Authors: Carmen Posadas
“Come here, sweetie, I’m not going to give you anything to eat today. I just want to tickle your ears, that’s all . . . Come now, don’t be scared.”
Dry Martini
(LUIS BUÑUEL’S RECIPE FOR PREPARING THE PERFECT DRY MARTINI)
To provoke, or sustain, a reverie in a bar, you have to drink English gin, especially in the form of a dry martini. . . . Connoisseurs who like their martinis very dry suggest simply allowing a ray of sunlight to shine through a bottle of Noilly Prat before it hits the bottle of gin. Another crucial recommendation is that the ice be so cold and hard that it won’t melt, since nothing’s worse than a watery martini. For those who are still with me, let me give you my personal recipe, the fruit of long experimentation and guaranteed to produce perfect results. The day before your guests arrive, put all the ingredients—glasses, gin, and shaker—in the refrigerator. Use a thermometer to make sure the ice is about twenty degrees below zero (centigrade). Don’t take anything out until your friends arrive; then pour a few drops of Noilly Prat and half a demitasse spoon of Angostura bitters over the ice. Shake it, then pour it out, keeping only the ice, which retains a faint taste of both. Then pour straight gin over the ice, shake it again, and serve.
—Luis Buñuel,
My Last Sigh
Dry Martini
A few yards away from Mercedes, Rafael Molinet has just sat up in his chair to address a rather nervous young waiter standing above him with a cocktail shaker in hand.
“No, no
. Pas du tout!
Dispose of that disaster, Hassam, please. Throw it to the ants, let the salamanders get drunk on it—that is what this rank brew deserves. We must start from scratch. For the love of God, get it out of my sight and come back here with a notepad. We are going to write down the recipe step by step, and this time you will pay much closer attention, Hassam. Please, now.”
The bewildered young waiter retreats as Molinet leans back against his lounge chair, smooths out his white caftan so that it is perfectly stretched over his body, and places the tips of his fingers together as if he is about to tell a very long story. This is what he has to say:
As you can see, this story ends exactly where it began. At the winter pool of L’Hirondelle d’Or, ten days after the morning I first laid eyes on Mercedes Algorta. And now, all that remains to be told is the finale.
Had you arrived here two minutes earlier, just two tiny minutes, you would have witnessed a scene identical to the one played out here on October 13: Gomez and I were comfortably ensconced in the warmest corner of the solarium, Gomez was napping and I was studying my little widow at the other side of the pool as if I knew nothing about her, as if this were the first time I ever laid eyes on her broad face, her very subtly highlighted blond hair, and that indefinable quality that made me think, as I did even back then: A widow is the very best thing a woman can be.
Of course, since you have arrived two minutes later, the scene is not quite the same as it was on the thirteenth. Yes, the two of us are the only ones in the solarium, and, yes, Mercedes is on the other side of the pool—although not terribly far away—caught up in what looks like some very serious philosophical meditation. Just like the first day, of course, it is terribly hot and she is very slowly sipping away at some type of beverage, an activity which forces her to raise her arm every so often to lift the drink to her lips. I watch her, for I wish to study certain details of her appearance—specifically, something that gleams brightly on her wrist. At that very moment, however—and herein lies the difference between today and our first encounter—Hassam comes by and ruins everything. First by rousing Gomez, who, quite annoyed, decides to trot over to the other side of the pool. And second by bringing me, after a very long wait, an abominable concoction that he claims is a dry martini.
This is the moment at which you have found me, and thus begins the final chapter of the story of a bad girl, the tale I promised to tell you ten days ago. Here we are, just the two of us: Mercedes, ruminating on who knows what just a few yards away, and I, lifting my eyes to observe her every so often. There is something God-like about knowing that you have done a good deed for someone without their knowing it. But that is not what I think about right now. I do not think about the delight I certainly feel at having settled an old debt with my past, nor do I think about the magnificent
plongeon
of my friend Sánchez, who to my great satisfaction has suffered a terrible accident. No. None of these reflections interest me in the least. The one thing I care about right now is my favorite cocktail.
This is an important point, mind you. Do not take it as a flight of frivolity on my part. Today is October 23—all I have left here at L’Hirondelle d’Or is a day and a half. Two weeks is what I decided. No more, no less. That was always the plan, from the beginning. And then, if you remember correctly, it was to be
adieu, ciao, au revoir,
and all those other euphemisms I like to use when I speak of my decision to gaze out at this marvelous Moroccan landscape as I swallow the three vials of pills that Dr. Pertini prescribed me. That is precisely what I still plan to do, believe me, but there are certain details that mustn’t be overlooked, details which should be addressed with clarity and plenty of time. For this reason, just a short while ago, as I dozed away here by the pool, it suddenly occurred to me that a magnificent dry martini would be the ideal beverage to accompany Dr. Pertini’s pills. And for that reason I asked the waiter to prepare a sample—a first rehearsal of sorts, for my general plan is still rather rough around the edges. This waiter, for example, is very attentive and may have the loveliest eyes, but he is a zero in the cocktail department. We still have plenty of time to perfect the recipe, though, so I tell myself to be patient; everything will come out just fine. Here comes the waiter now, bearing a notepad to take down my instructions, just as I requested. Very well. I am willing to test his cocktails all morning if I have to—after all, there isn’t much else to do here.
“All right, Hassam. Now you must pay very close attention to what I tell you. Take notes and repeat after me: To make a good dry martini, we need, in this order; one part gin, Beefeater if possible.”
“One paht gin, Beefeatah if possible,” Hassam repeats. “Very good, sir.”
I would be very disappointed if you, the readers who have been with me since the beginning of this story, were to think me careless or disrespectful and as such I want you to know that before I end my life (martini and Pertini, in large doses), I will take the time to go over a few more significant details, just as one finds in all great stories of suicide. To start with, I will amuse myself by telling you two or three insignificant points that nevertheless must be raised in order to complete the story properly, and then I will have to write a note explaining my decision to the hotel supervisor. I have not yet written this note, but I am sure it will be a masterpiece of simplicity and grace. In the end, a suicide note or epitaph is the most transcendent thing a man can write, is it not?
“Now, write this down, Hassam. We need a few drops of dry vermouth. Very dry.”
“A few drops of dry vermouth, very dry.”
When contemplating a letter of this nature, one inevitably feels that it must be sublime. I don’t know how I will frame it, exactly, but I do know that it will be extremely conventional and that it will be addressed to Miss Guêpe. The classic approach, I suppose, is always the best for cases such as this, so it will probably sound something like this:
“My dear Miss Guêpe . . . please do not blame anyone for my death . . .” Now that I think of it, I will have no choice but to add something with respect to Antonio Sánchez. Of course I must—that is the right thing to do. I know that his death was regarded by one and all as an accident, but this
would
be a perfect opportunity to clear up any doubts that might still linger. Two deaths, one right after the other—so many dead bodies all of a sudden at one charming hotel. No, this is not going to help the reputation of L’Hirondelle one bit, and so I think it better if the letter reads something like this:
“My dear Miss Guêpe, please do not blame anyone for my death, for it was entirely my own wish. In addition, I must take full responsibility for the death of . . .” Or should I use the word “murder”? Yes, yes, very well: “. . . the murder of Antonio Sánchez López.” Perfect. This is a fine start. This way the situation will remain absolutely clear.
“Now we will need a glass cocktail shaker.”
“Let me write this down,” says Hassam. “Transparent glass cocktail shaker.”
It would also be nice if I added a few words of praise for this magnificent hotel—just before I apologize for stiffing them.
Ce n’est pas très gentil
on my part, and of course it is the least I can do. What I do not plan on explaining, however, is my reason for killing Sánchez. I am sorry, but no. Under no circumstances.
“Do you have it all down, Hassam? Very well. Now, you don’t have to repeat this next bit back to me, just take it all down. First, fill the cocktail shaker with a fair amount of ice. Have you got that? All right, you will then bless the ice cubes with a drop—one drop, Hassam!—of vermouth and then you shall add the gin. Then—and this is extremely important, Hassam. Don’t try and be original, please—the liquid shall be
shaken,
not
stirred.
Is that clear? After that, all you have to do is pour it, making sure that no ice cubes fall into the glass. A good dry martini, Hassam, is a difficult thing to achieve, although I am sure that if you follow my instructions point by point . . .”
Yes, it is the very least I can do for this spectacular hotel—the explanatory note, I mean. But one thing is for sure: I will not devote a single word to the reason I decided to murder Sánchez. I glance up at Mercedes and smile at her. There she is, all alone, just like on the first day, with that defenseless yet determined air about her—the kind of person that you can very instinctively understand, without even trying to read her thoughts. Just like Mama.
For the moment, however, here we are, Mercedes and I, just as we were the first day, alone and silent, minding our own business. Mercedes drinks a cocktail and thinks thoughts that are completely foreign to my humble person, and I sit here recounting my final observations on all that has come to pass at L’Hirondelle d’Or in between my attempts to get this dimwitted waiter to mix a perfect martini.
“Ah! There you are, Hassam, finally! Let’s see how you made out this time around.”
I test out the martini, though I will save you the gory details. Once again, the experiment has been a disaster.
Just as we are going into round three—that is, my third semi-martini—someone approaches me with a bulky fax from my niece Fernanda. Perhaps it is the early morning alcohol clouding my mind, but the fax looks absolutely endless. Miles and miles of paper. It looks like one of the Dead Sea scrolls, with drawings, huge amounts of text, and a few pasted-in clippings that I can’t quite distinguish.
I don’t believe, of course, that my three semi-martinis have had such an astounding effect on me, but I do feel as if time has suddenly grown elastic somehow. The minutes stretch out like a piece of gum, giving me time to do two, or even three things at a time. First I chide Hassam about his cocktail mixing, then I look up every now and then to gaze tenderly at Mercedes, who will never know what I did for her. And in the middle of all that I am still able to peruse the fax Fernanda sent me. Although, to tell the truth, I have no desire whatsoever to read the thing, so many pages of nonsense. A few lines are enough to give me a general idea of what she’s written: questions, questions, lots and lots of
blah, blah, blah.
Herein lies a sample:
But, Uncle—how can this be? You were there when the accident happened. My God, you must tell me everything. I’m desperate for details. I can hardly believe it. When I heard the news I practically fell flat on my face: Antonio Sánchez, our hero, the same Antonio Sánchez I have been telling you about in all my faxes—dead! And in such a compromising position, wouldn’t you say? Antonio S! A great man like him, a pillar of the Western world, a . . .
Some nervous scribbling covers the “a” which is replaced by “the.”
. . . the champion of the truth, sucked to death by a drainpipe! Just when he was cheating on the saint of a woman he has lived with for God knows how many years! You cannot even begin to imagine the things people are saying around here. We are all absolutely transfixed by the gossip. What a colossal . . .
That is more or less how Fernanda’s fax starts off. For this reason, after skipping over the first two or three paragraphs, I am extremely surprised to find something completely unrelated to the Sánchez affair: an article from one of those English gossip rags that Fernanda has cut out and pasted onto the page. It reads as follows:
Drones, the famous restaurant, the symbol of an entire era in London, has changed owners. Worrall Thompson is the man who will be responsible for breathing new life into the establishment. The legendary kitschy decor and the walls lined with childhood photographs of Hollywood stars (tasteless, according to many), will be replaced with a cool Latin emporium look.
I continue reading. There will be time enough later on to lament the demise of one of my very favorite restaurants—that is how life goes, alas—because right now I have hit on something far more interesting to focus on. I am taking care to keep the pages organized so as not to create a logistical nightmare later on, when suddenly, ten or twelve miles ahead in the document, I see that Fernanda has stopped to make a few observations on the fallout from Sánchez’s death.
. . . I know, Uncle, that you have little sympathy for people who externalize their feelings—I know you find it lowbrow to lose control, to sob out loud and cry hysterically at funerals, but you should have seen the woman that was Sánchez’s . . . (should I say romantic companion? I’m not really up to speed on hip, modern slang for this sort of thing: companion, longtime lover, I don’t know what you would call Sánchez’s girlfriend. Because, and don’t go calling me old-fashioned, they were technically not married). But anyway. My point is that you cannot begin to imagine the state his girlfriend was in at the funeral. My own philosophical conclusion is that either the girl was crushed at the thought of losing all those “sponsors” that Antonio helped her get for her “artistic” jewelry business or as the old Spanish song goes,
“la vida te da sorpresas, sorpresas te da la vida”
—that is, life is filled with surprises, and surprises fill your life, and you can never tell how a woman will react to the death of the man she lives with. This poor, poor woman just fell to pieces, and I think it was for real. Not to compare or anything, but Mercedes sure was cool as a cucumber at Jaime Valdés’s funeral; not a single strand of hair out of place. I told you about all that before—she was so composed, so elegant, that some people believed she was completely indifferent about what had happened.