VI
I grabbed us a circular booth near the window in the hotel lounge while Annalisa freshened up in her room. Except for a young couple with their heads buried in their phones and a drunken lout hitting on the unresponsive barmaid, the atmospheric bar was surprisingly sparse.
I wanted absinthe, but the callow waitress had no idea what I was asking for and absurdly suggested Midori as a substitute.
The potent green spirit has fallen out of fashion in recent years, and it’s now hard to find a bar that still stocks it, which I take as a clear sign of civilizational collapse.
So, I settled for a brandy instead.
Returning in a sheer white V-neck T-shirt and gray flannel shorts, Annalisa ordered another martini and four shots of “Göring-Schnaps” for old times' sake—one for each of our friends. Before amaro became readily available, Jägermeister was our shot of choice.
Her flimsy top hid nothing from the imagination.
“I notice you’re no longer wearing a bra,” I teased.
“When in Rome,” she laughed. The irony wasn’t lost on her.
Nestling in next to me, she put her bare legs over my lap, and I wrapped my arm around her slim waist. Resting my free hand on her shin, one of her flats fell off, revealing a silver toe ring with a tiny garnet setting. Both January babies, we shared the same birthstone. For some strange reason, I found it comforting that she still wore one.
When I reached down to fetch her shoe, she held me back and let the second one slip off. “Leave it,” she said, stretching her ankles and wiggling her toes.
She still had the firm, shapely legs of a dancer.
The rain finally began to fall, its tears sliding silently down the pane.
Playing with my tie, she gave me a provocative sidelong glance and brazenly asked, “Why didn’t we ever go out?”
Pausing for a moment, I gave her an unamused smirk. “Eros literally wasn’t in the cards for us,” I reminded her. “You refused to go out with me because some two-bit cartomancer told you not to while reading your fortune.”
Blushing, she coyly turned her face away, but she was laughing heartily.
“You superstitious minx,” I said, feigning offense.
When I pretended to move away, she pulled me closer.
Sadly, having gone out with my share of magàre (witches) in my day, this was nowhere near the strangest romantic rebuff I’ve experienced.
“Chester broke up with me because of a bad dream.”
“I remember,” she murmured, stroking the scruff of my beard with the back of her finger. “You deserved it,” she laughed again, mischief in her eyes. “You were a real cad in her dream.”
“You’re all insane,” I said, half-joking.
Downing our shots in quick succession, we talked about our fanciful plans and places we wanted to visit. I always admired her positivity and optimism; it was a refreshing countervail to my infernal pessimism. Aside from noticing how much the city had fallen apart since she moved away, we never once discussed the world in flames around us.
Ordering two more shots, she whispered, “To us,” sotto voce.
A bit tipsy, Annalisa made me promise that we would one day take a holiday to Madrid or Barcelona together.
“I want to go to the Museo del Prado with you,” she said. “I want to see Goya and Velázquez; I want to see Maja desnuda and Las Meninas.”
Miming castanets and wiggling her lithe body against mine, “You always loved taking us to flamenco bars and Spanish restaurants.”
Our favorite was Carmen’s, a tenebrous taberna with red tablecloths and soot-covered paintings located in the Meatpacking District. We would unfailingly get pulpo a la Gallega, paella Valenciana, and several pitchers of sangria. Afterward, we would all stumble drunkenly through the cobbled streets singing verses from love songs and poems.
“C’mon, sing me a song,” she pleaded.
Not nearly as drunk as I needed to be to make an ass of myself in public, I found her irresistible and reluctantly sang a few verses from The Spanish Lady and The Parting Glass, traditional Irish folk songs I learned years ago while drinking with my Irish buddies and listening to old cassette tapes of the Jolly Beggarmen and the Pogues.
To my great shame, I still cannot recite a single line of poetry by Salvatore Di Giacomo or Giacomo da Lentini in the original Neapolitan or Sicilian, and my friends today won’t let me forget it.
Prone to reverie, she sensed my mind wandering.
“If you like, we can also find your high school sweetheart.”
“Which one?” I quipped, trying to play it cool. “I had so many old flames.”
“What was her name again?” she asked playfully. “Ivette? Marta?” Then, after a pause: “Iolanda?”
I knew who she meant. Gaviota moved back to Valencia with her family after they sold their home. She was the first real loss I felt during the Great Bensonhurst Exodus. We had nearly run away together to Alicante, the city she loved most, but fate was against us. I didn’t have the heart to abandon my father and sick mother. Staying in New York was never an option for her.
Smart, beautiful, and a talented artist, Gaviota was the one who got away. She was my first true love. Any photos I had are long gone—destroyed by a jealous ex.
I do, however, keep the medal of Francisco Franco and José Antonio Primo de Rivera that she gave me, tucked in my curio cabinet alongside the other strange relics of my past.
Caressing my hand, Annalisa tried to read my palm, but I wouldn’t let her.
“Haven’t you learned your lesson yet, Zingara?” I warned her.
Overcome by a rush of blood, I held her slender hands against my chest—we stopped talking at last—and I stole a kiss. Continue reading
