Ilja Pfeijffer - La Superba

It was as though she hadn’t heard the question. She continued to look at me, smiling. Then she downed her Negroni in one gulp. “Can I have a kiss?” she asked. “You’re so sexy when you talk about business.” She leaned forward. Her tits rolled out of her décolleté onto the table. I gave her a quick peck on the mouth. She tried to worm her tongue into my mouth, but I didn’t let that happen.

“But to start with,” I said to distract her. “To start with, we have to find a way to get access to the contract with the council.” She ordered another Negroni. “But I don’t have the right contacts. That’s logical. I haven’t been here for long. Do you know a way of getting that information?”

“That’s not a problem,” she said. I was incredibly relieved that she responded to my question rather than continuing her attempts to rape me in public. “My good friend Alfonso has excellent contacts at City Hall. Alfonso Gioia. I think he knows the alderman personally. I’ll give him a call. If you’ll give me another kiss. But now a real one.”

Her tongue churned around in my mouth like a wet piece of cloth in the drum of a washing machine. I felt like a prostitute letting herself be penetrated for business reasons. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the waitress avert her gaze in embarrassment.

“We have to go,” she said. “If you pay for the aperitif and buy the tickets at the theater, I’ll treat you to dinner. I’ve reserved a table at my favorite restaurant for us afterward. Chichibio, it’s called. In Via Chiossone. Do you know who Chichibio is?”

“Yes.”

“Is there anything you don’t know?” she asked, laughing.

“I don’t know.”

20.

Chichibio is a character from one of the stories in Boccaccio’s Decameron . It’s befitting to name a restaurant after him because he was a cook. He worked at the royal court. In Boccaccio’s version it’s a bit different, but I’ll tell you the story the way I heard it. When the king gave a festive banquet one day, Chichibio prepared an exquisite dish of roasted crane. But the king noticed that each bird that was served only had one leg. That old rogue Chichibio had kept a leg from each crane to sell himself. Cranes went for a good price in those days. The king summoned him.

“But your majesty,” Chichibio said, “cranes only have one leg. I’m amazed you didn’t know that.”

“You’re a liar, Chichibio.”

“I swear I am telling the truth.”

“Then tomorrow we are going to investigate. But I’m telling you now, your punishment won’t be light if it turns out I’m right.”

When they arrived at the lake the next day, all the cranes were standing on one leg. “See, your majesty, I was right. Cranes only have one leg.” The king clapped his hands a few times. The flock flew up. It was clear to see that each bird had two legs.

“What do you say about that, Chichibio?”

“But your majesty, that doesn’t count because last night you didn’t clap for my dish.”

Even during the short walk from the Bar of Mirrors to the Carlo Felice opera, this story gained an unexpected relevance. Monia was so unsteady she seemed to be walking on one leg. All things considered, she was blotto. I tried to support her and prop her up but it still went wrong on the incline of Salita Pollaiuoli. She tripped, tore the train of her dress, and broke the heel off her right shoe. Then she really did start walking on one leg, while the full weight of her limp, drunken body hung on my arm. We made a fine couple. Her bright yellow torn and dirtied train flapped along after us like a rope with dented tin cans behind the car of a pair of newlyweds off on their honeymoon. Luckily, it wasn’t far to the opera.

The tickets cost me an arm and a leg. And the aperitif with all her cocktails had already been quite pricey. But it was an investment, let’s say. At some point I’d get it all back in duplicate or triplicate. At least that was the intention. To start with, I resolved to entail considerable costs at the restaurant that evening. I had never been to Chichibio in Via Chiossone but I’d walked past it on occasion and it looked sufficiently chic and expensive for me to rack up a hefty bill if I ordered enough.

During the overture it looked like she’d fallen asleep. That wasn’t such a bad idea perhaps. As long as she didn’t start snoring. But she didn’t fall asleep. She kept staring with wide-open, rolling eyes. And all of a sudden she cried out something. It was at the beginning of the first act. I hadn’t understood it but it had been loud. People in the rows in front of us turned around with irritated expressions. I laid my hand on her knee and gestured for her to be quiet. She laid her head on my shoulder. But a minute later she was suddenly bolt upright again. “Vegetarians!” she screamed. “You’re all fucking vegetarians!” It was unclear to me what this conclusion was founded upon. Perhaps it had something to do with the first act taking place in the great outdoors and to emphasize this there being a variety of plastic plants and trees on stage. But whatever it was, it didn’t seem like a good idea to me to start abusing the singers during an opera in a loud voice because of presumed eating habits. The people around us were in complete agreement with me. We were being given nasty looks. There was hissing.

I froze. She was simply blind drunk. The realization dawned upon me that I was sitting in the opera with a blind drunk older woman who was impossible to keep in check. Feverishly, I began to think of what to do. Luckily, she was quiet for the moment. But if she wanted to interrupt again with her shouting… And just as I was thinking that, she did. On impulse I pressed my hand to her mouth and wormed my other hand under her legs. I picked her up and began to carry her out. She wasn’t heavy and thank God we were at the side and not right in the middle of a row. Nevertheless, I still had to carry her past a few other audience members, who stood up horrified from their seats to make space for me. The people in the row behind us began to applaud. I worked her out of the auditorium via a side door. I slapped her face. She collapsed onto a bench there. Then I noticed that she’d lost a shoe on the way, the left one, without the broken heel. But there wasn’t a hair on my head that contemplated going back for it. I had to get her out of there. Concerned ushers came over to us. I asked them to call a taxi. It arrived within five minutes. I tried to get her upright to take her to the exit. And as I tried to lift her, she vomited — all over my suit. I managed to get her out of the building with the ushers’ help. Getting into the taxi, it went wrong again. She lost her balance, fell, and because I was just in the wrong position, I couldn’t catch her. She took me down with her. I fell onto one knee. There was a big tear in my suit trousers and my knee began to bleed. I stuffed her into the taxi, slammed the door shut, gave the driver her address and then twenty euros. “That’s to take her upstairs. Good luck.”

I went straight to Piazza delle Erbe, sat down at Caffè Letterario and began to drink furiously. I looked at my suit. It was completely ruined. I threw it away that same evening.

21.

The thing I sometimes worry about is that some of the situations I get myself tangled up in here, and many of the people I really have actually met in this foreign decor, are so colorful, not to say grotesque, that they run the risk of being barely believable as fiction.

If I’m ever to transform these notes, in which I take you into complete confidence about my trials and tribulations, into a novel, I’d be forced to violate the truth to a substantial degree. To start with, I’d naturally have to change all these names pretty damn quick. And perhaps also some of the overly conspicuous characteristics of their appearance or personality. If the Genoese I’m telling you about ever get wind of me telling the truth about them, I won’t have a life left here, you do understand? And the Genoese always get wind of talk about other Genoese immediately; it’s funny, that’s why the book doesn’t even have to be translated into Italian. They’d do anything for a choice tidbit of gossip. If necessary, they’d learn another language for it.