He only wanted two things, to drink and to write. Both were out of control. Consequently, he was more widely known as a drinker than a writer. He filled his mouth with wine. There are many ways to write a story, he knew, most of them a variation on a theme. As he swallowed, he closed his eyes. It wasn't difficult to tune out the sounds of the other men in the cafeneio. He tried to concentrate on a single image - a woman's face, and the eyes set in that face, eyes that looked at him, unblinking, as the woman spoke. This woman was beautiful. She scared him.