Love, or the Witches of Windward Circle

by Carlos Allende

  Eva hushed her again. Josie responded by wrinkling her nose.

  “Have you ever visited the Gas House Café, Mr. Kelly?”

  “Many times, Officer. I was asked by Mr. Roberts to pose as a beatnik.”

  “So you were a spy?”

  The crowd laughed at Officer Mulherin’s joke.

  “I suppose I was, Officer,” Kelly responded.

  “Tell me, Mr. Kelly, what did you see inside the coffeehouse? Was there any entertainment?”

  “Sometimes. And there was drinking going on. There were some juveniles drinking wine.”

  The crowd gasped in astonishment.

  “That’s a lie!” Mr. Matthews stood up. “We serve nothing but apple cider and coffee. Officer Mulherin, the Gas House is not an ordinary coffeehouse, I consent on that, but it is not a watering hole, as these people want to make it look. The premises are used for the free expression of talented artists. We foment creativity, not vice.”

  “Mr. Matthews, sit down. Let us finish listening to what Mr. Kelly has to say.”

  Mr. Matthews shot a killer gaze towards Mr. Roberts, at the other end of the room. The cheesemaker seemed to have a grin sculpted on his face; he sat down.

  “Mr. Kelly, please continue. How do you know it was wine that was being served?”

  “Because I tasted it.”

  A wave of gasps and suppressed murmurs followed.

  “Did you buy a glass?” Mulherin asked.

  “No. They were giving it away for free.”

  “Mr. Kelly, to say that an establishment is serving alcohol without a proper license is a serious accusation. Could it be perhaps that some ill-intended person smuggled a bottle inside and was serving juveniles, as you say, without knowledge of the management?”

  “Well,” Mr. Kelly seemed confused. “It could be. But it wasn’t one bottle one night. It was a full barrel.”

  “Liar!” the voice, as deep and threatening as a lion’s roar, came this time from Big Daddy. The whole audience turned their heads at him. “Lies and fabrications! There has never been and there will never be any alcohol served inside the Gas House Café. Never without my consent.”

  “Mr. Nord,” Officer Mulherin demanded, “sit down and let the witness continue.”

  Mr. Matthews stood up again. “Officer Mulherin, this man is obviously lying. We serve nothing other than coffee, water, and cider at the coffeehouse. What this man drank must have been apple cider and he’s confusing it with wine!”

  “Of course there’s wine served at the Gas House Café,” Josie whispered into the ear of her little companion. “It would have been impossible to suffer the place without a glass. But it is always served very discretely, reduced with tap water, and to friends or friends of friends only. Like me. They’re not stupid. They aren’t breaking the law.”

  “Mr. Kelly, is it possible that you are confusing wine with apple cider?”

  “Yes, it is very possible,” Josie confided again to her companion, impervious to the sarcastic tone in Mulherin’s words. “Sometimes it is difficult to know if what you’re drinking is plain orange juice or a very weak screwdriver…”

  “Would you shut up?” Eva silenced her.

  This time Josie had to hold onto her chair to keep herself from standing up and slapping Eva. Who did she think she was, that Polish slut, asking her to shut up?

  Russell looked back at Josie and smiled sympathetically as if apologizing for the roughness of his friend. Josie glared at him and then looked away. She immediately regretted being disdainful. She looked back, but Russell had already turned his attention back to the hearing.

  “No,” Mr. Kelly frowned. “It was wine. There was a full barrel.”

  “There was never a barrel,” Josie yelled.

  She expected back a word of agreement, some cheering, but instead everyone around her looked a little distressed. What was going on? There had never been any barrels of wine at the Gas House Café. It was always just one or two bottles…except, of course, for that one night, when Richard ordered drinks for everybody. She turned to see Richard behind her. He still looked attentive, but he had stopped smiling. His face looked flushed. It was his fault! He had ordered that barrel of wine. The night that she had taken him to the coffeehouse. How can someone with so much money be so stupid?

  “And when was this?” Officer Mulherin asked.

  “It was the night of the nude model.”

  Had a fiend suddenly appeared in the middle of the room to perform a belly dance there would have been fewer gasps than those provoked by the word “nude.”

  “A nude model?”

  “Yes, completely naked,” continued Mr. Kelly. He became self-conscious for the effect that his words had on the audience. “I saw her.”

  Josie felt a rush of embarrassment go through her body. They were talking about her, weren’t they? Her cheeks felt warm. Did they know it had been her? Eva was staring at her with a ghastly look.

  “I’m sure I wasn’t the only one,” Josie bleated, defensively.

  Eva didn’t care to respond. She rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to the podium.

  Josie looked at Russell. She was about to complain, to demand that he come to her defense, but what she saw in his face made her stop. He seemed to have copied her little landlady’s look of wretched misery—the big eyes, the mouth twisted in a grimace of pain. His forehead was drenched in sweat. Did she embarrass him? She looked back at Richard and Lina. The girl looked amused. The millionaire didn’t. He gave Josie a contemptuous look of defiance.

  Josie felt her eyes fill up with tears.

  She had made one mistake. Just one. It was all Eva’s fault.

  “How long did you stay on that occasion?” Office Mulherin asked the witness.

  “About a month and a half,” responded Mr. Kelly.

  Everyone laughed. Everyone, except Josie. She felt as if the entire room was looking at her, pointing at her, blaming her one faux pas for the doom of the Gas House.

  “I’m sure I wasn’t the only one that lost her clothes there,” she said to her little friend, trying with all her strength not to cry.

  Her landlady responded with a frown.

  George whispered something to Russell and Eva bent her body to the side to better hear his response, offering her full profile to Josie. She had a beautiful neck, that stupid Jew. And her hair shone like liquid gold.

  Josie wanted her dead.

  Officer Mulherin called for a recess. The crowd began pouring out of the room. Russell stayed in his seat, letting everyone go before him. That was the opportunity that Josie was looking for. She had to talk to him before he stepped out. She had to apologize, to tell him it had all been a misunderstanding, that she still loved him, that she needed to… But she couldn’t make herself do it.

  Their eyes met for a second. Russell said “Hi” with a crestfallen smile. Then, he followed the rest of his party.

  Josie stayed in her seat, her face burning. She couldn’t move. She felt that if she did, she wouldn’t be able to hold back her tears.

  “Do you want to stay?” she asked her little landlady after almost everyone else had left the room.

  The little woman responded with a hunch. She felt, on her part, as if she had the word murderer written all over her face. The girl didn’t suspect a thing, did she? She didn’t seem to know. But what if she did. What if all this had been a trap? After all, they were at a police station.

  On their way back home, they stopped at a drugstore on Washington Boulevard for a root beer float from the soda fountain. It was a hot day, and the sugar, Josie felt, would surely help her get over her misery.

  “I’ll buy,” Josie announced to her little friend, producing a quarter. “But you go get them, okay?”

  The little woman took the money and stepped in.

  Jos
ie had just sat down at one of the outside tables when Richard and Lina showed up.

  “So this is where young Venice women in distress come to drown their sorrows,” the millionaire said.

  To his eccentric outfit, more suitable for crossing the Sahara than for a day at the beach, Richard had added a blue parasol.

  “We haven’t seen you at the coffeehouse in a while,” he continued, pulling up a chair to sit down.

  “Have you been going to the Gas House?” Josie asked.

  “A couple times in the past few weeks. Lina loves that place. That’s why we attended the hearing.”

  Lina shrugged in support. She lit a cigarette for herself and then offered one to Josie.

  “And what are you doing here now? It’s not yet over,” Josie asked.

  “Same as you,” Richard fanned away the smoke with disgust. “We felt unwanted inside that room. Lina said that she needed something refreshing. I think we’re in trouble, aren’t we?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, please. Are you going to pretend that we are not? Well, you can. After all, our lives are nothing but a series of little falsifications. But, what’s the use? You and I are, as of today, the two most hated people in Venice, and we’re not even part of the Civic Union. You, a little bit more than me, I think. The barrel of wine will be more easily forgotten than your lemon-shaped boobs. And at least I have money.”

  “Richard!”

  “I saw the way you looked at me after they mentioned the barrel,” he squabbled. “What did you think? That stupid oaf. His whims and vagaries are costing the Gas House its license. Didn’t you? Didn’t you blame me?”

  Josie’s face went crimson with embarrassment. “It was a silly thing to do,” she said.

  “Sillier than what you did?” Richard replied. “Show to the world your Peggy’s parlor. Of course not, you little tramp. What I did was wrong; what you did was crude and immoral. However,” he raised his hand to prevent the girl from interrupting, “I’m not here to discuss blame. I think you’re a bad example—but who isn’t?” he giggled. “That’s why we’re friends: We have no shame and no conscience. What we need to discuss now is how we are going to repair our wrongs. We will not be invited to any more parties if they think it is because of us behaving naughty that their little Café is getting shut down. I have a plan…”

  “Don’t listen to him,” interrupted Lina.

  “My dear sweet love,” Richard snarled to his fiancée. “I’m in a fantastic mood today, so please don’t ruin it being your usual cunt self. Why are you always so pessimistic?—Lina doesn’t think it will work,” he added in a mellower tone to Josie. “She wants to wear green to our wedding.”

  “I do,” Lina smirked defiantly.

  “Over my dead body. Shut up now or I’ll cut you, Lucifer. Josie, flap your ears: I was talking to Mr. Chatterton earlier today—do you know Mr. Chatterton?”

  The girl nodded.

  “We joined his organization,” Richard continued. “He’s a smart man. Your friend Paul is a member, too. He’s also a smart man…and so hairy! He introduced me to Mr. Lipton, who introduced me to Mr. Chatterton. Long story short, I ended up donating some money. I wish that would have been it, but there’s some work involved. Attend some meetings, sign petitions, raise public awareness; nothing too difficult. I just don’t have the time and, I must confess, I find politics extremely boring.”

  “What organization?” Josie asked.

  Richard took a deep breath, smiling contemptibly. Then, with the false modesty of an academic who sees the opportunity to speak about his area of expertise, he explained: “The Venice Citizens and Property Owners Committee for Cultural Advancement. Mr. Chatterton founded it. He was at the hearing today. It’s a counter-protest group. It’s main purpose is to come to the defense of the Venetian artist community and to circulate petitions among the Venice residents to demand that they give an entertainment license to the Gas House Café—I sound so convinced, don’t I? I can be a sucker for the right cause. Haven’t you heard about it?”

  Josie shook her head.

  “Well, as an old Venice resident myself, I am concerned, extremely concerned, Josie. I thought that my dear sweet Lina and I should get involved—didn’t I mention that, Pumpkin Pie, that we should become social activists?” he asked his fiancée.

  Lina blew out some smoke, pretending not to listen.

  “You did,” she muttered after a few seconds of silence.

  “But you don’t live in Venice, do you?” Josie asked with surprise.

  “Of course not,” Richard laughed and rapidly knocked on the wooden table. “Why would I live here? Among spics and junkies and Negroes. You’re so funny—I live in Windsor Square, south of Hancock Park. My house is so big and beautiful, you have to see it. I did live here before, back when they wouldn’t let poor people live in Venice. I have a summer house at the end of the peninsula. It’s empty now. It’s been so for many years. It has this horrible derrick in the backyard—produces nothing. It’s just a one-story, and I like staircases, grand staircases, to make an entrance, à la Scarlett O’Hara. Are you sure I never mentioned that I had a house here before?” he pursed his lips and took a finger to his mouth, guiltily. “I’m a Venetian,” he added then, with a quiver, putting a hand on his chest. “That’s my little secret…among a few more. Anyway, the night you did what you did, you little slut, Mr. Lipton introduced me to Mr. Chatterton. By then you had already disappeared—where? I don’t know. The three of us spoke briefly. I could tell Mr. Chatterton was delighted to speak to me. Apparently your friends had already besmirched my name and my reputation by calling me a patron of the arts. I blamed it all on Lina; she’s the one that makes me buy. I told him it was her fault—it didn’t work. Bob started talking about his Owners’ Committee, about the Union, about this and that, and well, normally I would have said no, but he’s a charming man, isn’t he, Kitty-Doll?” he turned to Lina. “He’s so good looking. Lina couldn’t keep her eyes off him. Nice, firm, round buttocks. And so clever, extremely clever! Wasn’t he, doll? That’s how these men always get my money. He kept insisting that we should join his committee and I just couldn’t say no to that cheeky mustache. He’s not old, not at all, in his mid- to late-thirties, but he grayed prematurely. Wide shoulders, strong legs—thick, like Greek columns—and very well groomed. You wouldn’t guess, except for his facial hair, that he supports the cause of those beatniks.”

  He stopped with a grin, inviting Josie to respond.

  The girl took a minute. “It’s been such a difficult day,” Josie sighed, after the silence became too long.

  Richard stared at the girl with disappointment. He realized then that someone else was looking at him too. The little woman stood next to him carrying two root-beer floats in her hands, gaping at Richard.

  “Is this for her?” he asked unwary.

  The little woman remained immobile. She wouldn’t take her eyes off the millionaire.

  “She’s my landlady,” Josie intervened.

  “Is she? Was she at the hearing too? You look familiar,” the millionaire said to the little woman.

  He looked familiar to her, too. The little woman looked over her shoulder to the shop’s window glass where she could see their reflection. She could only see three people there: Lina, Josie, and herself.

  “Do you mind giving my fiancée and me one of these delicious floats you brought?” Richard interrupted her thoughts. “We’ll share.” He grabbed the drinks from her hands, passed one to Josie and the other one to Lina. He then took a one dollar bill out of his wallet and offered it to the little woman. “Go get yourself another float. And keep the change, for the trouble. I see there’s a line inside. Take your time, we’ll just be here, chatting.”

  The little woman tried to kiss his hand but Richard pulled back, repulsed by the gesture, and the bill fell to the floor. The litt
le woman bent down, took the money and, keeping her eyes straight on him, walked backwards into the drugstore.

  “Where did you find her?” the millionaire asked Josie. “This city is full of eccentrics. Anyways, this is what I had in mind—it’s taking me too long to tell you: we will host a conscious-awareness meeting. Not this, but the following Sunday. I will pay for the hooch and the appetizers, and you will provide the place, the guests, and the entertainment—Russell’s bongos, some poetry reading—naked dancing, if you wish, whatever you think is necessary.”

  “Are you kidding?” Josie tittered nervously. “My bedroom is barely big enough for one person. Your house would be more appropriate.”

  “At Windsor Square?” Richard responded. “These people don’t drive, my dear, and they wouldn’t spend money on a taxi if their lives depended on it. They wouldn’t go, anyway, my neighborhood is far too square for their taste. Besides, my housekeeper would kill me if I she got wind of the kind of people I frequent with in Venice—can you imagine, Lina? Mrs. Coenegrachts would kick us both out! Anyway, that’s irrelevant, because I am not talking about hosting a party in your room, you silly flower, but a round table in your landladies’ living room. It is the perfect place, by the canals—so romantic! Mr. Chatterton is going to love it.”

  “They’ll never let me.”

  “And who said we were going to ask for permission?” Richard sang conspiratorially. “On Sunday, your landladies will be at mass, won’t they? They will never know. It won’t take more than a couple hours. You’ll juggle a few things for them to do afterwards. And I’ll get to talk with Mr. Chatterton—how long do you think it’d take to get him drunk?” he whispered to Lina. “They won’t know,” he said to Josie. “Ask your little friend to take them for a stroll down the beach or something. Make sure they stay out a little longer than they normally do. You said that sometimes they stay out until sunset. I remember that. You were drunk that night, but I wasn’t. Invite whomever you want: Russell, Paul—the whole gang of losers. Just make sure you invite Bob Chatterton. I’ll cut your nipples off if you don’t. I’ll send Lina a little earlier to help you. We’ll talk about the committee, you’ll look good in your friends’ eyes, and I will look wonderful in Mr. Chatterton’s. Isn’t my plan fantastic?”