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THE TAVERN
The men work swiftly and a new and heavier doorframe is in place by mid morning. The new door itself is a large oaken affair designed to hang upon a sturdy set of massive iron hinges. It takes the full crew to fit the door into place. Maria looks up from her work reorganizing the serving areas from time to time to make sure that Bartleby is sufficiently distracted with the task of tracking the inventory of wines and spirits to leave the workers alone. As the work of hanging the door begins, she hurriedly coaxes the barkeep into the kitchen insisting that the workmen will need a proper lunch shortly and he’d best be seeing to it.
“Ach! Woman, ye be far too charitable with me inventory! Why for the love of whatever god be in charge of the rebuildin’ of taverns, I don’‘t see why they couln’a brought their own damn lunches!”
“Bartleby!” she shouts with a laugh, “It’s only right that we feed them.” And as they enter the kitchen she adds in a conspiratorial tone, “Besides, if you fix the lunch now you won’t have to feed the rest of the crew once they arrive.”
“Aye, woman, ‘tis a fine idea ye be havin’ there.” As he begins to prepare the meal his thoughts turn again to the grimly mundane task of replacing most of his serving staff and a line of silent tears streams down his face.
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