Wu Ming - 54

‘Don’t turn round right now, bello , but the Redhead’s looking at you.’

‘Who?’

Brando shook his head. ‘What do you mean who, Gilda the Redhead! Gilda Stanzani, don’t you know her? She puts out, everyone knows that. She looks like Rita Hayworth, and her name’s Gilda. A friend of mine had her in a car. At least that’s what he says. Anyway, she isn’t a virgin. She’s looking at you, I promise she is. What more do you want?’

Pierre looked up.

In the middle of a cluster of girls, a striking young woman was smiling at him.

‘Buxom,’ Pierre commented without thinking.

‘ Buxom? What on earth sort of a thing is that to say? One fantastic pair of tits! Really fantastic!’

‘She isn’t looking at me.’

‘Oh, no: it’s the third time she’s turned around! Go over there right now and ask her to dance.’

‘Don’t feel like it.’

Brando rubbed his eyes: ‘Excuse me? Would you repeat that for me please? I’ve just heard the Filuzzi King saying he doesn’t feel like dancing?’ He kicked him under the table. ‘You’re going over there right now and if she says yes, I’m going for one of her friends. And if you don’t. ’

Pierre heaved a big sigh. He looked at his good suit, his gleaming shoes. He thought of his fine appearance, the fact that he was twentytwo. Redheads have hazel or green eyes. He bet on bright hazel. He stood up, got a slap of encouragement on the back from Brando and went on the attack, one hand in his pocket, his loose-limbed walk.

As he approached, he noticed something special about her. It wasn’t her tits. It was the brazen way she stood there, watching him do his Cary Grant number. As though she were playing with him, after provoking him just so that she could enjoy the scene.

He had to make an effort to maintain his front.

He smiled. ‘Good evening, may I ask you why you’ve been looking at me and laughing for the last half-hour?’

‘Because you’re gorgeous.’

She said it quite naturally, and Pierre frowned, as though he had been given a piece of bad news. He didn’t know what to add; his instincts told him to go and sit down, perhaps after mumbling, ‘Thanks for the information.’

He concentrated, called on St Cary for help and said, ‘You too. Shall we dance?’

She nodded without saying another word, and they found themselves on the dance floor, pressed against each other because of the crowd.

Light hazel. Pierre felt her breasts pressing against him, and struggled to coordinate his movements and keep his cool.

She was a good dancer. And if he was holding her too tightly, she wasn’t complaining.

‘You’re Robespierre Capponi, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, and you’re Gilda Stanzani.’

‘They say you’re the best dancer in Bologna.’

‘That’s what they say. And what about you, do you often go dancing?’

‘Every now and again. You work at the Bar Aurora, in San Donato, isn’t that right?’

‘What are you, a secret agent, knowing all these things?’

She laughed, white teeth. Pierre felt a winge in his stomach.

‘We haven’t seen you dancing for a while.’

‘I’ve been away, in Yugoslavia. Finding my father.’

They stopped to applaud the orchestra.

‘I’m thirsty.’

‘So am I, let’s go to the bar.’

They managed to slip their way among the people crowding against the bar and ordered their drinks.

‘So what’s Yugoslavia like?’

‘It’s like Italy. They even speak Italian.’

‘And why did you come back?’

Pierre gave an embarrassed smile. ‘What would I have done there?’

Gilda the Redhead glanced around. ‘You like it so much here?’

‘Why, do you want to leave?’

‘I should find a rich man to take me round the world. I’d like that. There are so many places to see. Instead I’m tearing tickets at the racecourse. And my wages aren’t going to get me very far.’

Pierre thought about his own wallet, his debt with Fanti and the one he had with Ettore. His stomach lurched again. He said, ‘You have to keep your feet on the ground.’

‘While we’re on the subject of feet, are you on foot yourself, or could you possibly give me a lift home? I live in Mazzini. Usually I come here with my flatmate, who’s got a bike, but she’s gone to see her family in Molinella.’

It wasn’t hard to work out what was going to happen. It had never happened to Pierre so quickly. And not only that, but she lived on her own, with a friend. Brando was right, she really was ‘easy’. She had fallen from the sky for him. All of a sudden he thought of Angela, Ferruccio who had gone round the bend, and who knows how she must be feeling. He couldn’t take so much as a sip, he felt as though he was hunched inside his suit.

‘I’m sorry. Really. But I’m walking too.’

Gilda’s bitter smile spoke volumes. ‘Some other time, then.’

‘Yes, definitely.’

At that moment, Gigi appeared out of the crowd and grabbed Pierre by the jacket. ‘Pierre, the bend-down-and-turn-around! Let’s go!’

As he was being dragged towards the dance floor he heard Gilda calling to him.

‘Pierre!’ She was wearing a sly expression. ‘Careful you don’t keep your feet so firmly on the ground that you bash your face against it.’

Half dazed, he found himself dancing again, trying to follow the urgent rhythm of the band. He had to make an effort, he felt he was always late on the beat, but he tried to do his best. As the music swelled he was emboldened, let himself go, his feet moved very rapidly, yes, damn it, he was still the best! He let himself be swept away by the rhythm, more smoothly than ever, quick and coordinated, light as a feather, the people were clapping.

It happened in a fraction of a second. Someone must have spilled something on the dancefloor. His leading foot went off all by itself, he instinctively tried to jerk himself upright again, he went careering forwards and couldn’t stop.

When he lifted his face from the floor he noticed a few drops of blood on the tiles. His nose hurt like hell.

Gigi and Sticleina helped him to his feet, the band had stopped playing. The accordionist leaned forwards from the stage, worried. ‘Son, are you ok?’

‘It’s nothing, I just slipped,’ said Pierre, dabbing at his nose.

He looked around, everyone was staring at him. That had never happened before. He could read a strange anxiety in their eyes. They felt disappointed and betrayed: the king had fallen from his throne, and he hadn’t even been pushed.

‘And give that floor a good clean,’ snarled Gigi as he shoved Pierre towards the toilets.

He asked his friends to let him go in on his own and they, like faithful vassals, lowered their eyes modestly as they moved away. They went and stood in front of the door, like a picket.

He washed his face with the freezing water and stopped to look at himself in the mirror, his mouth and chin striped with blood.

What the hell was happening to him? Was it a punishment for leaving Angela on her own? For not taking Gilda home?

As he wiped his face with his handkerchief he murmured to himself, ‘That would never have happened to Cary Grant.’

Then he became aware of a presence behind him, looked up at the mirror and saw him emerging from one of the cubicles. He was elegant, almost dapper, and wearing a good suit.

‘It looks as though the king has lost his sheen.’

Ettore’s voice was soft and insinuating.

He washed his hands, dried them carefully, straightened his narrow moustache and adjusted his collar.

‘You came back sooner than expected. Problems?’

‘I ran out of money. I came back on a ship.’