There are so many flavors in here it has become difficult to distinguish them. Cinnamon. Clove. Red pepper. Curry. Coconut. Ginger. And so crowded, nearly every table is full -- such conversations, so many they become difficult to dissemble. Dinner at Pashmina's is less buffet and more chaos. It is a favorite among The City's Indian families, and the nearby artists. And those stopping in before going to the plays, picture houses, theaters or clubs. Take out, stay in, the plates are like flying carpets...
Coming and going...
There are two spots left, and the woman in lovely pinks and reds, smiles at you, gesturing toward them. One, by a couple and their couple of fat and healthy -- and loud -- babies. The other? On the opposite side of the restaurant, near one of the front windows, overlooking Regent at Coventry, is a table occupied by a young man eating alone. More staring out the window and people-watching than eating. His expression is placid, very still. Well... as much of it as may be seen past the lavender, magenta and platinum...
He's hard to miss here. And maybe he feels that. Maybe that is why he looks to the street outside. Or to his plate...
"Sure," Cesare whispers, moving with the hostess, taking whatever seat's available. He seems non-plussed, dressed in brown leather pants and beige shirt, a wrapped package under his arm. He spots where the woman might lead, seeing the other man staring. Eating.
"Right this way, sir..."
Her voice is soft and her smile is wide and lovely. The daughter of the owner perhaps? Perhaps a woman who, in her own country, would not have to work. But such is the way of things in the West. She is gentle in the way she moves, in the way that she places her hand upon the table nearby to the other young man, in how she tilts her head just-so to address him. Years of training...
"You do not mind a dinner mate?" she smiles, and expects him to say No -- such is the way of Pashmina's. You could have dinner with the queen on a busy enough night.
There is no startlement but he looks up from his thoughts, the view outside as if she had touched his shoulder. A look to her and a quick look to the one she has with her. "Of course not," he says quietly, his accent of No Place in Particular and therefore likely Traveled American. He has a gathering of two types of naan -- vegetable and fruit. He has a plate of ginger curry over rice -- very fragrant. He has a glass only half-full of water.
"And I will get you more water," she adds and looking to you, Cesare, "And water for you to start, sir?"
"Grazi," Cesare nods, grinning politely as he pulls out the nearest seat. "Water...naan...your chicken curry," he offers, assured that they have such here at Pashmina's. He sets his package down, to the side of his placesetting, then looks around the room.
The seat is directly across the table for two, shared with you now by the young man with the lavender hair. He looks at you a moment as the woman nods and moves to take care of your order with a smile and a chiming of bells at her waist. And he looks at her, too...
He can't help himself...
Dei snaps back to look at you, to see you settle and he nods, then extends a fine hand. A musician's hand. "Dei," he says, his non-accent nevertheless pronouncing the Latin as it should be. And you are?
His eyes are sky blue and curious. You are more interesting than his food or the view outside. "A popular spot..." he says, obviously, and he looks around.
"It is," Cesare smiles, grasping your hand. "Giancarlo," he offers, shaking gently. A man in no rush. A man in no need to express himself in a shake. He simply is. He sits, releasing your hand in the process. "I come here when I am in town," he offers, the English somewhat fluid. "It is a good place to see people," he smiles, glancing around the room, as if a self-fulfilling prophecy.
"Don't let me...disturb your dinner," he smiles, the r's rolling from his tongue. "I know how to share a table quietly."
There wasn't much to the shake on the other side of the table, just the quick grasp of a fine hand. The hint of calluses at his fingertips when they draw away. A warm touch...
"My first time," he says. "My first time to London, actually..." His voice is quiet at that, as if it would be giving something away. Well, maybe it's a part of that whole 'have to keep up street credibility' thing. "And you're not disturbing me... it's my first conversation of the day." He smiles, and for that moment he is beautiful. Even with the distracting hair.
This... spending time... just spending time...
"I'm probably going to get this packed up to go anyway," he offers, and he breaks off more bread. The naan stuffed with cherries. His eyes lower to the package you carry but he doesn't ask about it. "What do you do, Giancarlo?" he wonders, settling back in his chair. Settling in for a while...
This... to listen... oh just to listen to Them...
"Oh, I am a student and chemist...at home," Cesare grins, reaching for his glass of water. "This is your first time here?" he smiles. "Touring? London's a wonderful city," he explains, "I have to make a ritual trip here...oh...twice a year or so." His head quirks at the idea of you departing, but he can understand. Brown eyes look to the table, then around for the pending arrival of his food.
...He's not going anywhere, he's just stopped eating the curry. That's what microwaves are for....
Platinum eyebrows open upward, his expression unfolding interest. "Chemist?" It's not that he doesn't understand what it is. And maybe it's not a matter of you not looking the scientist type. Just ...pure interest. His fingers tear at the bread, another piece of the cherry naan. The ginger curry will get cold -- but maybe it's better that way. "I was never any good at it, but I can respect it..."
Funny you should mention touring...
He twists a wry little smile and nods. "Something like it. Touring, playing a few clubs, trying to get a bit of money so I can keep going. It's... a kind of tour. I'm trying to get established in a bit of a bigger place. See how that works...You're not from England, this I can tell," he remarks. "Italy? I have been there..."
Cesare nods, listening to what you say. He seems genuinely interesting, patient as he can be. "You are a musician," he grins, "...you should come to Italia, then," he waves, fingers wide. "It is the place for musicians," Cesare explains, in case you didn't know.
"And I am not from England," he laughs, anti-climaticly, "...maybe I should move here," Cesare teases.
"Italy has been very good to me," he remarks. And has it ever. Popes and princes, artisans and artists, generals and serving girls. Such a passionate people. Such a lusty people. When I was Love, you could pierce the soil and it would run in golden rivers to the Mediterranean and Aegean seas. When I in my fall was transformed, the gold turned to blood but did not lessen. It is the place on earth where I reside, your Italy, Giancarlo...
"And yeah... guitarist... vocal. I lead a band... we travel around together. It is a good life. I like it."
I wish I could love it...
"I do not know, I do not think I could trade in Italy for London. I think I will return soon... spring, I think..."
"Well, if you come," Cesare offers, leaning over, hand lifted to you, "...you should find me. I can take you to the best places for musicians," he nods. "They pay well and they like those with real talent."
He sits back, his food arriving. "Ah, grazie," he looks up at the waiter, watching him walk away.
"What kind of music do you play?" Cesare asks, picking up a fork.
You had to wait a while...
... but it'll be worth it...
Pleasure on all sides of me. Across the table, on the table. There is no escaping Myself. Lust is everywhere...
It makes the world go...
It makes the world go down...
Blue eyes hold you and then he nods, Dei does. "That'd be great," and there's a little of his vessel's accent. Northern Something. Not American, merely very faded. "I don't know what our sound is... we're called ambient. Avante Garde. But it isn't that ... impersonal. We just... vary according to mood." He smiks at that. "Sometimes hard, sometimes soft. A little bit of ...everything. We're playing tonight... it's a small club, but good music venue as far as that goes. Red Fish, Blue Fish. You should come by... if you have time..." Sky looks past lavender and he smiles. "You can come, listen to us, if you like us you can leave me your number... Where are you based in Italy?"
The smile, this time, is different. Yet eyes are on the food. "Venezia," Cesare says, closing his eyes before putting fork to rice. "Beautiful City," he murmurs, not an adjective but a title. "My home. And yes," now looking up, "I'd do that. I am supposed to leave tomorrow, though, so maybe," his hand waves, "...I stay not so late." A look up to you, another smile.
"We start at nine," he says, and he leans in to see if you have a watch. But he knows what time it is. He has an hour. He will have to go soon. "I have been to your Venezia," he says, and his pronunciation is dead-on. "I did not," do not, "get to spend as much time there as I would like. You will leave me your number in Venezia tonight," a question and not. "After you hear a little," Dei smiles.
I could get into this rock star thing...
Maybe...
He motions to the wandering waitress, and points to his plate. "I'd like a box. Saving it for later..." A look to you and the smile traces at his mouth. "I get hungry after," after whatever. I'm never not hungry, "... not sure why." Shrugging, he leans forward, his arms resting now on the table, his plate pushed away. Soft brown hands lift and carry it to the side, putting it in a to-go box for him. "I have to go soon, sound check and tuning... our first break is at ten, maybe you..."
I cannot escape it. I want to close my eyes. I want to not ... be this....
.... "...can come to the back part of the club just for a few minutes. No real backstage, or I'd give you a pass." He grins then.
Cesare nods, enjoying his dinner thoroughly now. "It is," he rolls his wrist over, well, nevermind. You've gone on in the conversation. Cesare takes a forkful, always chewing while he watches you.
"I understand if you have to go," the Italian smiles, seeing it may be close to your performance time. He swallows and sets his fork down, picking up napkin to wipe at his mouth. "And yes, I will find the club, thank you for the invitation." A laugh, "As soon as I..." and he motions at his dinner.
Thus, sayeth My Father, you find Your Self and Your Place. Dei. Amadeus. God Loves...
"Right, sorry," he laughs, "I talked all the way through it. Alright. It is Red Fish, Blue Fish... it's ...ah... you know where the Phantasmagoria is? It's just east of there. There's all these ...secreted little clubs. I walked in on a bath house yesterday..."
I wasn't surprised...
Boxes appear where curry once sat unattended. "I should let you eat in peace. So, nice to meet you, Giancarlo. See you in an hour or so..." Pound notes land on the table. Enough for dinner and tip. "Thank you," he says to the young woman. And she... whose eyes would seem so wise...blushes a little, smiles and moves to attend another table.
I love you...
I love you all...
Can I love you and want you?
Can I love you and make you all mine?
Is it wrong to please you?
Is it wrong to want to make you sigh?
Why can't I love you...
Why can't I not destroy you...
Dei rises and takes the two boxes of ginger curry and naan. Quite tall. Quite blonde beneath all that lavender, magenta and blue. Northern. Far to the north. "Looking forward to it..."
"No problem," Cesare grins, standing suddenly with you. Napkin in his off-hand, he continues to smile as his hand comes out again. "See you in a few...Dei." Said warmly. He doesn't blush, but he believes he has found a friend. Kinship.
Much promise in a young man who seems to have so little. A kind smile, a friendly heart, and a book.
The hand is warm and the touch is brief. And he smiles -- the most he's smiled in years. And there's no darkened glee, and there's no consequence. There's no scheme and there's no plan, no ulterior motive...
He just smiles...
Boxes in hand, and your hand let go, he moves around the table and turns toward the door. And there's one look back and there's a nod. Blue eyes expect to see you, want to see you, hope to see you at the meeting place...
Posted by rowan at May 10, 2003 12:26 PM
