Elsa
I cross the hall and find a place where the rumbling music is the loudest. People are dancing, drinking, and fucking in the private alcoves. I pay them no mind. I need to switch off. I nod at the bartender, and before I can count to three there is a glass of rosé champagne in front of me. I need another drink, so I down it and grab another glass, which magically appears on the counter. That’s how I spend another hour or maybe more. As soon as I decide it is enough and I am suitably drunk, I head back to those junkies in the alcove, surprised to see that the gentlemen are not alone anymore. There are women all around them, purring and brushing against their legs, arms, and crotches like horny cats. They are all beautiful and all hookers. Marcello is sitting in the middle, but alone. Is that a coincidence or something he has planned? I don’t care. I am happy with what I see because otherwise, I might have reacted violently. And I wouldn’t even hold that against myself. Before I can continue this train of thought, my eyes focus on the dancing pole. It is free.
When we were in high school, Rita and I started secretly taking pole dancing lessons. At first, I thought it was all about sexy squirming, but my instructor quickly taught me better. Pole dancing is the perfect way to keep your body in shape. It is a bit like gymnastics, only on a pole. So, without thinking, I go to the table, aim my eyes at Marcello, and slowly take off the cross hanging from my back. I kiss it and place it gently on the table in front of Marcello. The music blasting from the speakers feels like an invitation. I know I can’t do everything I have in mind. My dress is too short and there are all those guests around. One thing I know is that the moment I touch that pole, Marcello will blow a gasket anyway. When I grab the metal pillar and turn in a fluid pirouette, trying to gauge his reaction, he keeps still. All the men suddenly lose interest in the women around them and instead look at me. I got you now! I think, and start the show. A few seconds later I already know that the few years I haven’t practiced have done nothing to blunt my talent. I remember all the motions and could do it without breaking a sweat. Dancing comes naturally to me; I have danced since I can remember. Whether it is pole dancing, ballroom dancing, or Latino, it always soothes me.
I allow myself to sink into it: the alcohol, the music, the atmosphere of the place-all that has changed me. After a longer while I shoot a glance at the place where Marcello has been standing a while ago. The space is empty now, but all eyes were on me, including Gabriele’s. He is sitting wide-legged on the couch. I pirouette once more and freeze. That wild, icy stare is drilling holes in me. Marcello is standing right next to me. I wrap one leg around him and run my fingers through his hair, leaning him back against the pole.
“A very interesting choice of music for a nightclub,” I say.
“As you’ve noticed this is a club, not a disco.”
I turn around and press my buttocks against his crotch, gently swaying. Marcello grabs me by the throat and pushes my head into his shoulder.
“You are mine, dolcezza. Don’t you forget that?”
I laugh flirtatiously and slip down the pedestal, heading toward the table. One of the men pushes himself to his feet and grabs me by the wrist, pulling me to himself. I lose my balance and fall face-first onto the sofa. The man pulls up my dress and clasps his hand on my buttock, slapping it and shouting “bei glutei”, meaning nice ass. I want to get up and hit him on the head with a bottle, but I can’t move. At some point, I feel someone dragging me by the arms along the soft fabric of the sofa. I raise my eyes and see it is Gabrielle. I turn my head, noticing Marcello, who is holding the man who had been groping me just a moment ago by the throat. He holds a gun in his other hand, pointing it at my unfortunate admirer.
I wrestle out of Gabrielle’s grip and rush toward Marcello.
“He didn’t know who I am!” I say quickly, stroking Marcello’s hair placatingly. He doesn’t listen.
He roars “Hold her” in response, and Gabrielle jumps toward us, grabbing me again, but this time tightening his grip so I can’t escape. Marcello turns his head to a man standing next to the sofa, and a moment later all the women are gone. As we are left alone, he pushes the man he had been holding by the throat down to his knees, aiming the gun at his head. The sight makes my heart start thumping wildly. I can see the scene that had taken place in the dungeon. It is still too nightmarish for me. I hate guns! I fucking hate guns! I face Gabrielle, huddling my face against his shoulder.
“He can’t kill him,” I yelp, certain that a man couldn’t be murdered in cold blood in a public place like this.
“Oh yes, he can,” Gabrielle replies very calmly, holding me tight. “And he will.”
I feel all the blood drain from my face when I hear the horrific sound of a gunshot. I see blood everywhere. My father lying lifelessly in the grass. He can’t speak, he can’t breathe. My legs buckle and I start to slide down Gabrielle’s chest. He holds me tighter and calls something out. I want to scream but no sound comes out. I feel myself being lifted and carried somewhere. The music dies, and my body hits soft pillows