The Anti-Realists short story by Paul Sutcliffe

The Anti-Realists…………. short story © Paul Sutcliffe. 2013

They spake in foreign languages. We did not know where they even lived. Mexico City was still small in those times. I walked up Calle Turin where it met Marsella and saw that tiny café where the anti-realists met.

Run by an old German sow called Birgitte, grey-haired and with the whale skin of an elephant, the windows were remarkably dirty and scratched. Although from the outside the name said “Café Brandenburg-Metz” , everyone simply called it “the Café”.

There were days when the anti-realists would encourage fights. One named Georgie, (from some small,shit town in Europe, near Antwerp) would stand up and proclaim outright that the philosophical notions of F-ness, G-ness and H-ness to be null and void. He would work himself up into a frenzy, almost spilling the hot coffee in the moment it was set down by the old Frau, foam spurting out from the corners of his mouth onto her shabby Bavarian outfit..

Then a mechanic called Hernandez would pull himself up from his chair, walk over to the Belgian, grab his moustaches and throw him right across the room, in a single, graceful movement, howling in his gruff southern dialect, “How real is that, cabron?”

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