Cristóbal sat straight back on the mahogany bench, and squinted through the Gauloises haze towards the door. Even through the thick, scarred leather of his coat, he could feel the uneven bricks digging into his back. The pisco that still burned in his gullet had not yet worked its magic, even though the glass on the battered table was empty, begging for anointment from the green glass bottle standing alongside.
Cristóbal drew a slow breath through the cigarette gripped between the middle fingers of his left hand. The nails were begrimed, split here and there, and his fingers carried the faint tang of cordite. As the heavy cloud of French tobacco smoke leaked from his nostrils, he felt a faint shiver of regret that it could very well be the last cigarette he ever smoked.
you know where I have been and
you know what I have done
they say that you see everything
so you know I never hurt no one
The mournful sound of the singer's voice carried across the bar, to land on Cristóbal's heart with a pang of regret. He had brought his share of hurt, and death, into the world. The pursuit of liberty, to throw off the shackles, to rid his country of pestilence in the form of secret police...to what end? Alone here, a cause surely lost, without friends, and without her.
What I have stolen won't be missed
By those who had so much, so long
We'll soon be laughing about this
They will never notice it is gone