I was sitting on the stainless steel counter of the pass, in darkness, the only light coming from the emergency exit sign. I was wearing my low-rise Levi’s, NO STRESS T-shirt, and Adidas sports shoes. Orlando was with me, and he was still pissed off at the maître d’ over their latest ludicrous spat. I told him that toning it down a bit might be a good idea, especially for himself. He was leaning against the door leading into the dining room. From the club came the muffled thump of the bass beat and the strains of the summer hit “San Salvador”: “hear the voices ringing, people singing. San Salvador, now the festival is just beginning.” We were knocking back mojitos and waiting for Gabriel to wander over from the bar with a couple lines of coke. Yesterday we gave him our share of the money — he was the kitchen staff’s official dealer.
Gabriel was tall and black, and he cracked jokes in a thick Florentine accent. He had two small children and a very patient wife. The previous week he’d wrecked his Beemer. Said that someone cut him off and then sped away. Saturdays he would head off to Florence completely tanked, and only a line of blow would sober him up long enough to drive back home. He probably came to with the air bag in his face and no idea what the fuck had happened.
He boasted about the women he picked up and the blow jobs he scored in the private club room. He was a good-looking guy, to say the least, and he was a masterful juggler of bottles and shakers behind the bar. Women liked that sort of thing. They liked the ones who strutted center stage and stole the spotlight. His real name was Gabriele, but everyone called him Gabriel, without the final e, and he was fine with that.
“It’s good shit. A bit scant, but good,” Orlando said.
We moseyed down to the club. It was packed but not to the rafters. There should have been a much larger turnout according to the estimates of the three hotshot owners. “They spent a cool million,” Orlando told us. But the bar was swamped. I didn’t like the crush, so I ducked behind the counter. Orlando followed and started mixing cocktails next to Monica. I took four swigs of ice-cold beer and felt reborn.
“Why aren’t you guys dancing?” Monica asked. So we did. Orlando climbed onto the bar. “Saaaan Salvador!” And I climbed up too. Off came my T-shirt. I’d lost some weight and looked damn hot. “Saaaaaan Salvador!” No one told us to get off — we were the lords and masters of the venue. The restaurant manager was Orlando, and the bar manager was our dealer.
I felt someone tugging at my belt. It was Gabriel mouthing something and pointing upstairs. I bent down and put my ear to his lips.
“Fill in for me at the bar for five minutes, will you? I have to go upstairs, Giustini wants me in his office!”
I scrambled down from the bar, put my sweaty T-shirt back on, and started haphazardly mixing cocktails. Gabriel supplied everyone in here with drugs, from the dishwasher to the managing director. Two jobs and twice the benefits, more money and a rock-solid day job.
The dance floor was packed and slutty hostesses worked the room. People were thronging to the bar, waving money around, Orlando was still dancing at the far end of the counter, the boys looking at us with a mixture of scorn and admiration, the girls with curiosity.
I felt my jaw clench and broke out in a sweat. The expressions on the dancers’ faces were scary. You’d find more sanity in a mental hospital or a mortuary. Except that here the strobe lights messed with your head. Some of the girls, however, were luscious.
“What the fuck do you mean by luscious, Leo?”
“Great tits and world-class booty!”
“You are such a lowbrow!”
“Well, I’ll leave all the highbrow ones to you.”
The crowd was jiving and the music was crap. I felt a notch above them all. I weaved my way over to Orlando, and he bent down and roared, “Don’t you feel a notch above them, Leo? Above them all!”
I left the bar with another mojito — the alcohol seemed to be winning against the coke, and my head was spinning. Kids were roaming around like the morons they were, coming here to spend money while the only reason I was here was that I worked here. I was earning a living in this place, and I could shit all over those clowns. Someone came up behind me and covered my eyes with soft, small hands that smelled of soap and beer.
It was Anna. Last week she’d hung out at our place to work off a hangover and do a couple of lines with some friends of hers. Strangers hanging out with other strangers, doing things nobody found at all strange. The others had left and she’d stayed behind with me.
“How about going back to your place?” she asked.
“Not just yet, there’s something I have to do with Orlando first.”
“Can I do it too? With both of you?”
“No, it’s not what you think, tonight we two boys are behaving.”
“But have you seen yourself in the mirror?”
She kissed me on the mouth and left with her girlfriend, who’d been waiting nearby. I surveyed the room and saw all these people I had nothing in common with. Orlando took me by the arm and we returned to the kitchen with Gabriel. Orlando picked up a dessert platter, one of the big flat ones.
“Who’s gonna do it?”
I got my driver’s license and a credit card out of my pocket. “I’ll take care of this,” I said. In the meantime Gabriel put the plate in the microwave to dry the coke properly.
“I think we should be careful,” I said.
“About what?”
“Those kids. The ones who were over at our place the other night and just came out and called us cokeheads.”
“What are you saying? They paid me two hundred euros for a teener!”
“Yeah, but you know what it’s like, don’t you? It’s a small town, people gossip …”
“Leo’s right. We need to play it safe,” Orlando said. “I mean, we work here after all.”
“Hey, guys, snap out of it! Even if word gets out that people are doing drugs here, it sure ain’t nothing new. Show me a club where that doesn’t happen …”
“What about restaurants?” Orlando retorted.
I enjoy learning to do new things, starting to feel at home in new places, knowing my way around kitchens. And there’s nothing I like more than chopping three perfectly straight rails in a matter of seconds.
“You know what’s funny?”
“What, Leo?”
“That one of the reasons I took this job was that I wanted to chill out somewhere quiet, in the country. You know, close to nature, the lake, and all that. I actually thought that with all this peace and tranquility I’d be able to start writing my dissertation.”
“Sure, that’s why you decided to work in a club. Great choice. Let’s go back in and dance some more.”
We staggered out of the place at dawn. In four hours we had to be back in the kitchen. The three of us were wasted, but it had definitely been a night to remember.
It was pouring rain but it wasn’t cold. There had to be an umbrella somewhere, but I couldn’t find it. I headed home on foot. Walking in the rain, it occurred to me that what I needed was a nice sensible girl and an undemanding relationship. Maybe a farmer’s daughter, living with her family near our place, who’d definitely be into long flowing skirts. I’d want nothing more than to be with her in a dry, sweet-smelling bed, under clean scented sheets.
“Hey, Matte.”
“Yo.”
“Have you still got that girl hanging out at our place?”
“Nope, you were right. I’m not cut out for commitment and living with a girl.”
“I guess I’ll come back to Rome, then.”
“What happened?”
“Dunno. It’s like there’s something missing.”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“Nah, it’s nothing, I just miss things. I’m coming home.”
“D’you miss your days as a rookie here in Rome? Or is it more than that?”
“It’s like I miss the person I could maybe become. It’s kind of like if I stay here, the person I was is never going to be the one I might be …”
“Gimme a break, Leo. Stop overthinking everything.”
“My pay is a month late.”
“Ah, right, then you’d better come back. I’ll be waiting.”