Karolina and Michał shot me surprised glances as I left the room. They were still in the same clothes they had had on during the flight.
“How did you manage to change clothes already? You look like you had hours to prepare!” Karolina muttered as we were walking to the elevator.
“Well…” I shrugged. “You’ve got your talent for excessive drinking, but I have a trick or two up my sleeve, too. I prepare in my head, so then I can ready myself in a couple minutes.”
“All right, quit it with the chitchat. Let’s go have a drink!” Martin boomed.
All four of us crossed the hotel lobby to the exit.
Giardini Naxos at night was a beautiful, picturesque place. The narrow, winding streets pulsated with life and music. There were all kinds of people everywhere, from young partygoers to mothers with children. Sicily only woke up after sundown, it seemed. The scorching heat of the day was too much for everyone to go out earlier. We reached the densely populated port district. There were dozens of restaurants, bars, and cafés along the seafront.
“I’m about to die of hunger here,” Karolina said.
“And my blood alcohol content is definitely too low,” added Michał. “Look at this place. It’ll be perfect.”
He pointed to a restaurant by the beach called Tortuga. It was a classy place with glass tables, white chairs and sofas, and candles everywhere. Overhead, enormous sheets of white sailcloth waved and rippled in the wind, making it seem like it was floating. The restaurant was divided into cozy nooks enclosed by heavy wooden beams supporting the cloth roofing. The effect was magical—bright and breezy and simply perfect. The prices were a bit steep, but it was filled with people. Martin waved at a waiter, and with a quick incentive of a few euros, we were sitting comfortably and reading the menu in no time. My dress did nothing to make me blend in with my surroundings. I felt everyone’s eyes on me. With all that white, my black outfit made me stand out like a black beacon.
“I’m feeling watched, but who could have known we’d end up in a big milk jug,” I whispered to Martin with a stupid, apologetic smile.
He took a quizzical look around, leaned in to my ear, and whispered, “You’re paranoid, babe. Besides, you look astonishing. Let them look.”
I scanned the place again. At first glance, nobody was looking my way, but I had this strange feeling of being watched nonetheless. I pushed away the nagging thought of having inherited some kind of mental disease from my mother and focused on the menu. I quickly found my favorite, grilled octopus, and chose a rose Prosecco. The waiter, despite being a Sicilian, was also an Italian, which meant we couldn’t expect anything done fast. We’d have to wait a good long while before he came back to take our order.
“I have to go to the restroom,” I said, my eyes darting around.
There was a small door by the beautiful wooden bar in the corner of the restaurant. I headed that way. I passed through, but it was just the dishwashing room. I turned back, only to hit the stone-hard chest of a tall man. Frowning and rubbing my forehead, I raised my eyes. The man in front of me was handsome. An Italian. Haven’t I seen him somewhere before? His icy stare transfixed me. I couldn’t move as he gazed at me with his black eyes. There was something in him that terrified me. I froze.
“You seem to be lost,” he said in perfect, fluid English with an immaculate British accent. “I can help you if you tell me what you’re looking for.”
He smiled, presenting a set of perfectly straight, white teeth, and placed a hand on my back, between my shoulder blades, touching naked skin. He pushed me gently in the right direction and led me to the door. Feeling his touch made shivers run down my spine. It made walking no easier. I was light-headed, bewildered. I couldn’t speak. The only thing I could do was smile, or rather grimace. I headed back to Martin. With all these emotions running through me, I completely forgot why I had left our table in the first place. As I returned, my friends were already having their drinks—they had managed to down one round already and were just ordering another. I collapsed on the sofa, grabbed my glass of Prosecco, and finished it in one gulp. At the same time, the glass still at my lips, I gestured to the waiter that I needed another one.
Martin shot me an amused glance.
“You boozer!” He laughed. “And you tell me I have a problem with alcohol.”
“I just needed a drink,” I replied, a bit dizzy with the wine I had drunk too quickly.
“That restroom has to be a magical place if that’s the way it worked on you.” Hearing that, I glanced around nervously in search of the tall Italian who had made my legs shake like they had on the day I had first ridden a motorbike after getting my driver’s license.
And he’d be pretty easy to spot in the white interior—just like me, he wore black. Loose black linen trousers, a black shirt with a wooden rosary sticking out from underneath the collar, and black loafers. I might have only glimpsed the man, but I remembered him well.
“Laura!” Michał’s voice pulled me out of my reverie. “Stop staring at people and have a drink!”
I didn’t even notice the second glass of Prosecco arriving at our table. I decided to take my time with it, though I felt the urge to pour it all into my mouth just like the first one. My legs were still shaky. Dinner was served and we devoured it. The octopus was perfect—accompanied only by small, sweet tomatoes. Martin got a gigantic squid, cut into pieces and scattered over his plate with garlic and coriander.
“Holy shit!” Martin exclaimed suddenly, jumping to his feet. “Do you know what time it is? It’s past midnight, so, Laura… ‘Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…’ ” he sang. Michał and Karolina stood, too, and joined in the merry, loud, and raucous rendition of the birthday song. The other guests were looking at us, intrigued, and then joined as well, singing in Italian. The restaurant reverberated with loud applause, and all I wanted to do was vanish. I hated that stupid tune. I don’t think anybody really like it. Nobody really knows how to behave as everyone is singing it—sing along, clap their hands, smile like an idiot? All options seemed bad, and you are just left the center of attention, looking out of place. With a fake smile plastered to my face, I rose and waved at everyone, bowing and thanking them for their wishes.
“You just had to do this to me, didn’t you?” I growled at Martin, the smile still stretching my lips. “Reminding me of my age isn’t too polite. Besides, did you have to involve everyone?”
“Well, babe, it seems the truth is a hard pill to swallow. But, by way of apology, I’ve ordered your favorite drink.”
The waiter appeared with four tall glasses and a bottle of Moët & Chandon Rosé in a bucket filled with ice.
“Oh, I love it!” I squealed, jumping up and down and clapping my hands like a little girl.
My glee wasn’t unnoticed by the waiter, who opened the bottle and filled our glasses. He then smiled at me widely and put the cooler and the nearly empty bottle on the table as he left.
“Na zdrovye!” called Karolina in Polish, raising her glass. “May you find what you’re looking for, always have what you want, and fulfill all your dreams. Cheers!” We clinked glasses and drank the champagne.