Three O'Clock in the Morning: a Novel by Gianrico Carofiglio

Author:Gianrico Carofiglio
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2021-01-16T00:00:00+00:00

16

Block after block, the city had changed. Now we were in a half-deserted area on the outskirts with a few cars parked here and there. There were yards full of weeds and refuse, nasty smells, ghostly boarded-up buildings, housing estates that seemed uninhabited with the odd dim light in the windows, tall dilapidated fences behind which disused warehouses could be glimpsed. Over it all, there hovered a sense of desolation and neglect.

A small pack of dogs crossed the street, a sheepdog cross at the head of the procession, the others following in a disciplined single file, in a kind of choreography that reminded me of the sleeve of Abbey Road. They disappeared one by one into a side street, fading into the darkness, and a few moments later, I wondered if I had really seen them.

“Are you sure this is the right place?”

He showed me the map. The name of the street we were crossing corresponded to the one Dominic had written on the piece of paper. “It should be this way, but it’s definitely a strange place for a music venue.”

“I’m taking this anyway,” I said, picking up a rusty iron bar, the kind used in reinforced concrete. He appeared about to say something—don’t do anything stupid, leave that thing, something like that—then must have thought that, considering the surroundings, arming ourselves wasn’t a completely mistaken idea.

We kept on walking. A taxi drove past us and stopped a hundred meters farther on. Three people got out and walked in somewhere, while the taxi moved away quickly, as if the driver didn’t want to stay in the area a minute longer.

“Maybe it’s there,” I said.

“I think it is,” my father said, going nearer.

The half-closed gate led to a yard at the far end of which was a low building with a green and purple sign: En Fusion. I threw away the iron bar, and we approached. Some cars were parked near the building, and in front of the entrance stood two forbidding-looking men. One was tall and fat, with the smooth face of a depraved buddha; the other was his opposite: thin and dark, with muscular arms that looked like leather ropes. Neither of them looked like people you would want to get into an argument with.

They asked us if we had an invitation. My father said, no, we didn’t have an invitation, we didn’t know we needed one, but Dominic from Chez Papa had suggested we come, to hear music.

The mention of Dominic worked. They exchanged looks; the fat man, who seemed to be in charge, nodded. The thin man asked us for a hundred francs each, didn’t issue any tickets, and let us through.

It was a large space with not much light and a lot of people: wide-open windows, a smell of cast iron, smoke, and bodies. On one side, there was a bar with a wooden counter and sawdust on the floor all around; on the other, up against a wall of timeworn bricks, a bandstand onto which the musicians were climbing at that very moment.

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