by Penny Feeny
‘Oh my God,’ said Sasha, cradling her pretty pink glass. ‘I can’t believe it’s my last night. I actually don’t want to go home.’
Renate and Ilse were lucky they could go back to Munich whenever they fancied, by hopping on a train. They were talking of travelling up Italy’s Mediterranean coast, stopping off at seaside resorts for a spell of snorkelling. Ilse’s Italian admirer – strongly scented with aftershave, a powder blue jumper draped across his shoulders – had joined their table and invited them to visit his family place at Porto Ercole en route. Sasha was envious.
‘You could go to Fregene with Antonio, no?’ said Ilse.
‘I don’t think there’d be room in the villa. They’re meeting up with their cousins. He wouldn’t want to be bothered with me. Anyway, I’d rather be with you guys.’
‘Sure,’ said Renate in her low drawl. ‘You may come also.’
‘Really? Do you mean that? I could bunk in with you?’
‘Why not?’
For a while she basked in this fantasy. She wouldn’t have to return to a lifeless house with no dog in it. She could put off worrying about what she was going to do for the rest of the holidays if she couldn’t find a job, as well as the gnawing prospect of her GCSE results. God, when you looked at it that way, what on earth was she going home for? She hadn’t even spent all her money yet. How could her parents possibly begrudge her a couple of days on a beach? The gang from her year who had been allowed to go out to Zante would be well-tanned and well-toned from all their swimming and sunbathing. Sounds fun, she imagined saying to them on the first day of the new term, but my experience was more… sophisticated.
The noise was escalating: the hoots of laughter and clink of glasses, even the scrape of matches and flare of lighters. The taped music, running in a steady loop, battled the output from other bars. She could hear shouts of ‘Bet you can’t!’ ‘Bet I can!’ ‘Bet you five!’ ‘Raise you ten!’ Harry had gathered an audience of onlookers at the promise of his party trick. The aim was to balance a Peroni bottle on his forehead, flick it upwards so that it somersaulted, and catch its neck between his teeth, whereupon he’d glug the contents. A bottle shot skywards and he missed it, to a general howl of disappointment. Fortunately it was rescued mid-tumble before its contents were lost. This didn’t deter Harry from trying again, but Sasha was distracted by a shape looming at her elbow.
‘Oh my God, Joe!’
If he’d arrived an hour earlier, she might have been self-conscious, unsure whether to include him in the party – whether he’d be accepted like Ilse’s dapper boyfriend or considered an interloper. But now the night was buzzing – actually her ears were buzzing – his presence would be easily absorbed. She might even give him a proper kiss, right at the end when they all said goodbye, when they parted maybe for ever. Chances were she’d kiss everyone anyway.
‘You send me message?’ said Joe.
‘Yeah, it’s my last night and for a lot of other people as well, so…’
‘Ti voglio bene,’ he said.
‘What?’ Italian was supposed to be the language of romance, so it didn’t make sense to her that the phrase they claimed meant ‘I love you’ was, if you translated it literally, an unabashed come-on: ‘Ti voglio bene – I well want you.’ She hadn’t expected to hear Joe use it.
In reply he handed her his phone so she could read the text on the screen. She flushed deeply in embarrassment. ‘I didn’t send this.’
‘No?’
‘No.’ She pointed at Renate. ‘She was messing around. She sent it.’
Renate was no longer coherent. She wore a sleepy grin and her head swayed from side to side.
‘It was a mistake,’ Sasha apologised, trying to salvage dignity. ‘Don’t take any notice. It’s good that you came though.’
He put his phone back into his pocket, as if undecided what to believe. There were no free chairs so Sasha rose to stand beside him. Another Peroni bottle rocketed through the air. Joe ducked. Sasha reached up and miraculously it sailed into her hand. There was a stuttering round of applause.
Harry, who had so far notched up one success, three failures, came barrelling over and stumbled en route into Joe. ‘You again,’ he muttered and made a grab for the bottle.
‘Hey,’ said Sasha, needled. ‘Finders keepers.’ She passed it to Joe who probably had some catching up to do.
‘That’s my beer,’ said Harry.
‘Not any more.’ He scowled and tottered a little, looking more intimidating than perhaps he had intended.
‘Go away,’ said Joe. ‘Leave her.’
‘Then give it to me.’
‘No.’ Defiantly, Joe drank it down.
Harry lunged towards him. ‘Bully!’ shouted Sasha.
Joe side-stepped with a swift neat grace, but something in Harry’s behaviour had agitated him. ‘You kill my family,’ he said, his eyes glittering. ‘But you cannot hurt me.’
‘What the fuck are you talking about? I haven’t killed anyone!’ In his indignation Harry was shouting and at the word ‘killed’ heads turned. The audience who’d been laughing at his tricks were massing around the three of them, curious, over-stimulated and, in some cases, spoiling for a fight. Sasha just had time to appreciate the irony of the playlist – ‘I Predict A Riot’ was starting up – as Harry raged, ‘You fucking apologise, man. Who the hell d’you think you are?’
Renate, from her seat at the table, growled, ‘He’s from Afghanistan.’
‘He’s not Italian? Is that right?’ Harry lit up. ‘Well, you know what, my family had losses too, because of that bloody pile of shit you call a country! Why d’you have to mess up our lives? Why can’t you smoke your own dope, mind your own fucking business? What you doing over here anyhow? You belong back in the caves, man, or in the gutter at the very fucking least.’
Somebody was trying to pull at Harry’s sleeve, to calm him down, but the interruption goaded him further and his fist shot out and cracked against Joe’s collarbone. Joe, sober, was quick to retaliate, but this wasn’t a wise decision. The news that he was an asylum seeker had circulated rapidly. He had no protection, he was alone.
A number of youths began to exchange blows. It was a hot night, they’d all had too much to drink. The scene took on the appearance of an athletic but undisciplined ballet. Some of the bystanders were applauding and enjoying the spectacle; others drifted away. Ilse and her boyfriend hauled Renate from her chair and scooted with her to safety on the far side of the piazza.
It took Sasha a few moments to register that Joe, the target for this sudden release of aggression, was on the ground and the blows were not playful. She was outraged that tempers were so out of control; she had to put a stop to them. She launched herself to the ground, covering Joe’s body with her own. She didn’t believe that any of these boys, who normally acted like civilised human beings, would hit a girl. But that was before the boot collided with her face.
The stars were still visible when she closed her eyes, imprinted on her eyelids. She was still conscious, her thought processes hyperactive. She was aware of voices cursing, receding, the focus of the fight realigning. It continued though; in fact it spread, rippling outwards to the surrounding bars, involving more eager participants. She thought she heard a police siren. The students had been warned against tangling with the police. They were advised to carry their papers at all times and keep them safe. Any theft should be reported and a denuncia at the police station famously took hours to complete.
Sasha’s documents were in her suitcase. She did not want to be arrested on her final night; that would be so gruesome. Her school friend, Jordana, had been done for shoplifting once and although she’d been brittle and defiant, like ‘Yeah, so what?’ she’d basically come across as a frightened kid. You blew everything if you got caught, you might as well wet yourself in public. The frightening thing was that, actually, Sasha was wet: wet on her hair and down her front and on her legs and she didn’t even know if it was blood or tears or
wine or wee. Every bit of her hurt. Her head felt as if it had been crushed by a giant nutcracker. She was terrified her limbs were paralysed. And the police sirens were coming closer.
Somebody had an arm around her and was trying to raise her. Someone else said she shouldn’t be moved, but the person with the arm ignored them and got her to sit. She hoped it was Joe, but it was Bruton. ‘Can you walk?’ he said. ‘’Cos you’d better get out of here fast.’
‘What about Joe? Is he okay?’
‘I reckon that’s him.’ He pointed to a dark huddle a few feet away.
‘Oh God, he needs help.’
‘My sweet lord,’ said Bruton. ‘Aren’t you just asking for it.’
‘What?’
‘Trouble.’
‘That’s not fair.’ There were definitely tears running down her cheeks. She got into scrapes, as everybody did, but not like this. This was for Jordana and Co., mouthy types who liked a challenge. Sasha’s parents had drummed into her the importance of respect and sensitivity towards other people, standing up for those who couldn’t stand up for themselves. Yet wasn’t that why she’d been laid out flat on the cobbles and thumped, because she’d gone to the aid of a friend?
‘Can’t you walk any faster?’ said Bruton.
‘We have to take Joe with us.’ He’d be fingered as the scapegoat and if he was arrested, he might be deported too: to the place where there was nothing left for him. She imagined a crater in the earth where his house and family and childhood had once been.
Joe must have been used to making quick getaways, stumbling to his feet and limping to keep up as Bruton chivvied them down one of the alleys leading from the piazza. ‘You were lucky,’ he said. ‘Some other guys got involved so the fight moved away from our crew. Plus the police were slow on the uptake. I figure the bar owner must have called them straight off.’
‘Thanks for helping,’ said Sasha.
‘Heck, I didn’t want to hang around any longer. Leaves a nasty sour taste, that kind of hassle. It’s not the way you want a party to end. Harry was nuts to freak out like that. The guy can’t hold his liquor.’
Appearances were so deceiving. There was Harry, tall and rugged and upstanding; put him next to nerdy little ginger Bruton, and who did she think would have more maturity? Well, events had proved her wrong.
Sasha needed to get her breath back so she stopped in the shadow of a doorway. The others halted too. They hadn’t yet had a chance to examine their respective wounds. ‘How do I look?’ she asked.
‘Frigging awful,’ said Bruton. ‘You should get yourself cleaned up.’
‘How am I going to do that?’
‘Okay, here’s my idea. We head for Corso Vittorio and you can use the toilet in one of the bars there, then pick up a cab home.’
Strolling through a brightly lit café while covered in blood and snot didn’t appeal to Sasha. Fortunately they passed a drinking fountain and she was able to dab at her face. She wouldn’t let Bruton help her; he was bound to be heavy-handed and she was already trying her best not to scream from the pain. ‘If you could hail us a cab,’ she said, ‘that would be brill.’
‘You can’t hail them,’ he said. ‘They never stop. You have to go to a rank. I think the nearest’s at Largo Argentina.’
But when they got there, the rank was empty. Sasha and Joe leant against the railings that surrounded the sunken ruins while Bruton made sure he was at the head of the queue. When a white taxi pulled up, he waved them forward. ‘Where are you both going?’ he said. ‘Same direction or what?’
‘What about you?’
‘Hey, I got no injury. I can walk.’
‘Well, okay. Ostiense first and then up to Parioli.’
Bruton opened the back door of the cab and she started to climb in. The driver turned, saw the state of her and waved an angry arm. When she didn’t respond to his diatribe, far too fast for her to follow, he stamped on his accelerator. The taxi jerked forward, Sasha lost her footing and the door swung closed; the car raced away.
This happened twice more, though with less drama. Bruton asked politely if the cab driver would take his friends who had been involved in a minor incidente. On hearing his American accent and then seeing Sasha and Joe, the driver would regretfully refuse the fare.
‘Maybe we should call an ambulance,’ said Bruton.
‘No!’ She couldn’t spend her last night in Casualty, that would be too awful, and Joe was determined to stay away from any form of authority. ‘Let’s give it one more go. Perhaps if they see me before I get in, there won’t be any explaining to do. They’ll either stop or not. And if not, I guess we’ll have to find a night bus.’
‘There’s one coming now.’
Sasha moved boldly into the taxi’s path, her condition illuminated by his headlights. When he braked she fully expected to be rejected, the automatic door locks to descend and the driver to speed off with a weary shake of the head. But for once this didn’t happen.
‘Porca miseria!’ exclaimed Super Mario. ‘Che successo qui?’
11
Gina had not been home long. She’d eaten out with friends at a new restaurant they’d all decided was disappointing. They’d moved on to a late-night bar with low-level seating, low-level lighting and a comprehensive array of whiskies. In the corner a long-haired man played lazy jazz piano, accompanied by a saxophonist in a trilby. She’d left earlier than her friends because she had two weddings to cover the next day and didn’t want to be tempted into drinking too much. When Mario rang, so soon after dropping her off, she assumed she must have left something behind in his cab.
But no. ‘She is in distress again,’ he said.
‘Who?’
‘L’inglese.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘I’m on my way to you,’ he said. ‘You’ll need to come down, I think.’
‘What’s going on? Whereabouts are you?’
‘Crossing the river. I’ll be with you in moments.’
She hadn’t begun to get ready for bed so she went out on the terrace to watch for him. It was a warm night, too warm for sleep to come easily. Lighted apartment windows formed an irregular pattern of dots and dashes like a message in Morse code. Revellers were wandering through the streets, scooters careened around corners, Gaetano had not yet closed up his bar. She saw the taxi draw up and hurried down the stairs in a mixture of curiosity and irritation.
Mario rarely left his driver’s seat. When necessary he would help her with heavy bags and equipment, but most of the time it was as if he were glued into position, so she was surprised when he was the first out of the car. She couldn’t recognise the occupants of the back seat.
‘What’s going on? Who’ve you got with you and why the hell did you bring them here?’
‘Because you’re nearby,’ he said. ‘And the girl needs help.’ He opened the car door and offered his arm as support as Sasha inched her way out.
‘Jesus!’ said Gina, half joking. ‘Have you been in a fight?’
‘Yes, actually.’
‘Oh, right… Well, if somebody attacked you, darling, you ought to go to the police.’ Another figure crawled out behind her. ‘Joe? Is that you?’
‘I’ll help her up the stairs,’ said Mario, clearly less willing to assist Joe and ambivalent about his presence. His was one of the voices regularly warning Gina that she was exposing herself to exploitation.
‘I can walk,’ Sasha said. ‘So can he. We just need to get cleaned up.’
From the speakers on Mario’s dashboard came the call of a fare waiting. ‘You should take that,’ Gina told him. ‘We can manage.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes, I’ll be fine to deal with them for now and if they need a ride later, I’ll ring you. How long are you out for?’
‘Another couple of hours? It depends on the fares.’
He was peering into the back seat as if checking for blood stains. Sasha scrabbled in her bag. ‘I have money. I must pay you.’
He waved her away. ‘Non c’e bisogno. There’s no need, it’s no distance.’
The note flapped in her grubby hand. ‘Well, if you’re sure…’
He hopped into his seat, gave Gina a thumbs up and revved back onto the main road.
Once inside the apartment Gina avoided turning the lights up too brightly. She wasn’t keen to see the damage these two foolish young people had done to themselves.
‘Joe will need the first bath,’ she said, turning on the taps and flinging open her medicine cabinet in search of witch hazel, iodine, TCP, bandages and paracetamol; cursing because her stocks were low. ‘While you’re waiting, Sasha, I’ll get you an ice pack.’ Really, she could do without a drama at this stage of the evening. She hustled Joe into the bathroom and then wrapped the contents of an ice tray in a plastic bag, which she covered with a tea towel and handed to the girl. ‘I’m popping out for some more painkillers,’ she said. ‘You’re both going to need them.’
‘Will any chemists be open?’
‘Oh, I’ll get them from Gaetano, he usually keeps some behind the bar.’
Sasha covered her face with the ice pack and muttered, ‘I’m so sorry.’
Sorry! raged Gina, as she clattered downstairs again. I’ll give you sorry! She couldn’t articulate why she felt so angry with the girl. After all, Joe had been beaten up before – and worse. But she clung to her conviction that Sasha would have been the catalyst. She’d seen it before: a typically careless teenager, sodden with alcohol, flirting her socks off until things got out of hand. The girl was naive, unaccustomed to drinking, unaware, like so many of them, of the messages she was transmitting. Joe presumably intervened to protect her from some other drunk’s advances.
