Pasta alla maniera eccentrica

“Ha Chico, look who’s here.” Pablo giggled like a hyena as he nudged Steve with his elbow, who almost dropped the tray of empty wine glasses he was carrying back to the bar. Steve gave his colleague an annoyed look before turning in the direction Pablo was gesturing. 

At a small table near one of the tinted windows, a woman in her fifties sat next to a blonde bombshell a few years older than himself and a man with a haughty line around his mouth. Steve recognized the man as a regular at Il Conte, who, to Steve’s dismay, always chose a table in his service area. Picky and a notoriously low tipper, his restaurant manager had told them the man was a famous author and therefore needed to be treated with extra courtesy. 

The hot blonde sitting across from the author seemed to disagree in this regard, as her voice boomed over the string music playing in the background. “You piece of shit. Do you really think you can just dump me like that?!”

Startled by the noise, some of the other guests raised their heads, their gazes swinging back and forth like a pendulum between the table and Steve, urging him to do something about this nuisance. 

He pushed the tray into Pablo’s hand and slowly approached the table, hoping that taking the orders might interrupt the argument. 

“Darling, please. Let’s not part in anger,” Steve heard the author say as he pushed a gift-wrapped box towards the blonde. The woman stared at the box, then jumped up from her chair, before she hurried past Steve through the door. 

With a queasy feeling, he stopped next to the well-dressed lady sitting opposite the author, who didn’t seem to notice him as her eyes darted through the room. 

“Oh my, David. What was that all about?” she asked, drumming her manicured fingernails on the tabletop. 

“My apologies, Eva,” the author said, without a hint of regret in his voice. “I will explain everything to you in due course, but I think the young gentleman would like to take our orders first.” He waved with his napkin towards Steve before dropping it next to his hors d’oeuvre knife. 

“You seem to enjoy keeping me on tenterhooks.” The woman stopped drumming and pulled a pair of reading glasses out of her designer bag. Steve gave the author a sideways glance while the woman was scanning the menu, bracing himself for the upcoming ordeal. The man cleared his throat. 

Here we go.

“The mussels that come with the Linguine, how fresh are they? “

Steve turned to the author, his annoyance masked behind a face of stony blankness. “Very fresh, sir; they’ve arrived just this morning.” 

“And do they come with white wine or tomato sauce?” 

“It’s a creamy garlic butter sauce, sir.” Like it says on the menu. 

Wrinkles furrowed the author’s nose as if the sole mention of it offended his superior senses. “I can’t stand butter sauce,” he said and sighed, while tapping at the menu. “I take the Spaghetti Carbonara. Again. Maybe it would be time for some new dishes, don’t you think?” He closed the menu and handed it to Steve. “And a glass of Pinot Grigio. Chilled, if possible.” 

Prick. 

“Very well, sir. Madame?” Steve addressed the older woman, who slipped the reading glasses off her nose and handed him the menu as well. 

“The same, please. Thank you.” 

He walked back to the bar, where Pablo greeted him with a big-toothed smile over the cocktail he was mixing. “You’re having fun, Chico?” 

Steve discreetly held a finger-pistol to his temple and Pablo’s gleeful giggles followed him to the kitchen. Back at the bar, his colleague had placed the two glasses of wine on a tray, ready for serving. 

“... important to focus on finishing the draft. If there’s anything I can help you with, tell me,” said the woman the moment Steve arrived at the table. 

“It’s hard to find inspiration these days, as it all feels so very dull to me, Eva.” The author nudged the unopened box, almost knocking over the wine glass Steve had placed in front of him. “I’m disconnected from creativity; from my characters and their emotions. Not even sex is of any use to me anymore.” He pointed to the empty seat next to the woman. “I don’t know… I just want it to end with a great bang.” 

Bewilderment, followed by anger, flitted in quick succession across the woman's face. “What do you mean?” 

The author pulled the box back towards him, ignoring her. 

“David?” She started squirming in her tailored dress, but her voice became soothing. "You suffer from writer's block. It’s perfectly normal to feel like that. But we’re already so close; we only need those very last scenes.” 

Steve was about to move away from the table when the man looked up at him and said, “Are you a coward or a hero?” 

“Pardon?”

“I guess we’ll have to find out.” Dumbfounded, Steve watched as the author unwrapped the box with nimble fingers and lifted the lid, revealing an L-shaped object. The light from the chandelier reflected off the metal. 

“What the hell!” screeched the woman and Steve reacted. He delivered a well-aimed blow to the author’s chest, who toppled backwards in his chair and landed on the floor, while Steve grabbed the box and pressed it against his chest. A cacophony of distant voices reached his ears as his heart pumped adrenaline-fuelled blood through his veins. 

Suddenly, Pablo was beside him and they were both staring into the box. The pistol inside vibrated subtly with the trembling of Steve’s hands. 

“It’s okay, it’s fake,” Pablo whispered as he pulled the box out of Steve’s grasp. “It’s okay, it’s all right, Chico.” 

The woman looked like she was going to vomit; her face pale as bone with a green tinge around the edges. Some of the other guests had risen from their chairs, their eyes wide with curiosity. 

The author rose from the floor, smiling. 

“Are you fucking crazy?!” Steve almost punched the man a second time, but Pablo’s steady hands held him back. 

The author was laughing now as he stroked his chest. “Maybe I am, maybe I’m not. But that’s of no consequence.” He turned to the woman who was holding onto the edge of the table to keep herself upright. “Most importantly, I finally know how the book ends. “

“You planned this to get over your writer’s block?” Her voice sounded stifled.

“I did, and it went terrific. Like I said, I felt disconnected from my characters’ emotions, so I needed some real ones.” He sounded damned pleased with himself. “I figured it might help simulate my last scene in real life, and it did.”

The woman shook her head. “You are crazy.”

“You can’t achieve greatness without making sacrifices, Eva.” 

Steve’s muscles were still shaking with suppressed aggression as Pablo stepped in front of him and walked towards the author. “You must leave, sir, immediately.” 

The author nodded, smiling like the madman he was, and looked Steve straight in the eye. “A hero, then. Well, I wasn’t expecting that, but isn’t that what makes stories interesting? The surprising elements? Well, young man. You’ve done a great thing for art today.” 

He brushed a wrinkle from his jacket and turned to the woman, whose face was still white with shock. “The finished draft will be in your mailbox next week,” he said before he nodded one last time to Steve and strolled out of the restaurant.