In mystic airport fog, Bogie’s talking
to Bergman. Curtiz and Edeson hold
him in close-up. I find myself flicking
the remote on still, pushing like some bold
producer up to the legend’s face. “Shit,
Rick,” I snap at the 26-inch screen,
“Cut the crap. You’re smarter than the film script.
Grab Ilsa, Laszlo, Renault, Sam. You’ve seen
they all hold transit letters. Jump the plane,
soar to Lisbon and its nest of spies. Dance
under King Jose’s statue. Laugh in rain,
Ilsa pressed to your chest. Yes, choose romance.
Let Victor win the war, fitting his name.
Let Louis slide. He understands the game.
“Leave the free French garrison for DeGaulle.
Sly your way to New York. Open up Rick’s
Café Casablanca somewhere near Wall
Street, or in the Village. Let Ilsa pick
the apartment in Soho; let Sam play
on a Steinway. How many years do you
have left, anyway? Thirty? Forty, say?
Look at me! Roosevelt’s lied, Truman too.
Ike will lie, Kennedy, Nixon, Clinton
will lie, and Bush will set Guinness records.
They don’t care about us. Why stay bent on
sacrificing? Set your own peace accord.
Hold Ilsa as though the last day lurks near.
Kiss her. Whisper those words she longs to hear.”
Roger Armbrust
January 26, 2008
