CRAVING U (The Rook Café) (46 page)

The summer days grew longer in a symposium
of visual, olfactory, and sensorial stimuli, from the colors that steadily took
on the shades of antique gold and saffron to the country smells of haystacks
and silos that spread easily on the wind.

The members of the Berici Hills wine
consortium were all aflutter with the annual preparations for their “wine and
art” show, which involved a large number of cellars and farms from the region
and would last until October, when they would be able to present the results of
the latest harvest and offer tastings in a setting that featured the works of
contemporary artists, cultural exhibitions, and food presentations.

And so, while the countryside was full of
gastronomic events dedicated to art, music, and theater, the beach
establishments along the Adriatic coastline filled up with sun worshipers
roasting on their beach chairs in the scorching July sun, quenching their
thirsts with the foam, bubbles, and headiness of
Prosecco
.  The king of the Adriatic, capital for the glamorous jet set
fleeing the dog days of muggy cities, is Milano Marittima, located within an
enormous maritime pine stand, a town which turns into a cauldron of young
people looking for a good time every summer weekend.  It is here that soccer
players, movie stars, models, showgirls and others meet up in the downtown nightclubs,
where the
bella vita
takes on the color of platinum – just like their
credit cards – and red – just like their sports cars parked illegally in the
pedestrian-only zones, where the best shopping is to be found.

At this latitude, the day begins with a
long sunbathe while breathing in the salt air on wide sandy beaches.  Beach
soccer tournaments, followed by beach volleyball and jet-skiing fill up the
rest of the day until happy hour, enjoyed directly on the beach.  From there
the night flows naturally into the street bars, with drinks served directly
along the sidewalk, MCs, and pole dancers.

It was this, the jewel of the Adriatic,
that the players of
San Carlo
had chosen as the ideal location to
celebrate their professional contracts, be they with the youth squad or with
the Serie A team, like Ninho.

By day they played beach soccer, and in
the late afternoon they frequented the pool halls, keeping themselves fit for
the upcoming practice sessions at the end of July.  The nights were spent in
the downtown clubs, where the smell of beer and rum filled the air, and
out-of-tune choruses were belted out by people wearing sallow faces dulled by
alcohol in a general drunken euphoria.

“No thanks.  I’m OK.”  Matteo was still
sober on that humid night, concentrating on getting the 8-ball into the side
pocket.

“Oh come on!  Don’t make me beg!”  Meninho
had just placed a couple of muddled drinks on the edge of the pool table.  “It’s
on me.”

“I’m fine, really.”  He was leaning over
the felt surface trying to get a read on the ball’s trajectory.  “Thanks
anyway.”

“Wuss!”  He put his hand into Matteo’s
field of vision, forcing him to look up.  “I don’t think Isabeli would agree
with you....”  A girl from Ipanema with an impossible body and a knowing look
on her face, blonde and perky like some kind of mythological Greek nymph,
smiled at him from where she was sitting with some other Brazilians.  “She’s
been staring at you all night with a look that says, ‘Come and get me, boy
scout!’”  Ninho nodded her way, calling her over.  “I told her you’re on the
Serie A team.”

“And why, may I ask?”  Matteo put his
stick back on the rack after sinking the 8-ball.  “I already told you I don’t
need you to act as my agent.”

“So what if it’s not true... yet.”  He
winked at him as she sauntered up.  Ninho introduced the two of them and then
ordered a drink from the bar.  “One Sex on the Beach for Isabeli.”  He put his
hand south of her equator and squeezed.  She seemed to enjoy it.  “And for you,
my friend, something special.  Trust me, this one’s a bomb!” he crowed.  “One
week from now we’ll already be practicing, and all shots will be off limits to
us.”  Ninho passed drinks around to all of his teammates, some of whom were
arguing for possession of the pool table.  “Come on, don’t be a spoilsport.” 
He pointed his finger at Matteo.  “You’re the disgrace of your countrymen.  You
have to keep up the reputation of the Venetians... great drinkers to a man!”

“Drinkers, sure, but not of this swill.” 
Matteo had barely gotten his lips to the glass when Ninho let out a whoop.

“Agora, eu gosto
de você! 
Another round for my friend,” he hollered,
half in Portuguese, while dancing a few Samba moves.  “Isabeli is my gift to
you,” he whispered hotly in Matteo’s ear, “as congratulations for making the
team.”  After all, they weren’t famous, popular, or obscenely rich enough yet
to run any risk of a scandal.  “You need to take a load off, man!  You’re
living like a monk, and it’s not healthy.  You need to have some fun, find some
distractions, stop thinking so much.”  Meninho was right on this score: Marika
had shot a hole in his soul and all that remained was this sense of loneliness
which never left him.  “Go with Isabeli!”  And all he wanted to do now was
forget.  “She knows where to take you.”

Destination
: room 201 of a cheap
2-star hotel far from the pulsating center and the paparazzi who dragged the
beach clubs looking for a shot of anyone from Serie A.

And so, Matteo did exactly what everyone
expected of him: he turned off his emotions in an ocean of rum and sodas and
locked his heart outside the room of that vulgar motel with yellowing wallpaper
and the smell of mildew, where having sex with this strange woman was nothing
more than an egotistical act of self-loathing.  Because the only thing he
wanted at that moment was to forget everything, and to take whatever he could
get from whoever was next to him, here and now.

It was a one-man show; communication was
not only unimportant to him at that moment, it was an annoyance.

“Wait!”  In spite of the throbbing alcohol
fumes in his head and the erotic beauty of this girl, he just couldn’t go
through with it.  “I’m sorry.”  All sexual impulses were swept away by a much
stronger feeling that simply wouldn’t let him go.  “Please get dressed.”  He
picked up her silk chiffon dress from where it had fallen to the floor and
handed it to her, offering to walk her back to her hotel, but Isabeli refused,
too humiliated by his actions.  They walked down to the street together, and then
parted ways.

That very afternoon, after ten hours of
sleep and two aspirins, with his skin all sweaty and sand stuck to his body,
Matteo signed up with his friends for a completely unauthorized mini tournament
of beach soccer.  He was chatting with the others about the previous match when
Ninho showed up, looking rather the worse for wear after a night of dancing and
bedroom exercises.

“I ran into Isabeli.”  The Brazilian’s
face promised a good dose of insults after the debacle of room 201.  “She just
told me that you’re a total queer,” he said unpleasantly.  “You don’t have to
be ashamed about it, man, just tell me the truth.”  He elbowed him in the
ribs.  “You need the little magic pill?”

“I don’t want to offend anyone,” even
though he had perhaps already done so involuntarily, “but you don’t need to be
straight to sleep with Isabeli... and I don’t need any Viagra.”  He was sorry
if he had somehow hurt her feelings, but he wasn’t in the least concerned about
having to defend his manhood.  “She sleeps with everyone.”  It was revolting
how the guys just passed her around from one to the other, and even worse how
she played along for her fifteen minutes of fame.  “For all I know, all you
need to do is tell her you play in Serie A.”

“Exactly!”  Ninho gave him a smack to the
nape of his neck, picking up a layer of sticky sand for his efforts.  “That’s
precisely what I don’t understand about it all.”  He wiped his hand off on his
bathing suit.  “She told me she tried everything to get you into bed, but all
for nothing.”  He furrowed his brow in contempt.  “Were you hoping for a more
romantic location, something more high-class?”

“No, the place has nothing to do with it.” 
It’s just his head was filled with another girl’s face.  “Though, if I can be
honest with you, that motel was pretty gross.”  But that wasn’t the problem. 
Matteo knew perfectly well that having sex didn’t require any sort of romantic
locale; he could have done it anywhere, if he had wanted to.  A cheap thrill,
nothing more than that.  No shivers, no pounding heart, no sense of free-fall. 
No emotions.  One single kiss had taught him that: a blast of hormones that
knocked him down and took both his breath and his reason away.  A totalizing
emotion, complete in and of itself, exclusive.  In that moment with Marika, at Juliet’s
Castle, he hadn’t wanted to get any personal satisfaction as much as he had
wanted her to feel as good as he did.

“So you just didn’t like the
menina
?!” 
Ninho was racking his brains to find a rational explanation for Matteo’s
behavior according to his own way of thinking.  “You prefer brunettes, maybe. 
Or redheads?”

“Isabeli is gorgeous.”  No question about
that, but it was of little importance.

“OK, man, but at least tell me that she
was wrong about you.”

“About being gay?”  He started walking
down toward the water’s edge, stretching his arms lazily above his head.

“No.  It’s worse....”  Ninho followed
him.  “About being in love.”

Matteo stopped stretching under the
watchful and hostile gaze of his friend.

“Aww, man, come on!” Ninho groaned.  “You
can’t take yourself out of the game like that!”  He waved his hands in a wide
sweeping motion.  “Do you have any idea what you’re missing?”

“Yes.”  It was nothing compared to the
agony of living without her.

“You’re killing me, man!”  He scratched
his thick curly hair and sunk his feet into the wet sand.

“Stop being such a baby!”  Matteo suddenly
dove underwater, splashing drops everywhere.  “Worry about yourself.  Go out
and have as much fun as you want... and stop busting my balls!”  Sooner or
later, Meninho would fall in love like this too... though hopefully he would be
more fortunate, because this unrequited love business was driving him crazy. 
It was a feeling that took you over, mind, body, and soul.  Worse than a drug
that tore apart your flesh and spirit, and without which you simply could not
live.

That very day, on the eastern side of the
Berici Hills, underneath the Corinthian arch of a portico held up by hewn stone
pillars in one of the vineyards hosting a “wine and art” show, Marika and
Federico had gone off by themselves to talk privately and enjoy the sweet fried
wildflowers  that had been offered as part of the buffet.  Eve was still at the
show, admiring the works of art on display.

“I like this song.  Who’s it by?” Marika
mumbled, her mouth filled with caramelized sugar while she listened to Federico’s
iPod through one half of a set of earphones.

“Sum 41.”  He watched the sun darting rays
into her eyes and a smile cross her face when he dedicated the lyrics to her.  “
I’ll
wait here forever just to, to see you smile. ‘Cos it’s true, I am nothing
without you.
”

Federico
had become a central figure in her life.  He had remained close to her for all
that time without ever expecting anything in return, putting up with her during
her crying fits, suffering with her – and sometimes more than her – sadly aware
of what was causing her pain.  He had helped her smile again when she thought
it was no longer possible, and to discover new, fascinating worlds that she had
never noticed before.  They had passed wonderful days together, stamped forever
on her memory, and he had never embarrassed her by doing anything that would
have made her betray her true emotions.

At least not until that day, when, seated
on a 17th century white marble staircase, something touched their chords so
deeply that they could not avoid it.

The wind shook the jade colored leaves,
unveiling the western sun.  “We should probably go and find Eve....” Marika
removed the earphone on making this suggestion.  “She should have been here by
now, maybe she’s lost.”  She looked at him, suspicious of how intensely he was
staring at her.  “Hey!”  She started to get to her feet.  “Are you listening to
me?”  She took his hand to help him up too, but immediately felt herself
falling back down into his arms and his lips pressing in such sweet passion
against her own.  A delicate taste that caressed the senses; an experience of
harmony and serenity, far from the hot and overwhelming desire, that irrational,
physical passion that she had felt when pressed up against Matteo’s body.  She
didn’t push away, because it was so nice to be spoiled by him and his soft
lips, cuddling in his arms, even though it meant loving differently from the
way she had learned to love.

“What the fuck are you doing?!”  Eve’s
rage exploded against Federico as she forcefully separated their mouths.

“I’m sorry.”  Marika found herself on the
ground, excusing herself to Eve.  “Please, Eve!”  She wanted to speak with her,
to explain things to her, but she couldn’t hold her.  Eve bolted away.  So
Marika turned again to Federico, who was doing his best to pick her up off the
ground.  “I didn’t know she was still in love with you.”