I jut out my chin, no longer concerned with what these people think of me. Italian blood flows through my veins, despite the fact that it doesn’t make me brown-haired and brown-eyed like many of the men and women crowding this club. And even if I wasn’t southern Italian, as so many here are, having blonde hair and blue eyes doesn’t make me their enemy.
If only I could convince the rest of them as easily as I persuade myself.
The man stops in front of the booth closest to the stage and gestures to it. Cec slides in first, with Bes and I taking the open seats on either side of him.
The strange man leans in close. “The Maestro is busy at the moment.”
The band finishes their song with a bang, followed by the riotous applause from the audience.
The man raises his voice over the raucous. “When the saxophone plays alone, she will come to you.”
Both Bes and Cec nod seriously. Having delivered his message, he inclines his head, turns, and slips into the crowd.
The jazz band starts up again after a bout of boisterous hollers and I quickly locate the saxophonist. He appears to be changing out his reed, so it might be a bit until our host comes to see us. Besides the saxophone, the bandstand plays host to a piano, two violins, drums, and a banjo, of all things.
I tell Bes and Cec, “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“It’s a knockoff,” Bes says, souring my mood with those three words. “The original was established in Rome around ten years ago, called the Bal Tic Tac.”
He points at the jaunty bandleader, who’s gyrating to the rhythm of the new song.
“That’s Ugo Filipino, the artist behind this place. When the Bal Tic Tac was shut down in one of Mussolini’s first purity campaigns, the owner, Giacomo Balla, retired. But Ugo decided to move the club here. Now, it caters more to Italian tourists in the know.”
I watch Ugo with a greater curiosity. He sports a bright blue suit, a white fedora, white shoes, and an infectious grin. Though the years have been unkind to him in the deep cuts of his laugh lines and the slight limp in his left leg when he glides across the stage, the man radiates with life. Was he able to avoid getting drafted in the Great War, allowing him to keep his dream alive? Or did all the carnage and death he endured on the battlefield spark a need for a celebration of life—only for Mussolini to come and take it away?
He found a way—art always does.
“How are you in the know if you’re a tourist?”
“Money and word of mouth.” Bes leans toward me and lowers his voice. “Only the most affluent youths of Italian society know of this place’s existence. The club’s benefactor, known only as The Maestro and who we came here to see tonight, has made certain of it.”
I watch the crowd and see he’s right. Not only are the patrons here dressed in fine clothes and glittering jewels, but they all appear to be around our age. So often in history, it’s the young who rebel publicly, relentlessly, while the old rebel quietly, cautiously—if at all.
The man who showed us our table materializes out of nowhere, purposefully glancing between Bes and I.
“The Maestro suggests you two take to the dance floor for the next song.”
Without waiting for a response, he bows and excuses himself once more, blending back into the crowd.
I fold my arms across my chest in defiance, inadvertently pushing my breasts together. “This isn’t like any club I’ve ever been to.”
Bes eyes me through his lenses, gaze sliding to my neck but no lower, jaw ticking. “Been to many clubs, have you?”
“I’ve been to my fair share, yes.” I gesture around us. “This is riotous to be sure, but I love black-and-tans. The music is far superior.”
I search the crowd again, seeing only a sea of olive-hued faces.
“And much more diverse.”
Bes’s gaze deepens. “It’s unfortunate we had to leave Cairo so soon. I could’ve shown you how diverse our nightlife can be.”
I pause, lips parting as my eyes narrow.Is Bes Belzoni coming on to me?How unlike him. He must feel comfortable enough here, more in his element, to let his guard down a little. Which is more than I can say for myself.
“For Christ’s sake, stop flirting—you heard the man.” Cec fumbles to find our upper arms with both hands before shoving us separately in the direction of the music. “Take to the dance floor. Be free.”
I slide to the edge of the booth but refuse to get up. “Why? Because this Maestro insists on it? If they say to eat, am I expected to stuff my face until I puke?”
My stomach betrays me by grumbling excitedly at the idea of eating, considering all I had for dinner was the one slice of pizza.
