“I once met Neil Tennant in a bar,” said the stranger, “and I swear that he was wearing Primark jeans.” Why would this guy think that I might be interested in what Neil Tennant had been wearing? “Did you speak to him?” I asked.“ ”I did, but he ignored me, and I made a point of telling him that I was wearing Gucci jeans.”
“My great grandfather was good friends with Fellini,” said Aurelio who looked at the books I had bought. “They both came from Rimini. If you needed to know anything about Fellini, then Gio Carmello, with the tattoo of a boy on a dolphin, was the person to see.
“It is said that my grandfather was called Federico after his childhood friend.
“And now, you have bought a book about Fellini which makes me sad because I think of my family.
“But, if I am honest, I have never liked Fellini, because he came from an older generation, with primitive movies, and an Italy that was black and white and different to the one that I know.”
The barman poured vodka from one bottle into another. It was a soft pour, and he did it expertly. I told him that I was impressed with the accuracy at how he did it. “Easy,” he said, “I imagine that I’m pissing into your mouth.” Up to this point his face had suggested that I wasn’t there. Everything I’d said to him had bounced back with indifference. Now he had said something shocking and was calm enough not to look for a reaction. Instead, he concentrated on pouring from one bottle to the other and was satisfied that he had stopped me talking.
Hey, Super Star Destroyer. If we knew back then what we know now. The year of discovery. Friends for life and all that shit. A touch of flesh was all it would have needed, but the Angel of Grief spat from a big height.
The grey gloom of a rainy afternoon and the empty alleyway is depressing. Only the yellowish headlamp of an ancient Vespa ridden by Salvo the old greengrocer suggests that colour exists in monochrome surroundings. He drives through puddles and looks at us suspiciously.
Marco stands on the step and stares at nothing, because there is nothing there, but his face suggests something different.
“What do you see?”
“What do YOU see?” he challenges. I shrug my shoulders.
“I see sunshine and shadows,” he says. “The heat of a lazy afternoon. Tables and chairs. Miniature olive trees in pots. Young men and women sitting and talking.” He moves his gaze to the crumbling stucco wall. “There is a woman wearing sunglasses who holds a pen in her right hand with a notebook in front of her. There is something in the bag at her feet that holds a dark secret. But she doesn’t want to tell me anything. I want to tell her that from where I stand she is now dead.”
“What else can you see?” I ask.
“The woman opposite her, an old lady now, is reading the Memoirs of Jacques Casanova. The men wear sports jackets and baggy trousers and talk amongst themselves about football and fast cars – Alfa Romeos and Lancias – and the women they want to flirt with.
“Salvo the greengrocer is a young man, and he leans back on his chair, a Corriere della Sera sticking out of his pocket, and he is talking to a slender woman with long black hair and stiletto heels. She is ignoring him because she senses something but doesn’t know what it is.”
“Who is she?”
“This is your great grandmother and she is looking towards where you stand, but you are invisible to her because you haven’t been born. But she is troubled because something lies in wait that will cause distress to her family. She doesn’t know it yet, but your great grandfather, who sits before her, a philosopher amongst friends, with a violent temper, will kill the man he is talking to. Just like you did, Nido – her great grandson. It is the curse of your family. The curse of the Lombardos.”
“I have a new favourite,” you said. This was the opportunity I’d been waiting for. “Are you talking about me?” I asked. It was a leading question, and one way or another, the answer would end years of torment. The pause was longer than necessary, and I took this as a good sign. Might this be the moment that we’d both been waiting for? But then you bottled it. “No, you’ve never been a favourite and won’t ever be.”
There was a big bottle of Malibu next to a picture of the Virgin Mary. I stared at them both. I wasn’t sure which was the most threatening. “What are you thinking?” I ignored him and looked at the mess of the room instead.
Innocence came calling. What are you writing? I was writing about you, but didn’t say that, and it would have made no difference because it was never part of the plan.
Have you been sent by someone?
Have you come with a message?
Have you come to taunt me?
Have you come to kill me?
In the dark, I think only of sweat, tattoos, and dirty underwear. How erotic is that? The excitement before you destroy me.
Have you come with love?
Have you come with hate?
Have you come with both?
Have you come with nothing?
There is desire in the shadows. Hands everywhere, controlling, and satisfyingly rough. But there are unanswered questions. Do these hands belong to someone who wants me dead?
Have you got a disease?
Have you got a condom?
Have you got a knife?
Have you got other ways of killing me?
They will get you in the least expected way. Beware of Gabriele of Stadium, they said. He will exploit your weakness. He is the Angel of Death and brings only a glass full of piss and blood.
Lust shattered my guard.
Lust drowned my senses
Lust clouded my judgement.
Lust is the death of me.
The romantic Gypsy of Roma, who dances with a gun, and destroys hearts with the blade of Ardizzone, looks into my eyes. Is this the most addictive boy ever? Is this the saddest and perfect end? And after he slits my throat he will say to Alberto of Ostia that it was too easy.
The lady from Wollongong, New South Wales, once said that she would never forget what I did for her son. I paid eight hundred pounds and flew her son back to Australia. She cried when he turned up on the doorstep because she thought she would never see him again. That was twenty years ago. I turned up on your doorstep when it was raining, and when you opened the door I knew that you didn’t recognise me so I reintroduced myself because I needed a place to stay. You told me that you hadn’t a clue who I was and said that you’d call the police if I didn’t go away. I walked into the stormy night and accepted that I could not sink no further. When the demonic koala dropped from a tree and strangled me, I lay in that muddy puddle and thought about that eight hundred pounds which was now worth a million.
“People will look and see nothing. I will be an insignificant black and white photograph. But there will be a day when somebody sees me and is wonderstruck. They will want to know who that smirking boy with sleek black hair and Jewish nose was. I care not who that person might be, or what their motivation is, but I will know, my spirit will burst forth, and I will offer a skeletal hand in gratitude. That person will know that I cared nothing about wealth and good fortune, and that I only ever wanted to follow my dreams. They will find out if I succeeded, and be able to differentiate between the truth and the lies that might have been written.”
Roger Wolfe Kahn (1907-1962), American jazz and popular musician, composer, bandleader and aviator. Sometimes I am captivated by a photograph and must find out more. I would like to think that the skeletal hand of gratitude was being offered… but, alas, this is a work of fiction.
Perfectly Hard and Glamorous 