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Alone against everybody

 

( Piergiorgio Leaci ITA – Solo contro tutti )

 

 

 

 

The wind was blowing strongly at the station. The women went out of the railway carriages and walked with their hands on their knees to keep  the wind from baring their legs. Better like this: they were ugly. On the average forty years, small round heads, ash blonde hair and one hundred  kilos without proportion. They were hardly proceeding .

I went from the escalator to the first floor rubbing against their pendulous flesh. I stopped at the gents toilette, near a tramp sleeping in a corner, with a stub in one nostril. I had my hands and face frozen, so I rinsed them with warm tap water.

The journey had been hard. The trains were fast and silent, but I had not rested. The announcer had been screaming horrendous cacophonous warbles at every stop, without pronouncing any consonant.

I dried my face with the toilet paper and went out, under a great clock. I observed the flakes of snow,   people sliding, the lights of the city, drunkards improvising Argentinian tangos with deadly falls. Aarhus squirted vital energy indeed. I smelt the perfume of women anywhere. I remembered from where I came and a terrible sense of uselessness overtook me . I had been in abstinence for months.

The clock said seven thirty. I had been there for more than a hour and nobody had come to pick me up. Above my head a barometer said eighteen degrees below zero and was swinging as a hanged man.

I skipped about to maintain my blood in circulation. Some furred hobos were fixing me. They wrenched their eyes only to attach the lips to the bottle.

“Excuse me! Is it you Johnny?”, asked a hoarse voice. 

I sneezed. I dried my nose with my sleeve and started. An abortion. It was a witch around sixty years of age, with the cataract in her eyes, hair as bristles of brush and teeth of saffron. Where was Lone?

“Yes, it’s me!”, I answered forcing a smile.

“I am Dana. Lone couldn’t come. You will meet her tomorrow, when she returns from Copenaghen. She is spending the New Year's eve with some friends.”

“Of course! She is nice and  warm and I’m  out here  freezing!”, I answered rubbing my hands.

“Excuse me for the delay. The car didn't start because of the cold. Have you been waiting long?”

“Yes. Nobody has told me where to go!” 

“You are right. The Erasmus Bureau doesn’t work that well. But let’s go home, now!”, she said showing me the way.

I raised my luggage and followed her. She was undulating, moving her neck to and fro as a penguin. She was staggering, tottering, creaking and did not fall. It was never plain sailing. The Pleistocene whore saw me in trouble and did not lift a finger. I prayed that a heart attack might strike her. Otherwise I would have beaten her.

The car had  gone out of production thirty years ago. The chafed colour had gone leaving a horrible mixture of crusted mud-rust, but it was more presentable than the driver.

“Besides being parked, is it started up?”, I asked.

 She moved her jaw a bit to the right, a bit to the left, then she said:

“Are you kidding? The ignition works a treat, except when it’s cold. Unfortunately it doesn't do more than thirty per hour.”

I apologized for her delay. She opened the boot. Dampness, mold and dust came out . I laid down my suitcases and closed the door with a bang.. The windows wavered. We sat down. The seat was like spoiled tow. It was the longest trip by car of my life. The engine, racing up, was making an infernal noise. The plates were trembling and threatening to detach. Cars, queuing up behind, were protesting, blowing their horns. Arms and heads stuck out of the car windows, were howling in Danish.

“What do you think of Denmark? “, she asked me, “Do you like it?”

“I have not seen that much. It is cold, it snows and there are no people in the streets.”

“Everybody is inside getting drunk.”

“Everyone tries their best”, I said.

“Do you know where  your lodging is?”

“I have already told you: NO!”

“Fuglesangs Allè”

“WHAT?”

“Fuglesangs Allè.  Where the birds sing. Romantic name , isn’t?”

“It is a strange kind of romanticism!”, I replied, “There shouldn’t have been many birds singing for you in the last quarter of the century, I presume.”

She curled her lips and swallowed.  

After thirty five minutes of existential suffering we arrived. Not any  feathered singing, except mine. We get out of the car. Two great numbers gilded on a building: 69. After the singing birds, now the number 69. “This night I will lay a woman!”, I pondered.

Dana helped me  drag the suitcases up to the entrance and gave me the keys of my room. Then she impressed a foamy kiss on my forehead with her dry plum lips and went off farting.

I didn't know what to say. I thought of some nice sentences. I rang the bell. Nobody. I pushed the button again. Howls and music covered the sound. I left my luggage in front of the door and turned round the house  I entered a dark room through a half-open window. I struggled. I was as fat as an hamburger with two more sizes because  had  three woollen sweaters on. 

I plunged into darkness and waited until  my eyes got used to it. It was useless. The room had been swallowed by shadows. Moans and howls increased in intensity. I was in a cold sweat and walked on all fours. It was difficult to move being obese like a sausage. I got up and after two footsteps I struck two bodies fucking. Suddenly the man got up and struck blind never missing the target. I writhed with pain and crawled into a corner. The woman screamed as a victim in crisis. Some footsteps ran along the corridor. Somebody opened the door and turned the light on .

The embarrassed man covered his pale buttocks. She hid her breasts behind a pair of lace panties. Nobody said a word. I dried the blood from my nose and spit. I put up a bad show. I made an apology and went out.

 

My room was in the basement, with a small window and a low ceiling. I already imagined the heading on the national Danish newspaper: Sexual tourist buried abroad. Under investigation the Italian Erasmus Bureau.

The heart of the party was on the first floor. I changed my clothes and went upstairs to look for a drink. Nobody noticed me. They were doddering with a glass in their hand and mumbling words goggling. I went to the bar and drank an alcoholic mixture that heated me up and made me feel better. I lit a cigarette and looked at some girls sitting on a couch. One of them impressed me particularly. She was guzzling a bottle of Martini. I was moved and sat  down nearby. I waited until she stopped burping.  

“Pardon! Can I taste some?”

She passed me the bottle. I drank in gulps and belched in complicity. Her half opened eyes stared at me.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

She didn't answer. I found a bottle of wine around. 

“Take it! Today I am in mood for cultural exchanges!”

She grasped it and slurped. 

“SHIT! YOU HAVE DRUNK IT UP!”

She laughed her head off. I didn’t manage to stand it, not so soon after what I had gone through. I got furious.

“I will impale you in the old Turkish style. I will spear your pussy and turn it upside down. I will saw your bottom through fucking.”

My hands went under her blouse and tightened her breasts. A padded bra. Women never stop surprising. She started sniggering.

I dragged her into my room and undressed her. She didn’t refuse. An expression of defeat was depicted on her face. Women without breasts are like pants without pockets. I fingered her ass. It was not false. It was rather like a goose feather pillow. I had not touched one of them for so long. I pushed her on my bed and jumped on. I opened her legs and massaged it. She laughed realizing I was in trouble. I inserted a finger in her cunt. THRAAP. Arid like a desert. I was not discouraged. I salivated my index finger then put it  in and out. She laughed at me. I looked at her with my eyes turned on by anger, shouldered her and parked her stark naked in the corridor.

 “God bless you!”, I wished her.

I masturbated and went to sleep. 

 

******

 

I woke up in the early morning all aches and pains. I had a horrible hangover and my breath could kill a rhino. I had known better awakenings. 

The room was dark. I got up to turn the light on, but I did not find the switch. I went out of the room. The air was stuffy. On the floor there was vomit, bottles, wine and beer. We had a big beautiful party. The frigid slut was not where I had left her. I wondered where she had gone. Her clothes were still in my room. For sure somebody was taking care of her somewhere else. 

I went to the bathroom and washed my face. I felt a familiar odour. Condoms in the sink, sperm on the soap, in my hands, on my face. I scored the loo and threw up Wine-Martini. My eyes seemed to be bulging. I dried and went out. I grabbed the handle of the door of my room, but it was not to be opened. I jostled  and start crying.  I couldn’t rest a minute more.

A ruffled head came out of the room next door. No eyes, nose and mouth. Only hair. He was a raving lunatic because I had woken him up.

“I am sorry, but the door of my room seems to be locked. What can I do?”

“The lock closes automatically as you shut the door. You should phone to Mr. Thomsen. Ask him a  copy of your keys.”

“Thanks!”

I called the number that he had left me and an annoyed voice replied.

“Who’s calling?”

“Hi, It’s Johnny, do you remember? I called you from Italy.”

“Yes, I remember. What’s up?”

“I need a duplicate of my room key. The door is locked up.”

“Come and get it. Fuglesangs Allé  n.° 6.”

He put down the phone furious. It was 20 below zero and 7.00 a.m. I went to defecate, since I needed a bit concentration to make my mind.

There was little to choose. I closed the door and ran down the street puffing like a locomotive. The snow did not care. It was coming down, covering everything.

A woman was calling the 000 because she had seen a madman racing in pyjamas and slippers.