Authors: Richard Blanchard
Snow Blind (20 page)
“More wine for the whiner's Signori.” I am genuinely enjoying this now. Everything has shifted here; at last some unearthed truths rather than the lies that have bound everyone around me.
“Downstairs now Signor, we clean up.” Four waiters appear behind the man who has drawn the short straw to tell us to go.
“I wish the eyeties would stop smoking so much, it's disgusting. The dirty bastards.” Max offers inappropriate commentary as the waiters hover. We all amble at our own pace downstairs, to an empty restaurant. They allow me my last request; we huddle around the small bar slurping our last carafe. I settle for the four rounds of wine, we all give in thirty Euros for the food.
“You married?
Salute
.” The bar owner offers me premature congratulations and a Lemoncino as I rest on the bar. I raise my glass and smirk. He is probably thinking Juliet is my wife. Waiters sit down at empty tables waiting for a fight they will not get.
The taxis are fifteen minutes late, having promised a midnight pick up. I have suspended comprehension of what has just happened. Nothing hurts me through my thick skin of alcohol. Italy has been a blast.
“W
HY DO MEN HAVE SUCH LACK OF RESPECT FOR WOMEN?”
Johnny and Dan sing from The Smiths' songbook as we exit the cab. They fail to shut the door three times, until I remove a seat belt from the doorjamb. They laugh hard at the aptness of their song; creasing themselves forward with arms across each other's shoulders. No more apologies for us Dan, they stand swaying with their foreheads pushed together, uniting their sweaty fringes.
“The casino is across the square so the club must be underneath.” I prompt them. Robert has insisted we go to a disco called Wheelers. The human traffic is against us again; even the hardened revellers are dispersing to catch rest before their skiing. The roar of water is all around, with the river flowing underneath our feet and the forceful spray from the decorative fountain in front of us.
“Ambush!” Max and Steve are running at us from around the fountain, Robert comes from the other direction. Indians aiming to capture the cowboys. Legs heavy with drink, they could not catch a sober person, but Dan is easily pulled backwards. Max grabs his feet, the others his shoulders. They try to throw him into the fountain, but Dan's bottom crumples to the floor, making him impossible to lift.
“Idiots! We will never get him into a club soaking wet!” Chris shouts at them. They know it is true and they let him go to the sound of their own groans. Max decides to wake himself up with a face wash in the fountain. The semi-ice water and freezing air make him wince. A fully immersed human would be only minutes away from an icy death, another good reason not to dunk Dan.
“Thanks for letting me go guys.” Dan picks himself up from the slush at the foot of the rounded fountain wall.
“Oh Dan, look at you.” I brush snow and mud from his elbows, bum and knees.
“Thanks Jules, you're a star. Boys will be boys hey babe?” Dan perches on the fountain edge giving his assailants far too much respect, far too much leeway.
“Let's just calm down gentlemen if you want to get in the club.” Although set against the whole venture, part of me hopes we can just get a chance to dance.
The bouncer stands squarely across the door, hands in front of his groin. He is running a risk appraisal of the group. He probably thinks, seven people, one of whom is a woman so it isn't a stag do. Already drunk so they are probably English or Scandinavian. None of them looks hard, just that fat one but I can take him. Yes they will do, they will drink loads and make fools of themselves. He steps aside for Robert who proceeds to pay for us all.
Beyond two draped velvet curtains we descend three decades down a flight of stairs into the 1970s. The interior designer has caught itself coming back. It could easily be the stage set for an early James Bond film. The stairs give perspective onto a circular dance floor marked out as a roulette wheel, made whole by a huge glitter ball. A grinning hostess greets us with no hint of embarrassment at her outfit. Her bra cups are two enlarged poker chips, while her mini skirt is made from six of them. She shows us to a booth. The stags are dumb struck at being this close to female flesh. The clientele is strictly old European. The men are all older than Dan; the women are all younger than me. Some of the girls would be too young for Ethan. I would dread seeing what his hormones might do to his rational sensibility. Surely he would not react to this, he is a different generation?
She takes our drinks order as we are standing; Max and Steve huddle around her so that her only exit is towards Dan. Once turned, they half-push her and she stumbles towards him. Dan's left hand clinches a buttock while the right hand pushes under her fifty-dollar poker-chip bra.
“Your lucky number is up Dan,” shouts Max as she extricates herself.
The tray she holds makes it impossible to slap anyone. She must play her part in this time-warped hellhole. Robert slips a fifty-euro note into her mini skirt from behind; he thinks it buys him the right to stroke her bum cheek. She moves away and takes the money as solace for the degradation.
Sister Sledge sings about their family; the song is at an inclusive pace that allows anyone to dance. Some of my sisters are letting it all hang out at the bar across the dance floor. They are maximising their income potential by pouring wine provocatively, while their young breasts bounce eagerly. It's strange to be given licence to look at someone's breasts; they usually spend their lives airlessly trussed up. I am proud to see the beautiful pert shape of a young woman, but repulsed by what she is using it for.
“Look Robert, you have got what you wanted. Let's take Dan over there and let him ogle some young girl.”
“You have to know what I wanted don't you.” He makes no sense. “It's never enough don't you see? There is always more to do, more to see, more to have. I am off to see a man about some pussy.” He pushes out of the booth without letting Johnny stand up so stumbles onto the gigantic roulette wheel. I step out of the booth to help him recover.
“What are you mumbling about? Just leave things alone for once will you. He has seen some breasts let's go home.” I implore him.
“Leave it alone? What the fuck are you doing here anyway? We know what needs to be done.” He staggers away towards the back of the room.
“Come and dance girl,” Max offers his hand. I surprise myself and take it in the spirit of the stag party. He tries hard to dance but his body makes no sense of the rhythm.
“You are alright really you know.” He damns me with faint praise for not refusing him. There is a freedom in music.
Sister Sledge fade and Stevie Wonder segues in. Max doesn't notice, he continues his shape-shifting as before. As I smile lightly at his efforts he feels encouraged to try something adventurous. He tries to body pop but stumbles backwards. He plants a leg in time not to fall.
“May I have the pleasure of your dancing Mademoiselle?” Dan has cut in from behind. “Butt-out Max, it's my turn.” He tries to push him away. Dan takes my hands and leads me in a mock tango across the floor. We whip around smartly and whoop at the end of each turn. He lets go and spreads his arms skywards and sings.
This is curious, he pointedly never used to like Stevie Wonder.
Dan drops to his knees and covers his heart. He mimes every word of Stevie Wonder's cry for an ex-lover to take him seriously. He sits back on his feet, reaching skyward with over sized arms. This is no longer a sing-a-long; he is singing his heart out to me. He loses control of his voice and just caterwauls. He finds my right hand and presses it to his cheek. You don't really mean this. I see the other stags stand up from the booth; cheering at his loss of inhibition. He is singing and sobbing. I cover my mouth in shock. I never had to witness what I did to him as I left him so quickly. The truth pours forth. He has hidden this for years; his current life is a diversion.
“Come on up mate, it's getting late now.” Johnny tries to rescue his friend by grabbing his hand. Dan's face is strewn with tears, and he sobs convulsively. He casts Johnny's hand away; he doesn't want release. At last they guess why he is on his knees and the mood turns darker.
I kneel down to his level. “You are just drunk and emotional Dan. This means nothing.”
“Not to you it doesn't. You are everything⦔
“Get the fuck up Dan.” Chris now tries to save his brother from shame. Dan resists him by refusing his hand.
“Why could you never say this all those years ago?” It probably wouldn't have mattered as I had resolved to get him out of my life.
“I felt it. It was obvious. Is that it, you left because I didn't say it?” He puts forward another inaccurate reason for my leaving.
“I am not that shallow.”
“I love you, I love you, I love you. There, three times for the ones I missed.”
“It's gone Dan, it's all gone now.”
“It can't be, please Jules.” I have ruined him; he has lived with this hope for so long that it won't be dashed now.
He cannot let it go, so I must. I run out of the club, leaving the boy I left before, not the man I came here to see.
I run back towards the fountain and sit down to catch my breath. It spits mountain water from the mouths of cast-iron fishes and mermaids. What is the boy going to do? He is heading towards a marriage he cannot commit to. He is as lost as when I left him. I broaden my chest to gulp the wintry air. Hot tears of pity for Dan drip into the icy fountain water.
The tracks of my tears have dried and shrunken my facial skin; they have expressed their misguided love. My reddened eyes are refreshed having let loose years of loss It is better out than in. We can all be fools, but at least I can say I am a brave one now. I have somewhat sobered up. My immediate physical concern was the loss of strength in my right knee. Having slid dramatically across the dance floor towards Juliet, it caught on each panelled edge of the giant roulette wheel. Half way through my singing I realised I had landed on Red 7, which I deemed a lucky spin of the wheel. Juliet stood impervious on zero, covering her mouth in shock.
We all stand in lewd proximity to the host of breasts at the bar, observing them discreetly but as often as possible. We are all storing this free pornographic material on our hard drives, accessible for downloading as future masturbation stimulus; a multi-sensory collection of smells, curves, shoulders, hair, pert nipples, tiny goose bumps and downy hair. Look, remember but don't touch.
“What the fuck were you doing you fool?” Robert is incensed that any man he knows has laid his soul so bare. “You are clearly besotted with the bitch that left you years ago. Don't you know the law? Don't ever go back for seconds, especially not on your knees and crying like a blithering idiot.” I admire myself for once. A mistake most probably, but time will tell. I see it is half one now; I hope Juliet gets back to the hotel okay. The night feels young in this antiquated discotheque.
“Where you from?” A softly spoken black woman, no more than twenty-five, had snuck up behind me. Observing naked ladies is less violating than talking to them. My eyes now accustomed to flesh drew up from slender hips up to her youthful breasts; nature holds them in suspense, there is no need for any anti-gravitational devices or surgery to make these stand to attention. Too perfect somehow, she lacks the worn-in character of years to come. They seem to be a computer generated graphic drawing of breasts. I try to fix my eyes on the orbs I can legitimately look at, her black brown eyes.
“I'm Dan from England.” I don't get too specific in case it tests her geography.
“England, I have always wanted to go. I am Mirabel from Senegal. You here long?”
“No, just till Sunday. Are you a long way from home?” I have asked a semi-intelligent question so don't feel as bad taking another full look at her naked upper body. My cock hardens a little and gets squashed in Juliet's panties, creating yet further stimulation.
“Not so far. I live Paris for long time. Will you buy me drink?” Her lips are improbable plump cushions, which part infrequently as she speaks. I move for my wallet but hear a metal bucket of ice crash onto the bar top. A hand reaches over her shoulder towards me.
“Compliments of the lads.” Robert has rounded up a new kitty and is beaming at my involvement with Mirabel.
“You are kind men. Do you come for skiing or business?” She sips the champagne. The others seem to be fighting off advances behind her. Robert is getting more champagne for himself and a brunette waiting beside him.
“I am getting married next week.”
“Oh my congratulations. I am in delight. I sing you wedding song from where I come from? She closes her eyes to hum the introduction. She claps her hands slowly to pick up the beat. I imagine the setting for the authentic use of this song in a clichéd dusty African village. Its fragile refrain sends hope to newly-weds. I try but cannot picture Sophia. Mirabel's song and breasts have sapped me of words, I grin approval but conversing with a semi-naked woman about my wedding doesn't wash.
“It's time to move on mate.” Robert is the only stag mate left; the others have read a script that this actor is yet to see. I overheard Robert say that we were following on in a minute, but I am still surprised they just left us. I am more surprised that Robert has called me mate. He nods acceptance of the extortionate bill to the barman and we take our last spin across the roulette wheel. I grin some more as I leave Mirabel; she walks away from the bar to pursue her evening's seduction elsewhere. Robert leads me to a curtained door at the very back of the club.
We have done it, we have negotiated my stag do and we are heading home. The door leads up three steps and into an altogether different room. The expanse of scarlet carpet and the smell of money hit me first.