Vita Nuova by Magdalen Nabb Page A

could have to themselves right opposite the stage. The place wasn’t full but, then, perhaps it was early. Early for some. The marshal tried to smother a yawn.
    ‘Something to drink?’
    A waiter was leaning over them.
    ‘No, no. . . .’
    ‘Don’t want to look conspicuous,’ Nesti said in his ear. ‘It’s included in the ticket price.’
    ‘A glass of red then.’
    Nesti relayed this and the waiter shook his head.
    ‘They don’t serve glasses of wine. Your ticket includes a real drink. Have a G and T like me. You can’t not drink. We’re here for a good time, remember?’
    ‘A grappa, then.’
    The waiter seemed satisfied with that and went away.
    ‘I didn’t know you liked grappa.’
    ‘I don’t, much!’
    When it arrived, he sipped at it gingerly. ‘And I don’t like this noise!’
    ‘What?’
    ‘I don’t—oh. . . .’ What was the use? He kept his face towards the pole dancers, trying to take in as much as he could of the customers without looking directly at them. Apart from three or four lone men of about his own age, they seemed to be all small groups of men in their late twenties, early thirties. He reconized the type. They usually had a job, still lived with their parents, and spent their salaries on cars, clothes, and holidays. Just the sort who could fritter away money in this place. It wasn’t much money to fritter, though, was it? Fifteen euros, including a drink. Next drink would probably cost thirty, but even so. . . .
    The marshal started counting, still keeping his head towards the stage. He’d seen two men behind the bar, and as well as the waiter who’d served them, there was a waitress in a glittery bikini. Three pole dancers and more of the same working the room, stopping to kiss the lone customers, settling on the knees of the younger men. Must be at least three—yes, they were taking over the dancing now. That pair of dangerous-looking characters near the door were obviously bouncers. . . .
    He leaned towards Nesti’s ear. ‘They’re not making any money out of this. There are more staff than customers in here.’
    Nesti didn’t answer, only nudged him. One of the dancers who had come off the stage was approaching them. Long dark curls and a mole under her left breast. Cristina. She sat on Nesti’s knee and began kissing him and whispering in his ear. After a few minutes they got up and started towards the exit, and Nesti looked back to signal that the marshal should follow. As they came out, he murmured, ‘It’s worth a try.’
    It wasn’t. They were stopped at the cash desk.
    ‘He must take another girl.’
    ‘We both like this one. We’ll pay for two.’
    ‘No. That’s sixty euros. Ten minutes.’
    ‘Make that twenty minutes.’ He pulled the girl close, grinning, and kissed her.
    ‘A hundred and twenty.’ He wound a plastic timer and gave it to the girl. They started up the stairs, and the marshal went back to the flashing darkness, the noise, and his grappa. This was going to be a long twenty minutes. He sat watching the pole dancers for a while, noting how their movements included eye contact and a seductive smile and how, every so often, tired out, their bodies would slacken and the smile melt away to be replaced by a glazed look of weariness. They never actually stopped moving, and the young men watching their breasts would never notice. They all had very pretty breasts. Some of them could really dance, too, while others just jiggled about and took up more or less obscene poses. Each time there was a changeover, a voice came over a loudspeaker exhorting applause for their brilliant performance. The response was feeble and would surely have been an embarrassment had it not been camouflaged by the pounding music. There had to be more than six girls, because someone had replaced Cristina. He looked at his watch and sighed inwardly.
    ‘Can I take this?’
    He nodded and Nesti’s empty glass was picked up.
    ‘Something else for you?’
    ‘No, no. . .