“There is a pub, and it is like a lodge, and there is this man who plays piano and he is fucking awesome.”
Sylvain was a member of the surprisingly large French community of Zilina. He was living the life; imported from France, working for a bank, beautiful apartment in the center of town, could afford a car and bottles of wine every day. He told me once that he was gay, but it was a joke, but really, he was gay. Cross cultural misunderstanding, I suppose. He took us to the pub, it was located on a side street on the second floor of an unmarked building. The pub was small, minuscule at best, with perhaps two tables, a few chairs and bar stools, a fire place…there was rustic shit everywhere. I thought I’d stepped into Canada. Mounted deer heads, snowshoes nailed to the wall, a chandelier made of antlers. In the far corner was a piano. The fabled piano player arrived and began to play. He played everything - Hotel California, When I’m 64, Waterloo. Suddenly there were hundreds of people in the pub. You couldn’t move. Ints was gone. Sylvain was wasted. Helene had been swallowed by the crowd.
It was the first time I had ever smoked a cigarette indoors.
