I had nothing to add. No arguments. I had neither the strength nor the conviction to sway her. I sat down on a chair and took a cigarette from the pack she’d left on the table. I leaned over and she struck a match for me.
“What about you? Are you in the show?” I asked.
“No. I’m not a guy! I’m your manager.”
“My manager?”
I sighed.
“And you’ve pictured me dancing naked?”
“Well… not that way, you know that.”
I had to prove I was over eighteen before I was allowed backstage.
“I’m sorry, miss, but women aren’t allowed in here.”
Saké gave me a peck on the cheek.
“Good luck! I’ll go and give your CD to the sound technician. See you after your number! You’re on third.”
I had no time to react. Saké pushed me into the dressing room and the bouncer closed the door behind me.
The room was big and full of guys, most of whom were buff, stripped to the waist, oiled up and checking themselves out in one of the mirrors that covered the walls. Some were lifting weights or doing push-ups, bulking up for the moment of truth. Guys dressed up as firemen, policemen, vampires or construction workers; or warming up, busting a few dance moves, stretching this way and that. I sat down on the first chair I could find, a cramp ripping through my chest. A caller came to tell us the auditions would start in five. I thought: OK, I’m here, I’ll do it, I won’t choke. I breathed deeply and the cramp subsided. I must have looked lost in my cotton t-shirt and jeans, a look that screamed “I’m-just-this-regular-guy-who-doesn’t-feel-too-good.” A stripper dressed as a computer technician or whatever asked me if I needed help.
“Actually, I don’t have a costume. I’m not ready for this at all.”
He pointed to a closet at the back of the room.
“You’ll find all kinds of things in there. And if that doesn’t work out, I could let you wear my fireman outfit. I wasn’t sure whether to go with that or the one I’m wearing, but since three other guys are already going as firemen, I picked this one.”
“Thanks, that’s nice, but I’d rather go for something else too. Er… and what are you supposed to be, exactly?”
“A nerd. Geek is the new sexy, dude.”
“Oh. I didn’t know.”
I got up and thanked him for his help. I took a moment to go through the costumes hanging in the closet. All the uniforms were there: policeman, soldier, gendarme, sailor, you name it. The famous Chippendale collar and bow tie. A cape. Wigs. Nothing very Leonard Cohen there, if such a thing were even possible. I picked a suit and tie that didn’t fit me quite right. All eyes turned on me as I undressed. The nerd with the big glasses rushed to my rescue.
“You won’t be dancing in those boxers, I hope?”
“Er… I don’t know. Yes? No?”
“No. They’re way too loose. You need a G-string or a jockstrap. Or at least briefs.”
He showed me what he was wearing under his black pants. I didn’t quite know what I was meant to say.
“Actually, they’re all I have. I didn’t bring anything else.”
“OK, wait a sec.”
He turned to the other strippers, who were all staring at me.
“Could someone lend a jockstrap or a pair of tighty-whities to our friend here?”
A whisper went through the crowd. A guy dressed as a vampire threw my new ally a jockstrap. I took off my boxer shorts and put on the thing he was brandishing—somebody else’s underwear. I got dressed. My new friend helped me put on the tie. The caller came in.
“Guys, it’s showtime!” he said, before he looked over his notes. “Hmm… Joey Moretti.”
A lifeguard sporting huge sunglasses and a lifebelt followed the caller out of the dressing room. The nerd asked me if I knew when I was up.
“I’m third. You?”
“Second. And what are you dancing to?”
We could hear the music through the backstage door. Hip hop with lewd, explicit lyrics. Obviously. I felt ashamed.
“Leonard Cohen,” I confessed, quietly.
“Um. Never heard of him. I picked a song by Peaches: Fuck the Pain Away.”
“Er… Cool.”
The music stopped. We could hear the audience cheering. Each performance was graded by three judges from the bar, as well as the level of applause. The lifeguard came back into the dressing room: he was naked, hard and gleaming with sweat. My new friend kissed me on the mouth and ran to catch up with the caller. I sat down on a bench near the door and waited my turn. The vampire who’d lent me his underwear was pacing up and down.
The audience applauded. I was up.
From the very first notes, I knew I wouldn’t get much applause. I loosened my tie without moving the rest of my body. I didn’t know what else to do. Someone at the bar cleared their throat. From sheer discomfort, most likely. I was blinded by the harsh spotlights, but I spotted Saké, her face, her hands; she was waving at me, trying to tell me something. Swaying my hips, I took off the oversized jacket and threw it into the crowd. Nothing. Maybe throwing your clothes into the crowd wasn’t in anymore. I undid my shirt in a way that was meant to be hot to go with Leonard Cohen’s sexy voice, but I couldn’t work the magic: the last button wouldn’t budge, so I had to pull the shirt up and over my head to take it off. I turned around to unzip my pants, letting them down slowly as I kept on dancing, but there was zero reaction when the audience caught sight of my ass. I let my pants fall down to my ankles and tried to kick them off, but I tripped as I turned to face the crowd, falling flat on my face. Someone let out a yelp. A few people coughed. Saké cracked up.
I was hoping the technician would stop the music on compassionate grounds but he must have been laughing his ass off, too. So I tried to pass it off as a dance move. I wriggled my way across the floor, face down, like a porn star in a low-budget flick. Then I got up and lowered the jockstrap, revealing my pubes. Problem was I didn’t have a hard-on. I’ve never been to a strip show myself, but I’m pretty sure they give you more than the sorry sight of a limp dick. I just stood there, stock still. I let the underwear fall to the ground. I cupped myself instinctively, only to realize that this was exactly what I wasn’t supposed to do. I put my hands on my hips and swayed them some more, not knowing what else I could do. The song was almost over anyway.
No one clapped. I picked up my clothes and walked back to the dressing room.
Saké was laughing so hard she cried.
Hollywood
Underground poem #5
the day breaks like a jackhammer
with concrete dust
learning to count backwards should be a must
when you tell me about all the films I have yet to see
After the sandman
They feel as though, as with each time they meet, nothing exists apart from this room bathed in a bluish light. They talk in hushed voices of their humiliations. They are blasé and beautiful.
Then the window is shattered and the weighty curtain torn away. A pebble no bigger than a penny bounces onto the worn carpet, leaving a dark imprint. Hollywood bends over to pick up the object that has fallen to Earth. The stone is scorching hot; he throws it onto the bed. Xavier picks it up in turn and immediately drops it onto the quilt; it’s still too hot to handle. They walk over to the window, avoiding the shards of glass that litter the floor.
One by one, the stars are falling from the sky.
Xavier
Antony wanted to celebrate our success, and since I rarely turn down an invitation to drink, I joined him. We emptied all the little bottles he had thrown into his suitcase, then we attacked those I’d brought with me. Vodka, gin, rum and scotch, of course, as well as Brandy Special Reserve, Chambord Liqueur Royale de France, El Grito Blue Agave Tequila, Old Charter Bourbon, Midori Melon Li
queur and Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Whiskey. Obviously, I was sick. Antony too. The ferry pitched dangerously from the wind, the waves and the storm that was pelting down on the English Channel—on the entire world, really. Luckily, our Club cabin that overlooked the furious waters came with a shower and toilet. I washed up after I vomited all over myself, then took a few pills from Antony’s bag: a drug for severe nausea prescribed for cancer patients on chemo. I fell into a dreamless sleep for a good ten hours. When I finally woke up, Antony was sitting on the top berth eating melon and strawberries.
“There’s fresh fruit in a basket just over there. And, of course, a minibar!”
He threw me a bunch of grapes that I gobbled down. I looked through the cabin porthole. Torrents of black water were pounding against the thick glass. It was almost impossible to see anything. It was warm in the cabin. I felt pretty good.
“What time is it?” I asked.
“I have no fuckin’ clue. It’s dark, maybe it’s night. My phone is on the counter, just over there.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’d rather not know. Toss me something else, I’m hungry.”
I caught a banana, which I devoured.
“I’m going to see what the restaurant has to eat. You want something?”
“Non, c’est bon. I ate too much fruit. I’ll have to take a shit soon.”
I got dressed and went out. I eyed the upscale Four Seasons menu for a moment, but then thought better of it. The restaurant was closed anyway. I opted instead for a pastry, a sandwich and a bottle of sparkling water from a small café that was still open. There was only one customer, an old man who asked me if I knew which band was playing at the Sunset Show Bar the following day. I stared at him for a moment; he was a typical vacationer: sweatshirt, jeans, ugly walking shoes, more concerned with enjoying himself than with the seconds ticking away, everything he had to do and all the rest of it. He wanted to listen to live music and sip his bourbon, while the sea tore itself apart and the sky fell in on our heads and we might all die, shipwrecked on the ferry that had dared to cross the Channel and part of the Atlantic when doomsday arrived. I got up and left the café. The alcohol and drugs had evidently affected me: here I was getting all worked up about the end of the world and my imminent death. I thought back to how I felt when I stepped onto the boat. I had to recover the nonchalance that had worked so well for me in the past.
I took a walk around the ship. I stopped by the hair salon, where the stylist was waiting patiently for the night to end and the day to begin. He couldn’t sleep in this weather, he explained, as he gave me a ridiculously overpriced cut. He almost did permanent damage, twice coming close to puncturing an eye as the waves knocked the ferry about. I passed by a spa that didn’t open until nine o’clock, then a small casino where I lost two hundred dollars at roulette. I went back to the cabin. Antony was sleeping. I checked the time: 5:13 a.m. I got undressed, took a sleeping pill and fell asleep instantly.
I woke up a little after noon. I felt queasy: drugs and alcohol and erratic sleep and seasickness. Antony wanted to eat at the Four Seasons. I said no thanks. I stayed back and made myself black tea. The boat lurched violently and I spilled the piping-hot liquid all over my lap. I screamed. Someone knocked on the door.
“Is everything all right?”
I opened the door just enough to see a young woman who had been passing by and heard me yell.
“Yes, I’m OK. I burned myself with a hot cup of tea.”
“OK then. Have a nice day, sir. And be careful.”
I watched her walk away, then closed the door. I cleaned up the mess, sat on the floor of the shower and let the water run over my head until Antony walked in to tell me all about his meal and how the waitress with a perfect ass had made eyes at him while he waited at the bar for a table.
We pulled into Santurtzi a little after 7 p.m. I wanted to take the metro, but Antony insisted we hail a cab, even though he knew the roads would be blocked. An hour later we arrived at the Abba Parque Hotel. We ate in the hotel restaurant, the Botavara, and then I went straight to my room to hide. I lay down on the bed without closing my eyes, and though I didn’t sleep a wink, I didn’t get up until the next morning.
The snow hadn’t stopped. In the lobby and over breakfast, the hotel guests spoke only of the weather. I’d had enough. I went out to explore the city. It wasn’t as cold or as damp as London. The gently falling snow made me think of Toronto, or those movies set in New York in the winter—which were probably shot in Toronto. An innocent snow, pretty enough if you like winter, almost romantic even. But Bilbao isn’t able to deal with wintry conditions like Toronto, it isn’t a movie set: the streets were deserted, people didn’t dare take their cars out. Grocery stores had been practically raided in the early hours of the storm, and since shipments and deliveries were taking longer than usual to arrive, whole shelves were empty, or nearly. Restaurants that had stayed open were making a killing. And the clubs, the last bastions against the mass hysteria that threatened to descend upon the human race, were packed.
I walked into a tiny bar. It seemed fine: the speakers weren’t blaring the latest big hit. There was almost no one inside. A woman was talking to the server over by the bar. In front of a mirror, two people were dancing to oldies the manager had probably dusted off just for them. Posters on the walls advertising a rock concert that evening had been slapped with “SUSPENDIDO” printed in bold black letters across a red banner. Debido a la tormenta de nieve, the server came over and told me. I ordered a rum & coke, local style:
“Un cuba libre, por favor.”
“¡Inmediatamente, señor!” he replied, walking away.
I sat by the door, my back to the wall, to get a better look at the locals. People came in, and the music got louder as the cloud of cigarette smoke thickened. Around 1 a.m. I got up to dance. I’d had a lot to drink and gorged myself on tapas and papas fritas. I’d been in the bar for over ten hours. I was on the brink of euphoria, a quiet, syrupy, almost sensual euphoria. The bar was packed by now. I couldn’t dance to the music—it was too strange—but I let myself go, swaying any which way. People smiled at me, everyone was dancing in their own haphazard fashion. I’d chosen the right place, it seemed, to improvise.
When I got too hot I left, leaving my coat lying on the table. I needed to cool down a bit. I walked out with a glass of red wine and a cigarette, courtesy of a server. The snow was still falling, just as slow and heavy as before. I suddenly wanted to find a kitchenware store to buy a pie dish and whip up decadent desserts. It felt like Christmas. I leaned up against the old stone wall and took a drag on my cigarette, lazily exhaling the smoke like they do in the movies. I threw the butt into the snow, left my glass on the ground and turned down the snowy backstreet. I walked for a while, zigzagging through the narrow lanes of the Casco Viejo. I listened to the snow crunch under my feet and I ran my fingertips along the old stone walls. I was on the verge of tears, prompted both by happiness at seeing so much snow and the vacuity of my pitiful existence. Then a howl pulled me from my reverie. A howl of pain. I ran towards the sound.
“¡Ayúdame por favor, alguien! Help!”
I turned a corner and came across a woman sitting in the snow, legs splayed and skirt hitched up, her eyes full of tears, her face red and sweaty. Blood had stained the snow beside her. It didn’t take me long to put two and two together: she was in labour.
“Fuck, shit! Uh… No hablo español muy bien. ¿Habla francés? Do you speak French? English?”
She answered between howls in French with English undertones, but with softer consonants and a guttural accent.
“Oui. S’il vous plaît, aidez-moi. I don’t want my baby to be born in a pile of snow.”
She started to laugh and tears rolled down her cheeks. I searched through my pockets but couldn’t find my phone. I must have left it in my coat back at the bar.
“I’ll go find a taxi or a
n ambulance. Don’t move.”
“Where could I go like this?”
She burst out laughing, but a contraction caught her unawares. She buried her face in her hands and let out a scream. I started to run. I turned the corner and ended up at the foot of the cathedral. No one was there. I took a left, then another left. I passed the bar. I went in to grab my coat and phone and dialled 112, trying to retrace my steps without getting lost. In a mixture of English, basic Spanish and very crude Basque, I told the man on the other end of the line where to find us.
“Artekale numéro treinta y uno. In front of the Ziba dress store.”
Minutes later, an ambulance arrived. Two paramedics got out, shouting something in Basque. They helped the woman get to her feet and climb into the vehicle. I followed them in. One of them closed the door behind me, and the ambulance started off towards the nearest hospital.
“¿Es usted el padre?”
“In English, please…”
“Are you the father?”
I said no, and they wouldn’t let me into the room with Gia. Gia Kasapi is what she told the triage nurse who had asked her name. She got out her papers: an Albanian passport, a Canadian passport and a Quebec health insurance card. I’ve lived in Montreal, she said, seeing the surprise on my face, since the Kosovo War.
I waited until someone came to get me, less than thirty minutes later.
“It was a fast delivery. The baby was crowning. You did well bringing her to the hospital. Now both of them are safe and healthy.”
I thanked the doctor and went into the room. Gia was exhausted; her eyes were swollen, her cheeks red, her hair a mess.
“I won’t stay long, I just wanted to make sure everything was OK.”
“Yes, thanks. It was very nice of you to come along. I’m sorry to have put you through all this.”
I smiled. “It wasn’t a problem.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, then smiled back at me.
“Thank you. I’d like to get some sleep. Could you come back tomorrow? I wouldn’t mind some company.”
Listening for Jupiter Page 4
