He let her get on the plane, didn't he?
Poor man
He'll be dead in three years
Car accident
Nothing all that extravagant
A quiet death for a loud man
Always unfortunate when that's the case
Do I miss France?
I miss it terribly
But I can still smell the smoke on my skin
I'm an expatriate now
I'm carrying on an affair with the leading banker in Amsterdam
He shows up once a month for a weekend
And I tell him how he's going to die
Every month it's a different death
Because every month he adjusts his life
According to what I've said
I told him lung cancer, so he quit smoking
I told him a heart attack, so he quit red meat
I told him stress, so he divorced his wife
Part of me wonders if he's hoping one weekend he'll show up
And I'll tell him that he's not going to die at all
Who knows? Maybe I will
He thinks I'm giving him the word of God
The truth is, I don't hear the word of God anymore
Only the sounds of the fire
Sam, do you know anything that goes fast
Then slows down halfway through
I'm trying to remember a song I heard
As I was losing consciousness
It went fast then slow then faded out
It reminded me of the soldiers
Drinking and dancing
Then slowly falling down
And sleeping where they fell
It reminded me of those nights on the hills
Watching the enemy camp
Light each of their fires
Hearing a voice in my head tell me
That I would be going out with a fire one day
I didn't realize it would be the fire of my own people
I'm sad to know that Ilsa's gone
She and I were taking dance classes together
Through the embassy
She used to tease me about always taking the lead
Whenever they'd give me a man to dance with
I suppose it's just my nature
. . . . .
I bought a ticket
Actually, I had the leading banker in Amsterdam buy it
It's the least he could do
Considering I've saved his life
Fourteen times now
I don't plan on using the ticket
But I like looking at it
I like having it
I like knowing it's in my possession
That it's in my power to go home, if I like
I won't know anybody there now
And they won't know me
Or at least, they won't recognize me
The paintings and pictures they have
Are grossly inaccurate
The haircut they give me in them
Makes me look like a stooge
It would be nice to show them
That I wasn't so ugly
It would be nice to show them
That I wasn't so bad
. . . . .
But until then, I'll just let the ticket
Sit in my suitcase
I'll practice my tarot cards
Even though I don't need them
I'll make love to a fat man
So he'll buy me rings
I'll drink too much
And pretend the men who talk to me
Are God
And maybe when Rick comes back
I'll ask him to dance
Maybe I'll tell him to give up driving
It's the least I could do for Ilsa
My old dancing buddy
Until then, I'll just sit here and listen to you play, Sam
Have you thought of that song I was talking about?
Oh, well...
When you think of it
Play it for me, will you?
Play it
Just for me
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