I keep an eye on my regular customers, to be better able to tend to their wishes, and also because people-watching is one of the distractions from the routines of the service. Besides, if you don't watch people, you don't notice when there is something wrong with them and they could need a listener and a few friendly words.
At first glance, Altamont was not an unusual customer. His slight accent betrayed him as an Irishman, although he did not look like one. He was tall, thin, grey-haired with a small goatee, roughly around my own age, and usually clad in unremarkable dark or grey gentleman’s suits. I guessed that he must be some kind of businessman, an impression which he later confirmed to me. But his features were alert and sharp, and he had the most piercing grey eyes I have ever seen in a man. He was clearly highly intelligent, and he looked like a man who had seen a lot in his life, and had not liked all of it.
Besides, he looked like a very lonely man.
It is not difficult to recognize a lonely person. He always seemed indifferent to his surroundings, but there was sadness in his eyes, and every now and then they would assume that longing, far-away expression which I have seen far too often in people who think of lost happiness. I was not sure if I should approach him at first; some people like to be left alone in their sorrows. I watched him taking his lonely meal and smoking his lonely cigarette for over a week, but then came the day before Christmas Eve, and I did not like the thought that he would spend the next few evenings just as he had the previous ones, sitting alone in a bar thousands of miles from home, with no one caring where he was or what he did.
That, at least, was the impression I got from looking at him. I have seen that kind of thing too often, and I thought that perhaps I could do at least a bit of good if I offered my attention.
"It's been some time since you've last been at home, hasn't it, sir?" I asked when I placed the whiskey in front of him that evening. "That one's on the house, by the way."
"Thank you," he replied, looking a little puzzled. "What do you mean, at home?"
"The Green Island," I explained, drawing up a chair for myself. "Your accent is still there, but not as strong as in the folks who just got here."
"Oh," he said with a faint smile. "Oh, yes. It has been a while."
There it was again, that wistful look in his eyes that told me I had been right about him. And he had not yet told me to leave him alone.
"It's a beautiful place, I have heard," I said. "Never been there, but my brother is married to an Irishwoman, and they travel there every so often. Always bring me back a nice pair of socks. There's nothing like socks of fine Irish wool to warm your feet at night."
My customer was smiling now, the first time I had ever seen him do it.
"I thought we had quite a few other attractions, but now that you mention it, I do miss my blanket of Irish wool at times. It can be deucedly uncomfortable around here during winter."
There was a short pause before I asked softly: "Not the only thing you miss, is it?"
He stiffened immediately, and his expression became guarded.
"Not my business, sir," I added hastily, "But you know, people have that look on their face when they miss something... or someone. Some like to talk about it. It's part of my job to listen. Sorry if I offended you."
The man relaxed slightly and looked at me with a thoughtful expression. "You are a very observant man," he remarked, and it seemed to me that there was more to that compliment than I understood. "But you cannot help me. What is lost is lost, so it's no use talking about it."
"Sometimes it eases the mind."
He shook his head with a sad smile.
"I'll go away if you tell me to, sir," I promised. "I'm not personally interested in your business. But you hear so many stories in my job, maybe you also learn a bit of wisdom. It was a lost love, was it? Or family?"
"Love. Family. Everything," he said with a shrug. And then, softly, "mostly love, I suppose," as if he wasn't really sure himself.
"What happened to her?"
He smiled shortly, but without warmth.
"Left. Married someone else."
"Ah, I see. The old story."
"Yes, with a twist," he admitted, crushing his cigarette on the ash-tray and lightening another. I did not correct him. People always think that their story has a special twist. Of course, all of them are slightly different, but the general pattern is usually the same.
"Is she still alive?" I asked instead.
"Yes – well, I suppose," he said, looking a bit unsettled. "At least I cannot see what should have... It's been a long time since I had word, but I'm sure I would have received notice if something had happened." His brow was furrowed as if he was trying to chase away unpleasant thoughts. So she must still be dear to him.
"Are you going to go back some day?"
"Back? Oh yes, I suppose," he replied blandly. "One day. When my business here is finished."
He did not look as if he was looking forward to it. Perhaps he had nothing left now to come back to.
"I know how it feels to lose the one you love," I told him. The thought still made me sad, but maybe it would help him to know that he was not alone in this. "My wife was killed in an accident, little more than a year ago. Walked out on the street and straight into one of those damned automobiles. She never stood a chance."
My customer looked puzzled, almost uncomfortable, like someone who knows that he should say some consoling words now, but can't figure out the right ones. "I am sorry," he said finally.
"I'm not telling you this to get your sympathy," I replied. "The thing is, whenever I think about her, I try to remember the good times. I know I can't get them back, but I'm glad that we had them. You know, when I think of that, and then remember what some other people tell me of their lives and whatever happened to them, I find that I'm not so bad off after all. And then I get the strength to carry on."
We both sat in silence for a while.
"We had good times, lots of them," he said finally. "I still don't know what went wrong. We were so comfortable together, and I thought everything was alright, until.." He broke off and stared at the wall, as if he could find the solution to his mystery written on the dark wood.
"Didn't you ask?"
"Ask?" He seemed surprised. "No. The decision was final. I would only have made a fool out of myself."
A very strange way of thinking, indeed.
"Well, if you don't mind me saying it," I told him, "it seems to me that you are still sitting here wracking your brains about the whole thing. It's difficult to carry on that way. Draw a line, and everything."
"I did draw a line," he said bitterly. "We have not spoken in years."
"But it doesn't ease your mind, does it?"
He shrugged, and remained silent. I thought for a while about the matter.
"I have only one advice to offer to you," I told him at last. "When you go back, try to make your peace with her. It spoils one's life to hold a grudge for the rest of one's days. For some of us, the love of their life is not meant to be, but maybe they can at least enjoy their beloved's friendship… or, if that is not enough, part from them in peace. Maybe then you can remember what was good in your life, and make a new start for yourself."
He gave me a long, thoughtful look. Then he drained his glass and crushed his cigarette. "Thank you," he said. "I will think about this. But I must be on my way now."
I did not see the man for another two days, and began to wonder if I had scared him away, and if he was now spending Christmas alone in some apartment amidst this huge anonymous city. I never found out. But on the third day after our conversation, he was sitting again in his favorite corner. And he would continue to come over the following weeks and months. Neither of us ever brought up his personal matters again; but I would join him for a smoke and a friendly chat now and then when my business allowed it, and he seemed to enjoy my company. He was not a talkative man, and often enough we would sit together it friendly silence; sometimes we would discuss politics, or music, or share our observations on the people who came our way – or rather, I let him explain his, because he had a fascinating ability to read people's fates from the slightest details in their habits and clothing. In some way I grew quite fond of the fellow, unusual and secretive as he was; of his quiet, slightly ironic outlook on life, his keen observations, and the wisdom and humanity I could see behind his aloof façade.
And he listened to my stories.
I am not sure why I began to tell them to him. Somehow it seemed fitting, while he demonstrated to me the art of telling a man's profession from the way his shoelaces were tied, to give him something in return; something I was experienced in, and that seemed to me worth sharing. And what better had I to give than the experience and wisdom contained in those thousands of stories I had heard over my long years behind the bar?
I learned quickly how different we were in our way to observe people. The empathy and patience you need just to listen to a story, and make somebody feel better about it just by giving him an audience, seemed alien to him. He would be able to identify people's problems, their background, their vices, with a single glance, but he wouldn't necessarily understand them. He had an amazing brain, but I always felt that he had not so much experience in matters of the heart. Maybe that was why his lover had left him. And then, maybe she had not even realized how much he would care.
But he listened to my stories, stories of fates and lost loves and the strange turns life can take, with the same fascination that I held for his observations. "I met someone who was a great storyteller before," he said one day, when I told him that I wouldn't want to bore him with my tales. "I used to sneer at his art. I can see now that I should have listened. There is wisdom in your words, my friend, and this time I won't be too full of myself to learn from them."
And then, one day, he told me that he was leaving.
"My business here is finished," he announced, and I thought I could hear happiness in his words that had never been there before. "My ship is leaving in two days. I am going home."
"I'm glad for you, though I will miss your company," I admitted, and I meant it. I was honestly sorry to hear that he was leaving, but it was surely for the best.
"You know," he said thoughtfully, drumming his long fingers on the table in an irregular rhythm, "I will take your advice. The one you gave me on the day we first talked, if you remember. About making my peace."
"I'm glad to hear it. I hope it will be a good idea."
"It certainly is," he admitted with a smile. "You know, I have learned a few things while I was here. One of them is that it does not do to waste away on bitterness. From what you told me, every man has a few regrets in life..."
"..and the better you learn to live with them, the greater is your chance for happiness," I concluded for him. "Yes, you could say that. I wish you all the best, my friend."
I never saw him again after that day, and I don't think that I ever will. But I know that he reached his destination, because for the next Christmas I got a parcel which contained three pairs of thick woolen socks and a sealed jar of very fine liquid honey. There was only a short note and no return address, but still it warmed my heart more than those socks warmed my feet. I have no idea if he found his old sweetheart and managed to make peace with her, but I like to think that he did.
After all, you hear a lot of stories in forty-five years. Some of them do have a happy ending.
And it's still unbetaed. If someone would like to do it, you're welcome! :)
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Rating and warnings: Definitely G. Just people talking about their problems. It seems to be the only thing I can write. *sigh*
But there's still slash implied, though I suppose you could read it differently if you really try. Still, the easiest thing would be not to read it if you don't like the idea.
Regrets
Forty-five years, if you come to think of it, are a very long time. During forty-five years of being a barkeeper in a city like Chicago, I have met all kinds of people and listened to all kinds of stories; because for me, the job is not just about offering food and drink, but also an open ear to all who need it. You get better at this over time, because the types of people and stories repeat themselves over and over again as the years go by. Still, from time to time, you meet somebody who leaves a lasting impression, and whom you keep in your memory long after he has left your life.
I don't remember the day Jack Altamont first came into "Charlie's Place". It must have been a cold and unfriendly day, because it was always cold and grey and unfriendly during those last weeks of 1913, shortly before Christmas. When I began to wonder about him, I was sure that I had seen him several times before, always sitting at the same table in the corner if it was free, always on his own, always taking a modest dinner and a whiskey with a cigarette afterwards. I keep an eye on my regular customers, to be better able to tend to their wishes, and also because people-watching is one of the distractions from the routines of the service. Besides, if you don't watch people, you don't notice when there is something wrong with them and they could need a listener and a few friendly words.
At first glance, Altamont was not an unusual customer. His slight accent betrayed him as an Irishman, although he did not look like one. He was tall, thin, grey-haired with a small goatee, roughly around my own age, and usually clad in unremarkable dark or grey gentleman’s suits. I guessed that he must be some kind of businessman, an impression which he later confirmed to me. But his features were alert and sharp, and he had the most piercing grey eyes I have ever seen in a man. He was clearly highly intelligent, and he looked like a man who had seen a lot in his life, and had not liked all of it.
Besides, he looked like a very lonely man.
It is not difficult to recognize a lonely person. He always seemed indifferent to his surroundings, but there was sadness in his eyes, and every now and then they would assume that longing, far-away expression which I have seen far too often in people who think of lost happiness. I was not sure if I should approach him at first; some people like to be left alone in their sorrows. I watched him taking his lonely meal and smoking his lonely cigarette for over a week, but then came the day before Christmas Eve, and I did not like the thought that he would spend the next few evenings just as he had the previous ones, sitting alone in a bar thousands of miles from home, with no one caring where he was or what he did.
That, at least, was the impression I got from looking at him. I have seen that kind of thing too often, and I thought that perhaps I could do at least a bit of good if I offered my attention.
"It's been some time since you've last been at home, hasn't it, sir?" I asked when I placed the whiskey in front of him that evening. "That one's on the house, by the way."
"Thank you," he replied, looking a little puzzled. "What do you mean, at home?"
"The Green Island," I explained, drawing up a chair for myself. "Your accent is still there, but not as strong as in the folks who just got here."
"Oh," he said with a faint smile. "Oh, yes. It has been a while."
There it was again, that wistful look in his eyes that told me I had been right about him. And he had not yet told me to leave him alone.
"It's a beautiful place, I have heard," I said. "Never been there, but my brother is married to an Irishwoman, and they travel there every so often. Always bring me back a nice pair of socks. There's nothing like socks of fine Irish wool to warm your feet at night."
My customer was smiling now, the first time I had ever seen him do it.
"I thought we had quite a few other attractions, but now that you mention it, I do miss my blanket of Irish wool at times. It can be deucedly uncomfortable around here during winter."
There was a short pause before I asked softly: "Not the only thing you miss, is it?"
He stiffened immediately, and his expression became guarded.
"Not my business, sir," I added hastily, "But you know, people have that look on their face when they miss something... or someone. Some like to talk about it. It's part of my job to listen. Sorry if I offended you."
The man relaxed slightly and looked at me with a thoughtful expression. "You are a very observant man," he remarked, and it seemed to me that there was more to that compliment than I understood. "But you cannot help me. What is lost is lost, so it's no use talking about it."
"Sometimes it eases the mind."
He shook his head with a sad smile.
"I'll go away if you tell me to, sir," I promised. "I'm not personally interested in your business. But you hear so many stories in my job, maybe you also learn a bit of wisdom. It was a lost love, was it? Or family?"
"Love. Family. Everything," he said with a shrug. And then, softly, "mostly love, I suppose," as if he wasn't really sure himself.
"What happened to her?"
He smiled shortly, but without warmth.
"Left. Married someone else."
"Ah, I see. The old story."
"Yes, with a twist," he admitted, crushing his cigarette on the ash-tray and lightening another. I did not correct him. People always think that their story has a special twist. Of course, all of them are slightly different, but the general pattern is usually the same.
"Is she still alive?" I asked instead.
"Yes – well, I suppose," he said, looking a bit unsettled. "At least I cannot see what should have... It's been a long time since I had word, but I'm sure I would have received notice if something had happened." His brow was furrowed as if he was trying to chase away unpleasant thoughts. So she must still be dear to him.
"Are you going to go back some day?"
"Back? Oh yes, I suppose," he replied blandly. "One day. When my business here is finished."
He did not look as if he was looking forward to it. Perhaps he had nothing left now to come back to.
"I know how it feels to lose the one you love," I told him. The thought still made me sad, but maybe it would help him to know that he was not alone in this. "My wife was killed in an accident, little more than a year ago. Walked out on the street and straight into one of those damned automobiles. She never stood a chance."
My customer looked puzzled, almost uncomfortable, like someone who knows that he should say some consoling words now, but can't figure out the right ones. "I am sorry," he said finally.
"I'm not telling you this to get your sympathy," I replied. "The thing is, whenever I think about her, I try to remember the good times. I know I can't get them back, but I'm glad that we had them. You know, when I think of that, and then remember what some other people tell me of their lives and whatever happened to them, I find that I'm not so bad off after all. And then I get the strength to carry on."
We both sat in silence for a while.
"We had good times, lots of them," he said finally. "I still don't know what went wrong. We were so comfortable together, and I thought everything was alright, until.." He broke off and stared at the wall, as if he could find the solution to his mystery written on the dark wood.
"Didn't you ask?"
"Ask?" He seemed surprised. "No. The decision was final. I would only have made a fool out of myself."
A very strange way of thinking, indeed.
"Well, if you don't mind me saying it," I told him, "it seems to me that you are still sitting here wracking your brains about the whole thing. It's difficult to carry on that way. Draw a line, and everything."
"I did draw a line," he said bitterly. "We have not spoken in years."
"But it doesn't ease your mind, does it?"
He shrugged, and remained silent. I thought for a while about the matter.
"I have only one advice to offer to you," I told him at last. "When you go back, try to make your peace with her. It spoils one's life to hold a grudge for the rest of one's days. For some of us, the love of their life is not meant to be, but maybe they can at least enjoy their beloved's friendship… or, if that is not enough, part from them in peace. Maybe then you can remember what was good in your life, and make a new start for yourself."
He gave me a long, thoughtful look. Then he drained his glass and crushed his cigarette. "Thank you," he said. "I will think about this. But I must be on my way now."
I did not see the man for another two days, and began to wonder if I had scared him away, and if he was now spending Christmas alone in some apartment amidst this huge anonymous city. I never found out. But on the third day after our conversation, he was sitting again in his favorite corner. And he would continue to come over the following weeks and months. Neither of us ever brought up his personal matters again; but I would join him for a smoke and a friendly chat now and then when my business allowed it, and he seemed to enjoy my company. He was not a talkative man, and often enough we would sit together it friendly silence; sometimes we would discuss politics, or music, or share our observations on the people who came our way – or rather, I let him explain his, because he had a fascinating ability to read people's fates from the slightest details in their habits and clothing. In some way I grew quite fond of the fellow, unusual and secretive as he was; of his quiet, slightly ironic outlook on life, his keen observations, and the wisdom and humanity I could see behind his aloof façade.
And he listened to my stories.
I am not sure why I began to tell them to him. Somehow it seemed fitting, while he demonstrated to me the art of telling a man's profession from the way his shoelaces were tied, to give him something in return; something I was experienced in, and that seemed to me worth sharing. And what better had I to give than the experience and wisdom contained in those thousands of stories I had heard over my long years behind the bar?
I learned quickly how different we were in our way to observe people. The empathy and patience you need just to listen to a story, and make somebody feel better about it just by giving him an audience, seemed alien to him. He would be able to identify people's problems, their background, their vices, with a single glance, but he wouldn't necessarily understand them. He had an amazing brain, but I always felt that he had not so much experience in matters of the heart. Maybe that was why his lover had left him. And then, maybe she had not even realized how much he would care.
But he listened to my stories, stories of fates and lost loves and the strange turns life can take, with the same fascination that I held for his observations. "I met someone who was a great storyteller before," he said one day, when I told him that I wouldn't want to bore him with my tales. "I used to sneer at his art. I can see now that I should have listened. There is wisdom in your words, my friend, and this time I won't be too full of myself to learn from them."
And then, one day, he told me that he was leaving.
"My business here is finished," he announced, and I thought I could hear happiness in his words that had never been there before. "My ship is leaving in two days. I am going home."
"I'm glad for you, though I will miss your company," I admitted, and I meant it. I was honestly sorry to hear that he was leaving, but it was surely for the best.
"You know," he said thoughtfully, drumming his long fingers on the table in an irregular rhythm, "I will take your advice. The one you gave me on the day we first talked, if you remember. About making my peace."
"I'm glad to hear it. I hope it will be a good idea."
"It certainly is," he admitted with a smile. "You know, I have learned a few things while I was here. One of them is that it does not do to waste away on bitterness. From what you told me, every man has a few regrets in life..."
"..and the better you learn to live with them, the greater is your chance for happiness," I concluded for him. "Yes, you could say that. I wish you all the best, my friend."
I never saw him again after that day, and I don't think that I ever will. But I know that he reached his destination, because for the next Christmas I got a parcel which contained three pairs of thick woolen socks and a sealed jar of very fine liquid honey. There was only a short note and no return address, but still it warmed my heart more than those socks warmed my feet. I have no idea if he found his old sweetheart and managed to make peace with her, but I like to think that he did.
After all, you hear a lot of stories in forty-five years. Some of them do have a happy ending.
