"I wish he would go home. I never get to bed before three o’clock. What kind of hour is that to go to bed?"

"He stays up late because he likes it."

Two waiters inside a cafe. It was late and every one had left except for an old man who sat in the shadows the leaves of the tree made against the electric light. The old man was a little drunk. The two waiters watched the old man drink.

One waiter, the young one, had a wife. The other, older, did not. The young waiter wanted to close the cafe and get home. He wanted to spend time with his wife. The older waiter wanted to keep the cafe open. There may be someone who needed the cafe. It was clean and pleasant. You needed a clean and pleasant place, a place that was well lighted, a place to drink, to rest.

"I have a wife waiting in bed for me."

"He had a wife once."

"A wife would be no good to him now."

"You can’t tell. He might be better with a wife."

"His niece looks after him."

The old man drank from a saucer of brandy. He’d had several brandies that night. He was deaf, sad, lonely no doubt, but he did not show his pain. He sat unsteadily but with dignity. He’d had several brandies, he was drunk, be he did not act drunk.

"Last week he tried to commit suicide."

"Why?"

"He was in despair."

We are all here to go. Nada y pues nada.

"What about?"

"Nothing."

"How do you know it was nothing?"
"He has plenty of money."

"What is money?"

"The difference between having to work and not having to work, that is what money is."

"You do not like the cafe?"

"He stays all night. I never get to bed before three o’clock. I’m sleepy now."

The young waiter made a face. "He should have killed himself last week."

"What did he want to kill himself for?"

"How should I know."

"How did he do it?"

"He hung himself with a rope."

"Who cut him down?"

"His niece."

"Why?"

"Fear for his soul."

His soul, his soul, his soul, his soul. Was there a soul? Who has seen a soul? This flesh, these thoughts, that’s all there was, that was all that was. Flesh broke apart; thoughts were fleeting. So what, then? It was all a nothing and a man was nothing too. Who can blame the old man for wanting to escape the nada? He had to do something. But it’s all nada y pues nada y nada y pues nada. Our nada who art in nada, nada be thy name thy kingdom nada thy will be nada in nada as it is in nada. Give us this nada our daily nada and nada us our nada as we nada our nadas and nada us not into nada but deliver us from nada; pues nada.

The old man looked over. "Another brandy," he said, pointing to his glass.

The young waiter went over. "Finished," he said, speaking with that omission of syntax stupid people employ when talking to drunken people or foreigners. Nada.

"Another," said the old man. Nada y pues nada.

The older waiter watched them. This cafe was nice. So what if the old man wanted to stay here. Let him. He needed it. He needed a light for the night. Let him have it, let him stay.

"No. Finished." The young waiter wiped the edge of the table with a towel and shook his head.

The old man stood up, slowly counted the saucers, took a leather coin purse from his pocket and paid for the drinks, leaving half a peseta tip.

"You should have let him stay," said the old waiter as they closed the cafe.

"I want to go home to bed."

"To your wife?"

"What of it?"

"You don’t care. You don’t understand. You are young. You do not know how some like to stay up late, who do not want to go to bed, who need to see a light, a light in all this darkness." All this nada.

"Stop talking nonsense and lock up."

They locked up and said goodbye, and went in opposite directions. The old waiter walked on. He passed a girl and a soldier. They were drunk and all over one another.

The old waiter found a bar. It was dirty but it had a bright light. He sat at the bar.

"What’s yours?" said the barman.

"Hail nothing full of nothing, nothing is with thee."

"Otro loco mas," said the barman and turned away.

"A little cup, please," said the waiter.

The barman gave him the drink and went away. The old waiter looked around. The light was nice but the bar was unpolished. He was tired, but he could not sleep. It must be insomnia. Was it, or was it the light, the light, his need for the light, like the old man in the cafe, like all the others out there in the world. Should he suicide? Not yet. Others were far worse off than he was. He could help them, give them a place to drink, a place that was clean and bright and orderly and nice. This could help, if even just a little. In all this nada, there had to be something bright, right? Right?

We’re all here to go. There’s light y pues nada. Death took its time to eat and then death finished its meal. What then?

"Nada."

The barman looked at the old man from the corner of his eye. He was talking to himself. He looked powerfully sad. Most likely a woman. The only time someone looked that sad at a bar was over a woman.

"You want another copita, on the house?" the barman asked.

"No, thank you," said the old man. He paid and left. The barman watched him go. Poor guy, he thought. He knew of a few nearby bodegas. He should have recommended one. Next time; there’s always a next time.