by L Neil
He cups my elbows and wants to say something, I just know it. But he doesn’t speak. He only searches my eyes and continues to hold me in place.
While dancing, a few strands of hair had fallen loose from my ponytail. Those strands tickle my neck now as he breathes out slowly, the faint hint of whisky caressing my skin.
My neck is so damn sensitive, and I am suddenly aware that we are now completely alone.
He opens his mouth to speak but reconsiders.
It’s odd. His eyes roam over me very subtly but to someone like me, it is hard to miss.
“Frank,” I say, to grab his attention. The focus in his eyes start to seep back. “If you have a problem with me, you can just say so – I would understand. If I had the choice, I wouldn’t associate myself with the Gatti name neither.”
I slowly retract my arms from his gentle grip and continue, “But I was told that you are as desperate as I am to make this arrangement work. You want a grandchild, someone to pass your legacy onto one day. I can try and make that happen for you.” I say “try” because his eldest son is rumoured to be asexual and the youngest is a bi-sexual party-boy…to say the least.
The charismatic man from earlier is still nowhere to be found.
“Won’t you say something?” I implore.
This is a mistake.
I look at the exit and then back at the man who refuses to budge. When I turn to leave, he grabs me around the waist, gently persuading me to return.
He steps in close, almost protectively, and warns me softly, “Everything you’ve heard is true.”
After some internal struggle with himself, he runs a finger along my cheekbone and jawline. I’m frozen in place because, well, this is rather intimate.
“Cristian was never going to be suitable for you – or anyone – and time hasn’t changed that. He was always too old for you to get in there and,” he sighs, “fix him.”
I glance sideways. “Fix” is a horrible word to say when discussing someone’s sexuality.
He takes his hand away but stays close. “Samuel was always wicked, but perhaps there was a chance for him because you were closer in age. I have no doubt that you could have saved him.” Eyes bouncing between both of mine, he tells me urgently, “I am sure that you could convince Satan to bow before God once again. But believe me when I tell you this – he is a monster. And I will not feed you to him.”
The determination in his voice is troubling. Did he just compare his son to Satan?
And why does he have so much faith in me?
For a moment, we stand there with the silence straining between us. But then I think to question, “Why do you care?” Because really, why does my welfare even matter to him?
I wait for an answer that doesn’t come.
However, I don’t wait long; I refuse to waste another minute on this useless endeavour. This has been humiliating enough, thank you very much.
Stalking out of the anteroom, I dodge the people in the ballroom and make my way down the mahogany staircase and through the main hall, not bothering to gauge anyone’s reactions.
I just don’t care anymore. I don’t know them; I’m not a part of all of this. This is my father’s world, not mine. Psyching myself up to do this - all the dancing, the effort to look like a barbie doll - was a waste of time.
I need to think of another way. There must be something else I can do.
My feet hurt again and I just want to cry.
“Helena,” Frank calls after me, exasperated.
He must have followed me closely because he reaches me just as I make it through the vestibule and out the heavy front doors.
I turn to him and ask, “You won’t even let me try?”
Ok yeah, everyone who is nearby is definitely watching us. Is Frank Mariano really chasing after the Gatti girl? Even I’m worried about his reputation.
“Are you free tomorrow evening?” He asks, completely ignoring my question. A few strands of his hair have come loose, sitting on his forehead, his breath is quicker from pursuing me. Then, his eyes lower to my chest as it rises and falls from my own exertion, reminding me of the deep V neckline of my gown.
My eyes widen. This man does not make any sense to me at all.
“I will have Martin pick you up at six,” he says confidently, as if he isn’t screwing me over.
“I’m busy,” I retort. And I actually am. I’ve got a date with three men and a microphone. I can’t bail on them, no matter how important Frank is. And no matter how irate he is right now.
Besides, there is no point in concerning myself with him if he won’t agree to the deal that I was assured had already been made.
There is a tick in his jaw. His expression is otherwise cold, unwavering. I take it he is not used to being told no.
Finally, he speaks around me, to the man at the bottom of the stairs. “Marty, take her home.”
Halfway home, I realise that I didn’t even protest about riding in his luxurious, top-of-the-line Mercedes. This shows how seriously muddled my mind is right now. I suppose it would have felt silly waiting out front for an Uber to arrive.
From the back seat, I look into the rear-view mirror and am met with Marty’s old, grey eyes. He looks away. But I know they’ll come back, so I keep my eyes right where they are. Marty doesn’t worry me. If my memory serves me right, he has always been kind and gentle.
Sure enough, his eyes flick back up. He knows I’ve caught him out and he sighs.
“Your father wouldn’t be too happy about this.” His eyes return to the road. “I shouldn’t be saying anything, and please don’t tell Frankie, but Jimmy is right – it’s not a good idea to involve yourself with this family.”
I don’t know what to say but I am sick to death with people telling me what to do.
He can tell he crossed a line. “I’m sorry,” he sighs again. “If you knew just how loyal I am to Frankie, then…you would appreciate just how serious this is.”
He is about to say more but I cut in, “Thank you…Martin,” and I believe I have made it obvious enough that I don’t want to talk about this anymore.
The remainder of the trip is quiet.
When I return to my vintage apartment, I kick off my heels, feed my goldfish, Sandra, and empty the contents of my clutch onto the wooden countertop of my white, country-style kitchen.
Ah, there it is – my zippo.
On my way to the lounge room, I slip my dress off and pull the tie out of my hair.
Wearing only black underpants, I flop into my favourite winged back, buttoned chair and dangle my feet over the arm. I flick the lighter on and stare into the flame.
Everything will be okay.
CHAPTER 2
Medusa
Medusa is a neat little bar. Tucked away near, though not too close to, the bustling Bourbon Street.
It is mostly filled with millennials like myself who don’t fit into many other cliques and has been a great place to spend my Friday and Saturday nights since my return about a month ago.
It’s also where I met my new band members, Sebastian, Glenn and Rob.
That we were able to land a gig here is absolutely perfect. That we were able to pull together a band and be gig-ready so soon is even better. I suppose with none of us currently having full-time jobs and most of the songs being pre-written, collaborating was fairly easy and enjoyable, too.
The guys are just now setting up the stage. I have about two minutes to finish my Jack & Coke.
My outfit is far more casual than last night - a forest green shift dress with long, loose sleeves and a black pan collar. My pale hair is naturally straight and falls down most of my back and my green eyes are lined with black eyeliner, winged again.
With black tights that stop midway up my thigh, I almost look like I’m from the sixties. The cherry doc martens kind of ruin the outfit, however, which is perfect.
I will admit that I thought about Frank Mariano a lot last night and for most of today. Our encounter last night
was just too bizarre.
I dreamt last night, and I swear there were no pictures, just the smell of his cologne and pressed suit, tinged with whiskey.
Anyway...
How to describe our music – well, it’s like an ambient fusion of indie, gothic rock and folk music.
And my band members, well, they’re just amazing.
Sebastian is like a tall, sexy Adonis with long, thick hair the colour of crow feathers.
Set into his palish-olive-toned face are the most enviable eyes I have ever seen. Truly. They are a clear green-blue, like the unspoiled ocean water that you see in travel brochures and automatically assume has been altered to look that way.
His girlfriend, Natalia, is a model - naturally. Not only is she super sweet and fun to be around but she is literally the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. No need for Photoshop there.
She looks like she could be Sebastian’s sister but with a darker complexion. She’s not in our band but I just can’t not mention her.
Sebastian is our celloist. Mostly, however, he mixes our sounds and effects and has the synthesizer set up on stage, going between the two instruments as required.
Glenn is so punk, but this is a nice calm side-project for him. He is forty-something with multi-coloured, spiked hair. He’s loud and seems obnoxious but is actually fun and easy going. And he is surprisingly versatile with his guitar. He could play most genres from bluegrass to metal.
Our drummer, Rob, is young and so spacey sometimes that I wonder if he realises where he is and what he is doing. But then he plays perfectly and is great at setting up the stage and making us sound studio-quality.
The lights dim and I’ve got no time to spare. Leaving my drink behind, I climb the steps at the side of the stage and don’t give myself the chance to work up any nerves. I have done this before - not here, but all over the place. There is no need to worry.
Besides, it’s not about being popular, it’s about being heard. There is nothing riding on this; we are only here to share our music. Hell, we don’t even have a name yet.
When the lights return, the stage becomes flooded in a sea of dark blue light. I can’t see the crowd very well, but that’s ok. There are only about a hundred people here tonight. It really is a neat and chill little place.
Glenn’s distorted guitar opens the song with Rob’s punchy drum kicks. Four bars in, Sebastian’s cello joins, raspy and haunting.
Just like Glenn’s guitar has a pedal, so does my voice - just to give it a slight, wispy echo:
The sun is warm, the world is right
Perfect by day but ugly by night
Needles and bottles and little pills
Betrayal stings but I want you still
The road to recovery, under construction
With rotting bodies and self-destruction
Sober you seeks oblivion
And traps me in this hell we’re in
The band takes over with a rocky bridge, so I take a moment to look at the crowd, which has become slightly more visible, now that my eyes have adjusted. They seem to be rapt. Good.
I close my eyes again and sway to the drums. There is no other feeling quite like this.
When I open them again, I see Frank’s face, in the second row of tables. His eyes are on me...burning. There is no other way to describe it.
What is he thinking right now?
I can’t let myself get distracted up here, so I pretend that he’s not there. Now, if only I can get my thumping chest to cooperate.
Glenn’s and Sebastian’s deep voices accompany my whisper like a deep underlying hum, the bass line to my treble:
Repeated sins, poisoned pins
Repeated sins, poisoned pins
The song ends with a melancholy drone. The audience cheers. Frank is still there. His lips are pulled up at one side, looking much like the cat who got the cream.
Somehow, I manage to put him out of mind and immerse myself in the music for the remainder of our set. With only five songs, it’s not too long before the lights go out and I hug the guys each. We’re all so buzzed and agree that we should keep this going.
Glenn chuckles and says he would give up his job to work on this fulltime. He works behind the bar here, which is how we got the gig.
Rob says he has an exam tomorrow but doesn’t believe in studying so he’ll stay a bit longer.
I notice that Frank is no longer out there and try not to feel disappointed.
The guys tell me that I don’t need to help them pack up, that they got this, and I have no choice but to reluctantly obey. In parting, I tell them that I’ll meet them at the bar before we all head home.
Just as I step down, Frank is suddenly there, waiting beside the stage in the dark, beaming up at me with that debonair grin of his.
There are only four more steps to go but it feels like I’m standing on the top of a high rise building with the way my stomach is fluttering now.
With a voice like warm honey, he informs me, “You were absolutely ethereal, baby,” and he holds out his hand.
He is in another expensive suit, but it’s slightly more relaxed. Or maybe it just seems that way because he looks genuinely happy.
But then I remember that I’m mad at him. “What are you doing here? Somehow I don’t think you’re a regular here.” There, his charms do not affect me at all.
His grin falters and his lips close over his teeth as he considers the answer.
He slowly lowers his hand.
“Are you hungry?” He inquires, choosing to ignore my rudeness. “Have you eaten dinner?”
I shake my head. “It’s 11pm. It’s too late for dinner,” I say and then start to step around him. “Thanks though-
“There’s a great ice cream parlour nearby,” he cuts me off, eyes pinning mine. “It's open all night.”
We’re side by side, our necks turned to look at each other. We are too close, so I move away slightly.
“We can walk there. Please?” He pleads. “We should talk.”
That gets my attention. Not just the prospect of talking about our supposed arrangement but also the fact that Frank Mariano said please. I consider it for a moment.
“Okay…I’ll go with you. I just have to grab my gear from backstage.”
The music which begins to emanate from the speakers is at the perfect volume. You can dance to it, but you also don’t have to yell too loudly to communicate.
If I owned a bar, I would make it exactly like Medusa.
I tell the guys that I’m about to head and that I’ll see them at prac next Friday night.
When I return, Frank is on the phone, closer to the exit. From here, I can’t hear what he is discussing but it looks serious, so I wait by the front of the stage, watching him.
Although I cannot hear the conversation, it seems that whoever is on the other end is in plenty of trouble. I have never seen a face so quietly fierce, like molten lava hidden beneath the earth’s surface. I hope to never be at the receiving end of his wrath.
A guy approaches me. He’s cute, tall, athletic and about my age. He has dark blonde, moppy hair and intense black eyes. I had spotted him in the crowd a few times.
“You were great up there.” He exclaims. “Really. I’ve never heard anything like you guys before.”
I believe it, too. He looks shiny and new and probably listens to Arctic Monkeys and Coldplay.
There’s something charming about the way he cradles his notebook to his body, though. And his smile is very sweet too. He seems harmless enough.
“Thank you.” I reply. “We just do whatever feels right.”
He doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s not suave like Frank who, as I can see, is still on the phone.
“Where are you from?” He asks, curiously. “Your accent isn’t very obvious.”
I tell him about how I grew up in New Orleans but have spent a few years in Australia and England and how I think my accent has just “neutralised”.
We talk
about how everyone thinks their accent is neutral, but he thinks that I could be right about mine.
Frank clears his throat behind me – obviously finished with his phone conversation. It prompts me to tell the new guy that I have to leave and that I’ll probably run into him again sometime if he decides to hang out here in future.
The guy looks to Frank and then back at me, concerned. The twinkling eyes in Frank’s stoic expression add a hint of malice and I suppose this hasn’t gone unnoticed to my new acquaintance.
