Wine Before a Duel

November 16, this year
Venice, Italy
6:15 pm CEST

He can almost hear the Joni Mitchell song. Loche imagines Samuel Lifeson sitting at the bar smoking, drinking and singing along with Joni’s haunting refrain. He can see Felix Wishfeill’s head bulging in a plastic bag—a doubled plastic bag.

George sips his wine. Maria sets the bottle in front of Loche.

“You were here before?” George asks.

“I was.”

George nods. “Stupid crazy, yes?”

Loche smiles sadly. “Rearden used to have a saying about crazy.”

“Rearden is crazy,” George says.

“Yes,” Loche agrees. “He used to say that every psychologist faces three fears at some point in their career. He called them his Three Heavy What Ifs: What if I can’t help them? What if I can’t handle it? What if I go in with them?”

“Okay…” George says questioningly.

Loche stares into his glass. “I’m going in with them…”

“Good,” George says. “So I go with you.” He raises his glass. “Here’s to crazy.”

“Stupid crazy,” Loche adds.

They drink.

“I love a sip of wine before a duel,” George says. “It makes me think of joys we protect.”