Talk to Martin Green on the Fictionville blog
“You're still an innocent.”
“And you're still a cynic, Max,” I said. It was a November night. Outside, it was dark with low clouds and the wind blew relentlessly. Inside, the café was warm and stuffy, filled with smoke. Men sat with elbows on tables, leaning towards one another, heads almost touching, talking in low voices. Even in a dictatorship, café life went on.
“So what should I do?” I asked. Ilena had left me. I'd called Max out on this night to ask his advice and, despite the danger, he had come. Max and I had gone to school together; we'd been like brothers. “Do? Rejoice in your freedom. She's always been like a stone around your neck. Moody, demanding, impossible to please. Well, what else would you expect from a ballerina?”
“But I love her.”
“You think you do. But you'll get over it. Move on with your life.”
The waiter came over. “Two more coffees,” I said. “So, and you? What about your life? You're still writing, of course.”
“As always. Even though I get nothing published.”
“But your work gets read. It seems that everyone has seen your latest. The government is worried.”
Max shrugged. “They have nothing to worry about. All I have are words. They have the tanks.”
“Sometimes words are powerful.” Max shrugged again. He finished his coffee.
“I must go,” he said. “Thank you for coming out. I know it's a risk.”
“I can't stay in my hole all the time. Besides, why wouldn't I come when my brother needs my advice.”
Max rose, put on his coat and left. I nodded. The man at the table near the door stood up and went out into the night after him.
Max was cynical, but not cynical enough. He still believed in our friendship. But his advice was good. I would move on with my life.