The Magic In The Receiver

by Dillon, Paul

  “He’s not even Italian,” said Ben.

  “Be careful or you’ll end up drinking the house slop, tonight.”

  “There are some good Greek wines,” Ben protested. “Where’d you get the Sassicaia, anyway?”

  “I had it shipped in from Italy, direct to the boat owner’s office.”

  “What’s the significance of the wine?” Elena whispered to Ben.

  “I don’t know. He’s always ranting on about it. It is good though, probably three or four-hundred dollars a bottle.”

  “Ouch,” said Elena.

  Two waiters arrived, carrying the first round of drinks and baskets of fresh bread. Spiro supervised, taking charge of the wine, uncorking the first Sassicaia with exaggerated ceremony. He poured a tasting sample into Joe’s glass. The whole table looked on as Joe pretended to choke on the contents.

  “Perhaps, some Greek wine?” suggested Spiro.

  “Hey, this guy’s funny,” said Eric.

  Spiro uncorked another bottle, pouring a serving for each guest.

  “Enjoy,” he said then left.

  A young girl in an Athenian goddess costume, carrying a wicker basket of red roses, appeared next to Clotilde. Ben noticed the deep crimson petals against her white dress before he looked up to see the girl’s face.

  “Joe, wake up. Clotilde needs a rose,” he said.

  The flower vendor held out an individual rose in a plastic cylinder. Clotilde hesitated, picking two loose ones from the basket.

  “Good choice.” Ben offered up his water glass as a vase.

  “Merci,” said Clotilde.

  For the last five minutes, Elena had listened to the conversation without speaking. Ben smiled repeatedly at her, keeping her engaged. When she finally spoke, it was to Clotilde.

  “Did Sophia tell you about the artists today?”

  “Yes, I’m looking forward to seeing their work tomorrow.”

  “You mentioned working at a gallery in Paris,” said Ben.

  “Yes, in Le Marais. It was part-time. I wanted a career in modeling but my father is an art dealer; I grew up in that world.”

  In her preoccupation with Ben, Elena had forgotten to ask Sophia what happened with Pasquali. “I must call Sophia soon,” she said to Ben.

  Joe handed the flower vendor a pair of twenty-Euro notes. Surprised, she offered one back.

  “Keep it,” said Joe. “Have a great evening.”

  The girl, having a seemingly permanent smile, held out roses for Elena. Ben smiled, shaking his head, pointing to the huge bouquet in the center of the table. Elena complimented the girl on her dress and the vendor moved on to the other guests.

  “How about you, Ben, are you interested in art?” asked Clotilde.

  “Not seriously, I tend to find objects more interesting than paintings. Perhaps some of Modigliani’s works … if I had to name a famous painter.”

  “An Italian of course, what else?” said Joe.

  “I think he worked in Paris and was influenced by the French impressionists,” said Ben.

  “Yeah, well, maybe that’s why he painted everyone with ten foot long necks,” said Joe.

  “I believe his fascination with African art inspired the elongated necks,” said Clotilde.

  Elena had never heard of Modigliani. In fact, she was unable to remember his name from moments ago.

  … it began with the letter M, she thought.

  Clotilde was so attractive and sophisticated. It was all she could do not to wilt in her shadow.

  It’s not her fault; she’s not showing off, she thought. I’m the one who mentioned art.

  Ben too, was increasingly impressed with the French girl. He reminded himself again to orchestrate the conversation and keep Elena involved. Before he could do that, the first dishes arrived, diverting everyone’s attention.

  Spiro described each appetizer as though introducing a person.

  “This is gemista … tomatoes stuffed and baked; aubergine saganaki, ees delicious; classic Greek salad; dolmades … stuffed vine leaves; tzatziki and kalamarakia … which is pieces of fried squid with lemon juice.”

  “Outstanding,” said Eric.

  “Elena, you have to try this,” said Ben, lifting the aubergine and stuffed tomatoes plate.

  “Thanks, it looks delicious.” She scooped up a portion. “This is like eating at my Aunt Nicia’s villa. You should see the courtyard where they dine outside; it’s magical. I should invite you.”

  “I think that’s all I ever want to do. Spend the whole evening, at the family table, drinking wine, savoring the dishes. How’s the Sassicaia, by the way?” he asked, reaching for the bottle.

  “Delicious.”

  Ben poured more wine into Elena’s glass then topped up the others, squeezing out the last drops on Joe’s pour. “Cheers,” he said.

  Glasses chinked.

  “Time to uncork another,” said Joe.

  “Hey, Joe, what if we run out of Sassicaia, will you try the Greek wine?” asked Ben.

  “Greek wine? Forget about it! Can you imagine … after Sassicaia? I’ll just send Alan to the boat for some more.”

  Elena’s phone rang. She excused herself and walked over to the souvenir shop.

  “The Greek salad is excellent,” said Clotilde. “Back in the States, if I ask for a Greek salad, they’ll put lettuce in it.”

  Ben didn’t answer; he sat, transfixed by the vision of Elena, standing exactly where he’d first seen her seven hours earlier. In the muted street light, the olive dress had taken on a different hue; it still clung to her figure, the wellspring of his fantasies.

  “Hey Ben, wake up, Clotilde’s talking to you,” said Joe.

  “I asked what Elena does?” repeated Clotilde.

  Ben flat out hadn’t heard her the first time. “I haven’t asked.” He wanted to continue his Elena daydream. “And I don’t really care. She’s from Boston, her parents are Greek; she’s staying with family in Argostoli.” He kept gazing at Elena. “I think I’m falling in love…”

  Clotilde gasped; Joe’s jaw dropped.

  “Ben!” said Clotilde.

  “What the hell,” said Joe.

  “Well, not yet, but … no seriously; don’t tell her for chrissake. I think it’s something to do with the atmosphere … you know, here on the island.”

  “You’re a jerk,” said Joe.

  Clotilde whacked his arm. “Ben’s being romantic, Joe. Why can’t you?”

  “If only he were a true Italian,” said Ben.

  “No more Sassicaia for you, pal,” replied Joe. “Just wait ‘til your girlfriend gets back.”

  “Ben brings up a fascinating subject,” said Clotilde. “Studies have shown correlations between falling in love and a sudden change in one’s environment.”

  “I knew it.” Ben slapped the table.

  “You’d be interested in Why We Love by Dr. Helen Fisher,” said Clotilde. “She investigates the brain chemistry behind love. I can lend you a copy. It’s interesting stuff.”

  “I think I read about her research in Scientific American,” said Ben.

  “Was that the same article with the great English lovers?” Joe waved his hand, dismissing the topic.

  “Here’s a question for you,” Clotilde continued. “What’s the name of the hormone associated with love?”

  “Serotonin?” suggested Ben.

  “That plays a part but it’s not the one I’m thinking of,” said Clotilde.

  “I dunno,” said Joe. “How come you know all this stuff?”

  “I’ll bet Eric knows,” said Ben. “He’s a biologist.”

  Clotilde called across the table. “Eric, what’s the hormone associated with love?” She glanced over her shoulder at Elena and said in a hushed voice. “Ben’s thinks he’s been struck by Cupid’s arrow.”

  “Whoa, not so fast,” said Ben. “She’s kidding, Eric.”

  “Eh?” Eric looked bemused, trying to follow their gist. “I’m a molecular biologist not a ne
uroscientist but I think you mean oxytocin.”

  “That’s the one,” said Clotilde.

  “Women release it in huge quantities during childbirth and breastfeeding,” said Eric. “And when you stroke a dog, both human and dog produce it. It’s like a bonding thing.”

  “Where’s the goddamn service around here?” said Joe, trying to squeeze another drop out of the Sassicaia.

  “Better change the subject before Elena gets back,” said Ben. “Besides, there’s not much I can do about it now. Aphrodite has spoken.”

  The waiter arrived, pushing a food cart, just in time to prevent Joe from going into Sassicaia withdrawal. The man studied the empty bottles and looked at Joe, who nodded in the direction of the remaining stash.

  Spiro followed, accompanied by a woman. He whispered instructions to the waiter, who began transferring the hot dishes to the table.

  “This is my wife, Irilena,” said Spiro.

  Come Irilena, come see the silly rich Americans, thought Ben.

  The silly, rich, and friendly Americans greeted Irilena with applause.

  “I have made one dish specially for you,” said the wife. She could only speak English slowly and with a heavy Greek accent. “Ees lamb kleftiko, please enjoy.”

  After the cheering stopped, Spiro announced the rest of the dishes.

  Ben’s eyes never left Elena, who was still in front of the souvenir shop.

  “You asked them to cook a special dish?” asked Clotilde. “I’m impressed.”

  “Well, sort of,” said Ben. “I’m not sure it’s so special or they would serve it all the time, right? I appreciate the effort though. Lamb kleftiko’s a stew, so she must have started preparing it after I made the arrangements with Spiro. It was nice of her to come out and introduce it.”

  “Here she is,” said Ben, as Elena came back to the table. “How’s Sophia?”

  “Fine, she got back, no problem. She’s having dinner with her boyfriend.”

  Ben repeated Spiro’s description of the entrees. “So, here’s kreatopita, a Kefalonia pie; this one’s moussaka; shrimp saganaki … I had that already today; sea bass; and this is lamb kleftiko … you just missed Spiro’s wife who told us she’d made it specially for you.”

  “Liar.”

  The conversation ebbed as the diners helped themselves to portions of the colorful dishes.

  “I want some tuna,” said Joe.

  “It’s not on the menu,” Ben replied.

  “Is this one of those save the endangered tuna restaurants?” asked Joe.

  “I doubt it.” Ben readied himself for the imminent banter.

  “Quite a few places no longer serve blue fin tuna,” said Clotilde.

  “I’ve stopped eating it.” Elena sided with the French girl.

  “Another save the planet eco-maniac. What’s the world coming to?” said Joe.

  Clotilde objected.

  “Oh no, he’s off.” Ben knew Joe was teasing Elena, but it wasn’t easy to detect.

  “No, but I don’t think we should exploit species to extinction,” Elena replied.

  “Take no notice, he’s kidding,” said Ben.

  “Don’t let him get started on climate change,” said Sean, who had been listening in on the conversation.

  “Joe doesn’t believe humans can affect the climate,” explained Ben.

  “That’s right,” said Joe. “It’s a big scam.”

  Clotilde excused herself and left for the restroom.

  Ben poured more wine, topping up each glass to one-quarter full.

  The other half of the table became involved in the discussion. Eric shouted over, “Everyone in Joe’s family owns a Hummer. His wife, his kids; they all have one. When they go out to dinner or to the movies, they take separate trucks.”

  “They don’t want to have to listen to Joe,” said Sean.

  “It’s good for the economy,” Joe quipped.

  “They’re talking about his ex-wife,” whispered Ben to Elena.

  “Joe doesn’t care about the environment or species preservation. He had the designer of his new house cover the walls of his entertainment room in giraffe skin,” said Ben.

  “How horrible.” Elena winced.

  “It’s true, the designer tried to convince him to use fake giraffe skin … but not Joe,” Ben tried mimicking a New Jersey accent, “I can afford the real thing.”

  “You’re kidding me,” said Joe. “Have you seen the size of those things? One giraffe covered the whole room; just its neck, alone, was enough for one wall.”

  “Are we back to Modigliani?” asked Clotilde catching the tail end of the conversation.

  They all laughed.

  “Joe’s unstoppable,” said Ben. “No matter what you throw at him, he’s got an answer.”

  “I hope he’s behaving himself,” said Clotilde.

  ***

  Appetites faded as sauce dried on china. Ben took a long gulp of water and looked at Elena for inspiration. He hoped the waiter would come soon. The evening couldn’t have gone better, she had not disappointed, not done anything to switch on his love-safety-valve.

  Maybe it’s too late now. Even if she starts embellishing her conversation with finger-quotation-marks, I’ll no longer care.

  He laid his hand over hers, which rested on her leg; the tips of his fingers brushed lightly on her thigh. “You enjoying yourself?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “But I feel a little drowsy from the wine.”

  “Drink plenty of water. We’ll order coffee, you’ll be fine.”

  Ben withdrew his hand with a gentle squeeze and pondered the evening ahead. Going back to the yacht had no appeal. He was tiring of his friends now; five hours was a marathon for him. After coffee and desserts, he planned to leave for the hotel with Elena.

  Spiro returned with a stack of dessert menus. His voice rose just above the music, tempting his tired customers with sweet treats. Waiters cleared the table with effortless efficiency.

  Elena agreed to share a zuccotto with Ben who was having difficulty paying attention to the conversation. Joe overheard Ben ordering and seized another opportunity to extol the superiority of all things Italian.

  “Zuccotto, eh? Good choice. Couldn’t stomach the baklava?”

  “I hope Joe’s not offending your Greekness,” Ben said to Elena.

  “No arguments about Italian desserts. I don’t like baklava either,” she replied.

  Ben ordered espresso and a glass of ouzo.

  He turned to Elena. “I’m tired, it’s been a long day and I’m still getting over yesterday’s traveling.”

  “Me too. Today feels like it’s lasted forever … I mean that in a good way.”

  “I’m kind of yachted-out,” said Ben. “I’m not sure if I want to go back there again tonight.”

  “I’m okay with that,” she said.

  “Let’s just say goodnight at the jetty then go back to the hotel.”

  “Okay.” Elena pulled a slightly comical face, making him want to kiss her. He did not understand her meaning. The two remained in deep conversation, oblivious of the others.

  A hand invaded their world, sliding a dessert plate in front of them. Two spoons lay either side of an upside-down cake, coated with chocolate and sprinkled with white powder. Ben fed Elena zuccotto with his spoon. Only the two of them existed.

  Suddenly, the music stopped, breaking their drowsy chocolate spell. Ben looked up. The abrupt silence recalled a teenage memory. A dance hall; the music stops, the lights turn on; a fight is broken up.

  Meaningless conversations floated from the other tables, across the sultry air. Joe and Clotilde were silent, watching him. Ben wanted to leave.

  “They’re in love already,” said Joe.

  Elena looked puzzled; Ben ignored the remark.

  The music started up again, more exotic than before. Sweet chocolate and hazelnut delighted their tongues. Ben soaked up the sensuality of the night; the red billowing ceiling of the tent, the striped wa
lls woven with Arabic window designs. He lounged on the cushioned floor; she danced before him, tempting, promising. However long before she gave herself to him would not matter; let the music play. A tingle ran down his spine.

  Spiro set a demitasse in front of Ben; the dark muddy brown of the espresso lay hidden under an orange-yellow froth.

  “Ouzo,” said Spiro, serving a small glass of clear liquid.

  Ben thanked his host and sipped the strong bitter coffee, jolting his senses. The bill would come soon, ending this scene; beginning another.

  “If the government gets any bigger, we’ll end up socialists, like the Europeans,” said Joe.

  Sean and Eric were engaged in a political debate with Joe. Ben knew how it would play out; Joe would argue for more free market capitalism, the others making the case for some necessary government regulation.

  “It’s not such a free market, when big business can lobby congress to further its own agenda,” said Sean.

  Ben looked up at Clotilde who appeared disinterested. Perhaps he could get a three-way conversation going with Elena and Clotilde, wasting the minutes until they could leave.

  Clotilde beat him to the punch. “You’re quiet Ben. What side of the debate are you on?”

  Ben wasn’t going to let her pigeonhole him. He wasn’t interested in politics and never joined in discussions unless forced to do so. He struggled to dodge the question yet not reveal his apathy in front of Elena.

  “What is Joe debating? Free market capitalism versus socialism?” he said, buying a little time. He’d started, so must continue with an answer; any answer. Spiro was taking forever.

  “People will always have opinions. The competing dogmas just change from generation to generation,” he said.

  “How do you mean?” asked Elena.

  Ben wanted to avoid a political debate with Elena. “Well … consider the future. You could speculate that, in one-hundred years’ time, the argument will not be free market capitalism versus socialism.”

  “What will it be?” asked Clotilde.

  “We don’t know, but society will advance. Maybe they will look back on the issues of our time as ridiculous; like children arguing over who gets the green M&Ms.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Clotilde.