She didn’t try to hide the disdain in her face and the man seemed to enjoy the fact he had pierced her veneer. He smiled before turning to address the group as a whole, men and women of various ages, counter servers, bar tenders and a wine steward.
“OK guys. Allons!”
As the hours passed, and satisfied customers expressed their delight at the food, patting swollen bellies and throwing balled up napkins onto plates like a trainer throwing in the towel to retire their boxer from further punishment, the restaurant numbers continued to swell. Weighed down by their heavy meals, diners were reluctant to move at first and received gentle cattle prods from kind but persistent staff. The same staff had to use all their skills of diplomacy to offer apologies and assurances to frustrated husbands and wives, dates and illicit lovers, all of whom bemoaned the fact that their dinner appointments had been pushed. Gripes and empty threats to walk out were said but never acted upon. Men and women not accustomed to waiting were suddenly being asked to exercise limited patience. A complimentary whiskey or wines soon thawed their countenance, directed from the bar by the maître d’ while they waited.
A table in the centre of the room was unoccupied. It had remained vacant for the best part of ten minutes and some of the more irate clients, those who couldn’t be bought off with a free tipple, questioned passing servers.
Those answers were soon forthcoming when a group walked in and were escorted to the table, headed at the front of the pack by a bronzed, blond man, somewhere north of thirty, sharply dressed in a suit like the others that followed. A blood red tie was tucked inside his waistcoat and he placed his hand on his chest as he took the seat which the maître d had pulled out. He sat softly, surveying each head that had turned their way. His movements were graceful and slow, and he smiled at each curious face; their response to turn back around to speculate with the others at the table.
Molly walked over to the group when they were seated, the electronic tablet held in her palm. In her other hand, were a stack of leather bound menus and she offered her best smile to the blond man who the others seemed to supplicate to. She fanned the menus and offered one to each outstretched hand.
“Welcome to Piergianni’s gentlemen. Can I get you something to drink?”
The blond man looked across to his opposite number, and received nods followed by laughs. He then turned to a man on his right and Molly saw the hand move down to his leg and he squeezed it gently.
“How about you Laz?”, the blond man said. “What say we go wild tonight?”
“What? Like you don’t do that seven nights a week?” one of the men opposite said and he began laughing, throat like a gull, skin folds lapping in waves over his tight collar.
The electronic pen dropped from Molly’s finger and would have been on the floor were it not tied to the device. Lazarus was looking past the blond man and staring up at her, a shared expression of awkwardness on their faces. He nodded and flicked a smile to his waiting neighbour and then he turned back to greet the server.
“I’m in the mood for some wine. Anyone concur?” The blond man said. The others chipped in with their approval. “Do you have any Chateau Lafite?”
“The red?”
“Yeah. I know it’s red. My question was, do you have any?” the man asked and drew a couple of smirks from the table.
The blond man had a palm raised in the air. He was holding it in front of his face like it was a mirror. Turning it around, he inspected the polished nails, brushing their surface with a dainty thumb on a hand, tanned and smooth. The others watched his performance, unable to withdraw their eyes, every gesture a piece of theatre, a show of class and sophistication.
“I can check for you,” Molly said, cheeks growing with heat.
She gave a final glance at Lazarus whose own eyes were levelled at the centre of the table, head and shoulders slumped, before turning away from the men.
“Don’t you want to take our orders then?” asked another man.
Molly stopped and looked to the source of the voice. The man was shaking his head and looking at the others who all tittered; schoolboy sniggers that only encouraged the man. He was smallest of the six, and had a bobble head on small shoulders that shook so vigorously she thought it would snap off. There was a slick of grease on his face and acne scars which had faded to pink but were still prominent on his pale complexion.
“Sorry, if you’re ready, of course,” she said and moved to where he was seated.
As she looked down from the electronic screen, she could see the parting down his scalp, dividing the wet strands of hair dead centre like an axe chop in a dark oak, white and raw the incision.
“Merlot. ’82. Italian. Glass,” he said and turned away from her, initiating a chat with Thick Neck.
When Molly collected their food orders she retrieved the menus. The man with the thick neck had slid his menu out toward the centre of the table where she had to lean over and collect it. She bristled as he leaned back and her hip pressed against his shoulder. When she left the table of smirks and shaking heads, she felt their stares on her back and returned to her bunker behind the bar.
“They look like right bastards.”
She turned and saw Scott, one of the bar staff and nodded. She gave the order to him and he left to seek out the wine in the cellar. The men were now embroiled in a feisty conversation, laughing and making sardonic comments, continuing to draw glances from other amused diners who watched the spectacle. Molly surveyed the sea of heads, opulent outfits and regal manners, some affronted by the boisterous commotion in the centre of the room, older women with painted faces scowling, tearing their rump steaks with a little more gusto, splashing back their blood red wines if only to occupy their minds and zipper their mouths, which remained closed under their husbands’ pleading.
Of the group, only one member looked out of place. Not just physically, owing to his dark complexion against the conclave of Caucasian males, but the fact that the smile that greeted his lips was hastily drawn. Lazarus watched the eyes of the men, anticipating their jokes and gamely joining in although she could tell that the smiles never touched his eyes. He appeared to be a pawn in their game, albeit a willing participant. The blond man by Lazarus’ side sat back, tall and proud on his throne, a smirk cut into his face stretching ever so slightly with the crew of jokers around him who continued to prod and poke each other. His hand remained on his neighbour’s leg and they watched together, holding dominion over the quarrelling rabble, a satisfied expression on his face like a well-fed dog.
“Here you go Mol,” Scott said and handed her a tray of wine glasses.
She took them and moved over to the table again, finding a little wedge between the circle where she parked them down, before returning for the various bottles. As she left, she could hear a couple of sniggered remarks, barely hushed – ‘no ass’, ‘plain’. The next time she returned to the table, she had retreated inside herself, offering the second of two faces – the one that smiled, sucked it up and was apologetic; a defence mechanism where her real self could take a little mental holiday.
*
Towards the end of the service when the restaurant had finished with mains, most of the diners had promptly left when they were in receipt of the bill. Those who had had enough of the increasingly loud and obnoxious noise coming from the table centre stage, shot annoyed glances at the men on their way out, which were ignored or batted away with ease.
“Oi!” bobble head shouted.
Molly was behind the bar with Scott, who was washing a few of the glasses and racking them. He shook his head and mumbled a curse. The man shouted again and started snapping his fingers. He had turned around in his seat, swaying and gripping the back, and he waved a hand to get their attention. His eyes were swimming in his head and he could barely focus. The other men at the table were already locked in conversation but some broke off with their colleague’s shouts and slapped him on the back. He turned to them and gave them the finger, then continued motio
ning for their attendant.
Molly sucked in a deep breath and walked over to the group. The earlier hushed comments escaped easily now, more vocal as hungry eyes scanned her body. She saw some of the men pulling on their bunched trousers and narrowing their focus on her hips and chest.
“Guys, we can’t serve you any more drinks.”
There was a chorus of boos from the men, all except for the blond man and Lazarus who seemed to only have eyes for each other. Molly looked at Lazarus, saw the uncertain smile on his face which didn’t extend to the rest of his face and gave a little shake of her head.
“Oi,” bobble head said again.
He was sloped over in his chair and could barely remain upright. He was looking up at her, even paler than earlier like, he was going to puke. His suit jacket was removed and hanging over the back of the chair, the tie was rolled up and made his front pocket fat. Splashes of red wine dabbed his chin and dropped onto his white shirt front.
“Excuse me,” he said in a lowered voice and she turned and looked down to him, his little face like a boy who had lost his parents in the shopping mall.
The other men were now looking at bobble head, hushing one another until everyone was silent. The little man had enough sensory acuity to recognise the silence and a quick glance around confirmed he had their attention before he peered up at Molly again with one steady eye.
“Show us your cunt.”
There was a sneer before his hand reached out, shot straight between her legs, grabbed hard on the trouser crotch and pulled her tight. Molly tripped over feet and fell onto the little man’s lap whose hands were moving all over her body, holding her down, ignoring her cries. Above her and in a flash, she saw a face hurtle over the table, sending plates and glasses crashing as Lazarus’ fist crashed into the man’s face before they all fell in a crumpled heap on the ground
SEVENTEEN
The studio apartment was filled with cigar smoke, hanging in a thick cloud around the rapt listener who made no attempt to fan it, letting it billow out to the edges of the small room. The husky smell of the Moroccan tobacco had appealed to their senses at first, catching their scent like a passing perfume, but now that it had thickened, layer upon layer, it seemed to make their movements languid and heavy under a syrupy air. The room lights were not wholly unaffected by the smoke, their lights dim and blurry, a lighthouse in fog calling them to safe passage.
There were two tall, thin windows, both blinded and curtained. A little curved armoire was stationed in the corner, various books, pages and manuscripts assembled on its messy surface. The smoking man was in his sixties, bald as a cue ball with a neat hedgerow of white circling the sides. He was sitting in a sturdy wooden chair but had turned it away from the table and was staring up into the enveloping smoke, eyes narrowed to slits and cutting shapes in the cloud. The only sounds from his corner in the last ten minutes was the soft pucking as he drew on the thin cigar in short swallows, a fish surfacing for air. His corduroy legs were crossed and his free hand was tucked inside the trouser pocket.
“John, did you hear what I said?”
The man turned and saw the hazy reflections of the two men seated on the long couch by his side. The older man’s knee was still jerking, hopping up and down on a restless foot. The younger man had been silent for most of the conversation but had looked up to his companion at periods nodding, before returning his gaze to the floor.
Reaching around, the smoker found a thick glass ashtray, stabbed his cigar in it and rose. The air was thicker up there and he was able to reach it easily with his tall frame. He walked to the window, pulled beneath it and found the hatch. He cracked it open a little and sat back down.
“Well?” the priest asked.
“Can’t say I’m totally surprised.”
“What?”
“Times have changed. Religion has bred extremists, people fighting over whose God is correct. That’s been a constant for centuries, but attacks on the clergy is a worrying trend. I’m fearful for the future of Catholicism, especially in countries where we try and impose our will on the people.”
“No one was trying to-”
“You know what I mean,” the man interrupted. “But I think you’re right about one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“You should get out while you can.” He paused and looked at the priest. “How long have we known each other? Twenty-five, thirty years?”
“Thirty one.”
The man shook his head and smiled. His finger moved to his lips again before realising he had already deposited the cigar. Instead of the shallow breath he had prepared to take, he let it go with a sigh and slumped forward.
“I got out relatively healthy. Time for you to cash in your chips. You aren’t getting any younger.”
As if to enforce the point, the priest gave a dry cough and immediately pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it to his mouth to swallow in filtered but crusty hair through the fabric. Seeing the distress on the priest’s face, the culprit walked over to the window and pulled the screen aside; widening the window he began wafting the thick plumes away.
“And you lad,” the man said, looking down at the younger man. “I don’t know what to say except have hope. All is not lost. Perhaps a second opinion would help?”
The young man shook his head and the priest who had recovered sufficiently again to talk, voiced his opinion.
“We don’t have time for that. I’m going to take him to a physician friend in the U.K. He’s working on something at the moment that he thinks can help.”
“How do you plan on getting a refugee out of the country and into the U.K?”
The priest shifted nervously in his seat, and exchanged glances with his neighbour and nodded.
“That’s one of the reasons why I’m here. I need Balrassari’s details.”
If the standing man knew the name, it didn’t register on his face and he continued to look at the priest with confusion.
“Mehmet Balrassari.”
“Who? The smuggler?”
The priest’s nodded confirmation drew the man back to his seat and he looked in both of their faces, searching for a punchline that he didn’t get. Finding them both serious, he looked away and shook his head, a rueful smile on his face.
“You worked with him in the past, we can work with him now.”
“Christ. That was fifteen years ago!”
“You saved his life.”
“I did no such thing,” the man replied, still turned away from the priest’s imploring words. “Anyway, he left all of that behind.”
“But he must still have connections?”
“Hell if I know. Jesus! What would you want to get mixed up with him for anyway?”
The words had barely left the man’s mouth when he felt the answer in his chest, placed there by the eyes tearing on the face of the priest.
“Smuggling cigarettes and cheap liquor is one thing. Smuggling a refugee is another. Do you have any idea what you’re getting yourself into?”
“When you’re staring Death in the face, it’s a calculated risk and something we’re both willing to take.”
The standing man shook his head and scratched the long column of his neck, the silver stubble grating against the fingernails.
“I can give you his details. What happens after that is on you.”
“Absolutely. It won’t get back to you.”
“I don’t care if it gets back to me!” the man barked. “I’m worried about your safety. Both of you. This is a bad crowd you’re jumping into bed with.”
“I understand the risk, but I have to try it.”
It was the younger man that had spoken. He was a picture of health despite the grave condition; his coloured cheeks seemed to store more life and zest than the two older men combined. His soft brown eyes evoked a calm that settled the other man, perhaps resigned to a fate already sealed with the words that passed the short distance between them both.
“How
good is this physician friend of yours back home?”
“It’s a long shot, but it’s a shot.”
“Not inspiring me with confidence at all.”
“Where’s your faith, John?”
“Left it behind long ago in the priesthood.”
The priest smiled and generated one from the older man. Soon after he was combing through an old notebook and ripped out a page with the name and number of the smuggler, then he wished them well. Their goodbyes were shorter than normal, hurried because the visitors had no time to lose and because the smoker found the emotion welling from a reserve he hadn’t tapped in many years; an inner knowing collected from decades of experience that told every fibre in his body that it would be the last time they were ever going to see each other.
EIGHTEEN
The cut on her finger had scabbed and was well on its way to healing if she would leave it alone. Instead, Molly continued to play with it, twisting and smoothing the layered surface like a worried wife with a wedding band. She zipped open a little purse, confirmed the bundle of notes tucked inside and entered it into her front jean pocket before getting out of the car.
She had returned to the canal and again moved toward the source of the cigarette light, a haze of fog blanketing the path and making her feel like she was on a horror movie set. When she drew near, the light was extinguished suddenly, and her steps slowed until finally they were beside each other again.
“Jesus wept. You’re like a bad smell,” the woman said.
“I’ve been called worse.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“I need some information.”
“Piss off. Business is bad enough as is. You’re a bad omen.”
“I’ll pay you.”
“Go on,” the woman replied and took a deep drag of a fading cigarette. “Not here.”
Raising Lazarus Page 8
