The door had barely opened when Europe broke in upon the Near East — with short dresses, tight trousers, moccasins, hair trimmed and dyed a carrot hue, needle stilettos, diminutive furniture, and tape recorders playing Louis Armstrong numbers and Ciao, Ciao Bambina stuff. I, on the other hand, was replete with the ’28 vintage Artel Anti-Bourgeois gramophone presented to Dad by the MOPR and still on display at home. And what use is that?
And in the morning, there are my friends who’ve been to Europe, breakfasting on Turkish coffee and OC brandy, while I once again down my tea with candied peel in it and my Consumers’ Union cheese.
My mates put on such tight trousers that it takes two to flay them off again. But as for me, mine fall down by themselves when I unfasten my belt. And what use is that? None at all, naturally, but I hope to mend my ways after this story, seeing as upbringing has a bearing upon to the author in all literary compositions.
I met Viola in front of the phone exchange. With that eyeing-up-and-down that women do when assessing a man, she smiled pityingly at me and asked, “You free this evening?”
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“Why don’t you change out of that sack, have a shave and come to my place?”
“What’s on the billing?”
“I’m giving a little dinner for the beautiful people!”
“Who’ll be there?”
“A bunch of us who did Europe together. Come and find out, basically.”
“You bet!”
”Don’t you do any Georgian arithmetic on me, mind, where you invite a guy for the morning and he washes up at two in the afternoon with his buddies. Eight o'clock this evening, on the dot!”
“Our time?”
“Our time!”
“Right you are!”
“Ciao, then!”
“You what?”
“Bye!”
“Bye!”
Off she went, her waist sashaying obliquely, eliciting a deep moan from some oaf who happened to be there leaning against the wall, and a pounding of fist on chest.
If someone invites you to dinner and you turn up already stuffed, that would be a scale of folly and nincompoopery unheard-of in the whole world. Don’t get me wrong, there’s no use collapsing through the front door famished, but it’s best to come pretty hungry.
That being the notion I was raised with, I arrived at Viola’s flat on the stroke of eight that evening. In Viola’s living room, apart from a few Nordic exceptions, it was south-western Europe that reigned supreme.
“Give her a dance, Tengiz!” Sure enough, there weren’t enough boys to go around, and the very moment I walked in, Viola foisted a friend of hers on me. We started flailing around the middle of the room to the lyrics of some remarkably lugubrious blues: she a dainty dancer who would not take her eyes off me, I a clumsy dancer avoiding her gaze. She reeked of French perfume, Chanel; I of aviation fuel.
“What’s your name?” she asked me, the violet smoke of a filter cigarette wafting towards me.
“Tengiz. You?” I asked in return, assailing her with the black smoke of my ‘Prime’.
“I’m Tatia. Ever been to Europe?”
“No. You?”
“Oh, I’ve been all around it.”
“Why, didn’t they let you in?”
“Quel drôle!” Grinning at me, she tapped her index finger down on my nose. She rang the bell — “Brrrr” — and burst out in a giggle.
…………