THE ANTI-ALCOHOL LEAGUE

I have to confess that for some time now, I’d begun to hear things no one had ever seen or heard before. The day was a blur of too many errands, my head was pounding, and I walked without really looking. I saw a bistro with red curtains, faded by the sun, so I went in and ordered something to eat.

The steak was good, the salad wasn’t: there was a live snail in it, still moving its antennae, and I called the waiter over.

“Look at this.”He peered down.“Terrible, sir. Have whatever you like to drink—on the house.”I nodded and said nothing, but thought: now I’m getting drunk.

And that’s what I did—one glass, two, three, four. My head grew light, and all my appointments disappeared.

By four o’clock I was staggering through Place de la Concorde when two policemen stopped me.“Papers.”

“Oui, monsieur, pas des problèmes. J’ai mangé un escargot sans maison.”

They exchanged a knowing look and pushed me into the car. They took me to a stinking cell—the kind they call a little box.

At six forty-five, Mike came to get me out. He didn’t say much, paid the fine, and we left. We walked in silence to a brasserie where we’d have dinner: Le Caporal, on Rue de Rivoli. Checkered tablecloths, cramped tables, the smell of bourguignon hanging in the air. We ordered meat and wine. I was smoking, and he was staring at me.

“What happened, Jay?”

“There was a snail in the salad—it was alive! Incredible.”

“So you got drunk.”

“Yeah, they offered me drinks to apologize.”

“You couldn’t just not drink? Or toss the salad? Or have them comp your meal?”

“Of course I could.”

“You couldn’t have just gotten up and left?”

“I could’ve done that too.”

“But no, you had to get yourself arrested.”

“Exactly.”

We drank the strong wine. He looked at me angrily—he could tell I was half-mocking him.“You’re ridiculous,” he said.

“Maybe.”

“Not maybe—you are. I drop everything, come bail you out, and you laugh in my face.”

“I didn’t ask you to come.”

“Next time, you can stay in there.”

“Do what you want.”

“You don’t understand a damn thing, Jay.”

“I understand there was a live snail, and they offered me a drink.”

“No, Jay, you really don’t understand a damn thing.”

“Thanks, Mike. Good thing you’re here to tell us how to live,” I said, dripping sarcasm.

He slammed his fist on the table, making the glasses tremble. People turned to look.“I won’t let you talk to me like that! You’re just a child!”

“Better a child than a mule.”

We locked eyes: his jaw clenched, my lips barely smiling.

“Go to hell, Jay.”

He stood, dropped the money on the table, and left without turning back.

I stayed there, kept drinking as the place emptied out, alone with the wine getting heavier in my body. I was tired.

The next morning, I showed up at Mike’s jewelry shop. He was behind the counter, polishing a tray of watches. He barely looked at me.

“Here to make a scene?” he said.

“I’m here to tell you straight.”

“Tell me what?”

“If you’d found that snail in your salad, you would’ve done the same thing, you bastard!”

He stared at me.

“The problem isn’t the snail, Jay.”

“Of course it is.”

“No, the problem is you got yourself arrested, and it’s always a friend who has to bail you out. You can’t keep getting saved by other people.”

“You didn’t save me. You just paid a fine.”

“I put my face in front of two cops for you while you were busy drinking.”

I stayed quiet. He looked down at the counter, then spoke softly but firmly.

“It’s not the snail, Jay. It’s how you run from everything. You hide behind the wine, behind the jokes—but it’s not working anymore.”

“You don’t get me. You lock yourself up in here polishing gold and stones. At least I live.”

“Living isn’t getting drunk until they haul you off in handcuffs.”

“Better that than rotting under these lights.”

We stared at each other. He was tense; I was trembling.

“I won’t bail you out again, Jay. Next time, you stay in there.”

“Then I hope there is a next time.”

I turned and walked out.

That night I went drinking again at the Piccolò Café: low lights, elegant atmosphere, the chic side of Paris. Sitting there with my glass, I drank and thought.

Mike wasn’t just a jeweler. Mike was part of the American Anti-Alcohol League—I was sure of it.

Yes, I didn’t have proof yet, but he was pretending to be my friend while working to take my wine away, maybe even to outlaw it all across France. That lunatic had been spying on me, wanting to know everything: how much I drank, how much I smoked, how much I worked, who I’d been with. Those questions had always made me suspicious—it was Prohibition itself speaking through him.I smiled at the glass and drank again.

I drank until I couldn’t feel my tongue, but by then everything was clear: the man worked for the American Anti-Alcohol League. So I paid the bill in cash to make myself untraceable—because they were probably watching my bank account too—and left. The night grabbed me by the throat. I staggered down wet streets, not feeling the cold.

I went to the jewelry shop. The lights were off, but I knew Mike was inside, and I banged hard on the door.

“Still polishing gold, huh? Come out, bastard! I’ve got you now!”

Then again: “Open up, Mike! I know who you are!”

There—movement inside, a light flicked on, and the lock turned.

Mike appeared in the doorway, in a shirt, face drawn tight.

“You’re drunk.”

“Listen carefully—I know everything.”

“What do you know?”

“What do you think? You probably think I’m an idiot. You’re not a jeweler—you never were.”

“Oh no? Then what am I?”

“A dog for the Anti-Alcohol League, a messenger. They sent you from America to keep tabs on me.”

He sighed.

“You’re completely out of your mind. Go to bed, Jay.”

“No. You followed me, you had me arrested, you set me up. You’re the one who put the snail in the salad—you did it, you bastard!”

“For Christ’s sake, you’re insane.”

“No, you’re insane, Mike. Listen to me: every word you say sounds like a slogan, every look of yours is a report for your masters. You don’t polish gold—you polish the chains that serve the Anti-Alcohol League.”

He clenched his jaw.

“Enough.”

“No, you will be enough. They’ll pull your cover once they’re done with me. For now, you’re just a spy—their watchdog, the eye of Prohibition in Paris. How does that feel?”

We stood frozen—his hand on the door, me swaying, laughing softly.

“Go home, Jay. Please.”

“This is my home: the streets, the bistros, the glasses. But you want to take it away from me.”

“I don’t want to take anything from you.”

“You want to take the alcohol from me—and maybe from all of France. Same thing.”

Mike shook his head and shut the door without another word.

I stood there for a moment, then laughed again: the League was afraid of me.

That was why Mike hadn’t denied it too much—and why he’d been so nervous.

I stepped back into the night. The wet streets shone like warped mirrors, and I hurried under the black sky when suddenly a streetlamp flickered on. Beneath it—three men in dark coats staring at me. I recognized them instantly: the League.“Stop, Jay.”

The voice was dry, like paper tearing.

I spun around and ran.

Every corner had more of them—tall men in black jackets, stones in their pockets, some wearing hats far too big. They all looked at me; none spoke.

At the end of the street, a woman with the face of a weasel blocked my way. She was elegantly dressed, white gloves, and finally she smiled.

“Come with us, Jay. It’s for your own good.”

I screamed, shoved her against a trash bin, and darted down a side alley.

I fell on the wet cobblestones, hands dirty as I pushed myself up. Behind me, quick confident footsteps—steady, trained—they were coming for me.

They weren’t echoes—they were real! The Anti-Alcohol League was attacking with all its strength.I could see them, their long shadows stretching on the walls, their jackets flying open, their badges flashing under the streetlights.

One reached out his hand.

“Give us the glass, Jay. That’s all we want.”

He had my bottle and aimed it at me like a weapon.

“You bastard—it’s mine!” I shouted. “You’ll never take it!”

I started running again, lungs on fire.

Ahead, more men—this time a whole line of them, silent, still, ready to stop me. They looked like statues, yet they breathed, waiting for me.

I broke through by throwing myself at the two smallest, crashed the line, and kept running—running flat out against evil itself.

Voices came from every side.

“Let go of the wine.”

“Give up, Jay.”

“You’ll be free.”

I dove through a half-open doorway and down a flight of damp-smelling stairs, taking them three at a time. The steps behind me were getting closer—the League was coming down with me, all the way to hell if they had to.

At the bottom, there was no way out—a dead end.

I crouched against a wall, hidden, holding my breath. I could hear them breathing, their shoes scraping the wet bricks, the clink of glasses that weren’t really there.

Always Mike, always the League, always me—running, fleeing, losing every line between street and shadow, dream and reality. The world had become theirs, and I had become theirs.

Two days later

When I woke up two days later, I’d lost weight.

It had been a while since Carla and I could make love, something that had never happened before. We used to be fire and gasoline, but now—nothing. I was alert like a cop, she tried with caresses, kisses, prayers. Nothing.

The doctor hooked electrodes to my head and feet; it looked like we were about to resurrect a corpse. Every day he made me drink a glass of raw calf’s blood—said it would strengthen the heart. To me, it was just disgusting. I realized later he was working for the League too.

Carla, devoutly Catholic, said one day that it was time to try the Church. So, late one morning, I went into a tiny chapel two blocks from home—a church that smelled of old wax and damp stone. There was almost no one there, just an old man kneeling and a priest who looked half-asleep.

I prayed, not really knowing what to say, just muttering a few made-up words.

The priest smiled at me and said,

“My son, you don’t need words. You need faith.”

I nodded, but inside I thought: Yeah, faith that the League’s afraid of crucifixes.

When I got home, the Virgin had answered my prayers: Carla and I made love as if it were the first time—a storm that wouldn’t end. I was laughing, she was crying, and in between I could hear church bells ringing in celebration—the village Saturday.

In that moment, I knew I’d found my ultimate weapon—not wine, not running, not shouting at the cops, but faith. Or at least, a parody of faith.And so I became Catholic.

Yes, really Catholic—but in my own way. Because kneeling for two minutes in a half-empty chapel had been enough to dissolve the entire American Anti-Alcohol League.

It was done: the League defeated by Christ.

That same evening, I went to the bistro to celebrate. I ordered a whole bottle, drank it all by myself, and no one came to arrest me. The cops walked past the red curtains and didn’t even look. The dark coats had vanished, the woman with the weasel face was gone for good.Just me and the wine, alone against the world, protected by incense and church bells.

And that night, when sleep took me—drunk but calm—I saw him: Jesus himself, sitting at my table with a glass in his hand and a lit cigarette between his fingers. He took slow drags, looked at the ceiling, and said,

“Jay, relax. If those League guys come back, I’ll handle it.”

And sure enough, they did—three men in dark coats, stone-faced, one flashing a badge again. But this time, I didn’t speak—Jesus did.

He stood, blew smoke straight into the first man’s face, and said,

“The wine’s been mine for two thousand years. Touch it, and you’ll go to hell without passing go.”

They tried to argue, but he silenced them with a laugh that made the glasses tremble on the table.

“You’re afraid of a bottle?” he said.

“I made it a sacrament, and you come here saying it’s forbidden? Fools.”

One of the League men tried to grab my arm, but Jesus tapped him lightly on the forehead and he dropped like a mannequin. The others backed away, hissing orders I couldn’t understand, and left.

Jesus stubbed out his cigarette in my ashtray, poured me another glass, and said,

“Drink, brother. This is my body—but also your freedom.”

I drank, and that night I understood that my alliance was sealed.

I wasn’t alone anymore: I was Catholic, yes—but a Catholic of war, with a Christ who drinks, smokes, and tells the League to go to hell to defend me.