The leaves of Faenza had turned brown, and the rain had pulled many of them to the ground. Determined to avoid the previous night’s costly follies we arrived in the small city around noon. Mixed in with the leaves were a couple of used syringes. This would be a strange day.
Morena greeted us at Clan Destino, a spacious bar attached to Angusto, a posh restaurant. A striking woman, beautifully tattered in Converse lo-tops and a lo-cut housedress, she gave us keys to her apartment. We could “stay lazy” but told us to come back for lunch.
While laundry laundered at the laundromat we hunkered down at the apartment, where we were introduced to David. A young man from Kentucky who described himself as “lost,” David spoke mostly in broken proverbs about the hopelessness of humanity and wolves. He plays sax with a blind pianist and is considering communism. David would join us for the remainder of the day.
Between laundry cycles Morena came by the apartment knocking and calling out “Hey!”
“Come on!” she scolded. “Food is ready! It will get cold soon!” Yes, Morena!
While the rain stayed steady the kitchen cooked up a simple and delicious vegetable pasta dish. Morena apologized for the Spartan meal. Somehow her dress seemed more low cut than before. I asked her if we should load in the instruments.
“Life is already a disease. Why go looking for another one?”
Mike and I had found ourselves becoming smitten with her. She didn’t notice and went right back to work.
Back at the apartment I tried to use the bidet. I still don’t get it. I hovered above the horizontal stream but couldn’t figure out how to get there without touching the basin or the drain or anything that might have been touched by previous anuses. So I stayed lazy and took a nap instead. Yeah, I still don’t get it.
Before our set, the inexhaustible Morena fed us at Angusto. Eggplant antipasti, mushroom and anchovy gnocci, and homemade peach sorbet. She also threw in two bottles of red wine. Her matronly generosity and jigglingly low cut dress were doing a real Oedipal number on Mike and I.
She gave us another bottle of wine before the show. A quick glance at the clientele revealed clean, affluent fortysomethings out for an evening of quality. We went into a Lewis Carroll bathroom with an open window facing the toilet (?) and spackled our faces clown white and burnt cork. Where are we!?
The set was strange. We were the only act. Mike broke the language barrier by speaking in Spanish, but another intangible barrier seemed to remain. While they applauded after songs the Faenzains seemed icy otherwise. Even the knackered guy in a prom dress with duct tape seemed baffled by us. He kept calling us “bitch.”
We closed the set with “Oiling Up,” its debut on this tour. Feeling unfulfilled, Alan remained onstage long after the set was over. Morena kept the stage lights on for a full twenty minutes while Alan performed slow motion mimicry of a has-been stage performer failing miserably during a comeback show.
He silently sang “Lightning Hitting You In the Face,” also making its debut on this tour. The audience watched with attention and periodically applauded and whistled. It was the perfect bow on a damp, crushed gift of a day.
The streets got quiet very quickly in Faenza. David had disappeared, along with any sign of drinking water in Italy. Woozy on pasta, wine and beer, we made our way back to Morena’s. She said it was the first cold night of the year. Mike and I put blankets on our cots, said “Buena Notto” and plucked our own eyes out.
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