Forgetfulness Read Online Free PDF Page A

turned to Florette and said, Excuse me. I have to see to this.
    Who are they, Thomas?
    My countrymen, alas.
    Garçon, the American said again. Come here.
    The patrons of the café were nonplused, divided by their natural sympathy for a sightless man and appalled at his behavior. Surely he had reason for grievance but old Bardèche was not the cause and he was not a garçon, either. It was well known that Bardèche had no sympathy for Mussulmen. None of the villagers did. They looked at each other and wondered what was expected of them. This blind man was spoiling for a fight, and for what? Suddenly he lunged at the Frenchman, who easily sidestepped, and the blind man crashed into the table, cursing loudly as glassware shattered. His four friends remained seated, content to let their comrade settle the matter. That seemed to be the agreement among them. Honor was at stake. Now most of the men in the café were on their feet, prepared to come to old Bardèche's aid, but in the general uproar Thomas got there first.
    Thomas said, It's best if you and your friends leave before there's serious trouble.
    Who the fuck are you?
    Thomas saw that the blind man did not look directly at him but off to one side. He was trying to judge Thomas's position by the sound of his voice. Thomas said, I live here.
    Fuck you then, the blind man said, and Thomas saw that his face was pockmarked by dozens of tiny scars and one long scar that ran from the outside corner of his right eye to his chin. He had once been a handsome man, except for the sneer. Thomas wondered if the sneer had always been there or if it was a consequence of his injuries. He must have suffered terribly.
    I think you're outnumbered, Thomas said equably enough, as though this were a casual misunderstanding among friends.
    It's racehorse piss.
    Try the café in the next town, why don't you.
    The blind man swung at him and missed and the friends at the table laughed once more. One of the women clapped her hands sarcastically.
    Old Bardèche had come up behind Thomas with a heavy alpenstock but hesitated. He did not sincerely want to use it against a blind man but he was running out of patience. He only wanted the Americans out of his café.
    Forget it, Jock, one of the men at the table said.
    We don't care about them, his friend added.
    Nobody cares about them, the blond woman said. Crummy little café in the back of beyond. She slapped a twenty-dollar bill on the table and gathered her coat. Let's get going. I'd like to be in Andorra before midnight.
    Good advice, Thomas said.
    He's right in front of you, Jock.
    The blind man swung again but he was off balance and the blow landed on Thomas's shoulder, hard enough to turn him around but not so hard he couldn't push back, and the blind man went sprawling into the table again. Blood leaked from a tear in the chamois jacket but he was oblivious.
    Get him out of here, Thomas said to the blond woman.
    Don't fuck with us, one of the men said.
    What's your name? Thomas said.
    Harry.
    Well, Harry. It's time for you to go. He looked at the blind man, who appeared disoriented; Thomas's face was reflected in the sunglasses. Look, he said finally. I'm sorry about your friend. Was he a policeman?
    Cop? No, he wasn't a cop. Jock sold insurance. Except in New York City we're all cops now. You wouldn't understand that.
    He was in the twin towers?
    Look at him, Harry said. What do you think?
    The blind man said, Go to hell. He was seated now, one elbow on the table, his hands clasped in his lap, his face soft as putty. It was impossible to know what he was thinking or if he was thinking anything. Thomas noticed that his hands were scarred. Blood continued to spill from the tear in his chamois jacket. Everyone noticed but no one said anything. Thomas felt tremendously sorry for him even as he wanted him out of the neighborhood.
    Racehorse piss, the blind man muttered. But now his friends had their hands on his elbows and were