by Rich Allen
He could feel the sweat running down his back. The moment he’d fantasized about for hours had finally arrived. After nearly twenty four hours without food, he would eat like a king. Well, a king on a tight budget. He settled himself under a shaded table at a street café and waited for service. A pretty young lady soon appeared with a menu in English. Did he have “Englishman Abroad” tattooed on his forehead?
“You like a drink?” The dark haired beauty asked in confident English.
“Coca Cola, please. With ice and lemon.” The waitress disappeared inside and Jack soaked up the atmosphere. Several other customers sat outside; tourists, by the look of them.
Pizza. It had to be pizza. White Pizzas. Interesting…why not. When in Rome and all that. The waitress came back and took Jack’s order of Pizza Bianca.
“You like water for your table?” she asked him.
Jack shook his head. He wasn’t going to pay five euros for a bottle of water. Everybody seemed to be up-selling these days. It never used to be that way. From people in service stations trying to sell you chocolate bars with your petrol, to staff in fast food restaurants encouraging you to Go Large with your meal. Salespeople had somehow pervaded society and turned the world into one giant shopping mall, using suggestive techniques to sell crap to the masses. That’s certainly how the tourism economy worked. Getting people to part with their cash without them even realizing it.
The girl came back with Jack’s drink. She placed it on the table and shot him a perfect smile. He couldn’t help but admire her derriere as she headed back inside.
Jack wolfed down the massive pizza in record time and thought that he could quite easily eat another. The pretty waitress did a double take as she came outside and saw Jack’s empty plate. “You like?” she asked.
Jack gave the universal thumbs up sign as he chewed on the last morsels of food.
“Can I get you anything else?”
“No thanks. Il conto per favore.”
She flashed an angelic smile and vanished. Twenty seconds later she reappeared and placed the bill on a metal tray in front of Jack, who waited until she’d gone before examining it. Thirteen euros for the pizza and five for the coke. No service charge. Tourist prices. He took out a twenty and placed it onto the tray then savoured the last dregs of his ice cold drink. He felt good. His belly began emitting strange rumbling sounds; probably because it hadn’t been fed for a while.
He could easily sit there all day ogling the pretty waitress. No, that made him sound like the kind of middle aged saddo that he’d always despised. As Jean Paul Sartre famously said: “Hell is other people.” In other words, Jack mused: we hate in others what we do not see in ourselves, though it exists nonetheless. Hell is other pizzas. Not a bad name for a chain, he thought. The pizza restaurant for the existentialist thinker. Definitely a niche market. Maybe he should apply for the next series of The Apprentice. Lord Sugar would surely want to go into business with a genius like Jack.
“Grazie,” he shouted to the waitress as he stood up, grabbed his bag and headed towards the square.
The girl came outside. “Prego,” she said, then waved playfully at him.
He waved back and smiled at her. As he did, he felt an urge in his shorts. He was old enough to be her dad. Ho hum. Jack Holden was definitely still alive. Today had been D Day. Or should that be S Day: S for suicide. He had no plans to top himself this fine day. He couldn’t speak for tomorrow, after all, that was another day.
His ardour diminished as he headed towards the phallic symbol in the middle of the roundabout; an irony that wasn’t wasted on him. He quickly consulted his map then took a right. Yes, that was it. He clocked the street sign: San Giovanni in Laterano. It was a long avenue full of apartments and cafes. The street, he knew, led down towards the Coliseum. He kept on walking, but couldn’t see any lodgings other than private ones. He eventually came to a busy intersection. Hang about. There on the left, two stories up on a huge building, a battered sign - “Hostel San Giovanni.”
Jack made his way to the large wooden double doors. The names of several persons or businesses appeared next to their relevant buzzers. He spotted the one that said “Hostel.” As he waited outside an elderly lady opened the door and stepped outside. She shot Jack a quizzical look, and then made her way down the street towards the Coliseum. The door closed slowly. Maybe he should hold it open, and then sneak inside. No, not a good idea. He let the door shut and then lock before pressing the buzzer. Several seconds passed, and he was about to hit the buzzer once more when a muffled female voice came over the intercom: “Ciao.”
“Err buon giorno,” he said. “Parla Inglese?”
“Yes, can I help you?” Maybe a hint of Eastern European, Jack thought.
“Yes, I’m looking for accommodation for this evening,” Jack said. He felt a bit awkward stood outside talking into the intercom.
“For how many people?”
“Just myself.”
A pause, and then Jack heard the buzzer.
“Second Floor,” said the voice.
Jack pushed open the door. The hallway seemed dark but felt pleasantly cool. He eschewed the rickety looking lift and made for the stairway. By the time he’d climbed to the second floor he felt out of breath. He’d reached a landing which had a small plastic plaque on the wall: Hostel San Giovanni. An arrow pointed left. He could hear human activity not far away. The sounds of laughter, or was it torture? Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. Why didn’t they have Travelodges in Rome?
He approached a reception area where a blonde woman in her early thirties stood behind a counter. Situated directly behind her, a grid of pigeon holes and key racks. A pool table sat in the centre of the room and some lounge chairs had been dotted around, though nobody seemed to be using this communal area. Two vending machines stood side by side in the far corner.
Jack moved over to the counter. The woman had short, bleached blonde hair and steely blue eyes. She had a sexiness about her, Jack thought. “Hello,” she said with a hard Eastern European note. “You want room for tonight only?”
Jack smiled. He felt the need to disarm her. “Yes that’s right, although I may wish to stay longer if that’s possible,” he said.
The lady’s eyes scanned Jack from tip to toe as though she was inspecting the exterior of a car for superficial damage. She probably had to deal with plenty of dodgy types. Druggies, drunks, general undesirables. The sort of folk who would, on occasion desire hostel accommodation.
“My name is Nina. You will need to fill out forms please. The cost is twenty five euros for bed in male dormitory or I can fix you private room for fifty.”
Jack quickly checked his finances: one hundred and eight euros. “May I see what the dorm looks like?” he asked. If it was as terrible as he imagined, he might then justify the luxury of a single room.
“Follow me.” She lifted up the hatch on the counter and led Jack through the communal area and out onto a long corridor. Jack noticed her narrow hips and tight skinny jeans which clung to her body as she moved gracefully ahead of him. Passing several doors, some of which had footwear left outside, they came to a large set of double doors on the left. Jack noticed that the passageway continued at a right angle, with another set of double doors at the end. Probably the girls’ dorm.
Nina opened the door. The fusty smell coming out of the dorm reminded Jack of the changing rooms at the gym. The place appeared empty apart from the rows of gun metal single beds positioned on either side of the vast room. Jack estimated about thirty beds in total.
“There are a couple of free spaces in here tonight,” Nina said without the hint of an apology. “Bathrooms are down the corridor.”
Jack smiled at Nina. She might warm to him, eventually. She looked like the sort of woman that had put up with a lot of bullshit in her life.
“May I see the single room?” he asked her. He hoped it was half decent. The prospect of spending a night in a room full of sweaty men snoring their
heads off didn’t appeal.
Nina nodded.
“May I ask where you’re from Nina? You don’t sound very Italian.”
“So you think that I look Italian?” Her humour - as tough as her demeanour.
“No, I’d say you look Eastern European. Romanian?” Jack asked.
“Ukraine. Down here.” She led Jack back up the corridor towards the communal area. They stopped at a brown panelled door which had a plastic number eight on it. Jack noticed the male stick man logo on the door opposite.
Nina pointed to the door behind her. “Male toilets. Showers also. It cost two euros for ten minutes hot water in shower.”
Jack nodded as Nina opened the door to room number eight and flicked on the light switch. The same issue bed as he’d seen in the dorm sat in the corner of a tiny, windowless room. A white cotton towel sat atop the dark grey bed sheet. With a reading lamp on top, a small bedside table separated the edge of the bed from a tiny sink. A small wicker bin had been placed in the corner, opposite the bed. Not exactly home comforts, but for fifty euros in Rome, you couldn’t expect too much. It looked clean at any rate.
“I’ll take it,” Jack said.
Nina nodded. “Ok,” she said. “Please sign for me the paperwork, then I sort for you a key.”
Jack followed Nina’s derriere to the front desk where she got him to fill out the forms. She also asked to see his passport. Was that a smirk Jack noticed on her face when she looked at his passport photo?
“Thank you,” she said as she handed it back. Jack noticed that there was no wedding ring on her finger.
“So,” said Nina, “fifty euros for tonight and you must let me know tomorrow morning if you wish to stay longer. Check out is eleven.”
Jack dug out his wallet and produced the money. Another night might be pushing it, unless he could subsist the evening on eight euros.”
Nina counted out the notes and then nodded. “One more thing,” she said in a stentorian tone. “Strictly no visitors allowed in rooms. These accommodations are strictly for single peoples. Do you understand?”
Jack nodded. God this woman was sexy!
“You may,” Nina added, “bring a guest into the recreation area,” she pointed at the tardy lounge chairs and the pool table with its ripped baize. “You can get a Coke or a coffee from the machines. The snack bar on the corner sells snacks at cheap price. Any questions?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Here are your keys,” said Nina. “Silver for front door and bronze for your room. Here also is your receipt.”
“Thank you. Do you have WI-FI here?” Jack asked.
“Yes. Password is Happy holiday; all one word. Enjoy your stay, Mr Holden.” Still no flicker of emotion. Not even a fake smile.
Jack grabbed the keys and then turned on his heel. He sensed the gallons of untapped emotion flowing behind Nina’s robotic exterior. He thought though, that it would take a better man than him to unleash it. Maybe it was just her voice that he found a real turn on.
Jack walked down to his room and opened the door. Placing his duffel bag on the floor he surveyed his digs. The room was a coffin. He flipped the light switch. That was better, well…the room was still shit, but at least he could see. He took the towel off the bed then bounced along rhythmically to the tired springs. He got up and locked the door then turned off the light and positioned himself horizontally on the bed. He couldn’t hear any noise from the corridor.
The peace and quiet relaxed him. He thought about Nina: her sexy body and that deep, mysterious voice. He imagined her stood with her back to him, wearing a black thong and nothing else. She turned around, revealing her pert breasts. “Happy holiday,” she said sharply, before pulling him towards her.
After the excitement had ended, Jack felt guilty for giving in to the urge, but that was his customary reaction. He thought about checking his email. He’d do that in a minute, after a quick snooze.
Chapter Eight:
Jack woke up and checked the time on his phone. Four o’clock. He had a raging thirst. A cup of tea would be great. He ran the tap and splashed some cold water against his face. He looked like shit. After changing his underwear, he slipped on his trainers and then grabbed the towel, key and wash bag. All seemed quiet out on the landing. He locked the door behind him and headed to the one opposite. As he crossed the landing he glanced to his right and caught sight of a girl sitting in the recreation area. She looked up from her book and caught Jack’s eye. Blonde, but definitely not Nina. God, he must’ve looked a bit of a sight, he thought.
The washroom appeared empty. A chemical smell filled the place - probably a good sign. Two shower stalls had been positioned in front of a bank of cracked basins. Outside the shower stalls, a metal box had a sign on it. Some writing in Italian, but the two euros charge seemed clear enough. He pulled back the curtain. Not too bad. Placing his towel over the top of the cubicle, he then rummaged in his pocket for some coins. He piled his clothes on a basin and deposited two euros into the slot. A green light lit up on the shower controls as he walked inside the cubicle and turned the dial clockwise. A sudden rush of cold water attacked him, but it quickly turned to warm and then pleasantly hot. He savoured the warm torrent cascading down his body.
Jack made sure he got the full ten minutes. When he came out, he felt almost human again. He placed the towel around his waist, grabbed his belongings, then tip toed back across the landing.
The blonde haired girl was still sitting there in the recreation area. This time, she never glanced up from her book.
Jack unlocked the door and entered his room. He switched on the light and quickly dried himself off. Wearing a fresh shirt, he studied himself in the mirror. Hang about. The reflection of something on top of the bed had caught his eye. He turned around. It looked like a shell. He felt certain that it hadn’t been there earlier. No, he would surely have noticed it. The alternative? Someone had gotten into his room and left it there. He picked it up off the sheets. A brownish, fan shaped shell with a fluted pattern. A scallop shell. But where the hell had it come from? He put it inside his pocket, grabbed the netbook and switched off the light. Strange days. He locked the door behind him and headed towards the lounge.
A couple of long haired guys brushed past him on the landing. They were headed towards the male dorms. Jack noticed another hippy type in the lounge; lost in iPod-land, sipping a Bud.
Jack clocked the blonde girl as he walked towards the drinks machine. She was reading a book called “Unseen Footprints.” He slid in a euro coin and selected a Coke. The machine whirred for an eternity before releasing its bounty. Jack grabbed the cold can then sat down in an armchair opposite her. He noticed her low cut floral top, housing an ample bosom. She must have noticed Jack staring at her because she peered over her page and caught Jack’s eye.
“Hi,” he said off guard.
The girl put the book down on her lap for a second. “Hi there,” she said in what Jack recognized as a soft American accent.
“You’re American?”
“Yeah,” she said. “And you’re British, right?”
“Certainly am. I’m Jack.” He soaked in her azure doe eyes and her crown of long blonde hair. She looked attractive in a quirky sort of way with her longish face and straight, beaky nose. If he had to nail her to a Star Wars character, then she’d be Jar Jar Binks. Or his sister at any rate. No, that wasn’t fair. Jar Jar was a pain in the ass.
“Hi there, Jack. I’m Zoe.”
She seemed friendly. “How’s the book?” he asked her.
“It’s good, thanks. I found it in the drawer in my room.”
“Ah, you’ve got your own room then?” Did that sound pervy?
“Yeah, I didn’t fancy the dorm.”
“Me neither, the male one that is. So, whereabouts in the States are you from?”
Zoe placed a makeshift bookmark in her page and closed the book. “I’m from a place called Ventura,” she said.
“As in Vent
ura, California?”
“The very same.” She smiled at Jack, showing off her perfect pearly whites.
Only an American could have teeth that good, Jack thought. He’d completely forgotten about the Ukrainian temptress on the front desk. “Ventura Highway,” Jack said, “by the band, America.”
“My! That’s a real golden oldie. How come you’ve heard of that?” Zoe said.
Jack smiled back at her. “I used to DJ on an oldies radio station. It didn’t come around on the play list very often though. It was always ‘A Horse with No Name.’”
To Jack’s surprise, Zoe suddenly burst into the song. Despite feeling embarrassed, he played along by singing the “La, la, la, La, La, la, La…” bit.