Journey of the Black Cat

1

The Piazza Quadrato was filled with flowing moments, owned by people who came and went with varying degrees of necessity. There were the people who passed through, who gave little or no interest in their surrounds; then others who stopped to take in the morning sun, which greeted them with a gentle warm that lingered momentarily on their faces, in the same way that it lingered on the rippling surface of the central fountain's water, scintillating in ways diamonds could only hope to imitate; and there were yet more who came with the intention of remaining for a while or longer. Birds played together near the fountain, taking to the air briefly when people came nearby, although some seasoned pigeons realised this was more opportunity than threat, so stayed and played all the while regardless.
The immoveable and silent stones of the buildings that gave solid form to the Piazza and which were not capable of owning flowing moments themselves, instead were a canvas on which life was painted, as wooden shutters, windows and doors opened sporadically and unpredictably, such that if people did not watch closely, they would not have known those which had just opened and those that had been open for some while. The square itself was the theatre for a gradual and continual, yet never ending metamorphic play, the stone buildings charmed indefinitely with a limitless amount of potential energy and enigma from which any form and manner of life seemed possible. The cool blue sky above was attached to the tops of all the buildings seamlessly, pulled taut in a flat plane which at the same time had a paradoxical and unknown depth capable of capturing the white clouds that moved within the wind, intermittently crossing in front of the image of the sun.
The tables outside a cafe on the west side of the square were screened by a line of planter boxes, from which grew small lemon trees. A bicycle leant up against one such planter, beyond which a table was occupied by three men who drank coffee, smoked cigarettes and looked out onto the square. The first wore entirely black, manifested in a T-shirt, cotton pants and rubber sandals. Lines began to form in pools of experience around the corners of his eyes and across his forehead, while his short brown hair of considerable volume had the style and lustre that suggested that he was in his early thirties. The second was older, carrying a full beard, wearing a white cotton shirt of mature selection and which made no attempt to hide a large belly formed by more meals than were necessary. His deep and throaty voice carried further than the table, influenced by the size of his chest and continuous chain of cigarettes that he smoked. The third was the youngest of the three, his face was fresh and clean into which were set blue eyes that mirrored the sky. His inability to sit still or control the spontaneous energy in his body was infectuous.
At a table closer to the door of the cafe, two old men drank coffee, smoked pipes and played a game of chess without pieces or a board, taking turns to name the piece they moved and the place they moved it to, as well as any of the opposition pieces taken with each turn. A table far to one side was taken by a pair of young ladies who gossiped, drank cappuccinos and both wore sunglasses, short, loosely cut dresses that had no sleeves and which revealed much of the flesh of small, yet firm breasts and almost the entire length of slender, olive skinned legs. Nicholas, wearing black sunglasses, not wanting to be detected looking at such sights, was full of praise. As he looked, he placed his cigarette holding hand onto his left breast, gave it a gentle caress and let a deep, satisfying groan vibrate for the length of one exhaling breath.
"Do you see Milo, that is what you should be painting. If you painted that, then I would sell your paintings, because they would sell."
Milo, the younger of the three, ignoring Nicholas as he hovered his hand in the air, elbow leant on the table, producing a gesture mimicking a swan holding it's head both gracefully and indignantly.
Nicholas continued regardless. "Although to be able to paint something like that, you would need to understand it and I am certain that you have never come close to a woman such as those two over there. Franz, on the other hand, if he could paint, would know his subject very well, isn't that so?" He turned to the man dressed in black, who in turn looked at the two women briefly, then continued to drink his coffee.
"I suppose, although Zoe left me sometime between last night and this morning, while I slept. I'm not too concerned however, she was not that good a friend and even less a lover. So you could almost say good riddance."
Milo put his coffee cup back in the saucer and tried with his other hand to bring the swan to life, though all he could manage was an ostrich angry that it's head had been pulled out of the ground. It was ugly at best. "She wasn't a great model either. She was good looking, but she had no idea how to hold herself."
"What on earth are you talking about! There is nothing to being a model, look..." Nicholas sat back in his chair and held an expressionless pose that considered the central fountain, long enough to make the point, "...it's easy."
"If I wanted to paint a picture of an arse or a tramp, then perhaps."
"Neither of which you could paint anyhow. What are your paintings of anyway? All I can ever see are wavy lines and too much acrylic on the canvas."
"It is called Fluid Expressionism."
"I see. And what skill does one require to do this Fluid Expressionism? I will tell you what skill - it requires none. Although that in itself is an art I suppose... to have no skill. All this Modern Art is rubbish. Honestly, and as a friend Milo, why don't you take some lessons?"
"Fine, when I am rich from selling my paintings for thousands and you come to me and say Milo, Milo please let me sell your paintings, please let me do this for you... then I will simply say that my paintings require no skill and will not sell, so I could not possibly let my friend, Nicholas, waste his time on them."
"Ha! I have no need for them anyway! I am doing very well with Franz here. And how is it going Franz?"
"It's coming along. I've finished the first two parts. The third is taking some time. I haven't started writing it yet, but it's coming together. I think another few months."
Franz finished his coffee. Milo lay the Ostrich down and with his right hand was pleased to see he was able to welcome the return of the swan. Nicholas continued to smoke his cigarette and took a moment when he could to snatch a look at the two women in the corner of his eye, smiling each time he did.
The sound of Spanish guitar started and then filled the square, reverberating from the walls of the church to the north, to those of the apartments above the cafe to the west, then across to the restaurant to the south, then finally to the old school to the east, below which a young man, with neck length, waved hair with an appearance of being wetted, wearing black jeans and a white T-shirt that fitted well, played the guitar with an unconscious dexterity, as he looked at a variety of birds flying in opposing, concentric circles, that undulated in height and speed above the fountain. As he followed the path of one, his eye was taken at the point of the path being crossed by another flying in a different direction. As this was a continuous occurance his eye moved without pause or effort and connected well with the music he played. A young woman who wore a dress with sleeves and which covered fully across her breasts, sat on a step close to the young man and watched him play, with her knees turned in his direction, the forefinger of her right hand gently stroking the inside of her left calf.
"What an ugly dress." remarked Nicholas.
"Does Sebastian ever pay any attention to those girls?"
"Don't be silly Milo, look at him. He's totally lost in his own world. I doubt he even knows she's there. Although with that dress I wouldn't blame if he chose to not know she was there."
"Right, I'm going now." Franz took some coins from his pocket and left them on the table beside his coffee cup. "Milo, keep on painting. I want you to come round some time and you can paint a piece for me, how about tomorrow, or the day after? Just come over. I'll pay you for it."
"Thank you Franz."
Nicholas pointed towards Franz with his cigarette in hand. "Let me know when you have something for me. They are getting impatient to see what you have been doing with their money."
"Just tell them it will be ready when it is ready. See you."
Franz left them.
The two men by the door finished their game of chess, the black king moved to H2, then the white knight moved to F1, supported by a pawn at H3 and the king at G4.

2

Franz opened the door to the vacuum he left behind before he went out for coffee, a stillness of smells and sound heightened the sense of emptiness. He held his breath for a few moments and concentrated on slowing his heart rate. Beats echoed in his chest and slowed, until the oxygen in his lungs began to drop, and started to quicken again. He stood silently and looked over his apartment. One long room with white washed walls and sanded wooden floors, almost two storey's high, kitchen at the front door end with a workbench that separated it from the living room, in which his two white, modern, fabric covered couches opposed each other, a glass coffee table stood between them on a thick white, rug. Behind the couch to the left was a picture that Milo had painted some time ago, depicting a young female nude with no facial features and painted entirely in red, holding a black box into which she peered and hovering in a cloud of varying shades and finishes of gold. Behind the other couch was a large painting of solid red colour in a black frame, defined by the thick texture of paint and brush strokes, that he had seen in a gallery when he was twelve and last year had been able to buy.
At the far end of the room was his oak writing desk, completely out of style with the rest of the apartment, a replica Bureau Mazarin and a rectangular oak stool, to the left side of which there was a compartmentalised oak shelving unit against the wall, significantly emptier than last night, containing now his records, books, CDs, record player, stereo and small pictures. He failed to recall what was now missing that made it emptier. To the other side of the desk was the metal spiral staircase that led up to the first mezzanine sleeping space, mirrored by another at the kitchen end, both open to each other being no more than suspended floors, such that anyone in bed at one end could be seen by someone in bed at the other. Time appeared to have stopped and this tempted him to hold his breath until he passed out, but when his lungs screamed desperate pleas against his will, he opened his throat and breathed again.
Once open, the French doors and shutters made way to a breeze that blew in with the morning sun, suffusing the apartment with a light airiness that changed the mood of the place refreshingly. Franz turned on the stereo and a selected a mix between Robert Miles and Trilok Gurtu that he had downloaded from the internet. A series of clicks and pricks and wafting harmonies with tin drum beats and then synthesised deep riffs combined together, swirling around the multitude of speakers placed intentionally to create a stereophonic body of sound.
He took his fountain pen and writing book from a drawer in the desk and lightly held his bottom lip between his first and second fingers, as he looked through the French doors. The balcony reached outwards for a metre, trying desperately to reach across to the balcony of the adjacent apartment, but fell short by another metre again. Across the street, white net curtains waved in the gentle breeze and shade, the sun had only risen high enough to enter his apartment and as far out as his balcony, everything else from there in shade. Franz had seen the girl across the street only once before and tried to remember what she looked like. In doing so his eyes moved across the desk, resting on the framed postcard of a Fontano painting, the cut in the canvas to him a metaphor for the most delicate female flesh. Picking up his pen, he removed the lid and dropped the nib on to the paper:
At times, I don't even know who I am. When I wake or fall asleep, there is sometimes this great sense of being lost, if only because I imagine any number of streets or rooms or beds that I could be in; and there could be any number of people whom I might be or be with. In the seconds before I wake, I can sometimes dream a whole day with such realism that it is hard to know if it has happened or not. Even now I cannot be entirely sure, but for the lack of recollection or comment by other people on those dreamed events. Are these dreams? Or visions? Or in fact that is reality and this is a dream? Sometimes I call for something good to happen and it does; and in others I think or dream bad things or consequence to myself or another and something happens, like shutting my finger in a door or dropping a heavy object on my toes, as if a subtle reminder to be good again.
I have dreamt of a knife.
If I dream of this, then this comes, and of that brings that. But when I dream of nothing, it is not nothing, but anything that comes - dreams, nightmares, visions, destinies and I know when I wake that She has been with me and knowing her somehow threatens my line between dream
and reality. I wish I could drown her in a drop of water, then truly dream of nothing. Dream nothing and instead feel the warm embrace of real love that would then sleep with me in my bed and of all manner of real feelings that would then accompany me about my day.
The old black telephone on his desk rang loudly. He closed the writing book, put the lid back on his pen and replaced both in the drawer from which they came. The telephone rang three more times, during which Franz shook his head and blew a sharp breath outwards, then sniffed in just as sharply through his nose. He lifted the receiver.
"Franz? It's Ranulph, what are you doing? I've been trying to get hold of you all morning. There is a party tonight, you should come. There will be lots of people there, lots of women, you should come! There's going to be a DJ! It's going to be great!"
"Who's party is it?"
"It's a friend of mine, Imogen. I'll come round to yours at seven and we can drive there, okay?"
"Ok, see you at seven."
"Bye!"
Ranulph rang off and Franz placed the receiver down. He brushed his hands through his hair to give it some volume and felt his chin. He liked the stubble growing on his face and maintained it by shaving with a pair of electric clippers, instead of a razor. The music no longer suited his mood, as thoughts turned towards the night's potential pleasures and delights, an electric feel sparked from his chest, through his neck and produced itself externally on his face and particularly in his eyes. He pulled a record from the stack on the shelf, Sinnerman by Nina Simone, something less abstract and more upbeat, turned the volume up and proceeded to dance around the lounge with long, unbroken movements that involved his entire body.
From the moment the French doors in Franz's apartment had opened, Yalena moved behind the white net curtains, trying to remain both out of sight and in a position where she could see into his apartment. As the curtains waved in the wind they seemed to refuse to hide her and she felt vulnerable, but still driven to be there. She watched as he danced.

3

At seven p.m. precisely the intercom rang, Franz buzzed Ranulph up and left the door on the latch. The apartment had been in shade since early afternoon and, along with the gentle breeze that still moved in through the balcony doors, provided an easiness about it that made it hard for things to be difficult. Franz had been sitting on one of the couches, looking at Milo's painting, listening to a mix of nu-jazz and Latin-infused beats. He contemplated the night ahead with a sense that it would be both timeless and indefinite.
Ranulph appeared wearing a smart ensemble of dark blue jeans with a black leather belt and black buckle in the shape of a short music bar, complete with four notes in G, D, E and C, a pair of black-and-grey checked slip-on Vans, a tight fitting, long sleeved blue shirt and a brown, lightly checked duckbill cap.
Franz turned as he entered. "You look good. I'm looking forward to tonight."
"Are you ready then? Shall we have a drink first?"
Ranulph went into the kitchen and took a bottle of vodka and another of sake from the side, then two glasses and a cocktail shaker from an upper cabinet. From the freezer compartment of the refrigerator he took a tray of ice cubes, emptied the contents into the shaker, along with a mix of the spirits, and shook the contents vigorously, straining and pouring an equal amount into each glass. He took a lemon from the fridge, cut a couple of slices and added to the drinks, handing one to Franz and one to himself.
"Cheers. They call this an Osaka. I was introduced to it in Paris." He snorted a laugh.
"Pleasant. Here's to Night."
Franz took his keys and a credit card from his wallet, putting both in his pocket, then shut the French Doors before leaving. He left the music playing, turning the volume down so that it was no more than an ambience.
In the other apartment, the last of the sun highlighted the gentle undulations of the white net curtains, waxing and waning in the evening breeze, steady as an ocean that moved with a soft caress.
For the duration of the car ride, Franz was so excited that he didn't notice how fast he drove and Ranulph had to wedge himself with one leg in the footwell and his arm against the door, to prevent himself from being flung around the car every time they went around the corner. Ranulph himself failed to notice this automatic reaction, being excited about the night ahead and furiously threw directions both verbally and with his one free arm, his hand shaking orders either left, right or straight ahead. When they neared the house in which the party was contained, Ranulph was lost trying to see if anyone was coming and going there and forgot to tell Franz to stop. As a result they ended up parking a way down the street.
As they got out of the car, a girl walked towards them, wearing a black dress that shook around the top of her legs as she walked, her black hair cut into a retro, medium length bob and as she passed Ranulph she turned and pretended to bite like a big cat at him, causing him to quickly stand off and lean against the car. She laughed to herself and carried on along the street.
"Shit! Did you see that? I hope she's there tonight."
"What's this friend of yours like, the one who's party it is?"
"Imogen? She throws great parties. I've been to a couple before, the place will be packed, so we better get in."
The black dress shook all the way down the street in front of them and then turned to go down a set of stairs. The sound of party swelled out onto the street in the form of music and laughing. They reached the stairs themselves, which they took, down and through an open door,into a long room, packed with people, standing and sitting, talking and laughing. Ranulph made his way through the crowd first, headed in no particular direction, but hoping for a gentle collision with someone he knew, but before this could occur his arm was grabbed and someone threw their arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek.
"I'm so glad you could come, it's packed! And you're late!"
"I didn't even say a time. Here, meet my friend. Imogen, this is Franz."
As Ranulph turned to complete the introduction, he instead found a man and a woman talking, neither of whom he knew. "I think I lost him. Oh well. You look well. You look good."
Imogen was wearing a white singlet that fell and grabbed at the top of her jeans which in turn slid down her legs and introduced a pair of light red slip on shoes that matched her lips. Her greyish-blue eyes sparkled with the delight of being the host. She beamed an uncontrollable, wide smile, kissed Ranulph once more. She opened her arms to embrace the crowded room "Enjoy! Meet people! Make love!" and disappeared.
Towards the back of the room stairs led up to a half level which was Imogen's open bedroom, the bed removed elsewhere to leave more room. Purple silk drapes with elaborate and detailed Indian patterns were hung from the ceiling and pulled across to the walls, below which a DJ mixed records on a set of decks, resting on top of an old fold out camping table. Large speakers growled dirty, deep drum and bass beats intermixed with contrastingly sweet vocals from a girl who sang in a soulful jazz style, captured in a continuous state of flow. In the other corner, Ranulph spied Nicholas and Milo, who were arguing. Milo made imploring gestures with his arms as his mouth moved rapidly, while Nicholas would listen and then shake his head which served only to incense Milo to continue. Ranulph laughed and then looked around for the girl in the black dress. Instead of finding her, he came across the temporary bar that had been set-up along one wall, complete with bartender dressed impeccably, and he pushed his way in that direction.
"I'll have a drink please bartender, something fit for the occasion."
The bartender nodded and Ranulph took the time while his drink was prepared to look over the crowd. Three young ladies, holding hands so not to lose each other as they ventured into the party, smiled as they brushed passed him, each smile exponentially warming him, his eyes opened as wide as his smile and he turned around and slapped one hand down on the bar.
"I think Sir enjoys the ladies?" said the bartender, as he handed Ranulph a drink.
"Thank you. I certainly do."
"Is there one in particular Sir?"
"There is! And what a woman she is. I intend to meet her and propose many different things." the thought of which made him laugh.
"Well I wish you the best of luck."
"Why thank you. What's your name?"
"I'm just the Bartender, Sir."
"Well then here's to young ladies, Bartender." He raised his glass and walked off in pursuit of different things.
Franz observed a variety of conversations and took pleasure as he watched those people who engaged to the extent of successfully separating themselves from the past and future, like hermetically sealed time capsules, impervious to anything but the here and now. The music flowed continuously with a sweet viscosity that penetrated every part of the room. He walked up the three stone stairs to the half floor and found Milo and Nicholas in the corner, still arguing.
"Franz! He is being so dense, he won't even consider selling my paintings."
"I know, Nicholas is almost impregnably difficult to engage with, you know?"
Nicholas laughed. "I presume that is a compliment to my integrity in choosing only the best of course!"
Franz looked over the room. "It's a good party isn't it?"
Nicholas took a long drag on a cigarette. "Have you met Imogen?"
"Not yet. Should I?"
Another person joined between Milo and Franz. Franz caught a girl in the corner of his eye, turned and had to look down since she, in a tight fitting white singlet, was about a foot shorter than he. She returned a smile and just looked at him, holding her drink close to her light red lips. A few moments passed, which was reasonable, but she showed no sign of either saying something or losing interest, at which Nicholas laughed and walked away. Milo remained momentarily then left in pursuit of Nicholas.
"Hello."
"This is your party isn't it?"
"Yes. Are you enjoying it?"
"I am, I love coming to parties where there are lots of people. Do you know all them?"
"Oh, some are friends, others are friends of friends, friends of friends of friends, that sort of thing. Ranulph told me that you are alone."
"Tonight? Yes, I am. And as far as I know I will be alone tomorrow night as well, and the next and for all those after. I can say that much now."
"Really? That is a coincidence, because I am alone tonight, at least."
Imogen moved her body side to side in time to a two step beat within the music and made eyes at him. Franz knocked his lips with the knuckle of his forefinger.
"Will you tell me something?" She leaned momentarily towards him. "I want you to tell me the most passionate moment you ever shared with a woman."
Franz rubbed the stubble of his chin on his left shoulder, which abrased pleasingly on his black top, looked back at Imogen and nodded his head. "There was this girl I knew once. Eva. She had the worst temper, but she also had this switch inside of her that would just flick sometimes and ... snap...this dirty smile grew steadily on her face and she would tell me that she needed me inside her. Without warning, she would just take me, wherever we were, it didn't matter, she would wrap her arms around me and kiss me freely, grabbing my body and tearing at my clothes - it was quite irresistible, I was like an insect burning in a flame, except I didn't burn, it just got hotter. I didn't even know if she was there, you know, like if she knew it was happening, and I didn't really care because it felt so good, just watching her twist and turn towards these violent orgasms that would grip her body and I would feel every muscle tense and then convulse rapidly and uncontrollably. She would release this noise, this sound of such complete release of pleasure, only when she finally came and it was a sound that melted me. When she slept afterwards, I would watch her, because she was then so peaceful and I wished her to sleep forever, because she looked like an angel. She was so beautiful. When she woke up, she would smile and get up and before long she would be in a fit of rage again! It was fun for a while, like a game, but she was impossible to live with, she exhausted me. I think after so long she really did burn me. But just for a while, I think I may have loved her? I don't know. She was the most passionate thing I have known." He looked at nothing, caught in a moment of temporary sadness which broke as he looked at Imogen and laughed silently.
She had listened intently and her head now turned down, while her eyes looked up at him and they burned. Her mouth opened slightly, enough so he could see her teeth gently grind backwards and forwards, she touched his forearm and stroked it gently with the tips of her fingers alone. She leant towards him, placed her head near his neck and said softly, "you know, I don't have any fits of rage and I don't have a switch. But I can be more passionate than that." She took her fingers away as her body retreated from him.
In a frantic dash, Ranulph ran towards them, drunk and with his ear bleeding.
"She bit me! She asked me if she could bite my ear and I said yes and she did! And now she is chasing me and trying to bite the other one. I wanted something different, but that's ridiculous! We have to go!"
"Who?"
"The girl in the black dress of course!"
Franz looked at Milo's bleeding ear.
"I don't mind going. Let's go somewhere else, yes?" Imogen took Franz's hand, then Ranulph's and pulled them both through the crowd. On the way towards the front door they picked up both Nicholas and Milo, who were not talking to each other and were both quite drunk, and left the party behind.
Out on the street they hailed down a taxi and jumped in, Milo in the front and the other four squeezed in the back. Nicholas found this uncomfortable, so he wound down the window and put his head and shoulders out, which was fine with him because he wanted to smoke a cigarette anyway. Ranulph, who sat across at the other window, asked for a cigarette and put his head out as well. Imogen held herself forwards as she rested her forearms on top of the front seats and gave spontaneous directions to the driver, who took them towards the town.
Night?

4

By the time the taxi pulled up outside Piccolo, the sun had fallen and darkness had taken over. They bundled out of the taxi and Nicholas paid the fare. Milo looked into the window of the restaurant at a couple sharing a bowl of Spaghetti Pomodoro. Ranulph grabbed him as the others entered a doorway to the right and headed up the stairs.
"Where are we going?" Milo asked.
"Up here. It's the Valentine Miller."
"Is it new? I haven't been here before."
"No. It's not new. Come on."
Two casually dressed bartenders, who stood behind a long, darkwood bar running the length of the place, greeted them as they entered. Polyurethened concrete walls held wall lights that cast a muted illumination that faded gradually towards the floor. Two of the three black leather booths to the left were taken and the two to the right were occupied as well. Five people sat on bar stools, some faced the bar and others had their backs turned to it.
"Nicholas... wine, yes?" Ranulph slapped Nicholas on the shoulder and then pushed the rest of the group towards the remaining empty booth. As Nicholas went to the bar, they filtered into the horseshoe shaped seat, Ranulph first, then Milo and Franz. Imogen went around to the other side, pushed up against Ranulph and gave him a quick kiss on his cheek.
"How's your ear? It looks like it has stopped bleeding."
"I think it's fine, thanks. I hate to think what that crazy bitch would have done f I'd stayed though!"
Nicholas returned with two bottles of red wine and placed himself next to Ranulph. A bartender followed him with five glasses, which he put on the table.
"I got a Merlot and a Pinot Noir, ok?" He took the bottle of Merlot and poured them all a drink.
On stage a twinset of a young man wearing black jeans and a white T-shirt that fitted well, played straight chords on the guitar while he sang acoustic blue-eyed soul and soft rock, accompanied by another young man wearing blue jeans, a T-shirt with a picture of a Cabaret dancer and a dark green corduroy jacket, who played a snare drum with a pair of brushes.
Milo pointed at him and cried out. "Look! It's Sebastian. Hey Sebastian!! Sebastian!"
Sebastian looked up mid rendition of a soft and soulful Eye of the Tiger and lifted his head to them. He finished his song, placed his guitar in a stand next to his seat and gave his thanks through the microphone. As the live music stopped, so one of the bartenders turned on the stereo system. Sounds of snare drum beats, simple double bass rhythms that played against a saxophone, overlaid with scratched hip hop records and a near-melancholic, yet soulful female vocal, that subsequently gave way to a male rolling with a meaningful rap, moved about the bar. Sebastian took a bottle of beer from the ground next to him, walked over and sat down next to Franz. The drummer put down his brushes, picked up a glass of whisky and ice and joined them as well, sitting next to Nicholas.
"This is Jacques. Jacques, this is Franz, Milo, Ranulph..."
"....Imogen..." As Imogen introdced herself, she looked at Franz and he looked back at her, while Sebastian continued.
"...Imogen and Nicholas."
"Please to meet you. Are you having a good night?" Jacques lit a cigarette and offered his lighter to Nicholas with a fresh cigarette in his mouth. Milo leant across the table and took a cigarette and the lighter from Nicholas, lit his own cigarette and handed it back to Jacques.
Franz broke from Imogen. "It's been good. We were at Imogen's party, there was a good DJ and a girl singing, but then Ranulph had his ear bitten by a girl so we had to leave. It's a funny story, no? I like the music. Do you play here often Sebastian?"
"It's one of a few places I play regularly."
Milo blew out a lungful of smoke. "We saw you in the square this morning, playing Spanish guitar. Did you see the girl that was watching you?"
"No. I was looking at the birds."
Nicholas laughed. "See. I told you... completely lost!"
"Yeah but it must be nice to get into your music that much." remarked Franz. "It's the same when I write, sometimes I just start and then before I know it an hour has gone by and it's just gone, and it's like, wow, where did it go!"
"You know, it just does something to me. It's like when I play the guitar it really resonantes, you know, inside and I just feel my heart beat so easily and I feel at peace. It's nice. It's good. I feel like everything is good and I don't want to stop. All I like is playing music."
"You see, Nicholas, that is what my paintings are about. You don't need to paint a thing, I mean why bother? If the thing already exists and it's beautiful, then leave it alone. But feelings, they are a different thing. When you can feel something like this, and I mean, we're talking about love aren't we? then to be able to express that and to be able to show someone else what it looks like, that's a very special thing. Because I can lead you to a beautiful thing and show you it and it's done, no painting or picture required. But how can you show me love? In reality that feeling lasts for just a few seconds, you know the actually expression of it, it doesn't mean love only lasts a short time, but the expression, you'd be lucky to see the expression of love once a month I'd say."
"Yawn. Boring." Imogen tightened and raised the corner of her lips on one side of her face and looked at Nicholas. "Can I have a cigarette please?" Nicholas obliged and Jacques once more offered his lighter.
"Boring indeed. Milo bores me to no end. So what shall we talk about instead?"
"Oh I don't mind talking about love. But this is not love... love is sex... love is two people being in bed together . So if we are talking about love, let's talk about sex, please."
Milo put his cigarette into the ashtray and butted the table with the ends of his fingertips. "Well, I have to disagree. Sure, sex is part of love, but it isn't love itself. If you think love is just being in bed and having sex, then I would say you haven't really loved."
"Milo, I think it is you that has never loved. Please, Imogen, if you want to talk about love in as much that love is sex, then please, continue talking to me. Leave them to their love of music and painting." As Nicholas implored her to continue, she placed her hand on his leg and began to whisper in his ear. He held his glass of wine, toasted Milo and then laughed heartily to something Imogen had said.
Franz turned to the others. "Well to hell with that anyway. I mean, if love is just sex, then love is not much. It's just not a physical thing. Saying love is sex is like saying that love is a can of tomatoes or a book or a cigarette. It can be all of those things, but none of those are love."
Ranulph lifted his glass of wine and drank. "Well love certainly is in this glass of wine!" He took the bottle of Pinot Noir and refilled all the glasses.
"Franz, this one is a live wire. You better watch out tonight!" Nicholas put his arm around Imogen. "You better watch out because if you don't take her home... I will!" He laughed again.
"What do you want me to paint for you Franz?"
"I'm not sure. What do you think? What would you paint if you had to paint tonight?"
"Paint tonight? You mean the night we've had? Or you want me to paint right now?"
"No, the night we've had."
"Well, I can't really remember what we did earlier because I'm drunk, but I can kind of feel right here... these conversations, so, I think I would definitely have red, because of love and passion, but then also some black, like cancer, like death, because of the idea that love is just sex... but also something light, maybe white, I haven't used white, the hope that we will all know love one day. And as for how and what it would look like, well I want to do something expressionist of course and something that just comes, but also I would like to do something geometric, give it boundaries and lines to hold it together and give it form, so maybe do something mathematical. You know like that perfect equation thing... whats that called? You know the three two one thing... how does that sound?"
"Perfect. You must come tomorrow and while you paint, I shall write, ok? We'll settle a price once you are done."
As drinks were finished, Nicholas stood up, slapped his hand on the table and addressed the rest. "I need to eat. Who is going to eat with me? Let's go to Piccolo."
He convinced Ranulph, Milo, Sebastien and Jacques to join him, paid for the bottles of wine and they left headed for the stair, with Franz and Imogen following behind.
Imogen stopped Franz at the top of the stairs. "So, shall we go to your place?" She was not smiling and had a serious look on her face.
"I don't mind." They stood apart for a moment and a man walked between them as he left the bar. Franz put his hand on her cheek. "Let's not eat, let's get a taxi. I have food at my place if we need it."
When they got down the stairs, the others had already gone inside the restaurant and taken a table in the window. Franz tapped on the glass, Ranulph turned round, signalling to the others to look and Franz waved goodnight. They watched as he got into the taxi that Imogen had hailed for them and then they were gone.

5

After the meals, Nicholas ordered everyone lemon sorbet for dessert and, since the bottle of Negroamaro wine was finished, they took four caffes and a ristretto for Jacques.
Ranulph still wanted to drink more, so he left the table, slid across the polished parquet floor to the bar and asked the restauranteur for a Sambuca, a cigar and a box of matches. He looked up at the ceiling, which had large, exposed, wooden beams and he wished that instead of being in the restaurant, he was in fact laying in bed with a woman, looking up at the large, exposed, wooden beams of her bedroom. In between them, he would have mirrors for no other reason than to see the two of them lying together, her sleeping on her front with her arm across his chest, long brown hair spread out in a fan, her head on his arm that would be out to the side, her gentle smell of warmth, love, sex and roses would travel through his nose, down his throat and into his lungs and he would then know pure happiness. Instead, he drank his Sambuca and then lit his cigar with the matches.
"What happened to your ear?" A voice as sweet as honey and smooth as butter licked at the bite of the girl in the black dress.
"I was bitten. I went to a party and told this girl that I wanted something different, so she asked if she could bite my ear and I said yes."
"Something different?"
"Yes. I wanted different things."
"Do you still want different things?"
At this point Nicholas turned to see who was talking to and found sitting near him a black woman who had shoulder length jet black hair, cut short across the fringe, a large nose and very thick, full lips, heavily glossed and between which she also smoked a cigar. She wore a black dress with a high neck, short sleeves that finished with lacey ruffles and black high heels. On her arms she had laced gloves that reached to her wrist and on each ring finger of both hands, she wore identical silver rings into which were set large pearls .
"Well, if you don't mind me saying, you are a different thing, aren't you? And yes, I still want different things."
"Okay, come with me then." She put her cigar down in the ashtray, slid off her barstool and offered her hand to Ranulph, which he took. She led him around the corner to the toilet, opened the solid wooden door and flicked on the light once in. Ranulph closed the door behind them. The toilet was of such small dimensions that they both had to stand with their backs against the wall, their fronts pressed together and any hands movements were limited.
"Kiss me." She whispered in his ear.
He pressed his lips against hers and then let his tongue unfurl, push inside of her mouth and as he caressed, tasted cigars and wine. She took his hand and pressed it against her chest and with the other she placed it on her behind, both of which were firm and tight. He wanted to bite into her breasts and sink his nails into her behind. She felt him as he held her firm, put her hands down between his legs, and grasped him with great strength, which caused him to raise on to his toes and sink his tongue still further into her mouth.
"Do you want me to fuck you?" she asked.
"Of course!" replied Ranulph.
"Then touch me."
He put his hands on the outside of her thighs and with his fingers ran her dress up her legs, until it was in a bundle around her waist. Then, he put his feet inside of hers and kicked them open. His heart raced and he kissed her deeply, while she held and rubbed him.
Then, he slowly pushed his hand between her legs and, when he felt a large bump there, he stopped kissing, looked at her and froze as his heart dropped and the roots of his teeth began to tingle with a vivid realism.
The sweet as honey and smooth as butter voice turned coarse as gravel and bitter as lemons. "Whats wrong, you never had a man before? I thought you said you wanted something different."
As Ranulph emerged from round the corner with a look that suggested he was going to be sick, Nicholas, Sebastian, Milo and Jacques all burst out in an hysterical laughter, for Jacques had seen Ranulph being led away by the local transvestite and had shared this with the others. Ranulph did not return to the table, but instead headed straight for the door, which he opened.
He counted the events on his fingers as he addressed them. "I've had my ear bitten by a woman and now I've just had my hand between the legs of a transvestite. I'm going home." He slammed the door closed behind him, which sent the others into an even greater fit of hysterics.