The Veríssimo Project

I met Rick Blaine in Paris, not too long ago. He has a joint near Madeleine that gathers all the american drunks that Harry's Bar kicks out. He's 70, but doesn't look a day older than 69. He has the same bags under his eyes, his hair is gone, and his belly only stopped growing for lack of space behind the bar. He denied being Rick at first.
-I don't know a Rick.
-It says so outside. On a giant sign. Rick's Cafe Americain.
-It does? I haven't been outside in years. What do you want?
-A bourbon. And something to eat.
I picked a sandwich off a long list and Rick yelled my order to a big black man in the kitchen. I recognized the big black man. He was the piano player at Rick's bar in Casablanca. I asked why he didn't play piano anymore.
-Sam? Cause he only knows one song. The clientele couldn't take it anymore. He also always makes the same sandwich. But nobody comes for the food.
I sang a verse off As Time Goes By. I asked:
-What would you do if she walked through that door right now?
-I would say, "Cup'a tea, Grandma?" The past is the past.
-She came back once. Of all the bars in the world, she had to choose yours, in Casablanca, to walk into.
-She won't be back.
But he looked up quickly when someone came through the door. It was an american asking for money to go back to the States. He was running from Mitterrand. Rick ignored him.
He asked me what I wanted besides the bourbon and the sandwich, which was awful.
-I always wanted to know what happened after she got on that plane with Victor Laszlo and you and the inspector Louis walked off, disappearing in the fog.
-I spent forty years in a fog, he answered. Obviously he didn't want to talk about it.
-I have a theory.
He smiled.
-Another one...
-You were the first to be disillusioned by the grand causes. You were your own neutral territory. Victor Laszlo was the guy. He must have died young and taken many an idealist with him, thinking they were saving the world for the sake of democracy. You never held any misconceptions about humanity. You were a cinic. But also a romantic. You could have gotten rid of Victor Laszlo and stayed with her, but you preferred the grand gesture, to be the bigger man in her eyes. Why?
-You remember her face at that moment?
I did. Even through the fog, I remembered. He was right. You would sacrifice even the lack of ideals for a face like that.
The door swung open again and we both looked up, but it was just another drunk.

Labels: casablanca, Paris, rick blaine, victor laszlo