CHAPTER VIII
SERRATO
(STOCKY, HURRIED)
SERRATO
(STOCKY, HURRIED)
The Rosebud offered little in the way of charm or innocence; perhaps only the tender age of some of its hostesses and dancers—mostly Arabic and Filipino girls—could evoke any semblance of purity. They appeared far too young to be catering to the ugly old men who exited with them, pride and lust flickering in their piggish eyes. Although Mr. Mikirakis and Michaelis’s reactions to my mention of The Rosebud should have prepared me for the worst, nothing could have readied me for the dismal reality I encountered as I stepped through the front door.
Everything about the club was grimy, cheap-looking, and unsettlingly dirty. Referring to the stage—if one could even call it that—as such seemed generous; it was merely a wooden platform tucked away in one corner, flanked by a faded, worn-out curtain. And the so-called dressing room? Let's not even go there.
It was clear that the performers left much to be desired. I had arrived with Frida, who informed me that she and Hildegard frequented The Rosebud almost nightly. Upon our arrival, I found Hildegard seated alone with a large scotch on the rocks before her. I was unfamiliar with the other hostesses and entertainers, and frankly, I had no desire to become acquainted. Already in a foul mood from the knowledge that I’d been relegated to this dismal excuse for a nightclub, I forced myself to endure the night ahead.
“Did you sign any papers stating that you owe Mister Koussos money?” I asked Frida as I stirred my tea.
“Yes,” she replied promptly, “and I really don’t know how I’m going to pay him back.”
“Yes,” she replied promptly, “and I really don’t know how I’m going to pay him back.”
Hildegard let out a vulgar laugh. “You’ll find out soon enough!” she scoffed.
“Oh no!” exclaimed the Flemish girl, “No hanky-panky for me! I know they expect us to sleep with customers, but I am not a whore!”
“Oh no!” exclaimed the Flemish girl, “No hanky-panky for me! I know they expect us to sleep with customers, but I am not a whore!”
If looks could deceive; to me, she certainly appeared to fit the part—her skirt hiked high, layers of makeup coating her round face, and a bright-red pout that seemed to beckon. Her ample curves appeared eager to burst forth, ready to frolic with whoever might come along.
But I moderated my judgments; I knew she spoke the truth. Beneath all that varnish trembled an innocent soul ensnared by society's injustices. Frida was merely doing her best to cope, and I felt a pang of sympathy, determined to protect her purity for as long as I could.
“Why did you sign the paper?” I asked.
She looked at me, puzzled, and then giggled. “I had to!” she insisted.
“Had to? Why?” I pressed.
She looked at me, puzzled, and then giggled. “I had to!” she insisted.
“Had to? Why?” I pressed.
“Well, because Koussos gave me money when I first got here, and… I don’t know, he also paid for the hotel. I have to pay him back. Didn’t you sign?”
I diverted my gaze from her and attempted to decipher Hildegard’s expression, but it was a mask of indifference that clearly read: “Don’t involve me in your problems; I have my own!”
I diverted my gaze from her and attempted to decipher Hildegard’s expression, but it was a mask of indifference that clearly read: “Don’t involve me in your problems; I have my own!”
Choosing to change the subject, I asked, “Not yet—how’s your dancing act coming along?”
“Great! Mitzi says I'm ready to start in a couple of days!”
“Yes, she’s been doing her best,” Hildegard interjected, the condescending tone eliciting a gleam of pride in Frida’s eyes.
“Mitzi has almost finished my costume. It's so pretty, it has…”
“Don’t tell her!” Hildegard interrupted sharply. “She’ll see it on your opening night!”
I smiled. “Where will that be?”
“The Golden Star!” Hildegard and Frida responded in chorus.
“Wow!” I exclaimed, genuinely impressed.
“Mister Koussos says he has a lot of confidence in me,” Frida beamed. Those words struck a familiar chord within me, yet I sought to maintain my composure.
“Great! Mitzi says I'm ready to start in a couple of days!”
“Yes, she’s been doing her best,” Hildegard interjected, the condescending tone eliciting a gleam of pride in Frida’s eyes.
“Mitzi has almost finished my costume. It's so pretty, it has…”
“Don’t tell her!” Hildegard interrupted sharply. “She’ll see it on your opening night!”
I smiled. “Where will that be?”
“The Golden Star!” Hildegard and Frida responded in chorus.
“Wow!” I exclaimed, genuinely impressed.
“Mister Koussos says he has a lot of confidence in me,” Frida beamed. Those words struck a familiar chord within me, yet I sought to maintain my composure.
“That’s very nice,” I said.
“Milos,” she chimed in, her enthusiasm uncontained.
“Oh.”
“Milos,” she chimed in, her enthusiasm uncontained.
“Oh.”
I scoffed inwardly at how that man’s praise sent her into ecstatic highs. This world, I mused, was cruelly tailored for the strong and lecherous to prey on the weak and innocent. I pondered the dynamics between Hildegard and Frida; how had these two crossed paths, and what hold did the older woman have over the younger one?
Questions swarmed my mind. Even while trapped in the decrepit Rosebud that night, I occupied myself with weaving elaborate fantasies about the other players on life’s stage.
The place remained half-empty throughout the evening, and I doubted the patrons paid much attention to the lackluster performances, mine included. Instead, they were likely lost in sloppily pawing at young, docile hookers or absorbed in card games, evident by the grim faces and the persistent sound of fists slamming down on tables.
Over by the bar, a few drunken Swedish U.N. soldiers were toying with one girl as if she were already their plaything, mockingly acting out unspeakable acts. The sight bore a resemblance to one of those frenzied, bronze sculptures from Africa; the poet had once brought back similar pieces along with long-legged birds and a little drummer from Kenya.
I could hardly believe my eyes; the girl seemed to revel in the absurdity, laughing uproariously as they explored her body, their hands roaming between her legs, openly massaging her breasts. She squealed with delight, encouraging their advances grotesquely.
How in heaven’s name had I ended up here? To sing? My soulful torch songs? Come on, Anique, give yourself a break! What am I doing here? This is a bad joke!
Michaelis and George Mikirakis had been spot on: I simply did not belong in this place. Yet, here I was, in the flesh, and the grim reality loomed—sooner or later, one of these creeps would make a move on me, and there would be little time for polite introductions. A wave of discomfort washed over me, even while Frida and I remained undisturbed at our table. Meanwhile, Hildegard had retreated to a dim corner with a feeble old Cypriot, who kept pouring her more scotch from the table bottle.