chocolate sauce.”
We returned to Bari and went to the Gauguin, where they made very good crêpes, were polite and nice, and had beautiful photographs on the walls. It was a place I had often been to when I was with Sara, and had not visited since. That evening was the first time.
No sooner inside than I was sorry I’d come. Familiar faces at every table. Some I had to greet, all knew who I was.
Between the tables, the owner and the waiters staring at us. Staring at me . I could hear the wheels turning in their heads. I knew they’d gossip about me now. I felt like a squalid forty-year-old who takes out teenagers.
Melissa, meanwhile, was relaxed and talking non-stop.
I chose a crêpe with ham, walnuts and mascarpone, plus a small bottle of beer. Melissa had two sweet crêpes, the first with Nutella, hazelnuts and banana, the second with ricotta, raisins and melted chocolate. She drank three glasses of Calvados. She talked a lot. Two or three times she touched my hand. Once, while talking, she suddenly stopped and gave me an intense look, almost imperceptibly biting her lower lip.
They’re shooting with a hidden camera, I thought. This girl is an actress, there’s a TV camera somewhere, now I’ll say or do something ridiculous and someone will pop out and tell me to smile at the audience.
No one popped out. I paid the bill, we left, reached the car and I started up. Melissa said we could round off the evening by having a drink at her place.
“No thanks. You’re an alcoholic and maybe something worse. I shall now take you home, I won’t come up , and then I’ll go home to bed.” That’s what I should have said.
“I’d love to. Maybe just a drop and then we’ll get some sleep because tomorrow is a working day.” I said exactly that: “maybe just a drop”.
Melissa gave me a kiss on the corner of my mouth, lingering over it. She smelt of booze, smoke and a strong perfume that reminded me of something. Then she said that she didn’t have much at home and so we’d better go to a bar and buy a few beers.
I wasn’t entirely easy in my mind but I stopped in front of an all-night bar, got out and bought two beers. To prevent the situation from degenerating.
She lived in an old block of council flats near the television studios. The sort of building populated by five or six foreigners living in one room, old council tenants (a species on the verge of extinction) and students away from home. Melissa came from Minervino Murge.
The entrance had a very dim bulb that shed no light whatever. Melissa lived on the first floor and the stairs smelt of cat pee.
She opened the door and went in first, with me following her into the darkness. Stuffiness and stale cigarette smoke.
When the light went on I saw I was in a minute
hallway that gave onto a study-cum-bedroom on the left. On the right was a closed door that I took to be the bathroom.
“Where is the kitchen?” was my fatuous thought of the moment. And at the same instant she took me by the hand and led me into the bedroom/study/living room. There was a bed against the wall opposite the door, a desk, books everywhere. Books on shelves, stacks of books on the floor, books on the desk, books scattered here and there. There was an old radio-tape recorder, an ashtray containing two squashed filters, a few empty beer bottles and a nearly empty bottle of J&B whisky.
The books ought to have reassured me.
When I enter a house for the first time I check on whether there are books, if they are few, if they are many, if they are too neatly arranged – which is a bad sign – or if they are all over the place – which is a good sign, and so on.
The books in Melissa’s tiny home should have given me a good impression. But they didn’t.
“Do sit down,” said Melissa, pointing to the bed.
I sat, she opened the beers, handed me one and drank more than half of hers without taking the neck of the bottle from her lips. I took a sip, just to show willing. My brain
We returned to Bari and went to the Gauguin, where they made very good crêpes, were polite and nice, and had beautiful photographs on the walls. It was a place I had often been to when I was with Sara, and had not visited since. That evening was the first time.
No sooner inside than I was sorry I’d come. Familiar faces at every table. Some I had to greet, all knew who I was.
Between the tables, the owner and the waiters staring at us. Staring at me . I could hear the wheels turning in their heads. I knew they’d gossip about me now. I felt like a squalid forty-year-old who takes out teenagers.
Melissa, meanwhile, was relaxed and talking non-stop.
I chose a crêpe with ham, walnuts and mascarpone, plus a small bottle of beer. Melissa had two sweet crêpes, the first with Nutella, hazelnuts and banana, the second with ricotta, raisins and melted chocolate. She drank three glasses of Calvados. She talked a lot. Two or three times she touched my hand. Once, while talking, she suddenly stopped and gave me an intense look, almost imperceptibly biting her lower lip.
They’re shooting with a hidden camera, I thought. This girl is an actress, there’s a TV camera somewhere, now I’ll say or do something ridiculous and someone will pop out and tell me to smile at the audience.
No one popped out. I paid the bill, we left, reached the car and I started up. Melissa said we could round off the evening by having a drink at her place.
“No thanks. You’re an alcoholic and maybe something worse. I shall now take you home, I won’t come up , and then I’ll go home to bed.” That’s what I should have said.
“I’d love to. Maybe just a drop and then we’ll get some sleep because tomorrow is a working day.” I said exactly that: “maybe just a drop”.
Melissa gave me a kiss on the corner of my mouth, lingering over it. She smelt of booze, smoke and a strong perfume that reminded me of something. Then she said that she didn’t have much at home and so we’d better go to a bar and buy a few beers.
I wasn’t entirely easy in my mind but I stopped in front of an all-night bar, got out and bought two beers. To prevent the situation from degenerating.
She lived in an old block of council flats near the television studios. The sort of building populated by five or six foreigners living in one room, old council tenants (a species on the verge of extinction) and students away from home. Melissa came from Minervino Murge.
The entrance had a very dim bulb that shed no light whatever. Melissa lived on the first floor and the stairs smelt of cat pee.
She opened the door and went in first, with me following her into the darkness. Stuffiness and stale cigarette smoke.
When the light went on I saw I was in a minute
hallway that gave onto a study-cum-bedroom on the left. On the right was a closed door that I took to be the bathroom.
“Where is the kitchen?” was my fatuous thought of the moment. And at the same instant she took me by the hand and led me into the bedroom/study/living room. There was a bed against the wall opposite the door, a desk, books everywhere. Books on shelves, stacks of books on the floor, books on the desk, books scattered here and there. There was an old radio-tape recorder, an ashtray containing two squashed filters, a few empty beer bottles and a nearly empty bottle of J&B whisky.
The books ought to have reassured me.
When I enter a house for the first time I check on whether there are books, if they are few, if they are many, if they are too neatly arranged – which is a bad sign – or if they are all over the place – which is a good sign, and so on.
The books in Melissa’s tiny home should have given me a good impression. But they didn’t.
“Do sit down,” said Melissa, pointing to the bed.
I sat, she opened the beers, handed me one and drank more than half of hers without taking the neck of the bottle from her lips. I took a sip, just to show willing. My brain
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