Cassandra Voices

Tag: Fiction by Yona Caffrey

  • Beautiful Things

    I see everything as if it were under a magnifying glass, so clear that it hurts. My thoughts race to and fro. Ideas drop as ingredients would, into the mix. Into a boiling cauldron. Then as popcorn does, they fly out, across the counter, and all over the floor. Trying to contain this is futile. That buzzing sound they emit is driving me mad. Add to this my impatience and an indecisive nature.

    I’m painfully aware of what’s entailed in attempting to follow through with a single idea. The details of which are tedious and delay any potential progress. But after a glass or two… it all becomes manageable. I cease to worry about the details and start imagining my success. After a bottle or two, I even think that I might find someone who could collect the bricks that are my ideas and with them, build me a palace.

    Waiting for something to happen is unbearable. So, to relax, I have another drink. Preferably two. I really need to drink a lot to drown any unwelcome thoughts. If anyone is going to bring up any obstacles, I will lose my temper. I don’t need that. I need clever people to carry out my plans, but clever people tend to have their own ideas, and don’t want to be bothered with mine. It’s so frustrating… but the wine is going down well. Floating on cushy clouds, I’m feeling no pain. There is nothing that needs to be done. Finally, I can fall asleep.

    When I wake up in the morning, whatever the weather is, I’m fine. Weather doesn’t get me down. It’s people who do. If my wife doesn’t greet me with a smile, I get upset. But of course, she had a rough evening, listening to me getting angry because it takes so long to get anything done. So, the smile isn’t there. Everything is clear again, crystal clear. It’s excruciating and I’m beginning to think that a nice glass of something would be nice. But, it’s not even noon.

    I can’t stand the fact that she isn’t on my side. If she continues to sulk, I won’t be able to think. I get emotional and my brain becomes mush. She doesn’t realize what she is doing to me. Suppose I’ll have to apologize. That’s it. I’ll apologize. I don’t know what I said last night, but it must have been bad.

    She says it’s ok. But I’m not ok with ok. I want my wife to radiate goodwill. I want her to listen to my ideas and take over. Put them into practice. At least write them down.

    It’s hard to find people who will turn your ideas into reality. Very hard. Because people are so stupid. They lack vision.

    Many of my friends have such successful businesses. I know that I can be even more successful than they. I’ve more brainpower in my little finger than most of them. Their success, well, it’s like a slap in the face. Soon it will be time for lunch and I can’t wait to have a drink. My friends might ask my advice. That would help to wipe away any doubts I have about myself.

    My wife is exceedingly clever in one way and quite stupid in another. She says that you don’t need to be clever to make money. She’s of the opinion that if you want money badly enough you will get it. That said, you’ll have to work and build up a business. That means more details. Lots and lots of dots and knots. I need money, but hate to work. The idea that I would have to start from the bottom up sounds ludicrous to me. Start at the bottom? Me? The idea could drive me to drink.

    I’m busy most mornings. Making important decisions. Don’t bother me with unpaid bills. Distractions like that will only derail my chances at success. The urgent decision right now is where to have lunch today. I call my friends to see where they are going. If it’s not to my liking, I suggest another place. Once this is sorted out, I can relax and give my wife a list of things to do. She will sort her own lunch. I’m not worried about that. My lunch is business. You never know what will crop up.

    If you aren’t successful, who are you? You’re a nobody. And that scares the hell out of me. I’ve had some financial success. But not on the scale I aspire to. You’ve got to keep your cards close to your chest. This way at least your friends see you as a success. I often remind my wife to keep her trap shut. I’m not a bully. But I feel the need to repeat it, because I’m never sure if she’s understood me. She says I drive the point home so hard, that it comes out the other side.

    I don’t like it when I see her talking to someone, and I can’t hear what she’s saying. What is she saying? She’s giving something away. So naïve, and laughing a little too enthusiastically. She should maintain her composure and behave like a lady.

    That man she’s talking to is touching her arm. This is outrageous! I’ll have to do something about it. I feel as if it’s not her, but me he is touching in his patronizing way. He is laughing at me. He’s saying “See how easy it is to touch your wife? And she likes it.” No! He won’t get away with this. I’ll put a stop to it now.

    I walk over and pull his hand away. She shoots me a look of dismay when I say it’s time to go home. She isn’t happy and I’m positively furious. What’s wrong with her? Can’t she see that she’s let me down? I don’t need this.

    I have a lot on my mind.

    So, I give her a piece of my mind.

    “You’re drunk!” she says.

    How dare she. Doesn’t she realize what she is doing to me? This is why I’m in the hole I’m in.

    “Just because someone touched my arm as we were chatting? It’s normal. People do it all the time.”

    “People? We aren’t just any people. A lady doesn’t behave like that.

    “Well, if being a lady means no one can touch my arm, then I don’t want to be a lady.”

    This is hopeless. I now see. And I despair. She points out that I’m paranoid. That I read something into it which wasn’t there.

    “I wasn’t flirting”, she says.

    “Anyway, he’s your friend. If you question his intentions, then don’t be his friend.”

    What really kills me is that he’s a nobody! Absolutely nobody. It would be different if he was successful. Then that would be a compliment. When a somebody finds your wife attractive, well, that’s a whole different ball game.

    My wife thinks success isn’t all about money. Maybe she’s wise, but I couldn’t live like that. I spend money. To impress people. So, I need it. It’s not necessary to accumulate it. I just want to walk about unhindered. Yet, no matter how much money I manage to come into, it slips through my fingers. When I have money, it triggers a frenzy of shopping. My wife goes bananas trying to stop me. But there’s no stopping me. I’m like a criminal. On the run.

    In fairness, I love beautiful things. Things of quality. She doesn’t understand that it’s an investment. I did well in the past but would she give me credit?   Nowadays, I’m not bothered to sell my acquisitions. I have a position to maintain. It’s too demeaning to haggle over the price. After a few drinks, if I’m trying to sell something, I get the price wrong. And once you get it wrong, there’s no righting it. Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps subliminally, I didn’t want to sell it in the first place. People may let you down, but beautiful things are always there for you.

    I don’t see why my wife won’t look after my debts. It’s not a bottomless pit. She suggested I speak to Monsieur So-and-So. Plead with him to wait a little bit longer to be paid. So-and-So doesn’t bother calling me anymore, because I don’t bother answering when he does. But he’s begun to call her. There’s no point talking to him. Have you ever seen his eyes? They’re small and cold. Like two bullets sticking out of their sockets.

    “Nonsense,” she says. “He is a kind and understanding man. Just give him a reasonable explanation and a time frame for paying him back.”

    But I haven’t the slightest idea when I’ll be able to pay him back. If I make more money, there will be things I’ll want to buy. If I can’t look forward to getting something new, life just isn’t worth living.

    A kind person would just forget that I owe him anything. If someone owes me and can’t pay, I don’t push.

    “Don’t be silly,” she says. “You’ve got to pay your debts and vice versa.”

    What baffles me is why I can’t get away with murder … when so many other people do.

    Feature Image: ©Daniele Idini

  • Fiction: An Oligarch’s Wife

    To sit quietly and take in the view was unusual for Alexander Seymionovitch. His tall French windows flung wide open were like an extension of his arms warmly embracing the air of a new world which at least to him seemed astonishingly peaceful. Even though his thoughts circled like a pack of Siberian wolves, he felt his heart was full to overflowing with very positive vibrations. He watched the sea’s reflection of sprinkled sunlight dance above him on the ceiling and marveled at how it dappled the walls of his palatial home in celebration of his happiness. I love her. I love her. I love her. Perhaps he was being foolish to suddenly behave like a teenager. A man in his prime, armed with infinite power and unlimited money. A man used to calling the shots. At the ripe old age of sixty Alexander had fallen in love.

    He found himself under a spell, and in that sense of powerlessness, he discovered fragility and fear, but also savored a sweetness. Until now he’d been content with his life. He was fine. Just fine. He hadn’t asked for this to happen. But now that it had, he couldn’t see any other way to live.

    For the last ten years Seymionovitch had been a resident of Monaco. His seaside mansion with all the trimmings was in every way the sort of residence you would expect of a Russian billionaire. But only now did he notice something that even to the poorest of paupers cost nothing, if only they had one good eye. That the Mediterranean was indeed so beautiful. So blue.

    Alexander was not unattractive, but muscular. Of medium build, he kept himself in good shape, believing that physical fitness kept him mentally sharp and gave him an edge in business.

    Without meaning to, his gaze could be intimidating. His brown eyes radiated intelligence. And often people speaking to him felt compelled to avert their own eyes, for fear that he could read their thoughts. When he smiled, which occurred often because he was heavily invested in appreciating the absurdity of life, he displayed deep dimples which made him irresistible to women and men alike. In business he was famed for being brilliant, charming and brutal.

    But now, he heard a rustle behind him and the faint sound of footsteps running on tip toes. Without even turning around to see who it was, because he knew, Alexander beamed. Slender silky arms clasped him from behind, and a soft cheek nuzzled his neck.

    “Here you are!” she exclaimed. He pulled her over to sit on his lap.

    “Let me have a look at you.” His wife of one month was approaching her twenty-first birthday.

    “Did you notice how blue the sea is today?”

    “Of course, but what is so special about that?”

    “I’ve just never taken the time to absorb the fullness of its beauty before.”

    “Oh Papa, everything is beautiful here!” She called him Papa, because she said he was not only her husband and her lover, but also the father she’d never had. Alexander harbored no doubt about how much Anna adored him, but he remained mystified as to why she didn’t consider their age gap an obstacle. “I could be your grandfather,” he reminded her.

    “Don’t say that!”

    When they met, he didn’t even register that she was a woman. To him she was a child. One who should be left to play with children her own age. This initial meeting occurred where she was working as a waitress in a Moscow café. Seymionovitch was preoccupied, dining there with a few young executives. Although she was striking, Alexander didn’t even see her. But the younger men couldn’t take their eyes off of her, and furthermore they said as much to her. Without acknowledging the compliment, Anna took their order with a blank stare.

    When one day, he sat down at a table on his own, the woman in question didn’t waste any time.

    “Mr Seymionovitch,” she said, “I’m scared of your young executives.”

    He looked at her with surprise. “Why would you say that?”

    “Because that’s just it. They’re young.”

    Alexander was bemused. “But you are young too. It’s normal. There’s no reason to be afraid.”

    “I don’t like the way they look at me.”

    Now Alexander appraised her for the first time. He surveyed her for a solid minute and realized that those green eyes and high cheekbones pointed to a specific and highly desirable genetic marker. Must be some Mongolian blood in the mix.

    “You shouldn’t be working in a cafe if you fear the gaze of young men.”

    “But I have no choice.”

    “You always have a choice,” said Seymionovitch, leaving her a generous tip and the salient memory of what no one in Monaco disputed was indeed a dazzling smile.

     

    Seymionovitch didn’t give it another thought. Beauty was beauty, and where there is such a concentration of wealth, beautiful women will always be a dime a dozen. They came, married well, and then they went away. Where? Who cares! He wasn’t looking for anything. Business was a game that took him to faraway places. And when he wasn’t traveling, he spent most of his time in Monaco, where all the other oligarchs also found it convenient to base themselves.

     

    Anna still marveled at the fact that she was married to Alexander Seymionovitch. It was like a dream come true, and she still enjoyed recalling the moment when fate reunited them. It was springtime and he gave a large party at his Moscow mansion. An army of waiters and waitresses had been hired for the event, and she was one of them. Anna waited until he was alone to approach him. She was carrying a tray laden with glasses of Champagne, and said in a clear voice, “Mr Seymionovitch, you were right!”

     

    Giggling, she recalled his confused expression which seemed to say: “A waitress dares address me so directly? Who are you and what do you want?”

    “Remember that moment?” She asked.

    “I didn’t know who you were, let alone what you were talking about. Now, Anna, tell me the truth, you were after my money, you little gold digger.”

    “Not so little.” Said Anna, cupping both of her cashmere covered breasts in two exquisitely manicured hands.

     

    Anna grew up with her mother, Irina and grandmother, Natasha. She’d never known her father. She told Seymionovitch that men were a mystery to her. She was fascinated by them, but had always feared young boys. They were so cruel, brash, and never serious. When their hands weren’t chasing her, their eyes told her it wasn’t a question of if, but when.

    “You know the way someone looks at you, and you’re certain what they really want is to use up your body and take your soul away?”

    “No, I don’t know. Tell me!”

    Anna laughed, “It’s hard to describe.”

    “What about me?” asked Alexander, “What do you feel when I look at you?”

    “I feel safe. I feel that I’m at home and everything is good.”

     

    He pushed her gently away from his chest, so that he could examine her face.

    “Now, it’s your birthday soon. Your twenty-first! I would like to do something special.”

    “Do you have an idea of what you would you like to do?”

    “I don’t know. But not a party. I don’t like parties.”

    “I already know that.”

    “You know everything about me!” cried Anna, kissing him behind his ear.

    “Not everything,” said Alexander, overcome by a disturbing thought. This was too much happiness. It can’t last. Spinning around, she clocked the contemplative expression before Alexander could resume his legendary poker face.

    “What are you thinking?” Without answering, he held her closer, in silence, and after a while, she said, “Surprise me!”

    “Yes, Baby. I will.”

     

    “We’ve got a gig,” said Jeffrey. “Good pay. But we don’t know nothing about it.”

    “Whatever,” said Sebastian, “Just pay me. Where is it?”

    “Monaco.”

    “When?”

    “Tomorrow morning.”

    “In the morning?”

    “Have to be there at 9.30.”

    “Address?”

    “At the train station there. We’re signing a confidentiality contract. None of us can ever talk about it.”

    “Intriguing.”

    “Our instructions are to arrive by train.”

    “I wonder why.”

    “I don’t even know their nationality. That would influence what songs we prepare.”

    “This kind of secrecy smells Russian.”

    “A driver will meet us at the station. Oh, and they want a saxophone player.”

    “A bit last minute isn’t it? Maybe Rich is available. He’s a decent sax player.”

    “That’s not a bad idea. Hang on…” Jeffrey makes a call.

    “Hey Rich, are you around? Will you pop into the cafe? Yes, something to discuss.”

    “Does Raffi know?”

    “Yes, and you know Raffi. He’s already busy getting his beauty sleep.”

     

    The following morning the band boarded a train hurtling toward Monaco. Sebastian’s red curls cascaded down the shoulders of his fancy shirt. Holding his guitar, Jeffrey stretched his skinny legs to rest on the seat facing him. Raffi’s sunglasses blended almost imperceptibly into his long dark locks, as he regarded a Cajon lodged between his feet. Next to him leaned a saxophone case steadied by Rich’s right hand.

    “Well,” said Jeffrey, “People are strange. You just have to go with the flow. We don’t know what kind of crowd will be there. But we will wing it as we always do. At least we don’t have to put up with a girl singer. Sometimes people ask for a girl singer, and that’s a pain in the butt. No matter how nice a girl is, it’s going to cause more problems than it’s worth.”

    “I didn’t realize how sexist you are,” said Raffi under his breath.

    “No, no, no,” exclaimed Jeffrey. “Don’t get me wrong. I love women. But it’s hard to work with them.”

    “I wouldn’t mind being in a girl band,” said Sebastian, which brought the house down. Even Rich, who was half asleep, shook off his snooze and smiled.

     

    “Blindfolded?” Perplexed, the musicians stared at the demure PA, whose slicked back obsidian hair nearly distracted them from her hasty clarification that for the inconvenience, Mr Seymionovitch was happy to pay each of them the tidy sum of €5000.

    “That’ll be fine,” said Jeffrey, stifling his excitement.

    Ms. Abramovitch seemed relieved as she indicated for them to follow her up a grand staircase and enter into the master bedroom.

    “This must be a surprise birthday party. It’s pretty quiet.”

    Ms Abranovitch looked past Jeffrey and his unfiltered assumption, in anticipation of Seymionovitch’s entrance via a terrace door. His PA wasted no time introducing the motley crew of musicians to their generous patron.

    “It’s my wife’s 21st birthday, and she’s asked me to surprise her,” explained Alexander.

    As the musicians nodded, their eyes darted around the room. No bedroom could’ve been larger or more tastefully decorated, mixing modern paintings with antique furniture. There was an atmosphere of opulence and luxury, yet one could still call it cosy.

    “Ms. Abromovitch mentioned the blindfold, did she not?”

    “Yes,” answered Sebastian, who had to stop himself from asking Seymiononovitch to explain why the blindfold was required.

    “It’s no problem at all,” assured Jeffrey.

    “Well, just now, she is in the bath.”

     

    “Oh, Papa! Where are you?” A youthful voice filtered in from somewhere in the next room.

    “It’s a surprise!” said Alexander, “I want you to make her cry!”

    “Wait. If it’s her birthday, aren’t we supposed to make her laugh?”

    “But she is happier when she cries.”

    “Papa! Where are you?”

    “I come now Baby, I come to you!” and with that, he hurried into the other room.

    “What will we sing to make her cry? It’s impossible to know what we should play.” Befuddled, the band huddled together, whispering potential strategies worthy of a football team.

     

    “No, not yet,” said Alexander.

    “But I’m bored,” said Anna. Alexander sat at the edge of the bath.

    “I have a surprise for you, so soak a bit longer.” Anna was covered in soapy bubbles.

    “Shall I close my eyes?” she asked. Hearing the saxophone’s initial notes, she looked at Alexander.

    “What was that?” And at that moment four blindfolded men entered her extensive bathroom. Anna nearly jumped out of her bath.

    “Alex, I’m scared.”

    “But Baby, they can’t see you.”

    “Get them out!” Anna was crying.

    Blindfolded, the band stood there, confused by the rapid conversation in Russian.

    “It’s going wrong,” whispered Jeffrey to Sebastian.

    “Get them out!” Not knowing what else to do the band started a song.

    “Stop!” shouted Seymionovitch.

    “Please wait for me in the bedroom.”

    Being blindfolded meant they had to feel their way out of one unfamiliar room into another. Sebastian nearly fell over his double base as Jeffrey felt strong arms grip his shoulders and push him roughly out into the bedroom.

    “Can we take our blindfolds off?” he asked. Seymionovitch snapped back at him in Russian.

    Raffi whispered, “I’m not fluent but that sounded distinctly like Russian for Fuck you, Man.”

    “I hope we’re still getting our 5K.”

    “Don’t take the blindfolds off.” As Alexander was helping Anna out of the bath, a cloud of doves exploded into the air outside her bay windows followed by scores of red balloons, and Seymionovitch felt like someone had punched him in the stomach.

     

    The band began to play, and Raffi sang “I’m So in Love with You,” his voice so clear, sweet and grave all at once, was carried by the acoustics in the high-ceilinged room to waft like a cloud of sound through the open French doors. At this point, Anna burst into tears.

     

    “That’s it?” asked Jeffrey in surprise, when Ms. Abramovitch handed each of them an envelope, before ushering them out onto the driveway, where a uniformed driver was waiting to chauffeur them away.

     

    “What the hell happened back there?” said Jeffrey.

    “It’s all in here,” said Sebastian, recounting the cash in his envelope.

    Rich stuffed his pay into the sax case without even checking it.

    “She must be exceptionally beautiful,” said Raffi, who was the last musician to climb into the Rolls Royce Phantom, before the chauffeur shut the door behind him with that hushed thump reserved only for those who can effortlessly afford it. The Phantom then pulled away from Alexander’s sea side palace and coasted down his longest of private lanes, to turn toward the train station, after a discreet exit through the slowly closing Monegasque gates of an oligarch’s estate.

  • Open Mike

    Everyone was amazed when it happened and I mean everyone, including Jeffrey. For weeks now Ramona had been hanging around in “Murphy’s,” a pub in Nice where, every Wednesday night, they held an open mike. A real beauty, with auburn hair and glittering eyes, she brought her violin with her, and when she played, there was a hush… because she played so well. And of course, all eyes were focused on her athletic, yet graceful movements.

    “Who is she?” asked Denis, a regular customer. The long-haired barman just shrugged his shoulders. Fortunately, for the small band of regulars, mysteries of this kind don’t last long at Murphy’s.

    An Italian, in her last year at the conservatoire in Nice, the first time she’d showed up in Murphy’s, it was with a young man who also happened to be from the conservatoire.

    Jeffrey was the one who’d started Open Mike. On any given Wednesday, he was the king of what was at best, a shabby pub. The performance space was so small, that in an effort to avoid each other, musicians had to constantly move. In addition, the way to the bathroom was right through that area. So, there was a constant stream of people trying to break through the band.

    But this was exactly what the musicians here were used to. In fact, what better way to perfect, not only their musical skills but the ability to play in challenging conditions.

    All musicians and singers were welcomed here. But most of the regular players belonged to the busking bands. Their specialty was strolling from table to table, singing and larking about the restaurants.

    They had little tricks to delight the audience. Like swapping guitars between two players in mid-song without losing a note. Playing in restaurants and hotels was mostly a publicity tour.

    Although the tips were important, what they wanted was a private gig. That’s where the big money was.

    All the bands got private gigs. Some more than others. Jeffrey knew all the musicians in Nice. Truth be told, he’d trained most of them. Some came from England, Europe, and America seeking the Riviera’s cocktail of sunshine, music and money. Jeffrey was a highly entertaining person with a good sense of humour, but he could also be as twisted and complex as a spider’s web. Lately he was complaining that Pierre was playing the guitar too loud. Not an unreasonable point, but it could have been made in a reasonable manner. Nonetheless, when Pierre was at loose ends, Jeffrey approached him to sit in on a few gigs.

    Jeffrey said, “If you want to play with me, you’ll have to be my bitch! This was vintage Jeffrey. Pierre didn’t like it. He was a macho guy from the suburbs of Paris. It’s fair to say that if you needed Jeffery, you’d need a shrink as well. To patch up your battered ego. But if you survived it, the end result was good. It knocked all the nonsense out of you. So, when Jeffrey saw Ramona, like a peacock, he was quick to fan out his feathers. What he loved more than anything was fresh blood.

    Ramona stood by, watching them perform, while like a neon sign, Jeffrey’s smile flashed. Squeezed into that little space, he played harmonies with Greg and Johnny, kicking his slender long legs in the air.

    Bob was playing the drums as a precariously placed pint of beer trembled, on the window sill behind him. The pub was busy. People were half talking and half listening. Ramona stood right next to the band. Though classically trained, she was totally absorbed in this popular music. Seeing she was on her own this time, Jeffrey invited her, with her violin, to join in on their new song. Improvising, she weaved herself into the session so seamlessly, that everyone was enchanted.

    Then the musicians changed. Ryan came in with the double base and George swapped guitar with Johnny. Jeffrey swapped with Connor, Daniella walked over to the microphone and the new group started to play the crowd pleaser “I’m Your Venus.” Ryan, a large looming figure, who looked not unlike a hairless gorilla was playing the double bass and singing the chorus with total abandon: “I’m your Venus! I’m your Venus!”

    “No, you are not!” retorted a male voice from the bar.

    Jeffrey leaned towards Ramona to say something. Then they went out on the street to sit at a table, where Jeffrey ordered two shots of brandy.

    “You were amazing,” he said to Ramona. “And the way you managed to improvise just now was great! Rolling his cigarette as he spoke, occasionally he raised his head to look at her.

    His constant smile distracted her from those desperate eyes. He was tall and skinny and although already in his 60’s, Jeffrey was still good looking. Ramona’s smile was a bit more demure.

    Later, he raved to everyone who would listen, “She’s got so much talent, and she is only 21!”

    It was already spring, and soon summer would come rolling in like a big wave. Everyone would be gigging somewhere, vocal cords stretched to the limit, as the audiences in private gigs demanded more songs. But still, the musicians showed up at Open Mike. Sometimes to engage extra musicians for a specific gig, or replace a musician that left the band.

    It was a rehearsal of sort, as they all knew most of the same songs. Jeffrey knew thousands.

    “I’ve got a gig in July,” said Jeffrey. “But I’ve got no band.  They left me.” Smiles and rolling of the eyes ensued, as if this was the best thing in the world.

    “Said I was too much of a drama queen,” he volunteered. Elated, Jeffrey was teaching Ramona how to sing and to play the drums.

    “She came over last Tuesday,” he said, “And we practiced for hours. What a voice she has!”

    As he said that, Jeffrey looked at Daniella. He was an expert at double edged sentences, serving a carrot for one person, while he stuck it to another.

    One of the few female singers around, Daniella was a solid performer, but Jeffrey was determined to put her down. After all, she wasn’t his protege.

    For years he’d talked up what a dream it would be to team up with her, but when he finally got the chance, he did everything to derail it.

    But now Ramona was the star. He was showing her the ropes. Telling her which songs worked if you were after a big tip. Jeffrey had extensive experience.

    He regaled his friends with descriptions of how sexy she was. How she acted in his apartment when she came over to practice. “If I wasn’t so much older than her, I would have thought that she was trying to seduce me. The other day, she said that it was too hot in the room and she started taking off her blazer! She had this tiny little top on underneath. It was just too much for me.”

    As the weeks went by, Ramona became part of the scene. She was gigging with Jeffrey. The violin was only used occasionally, because Ramona quickly became a jack of all trades, playing the Cajon, the banana shaker and singing. Jeffrey taught her the song “Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend” which she sang in her charming Italian accent.

    “I really like him,” She confided to Daniella one day. “What do you think”?

    Daniella answered with a look of disapproval.

    “Yes, I know he is much older than I …”

    “MUCH older,” said Daniella, “But that’s not it.”

    “What is it then?”

    “He’s complicated and hasn’t been kind to his previous women.” This meant nothing to Ramona. She was in love! Daniella reflected to herself, “He is only kind when he wants something.”

    But Ramona, at age 21, still believed that she could change things.

    Astounded by his good luck, Jeffrey was beaming. He looked ten years younger. “I’m so in love!” He declared to all. At Open Mike, he didn’t drink his habitual shots of brandy.

    “Ramona has me on a healthy regime. She worries about my drinking.” He explained with pride.

    To be fair, everyone was enchanted. After all, if a fellow who’s nearly over the hill can net such a beauty, there is hope for us all.

    Some even imagined there was future potential for the pitter patter of little feet.

    Ramona received a scholarship to do her Masters at the Paris conservatoire in September. She considered declining, because she was having so much fun. The summer was full of excitement.

    Beautiful Daniella was singing, “Sway with me,” Johnny was on the drums, and spending a lot of time adjusting some buttons on his amplifier, Pierre played electric guitar.

    “Too loud,” said Jeffrey, before he walked out.

    Because Pierre’s band in Paris played instrumental rock, he wasn’t accustomed to accompanying a singer.  All he cared about were the pyrotechnics on his guitar. If it meant drowning the singer’s voice, then so what? Jeffrey had found little success reminding him that the singer was the focus.

    “You have to make the singer sound good”. Pierre nodded his head, but when it came to playing, he defaulted back to his own style.

    Nonetheless, Ramona joined them and played the Cajon. In her new dress, she looked sexy with the instrument strapped to her hip. Later, sitting with the other musicians, she and Jeffrey ordered shots of brandy.

    The health regime hadn’t lasted long. They were invited to a private party in a villa near Monaco. Jeffrey was over the moon, because a young, and good looking, millionaire there asked him, “Where do you find a girl like that?”

    “How can I reply?” He said, grinning from ear to ear.

    “In a Christmas cracker,” someone offered.

    “So, is Ramona going to stay in Nice?”

    “No,” said Jeffrey, “I think it’s important that she does her Masters”. Then he paused and looked around. “It’s ok. I’ll go and visit. She’ll come and visit. We’ll work it out.”

    In October, when summer began to fade, Open Mike, with its surprises and mysteries continued. The musicians’ expectations dropped dramatically, but for hardly any money, they grabbed any small gig that came their way, just to carry on and keep their musical muscles tuned. Bands managed by business minded people did well financially, wintering in Barbados, the Bahamas, St Bart, even Australia. They performed for the richest people on the planet, including but not limited to Putin.

    Ramona came back from Paris a couple of times to join the musicians at Open Mike, playing the Cajon, or the banana shake and the occasional song.

    “Where’s Jeffrey?’ Someone asked.

    ‘Oh, he isn’t well,’ said Ramona, rolling her eyes.

    “She knows how to handle him,” someone said.

    Jeffrey went to Paris from time to time. He spent all his savings going back and forth.

    “What’s it like?” asked his friends.

    “It’s great. While Ramona goes to the conservatoire, I busk under a bridge on the Seine. And at the end of each day, I bring home food for my woman.”

    He insisted on saying how great it was to be able to play what he wanted. Not beholden to anyone. Winter was coming and soon it would be Christmas.

    Jeffrey decided to make a surprise visit to Ramona, but he was a little subdued when he came back from Paris.

    “I think it’s over.”

    “Why? What happened?”

    “She wasn’t happy to see me. Just asked what I was doing there. She spent the whole weekend in bed eating Nutella with a spoon straight from the jar. She was so indifferent. But when I decided to leave and said goodbye, she started crying. There was nothing I could do.”

    Jeffrey’s appearances at Open Mike became rare. He complained that Pierre had taken over and that the music was overpowering. Daniella suggested that they could gig together, inviting him to lunch at her parents’ house. There he met her friend Elena, who also sang and played guitar. Daniella was considering forming a band with her.

    Jeffrey made a beeline for Elena, and spent the whole lunch romancing her. Daniella was none too pleased. But Elena assured her that she had no interest in Jeffrey. He was far too old.

    “Can you believe it!” Said Daniella to her friend Johnny. “Right in front of me, Jeffrey asked Elena to gig with him. He was complimenting her, and telling her she’s the best singer in Nice.

    She has never in her entire life performed a gig. Ok, she is an ok singer and an ok guitar player. But just ok! But you know what the worse thing was?

    How she squirmed and giggled with such pleasure while Jeffrey was basically insulting me.”

    “Well, said Johnny, you know that’s Jeffrey’s specialty, the old divide and conquer. He’s getting Elena on to his side and pitting you two against each other. Don’t be upset. It’s pure manipulation. He does it to all of us. Perhaps he wanted to show Ramona that he could replace her.” Daniella’s dark eyes flashed her fiery indignation.

    “But where is the loyalty?”

    “To be fair, Elena does know a lot of the songs and that makes him comfortable. Because at the end of the day, he is scared. He is scared of not being up to scratch.

    And with her he is still a star, because she can prop him with her guitar playing.”

    When they were back from the gig, Elena called.

    “So how was it?” Asked Daniella.

    “It was fine. They could’ve done without me. I just used the banana shaker. But I still got paid”.

    And later Johnny was heard to say, “Imagine, splitting your money with one more player you really don’t need?”