Nine of Cups

by Michael Monn

  "Thanks for helping me sort out that mess with José the other day," I said flashing my most charming grin.

  "José can be an ass when he has too much work. He gave me a hard time too, when I first started." That still didn't answer my question of whether he did it for me or Banquets.

  "By the way, is your phone ok?" he asked cheerfully. I gave him a blank look, so he clarified. "It fell face down. I hope your screen survived."

  The blood drained out of my face. He had seen me! Did he realise that I had been staring at him? Oh, God. Did he suspect?

  His demeanour gave away nothing. Even though he had gotten no answer to his question, he motioned for us to go back. We had two more rounds to make and Sylvia wanted to be done before five. She was taking us to La Bodegueta to celebrate a job well done.

  Three

  My apartment was close to where we were going, so I had gone home to change and journal abit before joining the others.

  I loved La Bodegueta! Sylvia had reserved a group table with pre-ordered tapas. The moment we sat down, they served red, white or beer on Sylvia's tab. Anything else we had to pay ourselves. The tapas included olives, Patatas Bravas, Iberian ham with Catalan tomato bread, calamari and Salchichón.

  Everybody recounted their adventures of the last four days. Sylvia made an epic speech in slurred Scottish and we clapped and whistled in praise. She took a deep bow and declared that she was sloshed and needed to go home. She paid for the fixed menu, as well as the drinks that weren't included. Our waiter's eyebrows raised when he opened the box. Sylvia had probably tipped him really well, because he offered everyone a "chupito" on the house.

  Slowly, but surely our group dwindled in size, till it was just Merce, Miguel, Jean Pierre and myself. They were all speaking Spanish, so I was scrolling through my Instagram feed.

  Vanessa had posted some pictures from Mom's birthday. It was really frightening to see that many middle-aged drunk women in one frame. In one of them, mum could hardly stand upright and was awkwardly leaning on a cocktail table with her lips in a pout. The post was hashtagged with #litlips, #bdaybinge and #lifeofatrophywife. My uncontrolled burst of laughter was louder than expected.

  "What's so funny?" Miguel demanded, his eyes red from lack of sleep and too much beer. He pulled my new phone out of my hand and tried to focus on the picture. "Who's the hottie?" he asked in his accented English.

  I didn't particularly like my parents, but I wasn't about to let him pass lewd comments about my mum. Especially not after what Costas had said during lunch.

  "Give me my phone back, Marica!" I yelled, using the word I had learnt from José.

  Miguel burst into a fit of laughter. "YOU are calling me that!" he said, as he threw my phone onto the table. Merce grabbed him by the arm and scolded him in Catalan. He was in trouble! Apparently she understood much more English than she let on. Miguel shrugged her off and announced that he was leaving. Merce was not done with him yet, because she snatched up her purse and followed after him.

  There I was. Alone with HIM again. I decided to stay for five more minutes, so it wouldn't look like I was trying to escape.

  "Do you know what Marica means, Caleb?" My name sounded great in his light accent. I shook my head, unsure why he asked.

  "It is a derogatory term for guys who, how do you say, prefer 'les garçons'." He studied me carefully. For a fraction of a second, I wondered why they had a special word for people who liked waiters, when it clicked. My head flooded with a torrent of simultaneous realisations. It was staggering how fast things were starting to make sense.

  José probably called everyone a "Marica", but Miguel's reaction contained suspicion. He was a clueless neanderthal, so someone must have told him. Sylvia? Carola?

  No. Merce! That's why she was so angry at him. But, if Miguel suspected, did Jean Pierre know? FUCK! Could I quit my internship?

  Fight or Flight?

  Flight!

  HE was still looking at me expectantly, when I stood up abruptly and waved good night. I made my way to my apartment at a brisk walk-run. When I reached my front door I frantically searched my pockets for my keys. I needed to get to my room, so I could text Vanessa. She would know what to do.

  I opened the large door and jumped inside. When I turned to close it behind me, someone tried to push it open from the other side.

  "Caleb!" I recognised the voice. It was my flatmate Agnes.

  When I opened the door to let her in, I had not been ready for who was standing next to her with his hands in his pockets.

  "Do you know this guy?" Agnes asked, pointing at HIM with a thumb.

  I nodded hesitantly.

  She pushed past me into the building and whispered in my ear, "He's cute! Well done."

  I felt my cheeks heat up. Jean Pierre was staring at his shoes. I didn't know what to say, I hadn't had a chance to retreat and think yet.

  "Why did you leave?" he asked his shoes quietly.

  No, no, no. Not now. I am not ready. What if I tell you the truth? How will we be able to occupy the same space again, if you knew what was truly in my head. That I was scared you had figured me out. That I think you are beautiful, kind and unlike anyone I have ever met before. Could you handle such an answer?

  "I am sorry," I said. "I really have to go. It's la.."

  He stepped forward and gently pulled me towards him. Those edible lips touched mine and my world came undone. My legs were no longer able to support my own weight, even though they had done so most of my life. His strong arms held me upright.

  Then he stepped out of the embrace. It was as if a limb was torn away from me. My brain had gone on holiday and was utterly unresponsive.

  "See you, Monday?" he asked expectantly. I mumbled something incomprehensible which earned me a smile. His hands were no longer in his pockets as he floated down the street towards the Metro station.

  I was in trance when I closed the door. My legs were still recuperating, so I slumped down against the grubby wall. Hugging myself tightly, I tried to tame the hurricane of emotions. I sat there grinning like a fool for the longest time.

  I sneeked into the house as quietly as possible and evaporated into my room. I had to commit every detail of my evening into my journal for fear of losing them. As if by cosmic timing, the moment I was done there was a soft knocking at the door.

  "It's me, Agnes. Can I come in?" A subdued voice whispered. I thought about it for a moment and decided that human contact would would be the perfect distraction.

  She sat on the edge of my bed burning with curiosity. "And?" she finally asked, fed up of waiting for me to spill my secrets voluntarily.

  "What makes you think there is anything to tell. He is a colleague from work." I tried to escape the Inquisitor.

  "Horseshit! I saw the way you looked at him. Trust me, I don't blame you. He is gorgeous."

  Was I going to open up to this relative stranger? Shouldn't I chat to Vanessa first? But Vanessa wasn't here. I made my choice and let go. I never realised how much there was to tell.

  Agathe absorbed it all in engaged silence. When I was done, she stood up and gave me a massive hug. "How are you going to handle Monday," she asked, as if I required a battle plan.

  My expression clearly didn't put her at ease. She spent the next twenty minutes explaining the do's and don'ts of keeping a man's interest without giving away anything you didn't want to give.

  I had no intention of being that calculating, but the Norwegian girl's level-headedness did manage to bring some much needed structure to the gooey mess in my head. I would have to make some changes. I wasn't a creepy stalker anymore.

  HE kissed me! The flashback left me all warm and fuzzy again. I had had two secret encounters with boys before, but they could only be termed as one night stands. This, whatever it was, showed potential for something else. Suddenly I panicked over the fact that my internship was ONLY six months long. Quite the reversal from a few hours ago.

  Agnes gave me another hug before she lef
t to go to sleep. It was already past one, too late to message Vanessa. I switched off the light and tried to get some rest, but my mind gave me no peace.

  Four

  When it's summer in Barcelona, people that aren't working, go to the beach. To swim, to tan, to drink or all three. So far, I hadn't gone with the flow, but it was a beautiful Sunday and I needed some fresh air to put my feelings into perspective.

  I normally despised walking, but today was a new day. I floated down Passeig de Grácia towards Plaça Catalunya. I didn't particularly like La Rambla, especially since the terrorist attack two years ago. Instead, I moved through Portal de L'Àngel and into el Gótico. I picked a spot for a coffee with a "Bikini"; Spanish for a cheese toasty. Vanessa must have had a late night, because she wasn't replying to my messages.

  My walk continued all the way to the beach. I just kept going, till I found myself pulling off my shoes and socks and sticking my feet into the warm water. I inhaled the salty breeze, as the seagulls squawked above me. I closed my eyes and saw HIS smile and I instantly missed him. My new phone vibrated in my hand, pulling me back down to Earth. Vanessa was awake! I found a concrete bench in a quiet spot where I could message out of the sun.

  I was such a fucking idiot. After I finished gushing to Vanessa about Jean Pierre, I realised that she was coming with Uncle Clive! Ofcourse, the first thing she said was that she wanted to meet him. Damn! Stalking him had been so much easier!

  My mojo was bust and I needed a distraction. Perhaps some shopping? I needed a new pair of jeans and I still hadn't explored the "El Corte Inglés" department store. With a name like that, it must mean that they speak English, right?

  ***

  Monday morning had finally come and I was nervous as hell. I paid special attention to my grooming, making extra sure to not use too much of my Issey Miyaki cologne.

  I had to be in at ten, but I was twenty minutes late. Sylvia gave me a frown, as she tapped her wrist watch. "Please don't make this a habit or I will have to send an email to the Intern coordinator."

  Miguel was about to enter the office, but changed his mind when he saw me. It dawned on me, that I had left the situation with him unresolved and ran after him. He almost escaped into the back of Salon Sur when I called out his name.

  "Miguel, I am sorry!" I said sincerely. "I didn't know what I was saying, I reacted without thinking."

  Miguel was apparently not used to receiving apologies, but offered one of his own, "I am sorry too, I should not have said that about your sister."

  Had he forgotten what else he had said? I wasn't going to remind him. Instead, I told him that the picture he had seen was of my mother. He looked at me, as if I had slapped him in the face. One does not mess with another man's mother.

  Carefully he asked, "How old are you?" He was clearly disturbed by finding my mother "hot".

  "Nineteen! My mother was young when she had me." I hoped it would make him feel better, despite the awkwardness of the situation.

  "Listen," Miguel said, as he checked his hotel phone. "Let's forget about what we said and start fresh. Deal?" He held out his hand.

  I was more than happy to have this one settled, so I didn't ask further questions. Miguel's phone rang, so I turned to go back to the office.

  "Caleb!" he called after me. "It's Sylvia. She is asking if you can go to the Brasserie for an hour. They need help."

  "Do I have a choice?" I asked quietly. He shook his head with a smile. Shit! I hadn't even checked to see when HE was coming in today.

  ***

  One hour ended up being three. Two staff members hadn't showed up and the Brasserie was full for some unknown reason. The hotel manager had been pleased to see his new restaurant concept make money, so he overdid it on extra help. I had spent most of the time polishing glasses and making coffees.

  I walked down the hallway towards the Banquet office, when Jean Pierre stepped out of the wine room. He waved me over and I was happy to oblige.

  "I swapped you with Rodrigo for tonight's wedding banquet. I need you to prepare wine and liquor for 45 pax. Here is the event order." He handed me the paper and motioned for me to enter the wine room.

  What the fuck! Was this what he meant with, "See you Monday"? Business as usual. It was such a let down, I wanted to cry. Then I heard the clippety-clop of Sylvia's shoes coming up from behind me. I sincerely hoped this was the reason for his shitty "first-day-since..." behaviour.

  "Thanks for doing the lateral service this morning, Caleb. I just came out of the department head meeting and the boss was very happy." Sylvia liked to give credit where it was due. It was one of the reasons why people were so loyal to her.

  She glanced at the BEO in my hand and asked why I was on that event. She remembered having scheduled Rodrigo for it.

  "I swapped him," Jean Pierre intervened.

  "Oh," Sylvia seemed surprised, "... and when were you planning on informing me?"

  He flashed her one of his winning smiles. She left without further argument, but turned around to look at us before continuing to her office.

  HE quickly pushed me into the wine room and closed the door. "I missed you," he said, almost under his breath. I wanted to be closer to him, but he stopped me. "Not here. Later."

  I tried to not be offended.

  "Can I have your new phone number? The one Merce has, is not in service anymore," he asked in a hurried whisper.

  Fuck! I had gotten myself a new SIM card with a different number, but I didn't give it to anyone. I wondered who else had tried to reach me. At least the restore of my messenger app had maintained my existing contacts or I would have gotten cross with Vanessa for not answering. I whipped out my new phone and gave him the number.

  "Thanks," he said with a sly look. "Now, I can send you dirty messages." It was a good thing we were in the wine room, so no one could see how I reacted to that statement. He left me with my BEO and a head full of possibilities. It didn't take long for my phone to vibrate.

  "Just checking if this is the right number," the message read.

  "Yep," I answered nonchalantly.

  I immediately saved his number as professionally as possible; Jean Pierre, Banquet Supervisor, Elysium Hotel and Spa, Barcelona. Deep down inside I wanted to write something cheesy and have a picture of him shirtless, but I didn't see that happening anywhere soon.

  He followed up with a "