Shameless Bar
Once upon a time, architects actually knew their business. You look at the castles—even the provincial ones—look at the old city centers. But with today’s technology?
The Hotel ER, which we’re inaugurating tonight, starts with a dark blue iron gate that looks somewhere between the entrance of a nursery and a prison yard. Once you’re through the gate, you find a wide meadow full of wildflowers with a winding path—which is a nice touch—but the view is dominated by the hotel’s facade: long, boxy floors, floor-to-ceiling glass, and walls that sharpen into a triangular point at the edges.
The hotel is a four-story triangle, a massive blade. It looks like one of those feng-shui designs conceived specifically to strike down competitors. Or an architect’s power fantasy rendered in stone and glass.
But it’s not my problem. As I walk in, I wave to Kitty, who’s busy on the reception phone. I take the stairs instead of the elevator to check on the preparations; passing by, I barely brush the neck of LaBelle as she screams orders at the decorators. It’s not my problem because my kingdom is at the top: the Shameless Bar, the hotel’s rooftop terrace, where all you can see is the meadow, the sky, and the world below.
I’ve done everything I can to make it welcoming. You walk on gravel, moss, and reed mats that will need replacing every month. There are aromatic plants in pots along the edges, a Zen-style pond in the center, and further out, the three islands where my bartenders will work.
Behind the pond sits the gazebo. That’s my station. Seventy-five euros just to get in and drink as much as you want. I can already hear the objection: few people will come. Exactly. If a crowd showed up, where would I find the time to play Panzer Commander? At least the few who do come will be motivated. I’m hoping for someone who knows the difference between a Silent Pool and a Martin Miller. But in the end, the more private a privé is, the more people want in—especially if there’s a girl or two. And there will be, because my doorwoman will handpick ladies from the general crowd to offer them free entry. She will be here by opening time.
I hear footsteps however. Someone’s coming in.
A Negra? Must be one of the maids.
“Hi. I was afraid no one was here yet. They gave me a break and I thought I’d hunt for a beer.”
She’s one of those thin ones—not short, small breasts, hair cropped so short it’s glued to her head. Doesn’t look West African.
“I saw them bringing up crates of Kapuziner the other day. Do you have any cold?”
She’s not exactly a beauty, but man does not live by models alone. A girl who asks for a Kapuziner instead of the usual bottled swill is alright by me. She seems confident, easygoing, maybe just a little naive. I pull a bottle from the fridge, pop the cap, and hand her a glass, but I don’t pour.
She pours it herself instead of swigging from the bottle. Excellent. I’m liking her more.
“Where are you from?”
“Kenya. My name is Dinah, like Dinah Washington.”
“Do you sing like her, too?”
“No. At most, I dance.”
She gulps down her beer happily, quickly; she knows she has to get back before the manager, Tilde, notices she’s gone AWOL.
“You said Kenya, but what’s your people?”
She stops, surprised, before the last sip. She didn’t expect that question from an Italian. Her mouth is still open against the rim of the glass, foam on her lip—it’s a suggestive look. I find myself wishing she’d turn around so I could see her bare back.
“The name would make you laugh.”
“I won’t laugh if you don’t want me to.”
“I am Aringa.” ( Note : in italian Aringa = Herring )
“No kidding? That’s really the name?”
“Of course. We are the Aringa people. We live scattered between Uganda and Kenya. My grandfather was Ugandan, but when Idi Amin fell, he had to flee to Kenya with the whole family, and I was born there. That’s the story.”
She smiles. I think she’s happy to have told someone. She finishes the beer.
“Now I have to go, though, or they’ll fire me. Bye!”
“No. Stay right there.”
I pick up the phone, keeping my eyes on her as I dial.
“Tilde, hi. It’s the Shameless. You have a maid named Dinah, right? Right. I’ve hijacked her. Yes, she’s with me. Don’t worry, I’ll send her back. Eventually.”
If she were lighter-skinned, she’d be pale. She’s realizing she isn’t standing in front of just another hired hand. I pour her a finger of Canadian Crown Royal, diluted with an Alsatian Crémant.
“They told you, didn’t they? That this hotel offers many... optional services that you won’t find elsewhere?”
“I’ve heard things. But I’m only here to clean the rooms! Do i look a Nigerian?”
“No, indeed. I have a small stage out here. You said you dance. Instead of the rooms, you could perform here and serve tables. There’s security; no one would be allowed to touch you.”
“Just dancing?”
“Well. We could put you in a latex suit. Tie you up. Maybe even hang you from some chains. But it would all be on stage, and like I said, no one could get up there to touch you. And the pay would be much higher.”
I see a lot of things in her eyes: temptation, fear, curiosity.
“But there’s no point talking about it if I don’t see how you move first. The stage is right there. Are you up for an audition?”
She feels trapped inside the gazebo. She’ll agree to anything just to get outside, just to have a moment to think as we walk around the pond.
She steps onto the stage with a sigh. A couple of maintenance guys cast curious glances but keep working. At the console, I put on Petersen’s Nilabeko. It’s not exactly from her country, but nearby.
She relaxes. Hearing the music of home makes her smile. And then she starts moving, her hips shaking like a blender. She’s elastic, beautiful. I knew it. I could sense the talent.
She’ll need a stage name. How should I introduce her?
Bunga Bunga?