Almost Hemingway
Published by:
Nanette Littlestone at Smashwords
Copyright 2010 Nanette Littlestone
Cover Art: Nanette Littlestone
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Her father always said life is full of surprises.
She had won the Hemingway short story contest. Such bravura, such ego, such ferocity the judges commented.
Jan Clarell followed the maitre’d to a small table for two and watched in disappointment while a waiter quickly cleared the unnecessary second place setting. She would rather not dine alone. But this was Harry’s Bar. Venice. She sighed, barely able to imagine the reality of a meal in a famous restaurant that used to serve Hemingway, much less a free trip to Italy.
A waiter appeared at her table. “Are you ready to order, Signorina?”
The soft, accented syllables cloaked her in velvet. Her brief time in Italy had already swept her off her feet, and like a young woman in the first throes of newfound love, she eagerly wished for more. She wanted to stretch her experience, her one night in Harry’s Bar. “May I have a glass of mineral water? I’m not ready to eat yet.”
The waiter nodded and returned with a bottle of San Pellegrino, pouring it into a cobalt blue glass.
She smiled but he had already disappeared. The last low notes of sultry jazz drifted towards her table and she turned to see the bowed head of a black woman in a slinky red dress. There was a quiet smattering of applause from the diners, barely noticeable. The woman raised her head and stroked the microphone like a lover’s cheek, then settled her hand around the base. The band began the next piece. A warble trilled in the stillness, followed by a smooth throaty voice that captured Jan’s awareness.
The melody, the candlelight, the elegantly dressed patrons all wove a spell of enchantment in her mind.
The waiter returned and smiled, his angelic face capturing the charm of beautiful Italian men. “Are you ready now, Signorina?”
She fluttered like a moth before a flame, wanting to entice, yet uncertain of her allure. Growing up with four brothers she thought she understood men, but no one had ever taught her the wiles of women, how to engage, invite, properly seduce.
“I… I’ll have the… the spaghetti carbonara.”
“Eccellente.” He refilled her water glass and took the menu, his movements seemingly in slow motion. She read his name tag. Paolo.
The jazz singer took a seat at the bar, roaring with laughter at something the bartender said. One red satin strap slipped off her shoulder, revealing a smooth expanse of chocolate skin.
Within minutes, Paolo delivered a steaming platter of pasta. “Mangia,” he instructed, and waited for her to sample the food.
Tearing her gaze from his liquid brown eyes, she forked noodles into her mouth and spattered cream sauce on her chin.
“Ah, cara,” he whispered. His fingers held out a napkin. The dark eyes glinted.
Ignoring the one in her lap, she took the proffered napkin and wiped her chin. Laughter at the bar caught her attention. The black woman was leaning forward across the counter, both straps off her shoulders, her cleavage in full view. As she sat up, a dark nipple pressed against the thin satin dress.
A shiver of exhilaration edged down Jan’s spine. Paolo had disappeared. Jittery, she made her way to the restroom to calm herself, freshen her makeup. Just past the kitchen, a hand pulled her into the dimly lit storage room between shelves of olive oil and pasta.
“Che bella signorina,” he said, the young man with the dark eyes that bored into her soul.
Paolo!
He pressed against her with his body while his fingers twisted in her long hair.
Her mind resisted. She wasn’t beautiful. He couldn’t be interested in her.
“Che bella,” he repeated, his mouth only a breath away from hers.
Her heart stuttered, then galloped madly. Wet, wild kisses, groping hands, hot breath. His hand roughly fondled her breast and she shut out her thoughts, ignoring his food-stained clothing, the rough wood, the quiet drip of an overhead pipe. What did it matter if it was only lust? This was Venice. A place of culture and history. Art. Magic.
She gave into the thrill of the encounter and rubbed herself against him, moaning in the back of her throat. She barely felt the scratch of uneven fingernails against her stockings, or his fingers fumbling with the zipper on her dress. She forgot they were in a public place.
“Signorina Clarell! Signorina Clarell!” A strident voice rang out across the restaurant, upsetting the harmonious ambience.
One hand glued to her breast, Paolo raised his head.
“Signorina Clarell!” the voice called urgently.
Paolo pushed himself away and straightened his clothing, ran his fingers through his hair. “Qualcuno li desidera,” he said in Italian, then he shook his head. “Someone wants you.” His eyes glittered with unfulfilled desire.
Dazed, Jan leaned against the shelving and sucked in deep breaths. She smoothed her tangled hair, rearranged the bunched folds of her dress, eyed the runs in her stocking with distaste. And licked her lips, savoring the taste of his mouth.
She returned to the dining room in time to hear another “Signorina Clarell” from the bellhop standing next to her table. “I’m Signorina Clarell.”
He handed her an envelope and clicked his heels.
Jan sat down. For several moments she stared at the envelope, pondering possibilities. Then she retrieved the contents and unfolded the paper.
Dear Ms. Clarell:
We regret to inform you that the judges for the International Imitation Hemingway Contest made an error in awarding you first place. There was a slight name discrepancy. The true winner of the contest is Jon Clavell.
Please accept our apology.
Respectfully,
Albert Hodges, Contest Coordinator
Jan placed the paper next to her napkin and gazed across the room. Everything appeared to be in its proper place – the black woman singing on stage, waiters bustling about the room, patrons enjoying their meals. It didn’t matter that the contest had made a mistake. She was already here. They couldn’t take this night away from her.
Her fingers lightly tapped the note; she folded it and slipped it under her plate and continued her meal as if nothing had happened.
Paolo presented her with a bill and quickly turned away. Surprised that she would have to pay for the meal, she opened the leather case to find a short handwritten note. Basilica di San Marco. 11 p.m. Paolo.
A faint smile touched her lips. Who knew what could happen at Harry’s Bar where the rich drank Bellinis and ordinary people coupled like animals?
She nodded her head. Her father was right. Life is full of surprises.
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Nanette Littlestone is a freelance editor, author, songwriter, and poet who lives in Johns Creek, Georgia. A vivid imagination, a love of travel, and a belief in magic and mystery are her creative guides. Her work has appeared in The Writer’s Room, The Sidewalk’s End, Mystic Horizon Press, and Andwerve.
She is currently working on a novel about the power of forgiveness to heal past-life jealousy and betrayal that begins in ancient Rome and ends in modern day Atlanta.
Find more information about Nanette on her blog:
http://nanettelittlestone.wordpress.com/