– You are still too young. At your age, drinking in this state is dangerous. You will feel better. But as soon as you sober up a little, your hand will reach for the drink again. You’re too upset. This way you won’t feel the limits, but you need to know the limit. So slow down.
– Murillo… – Massimo’s voice was still trembling -… please. I feel so sick. I can’t get over this.
Murillo looked at the boy puzzled. He didn’t want the boy to drink out of grief. But it was painful for him to look at the young man like that. The Cuban closed his eyelids, as if he was trying his best to restrain himself from doing something bad. When his eyes opened, he directed his gaze under the bar counter and looked somewhere for a long time. His long gaze was soon interrupted, he lowered his hand under the counter and took out a half-empty, barely transparent bottle.
– Is there anything stronger? I’ll pay – Massimo said languidly.
Murillo’s voice sounded firm and insistent:
– No. For your case, this is the most harmless thing. It is not so strong that it hits the brain, but it is quite capable of overcoming depression.
Murillo placed a clean, polished glass in front of Massimo. There was the sound of a cork coming away from the neck. The bartender tilted the bottle, almost resting the neck against the rim of the stemmed glass. The walls of the glass were enveloped by a crimson stream of wine. The pressure of red gracefully raised the boundaries of the contents, bringing them closer to the edges of the glass. When the glass was almost full, Murillo plugged the neck and returned the bottle to its original place.
Massimo’s fingers eagerly clasped the top of the glass and brought it to his lips. Without stopping, he poured the contents into himself. The glass was emptied in one continuous gulp. The stem of the glass came into contact with the bar counter. The remains of wine flowed down the walls, forming a cluster of several crimson drops at the bottom. Only now, when Massimo removed the glass from his lips, did the receptors on his tongue assess the quality of the liquid that slipped past. It tasted like real wine… and something else. This is not an ordinary wine. Murillo said nothing about this, and Massimo was not interested enough in this question to ask. It seemed to him that most likely this was wine, diluted with some other drink, but in a small volume in order to preserve its original taste. That’s why there is a strange aftertaste.
Murillo picked up the glass and said:
– Don’t leave. I’ll be right back.
The bartender retreated to the back room. During his absence, Massimo more than once wanted to drink more, but this desire somehow suspiciously became weaker. With every second, the craving for drink faded. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to drink at all, but he stopped seeing alcohol as a way to get bad thoughts out of his head. If he wanted to take a sip or two, then this desire was no stronger than on any day, regardless of his mood.
Murillo has returned.
Massimo asked a question:
– Where is your cook? I can’t hear him for some reason.
Murillo answered, keeping his gaze on the boy’s face for a long time, as if he was trying to make out something:
– His father fell ill, and he went homeland to see him.
– So your kitchen is not working now?
– Not really. The kitchen is working. Before he left, he found a person to replace him for a while.
– Really? And how does he cook?
– At least the food hasn’t lost its taste.
Taking a deep breath, Massimo said in a calm voice:
– Well, that’s already great.
Murillo was satisfied with this form of answer, but his face remained carefree.
– And I see you have a new waitress.
Murillo made a small correction:
– More precisely the second one. Karla asked to be released early. There are too many clients. It’s hard for one.
Massimo fell silent for a while. It was clear from his furrowed eyebrows that he was thinking deeply about something. Soon his thoughts were interrupted by his own voice:
– Listen, I’ve been wanting to ask for a long time, but I keep forgetting. Do you have any relatives left in Cuba?
Murillo shook his head.
– In 1955, my brother and I buried our father, and two years before that, our mother. We had no one else in Havana. We immigrated here and settled in this area. Already here my brother got married in the first year. Immediately nine months later my niece was born. A year later – the second niece. That, in fact, is all the relatives I have. True, there is another one. As a child, he helped me in the bar, and in return I would pour him lemonade or treat him to a hot dog.
With a grin, Massimo added:
– Or pour him some wine.
They both smiled casually.
Murillo continued to carry on the conversation while serving customers at the bar. The conversation lasted for almost an hour, after which Massimo decided to leave. When asked how much he owed for the wine, Murillo politely asked him to go to hell for an answer. In response, Massimo thanked the Cuban again and went home.
Climbing the stairs, Massimo passed his floor and went to the roof. There he crouched on the edge of the ledge. His legs hung in the air, and his eyes rushed to examine the expanses of Little Rome under the cover of darkness. Somewhere, behind the residential high-rise buildings, it was possible to see some objects outside of Little Rome. For example, a high-rise television tower, the last few floors of the Eden Hotel, the luminous multi-colored peaks of a suspension bridge. From the east, the lights of planes taking off and landing at the city airport were often visible. On the western side, in the distance, the rays of spotlights sparkled at the stadium, where the world stars of «Disco» were giving a concert. Spending time here, Massimo imagined how somewhere outside of Little Rome life was in full swing and crowds of people were rushing from place to place. His hypnotic gaze seemed to be examining an alien planet, on which everything was arranged completely differently. Everyone is in a hurry to get somewhere. Everyone has something to hurry about. Busy everyday life of the middle class, into which the residents of Little Rome do not fit in. Yes. It was an alien planet, and it was so far away.
Massimo was mesmerized by the views from the roof. He leaned his hand on the edge of the cornice. Suddenly he experienced a strange sensation. Something crunched under his hand. He lifted the hand from the reinforced concrete covering and examined the strange object that came under his hand. They were shards of broken glass, most likely from a soda or beer bottle. Massimo noticed that his palm was bleeding. He examined the cuts in several places. And yet the feeling was very strange. He felt his own fluid spreading over his skin, but he didn’t feel much pain. It was more like a slight tingling sensation, as if a splinter had entered in five or six places.
Murillo? – thought Massimo.
He guessed that it had something to do with the glass of wine that Murillo poured him at the bar.
Out of curiosity, Massimo decided to apply pressure to the wounds to increase the pain. But there was no increase in pain. Massimo’s body seemed not to pay attention to the open wound and refused to use its protective reflexes to the maximum.
For a while he was distracted and continued to examine the lights of the night city. He thought it would be nice to have something cold or a cup of coffee on hand now, even if it was hot. He wanted to sit on the roof in an atmosphere that was at least a little reminiscent of how it is shown in the movies. His mind suddenly began to give birth to vivid pictures. He imagined how excited he would be to get behind the wheel of a beige