“But go for it,” I say. “If I surrender unconditionally I assume I’ll be able to reconcile with reality.”
“Or sobriety.” The dwarf folds his arms. “Then I guess it’s time for you to meet someone who refused to surrender unconditionally.”
Before I can respond he hops onto a barstool and twirls into the Tasmanian devil until…
The dwarf morphs into a corpulent gentleman with a bulldog face wearing a three-piece suit, bow tie and bowler hat—puffing on the longest, fattest cigar I’ve ever seen.
I know who this gent is but he pays not the slightest attention to me, absorbed as he is with a copy of The Times of London.
After a long couple of minutes he takes another draw on his cigar, pulls it away from his mouth, blows a gust of smoke and turns to observe my presence, as if he’s only just noticed me. “Young man,” he commands, “kindly fetch me refreshment.”
“Of course,” I say, rallying as before. “What would you like?”
“Roasted deer with foie gras and truffle sauce.”
“They don’t do food here.”
“Ah.” He looks around with disdain. “And I fear Pol Roger Champagne is also out of the question in this barbaric excuse for a bar. Never mind, I’m accustomed to living in a war room.” He pauses. “Might you stock Plymouth gin?”
“I might.” And, indeed, on the shelf I find a bottle of Plymouth.
“A martini,” he instructs. “Three ounces and one olive.”
“Vermouth?”
“Put a bottle of Vermouth on the bar,” he instructs. “Observing it will suffice.”
With a chuckle, I do as he says and he goes from austere to a picture of contentment in two seconds flat.
“This is the solution to any problem,” he says, either talking to me or himself. “A martini and a cigar.” He puffs and looks up and watches the smoke reach the ceiling, curl and float back down. “And fortitude,” he adds.
“You’re famous for saving Britain from Adolf Hitler,” I say. “But most people don’t realize you’re also the most prolific author in the history of the world.”
He shrugs.
“But my all-time favorite book of yours is a very short volume called The Dream.”
He stirs to fix his gaze upon me. “Yes? Mine, too.” He raises his martini glass. “To my father.” He toasts the air, sips, sighs.
“Was it fiction?” I ask. “The Dream?”
He smiles. “Not entirely. It was a private article that was never intended for publication. Your earlier guest was a far more lucid writer than I.”
“Eddy?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “Mister Poe was far from lucid.”
“Then…?”
“General Grant. He wrote the best presidential memoirs ever penned.”
“Really?”
“Indeed. He set the standard for American presidents to come. Not only did the good general write his memoirs all by himself, he did so while in constant agony with throat cancer, which took his life only two days after scribing the final paragraphs of his masterpiece.” He pauses. “That’s fortitude.” He pauses again. “They love you when you win a war that threatens their freedom. But they forsake you once their freedom has been regained.”
“Grant was a supposedly a binge drinker,” I say. “Was it alcohol that led to his cancer?”
“And smoking,” says Churchill, studying his own martini and cigar. “That said, I’ve gotten more out of alcohol than alcohol has taken out of me.” He pauses. “You know why?”
“Do tell?’
“I adore martinis. And also champagne, but only Pol Roger. Most of the time I drink Johnny Walker Red—just a wee drop of whiskey in a whole glass of water, what I call a long whiskey. It is how I keep my reputation as a boozer while remaining in command of my ministers along with my faculties.”
We are rudely interrupted by a loud rapping at the door to the bar.
The door is locked, I gather, and whoever is outside wants to come in, even though the bar is closed for business (other than mine).
Churchill reverts to his newspaper, otherwise ignoring the intrusion.
After a pause the rapping begins again.
I’m curious. Should I answer?
The door knocks a third time. I sense impatience. Someone desperately needs a drink.
Question is, could I unbolt the door? And if so, might I escape through it?
“I’ll see who’s there,” I say to Winston as I ease myself off the barstool.
He grunts non-committedly.
I open the door half expecting to see the dwarf—maybe he locked himself out?
But it’s not the dwarf. Oh, no—something quite different…