Scarves - PART II
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
The Casting On
A few days later, I went to eat lunch at one of my favorite haunts. Taking my seat, I waited for my waitress, Mia, to bring me a menu and engage me in a bit of idle chatter. Mia had become one of the locals I talked to on a regular basis. Helping me to learn the customs, the language, and in short gaining a different point of view than the one I had grown up with. She was well versed, smart, and spoke English perhaps better than I did, and yet due to Germany’s unemployment rate, she had to take a job as a waitress in Italian Alley.
She greeted me by running her nails across my neck, startling me to no end. Usually I can tell when someone is near but today Mia slipped beside me as easily as one slips between satin sheets on a cold winter evening. Her fingers were frigid though the sun was beating upon the cobbled sidewalks ferociously.
“Mein Gott Mia, your hands are like ice.”
“I’m feeling a little under the weather.”
Noticing the orange and pink scarf she was wearing I asked, “Sore throat?”
“Ja. Sore throat,” she said tightening the scarf as she glanced into the darkness of the alley.
“My Mom always made us drink tea with honey. That might help.”
“I’m German and work in Italian Alley, tea really isn’t my preferred beverage.”
“Well then, gargle with lukewarm water and salt. That’ll work too.”
Attempting to change the subject matter she smiled and inquired, “What can I get you today?”
I gave her my order and once again she ran her nails across the back of my neck. Her touch unsettled me. As any man would, I appreciate the affections of an attractive woman, but the relationship I had with Mia had never had any hint of temptation. Mia returned with a large glass of Chianti, placing a white napkin on the table, then the goblet of wine, she walked away looking back, eyes cast suggestively towards the red alcohol.
I picked up the wine, took a deep pull, reveled in its flavor, and went back to my keyboard to write more blather about Germany. After two paragraphs of getting directions to the local bakery, Mia returned with my pizza. Placing the meal in front of me, her scarf loosened allowing it to dangle, revealing two, almost unperceivable, wounds on her neck. Once again I did not think anything of it and instead went to work on my pizza. Taking the first bite, my gag reflex kicked in. The pie was swimming in garlic. Spitting my bite into the cotton napkin, I beckoned Mia over to ask for another pie. She shook her head and told – no -- begged me to eat it. Telling me it would keep me healthy, that there was a flu going around and she would hate for me to be unable to write.
I have eaten plenty that has been unsavory (two that come to mind are Mom’s Hamburger Helper and Turtle’s beer soup) so I choked down the pizza, drinking gulps of wine after every slice. Swallowing the third slice, I picked up the Chianti; the napkin clung to the bottom. Plucking it off I noticed there was a note upon it. Please take care of yourself. They’re watching you now.
My brow furrowed trying to grasp what this meant. I believed the handwriting to be Mia’s but she was nowhere to be seen. Did she mean they were the Polizei? They were out in full force that day attempting to keep a protest march civil. I had already had my bag searched three times, fitting the profile of the many students making their march on the Rathaus rallying against tuition charges. But what more could they want of me? Three officers walked down the alley towards me and I began to sweat. Fear overwhelming me, scenarios of them interrogating me and my German failing, flinging me into a German prison where I become the rag doll to a man sporting a traditional Bavarian moustache named Jurgen. The fight or flight impulses struck, throw down some Euro and run for anywhere but here, when again the glacial caress of Mia was felt. I was calm yet terrified as her fingers traced my jaw line.
I watched the khaki and green garbed officers walk by enjoying their 89 Euro cent scoops of gelato, as I listened to the shallow breaths of the woman whose head was perched upon my shoulder.
“Listen. I like you.”
“I like you too Mia, but…”
“Quiet.” I felt her hand tighten on my shoulder. The strength emanating from such a slight frame forced me to focus on her words. “I don’t have much time. But they have been watching you since you came here. They know you and will be coming.”
“Who?”
“Die Vampyrs.” I started to laugh. “I am not joking. When you leave look at the scarves. Look for them. They, we,” I heard her choke back a tear, “are their food. They might makes us one, they might let us die, but you and your woman, they want.”
“But why?”
“No more time. I will miss you.” She kissed me on the cheek and then bit my ear lobe piercing it with her teeth. I felt a droplet of blood fall from my ear onto her tongue. I turned to say something but she was gone, instead all I saw was scarves. At every restaurant a scarf. Why I had never seen so many before I can’t understand. I beckoned the other waitress, no easy task, asked her for the Rechnung and where Mia was. She told Mia had just left, her throat ailing her greatly and that my bill was twelve Euros. I gave her fifteen, told her to keep the change, grabbed my man sack and headed toward the Rathaus.
To be continued...
Labels: fiction, scarf, vampires
posted by Don Taylor @ 12:46 PM,
1 Comments:
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At 4:07 PM,
said...
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Bollocks.
