The Absinthe Drinker, 1901

A selected story from "Thirteen Views" (Senior Honors Thesis)

"The Absinthe Drinker, 1901" by Pablo Picasso

The bartender had already poured her a drink when Audrey stumbled inside. He did this for all of the regulars. Audrey shivered from the wet and cold. She was not yet drunk but wanted to be. She found a table far from the window and shrugged off her red shawl.

“Water, Madame?” the bartender asked her in French, and she nodded.

He added water from a simple carafe into her half-filled glass of absinthe and handed her a small tray with a sugar cube and spoon.

“Put this on my husband’s tab,” Audrey said in faltering French.

He nodded. “Of course, Madame. Will he be joining you?”

“He’s not coming.”

The bartender nodded. “I see him very rarely now.”

Audrey dropped the small cube of sugar into the glass, watched it bob in the light green liquid and stirred.

“He comes at night,” she said, studying the bartender.

Audrey decided she liked his face. It was kind. He was kind. She liked his light blue eyes and dark mustache.

“Yes, that’s when I see him,” he said.

The café buzzed with afternoon diners, all shaking off dripping coats and warming themselves with food and drink. One woman’s voice rose above the rest – shrill and distinct. The woman wore a flashy bright purple hat and pearls and was seated at the bar. Audrey lifted the glass to her lips and took a small, burning sip. She could smell the anise before she tasted it. She drank deeply and felt instantly warmer.

“He comes with her,” Audrey said, and she pointed to Purple Hat.

The bartender followed her gaze. “Yes,” and he brought her another.

Audrey stirred in the sugar cube and sipped. “No water this time.”

“It’s quite strong,” he said.

“Yes, that’s what the sugar’s for.”

The bartender looked away.

“Tell me,” she said, pulling him close. “Can she hold her liquor?”

“Not above two glasses,” he said.

She felt that they had bonded, she and the bartender. “Then when she orders, be sure to make hers extra strong,” she said.

The bartender excused himself to attend to others.

Audrey could feel a nice humming space stretch right below her temple. And she laughed quietly, felt her lips peel back as if they were detached from the rest of her face. “A woman who can’t hold her liquor.”

The roar of the other diners had quieted to a steady hum, and the shrill woman’s voice had settled among the others. Audrey decided she quite liked the warm glow of the café. From the table, she could see the others in double, watch their reflections in the mirror behind the bar. She studied the woman in the purple hat, how her hands flashed back and forth in the mirror as she talked.

She hadn’t noticed that her glass was empty until the bartender returned.

“What do you think of a divorced woman?” Audrey asked in English, and she leaned far back as if to see the whole of the bartender.

“I think it’s not my place to say,” he said. “But it’s 1901 and times are changing.”

“Yes, that’s what I think, with Moulin Rouge and all that.”

He poured her a glass of water. “Drink,” he said.

She drank. “So I guess you know all about her by now?”

“I know a little.”

“You know a lot,” she said. “Everyone does.”

“I’ll bring you another,” he said.

He brought her another.

She was surveying herself in the mirror. “I’m trying to decide if I look different divorced?”

The bartender didn’t answer.

She had aged a little, maybe. They had married ten years ago and moved to Paris for him to pursue his art almost immediately. They hadn’t returned to America. She wondered if her friends back home would recognize her now. She couldn’t imagine returning.

“Do you remember when my husband and I first came to this bar?” she asked.

The bartender nodded. “Of course, Madame.”

“We were young.”

He smiled. “We were all young,” he said.

“And stupid.”

“Maybe.”

“We came almost every night.”

“For ten years,” he said.

“And then we didn’t.”

He nodded.

It had been six months since she’d last come. “And then she came,” Audrey said.

“Yes.”

“Everything reminds me of him,” she said. “But I guess that will eventually go away.”

“We were surprised you came back. But quite glad,” the bartender said.

“I don’t know anything else. Where would I go?” She took another sip, let it settle on her tongue and swallowed. “I guess that’s what happens when you follow your husband abroad.”

She turned to watch the others at the bar. The figures were a happy blur, their muffled voices rising and falling, indecipherable from one another. 

“I’d like to buy her a drink,” she told the bartender. “Tell her it’s courtesy of the Mrs. and put it on his tab. Then bring me one more.”

“You will be sick,” he said.

“I’m already quite ill,” she said. “One more won’t hurt me.”

The bartender left. She watched him fix the drink. Purple Hat turned toward her when he delivered it. Her expression was indistinct, like an Impressionist painting. Audrey could tell from her quick movement that she had refused it.

The bartender brought her both drinks. She raised the first glass toward Purple Hat. “To you,” she said, loud enough for the woman to hear.

She drained the glass and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“You are quite drunk, I am afraid,” the bartender said. “You really shouldn’t drink anymore.”

“I can’t feel a thing,” she said, touching her face. “I’m quite content.”

“It won’t last,” he said.

“Then I’ll just get another.”

“And then?”

“Another.” She slumped over the table, fingered the rim of the glass. It was slightly wet where her lips had been. “What do you think he sees in her?” she almost whispered.

The bartender shook his head. “I have never tried to understand other men and their other women,” he said.

“You’re very wise,” she said.

“You can stay here a while, once you’ve finished,” he said, and returned to the bar.

She followed him with her eyes. The figures at the bar swam lazily in front of her. They seemed to reflect three and four times in the mirror. A quartet of men in dark suits walked up to the four Purple Hats. Four long, pearly white arms stretched toward the men, and the men took the hands and kissed each one of them. The absinthe drinker knew that the men were not her husband. She could tell by the handkerchiefs blooming from their jacket pockets. She wondered, dully, who these men were and what hold they had on the purple hatted ladies. 

She took one last sip of her drink, then stood to leave. She fell back in her seat and used the table to lift herself up. Her red shawl was still damp from the rain but she shrugged it back on anyway and staggered to the bar.

She found herself quite close to Purple Hat. Their faces were inches from each other. She pulled her close and kissed her hard on the lips. They were wet and tasted like licorice.