I have had several nice comments concerning my little piece The Dinner Party it is an experimental narrative for a film. I have been just posting what comes next, but I was asked if I could post the whole piece. So excuse me to those who have read the earlier installments. There are several new paragraphs. The Dinner Party The dinner party took place on the roof. It is a garden of sorts, a plastic table, plastic chairs a little grill, pots of plants, ivy climbing up the wall the odd rusted sculpture tucked into the corner, and of course the old chandelier hanging above the table with light bulbs where candles once stood. In the old city of Antibes roof top gardens offer sanctuary to the August heat. Little zephyrs cross over the med, climb the great stone fortress walls and push over the city, the rooftops offer the only opportunity to feel the coolness of the sea. My guests are generally an eclectic bunch, an opera singer from the Monaco Opera, a screenwriter of some success, a couple painters from Italy, a yacht captain and his girlfriend, and an Egyptian businessman with a mysterious present. Languages, they are the lovely engine of dinner party. Conversations take place mostly in French and English, sometimes Italian comes up, Swedish, Spanish, and German. All the guests speak at least two languages. And since my primary language is English all the guests respectfully start out in English until the consumption of wine forces everyone into their first language. It makes for a very lively conversation filled with many misunderstandings then clarifications and super fine dissections of intentions, gestures, and comparisons. Donna hums. Opera singers, chides Mario the painter. Margo his other half slaps his arm to remind him that his jokes are not funny and a little cruel. Donna smiles and hums even louder. Nasser smiles behind his thick dark glasses. We kid Nasser that he should be in the movies. Frances agrees. We all take notice because Frances has the perceived power to make that intention real. Otto the Captain pours another glass of wine from the decanter. His girlfriend watches careful then gives him the look. He pauses then offers more wine to the table. A pack of cigarettes slides onto the table. Nasser offers to everyone. Egyptian custom he says once the pack hits the table it is for everyone. He tells a story of his uncle. Otto fills his glass. During his life he never ever put his packet of cigarettes on the communal table. Of course, he coughed, no one said anything for years, but we Egyptians we notice these things. We have a tendency to keep it inside and create a… he stumble to find the word in English. Scenario? Offered Frances. Yes, he said, then as if the word had some special magic, or memory he fell into a state of deep introspection. He mumbled. He turned the stem of the wine glass round and round between his fingers. The red wine soon turned like a whirlpool in the glass. He was preoccupied with a deep and troubled thought and the whirlpool of ruby red wine served to draw him and us deeper into his angst. Otto’s girlfriend, Sana had decidedly enough of this drama and interjected that she and Otto were going to sail to the Caribbean at the end of the Med season. This announcement wasn’t a surprise as I have known Otto to sail to the Caribbean on a regular basis. Our first encounter was on the island of Nevis in the Windward Islands. His girlfriend at the time was the daughter of a senator in the government. She was beautiful and elegant. What I could gather she was very well educated and driven toward some unseen goal. Why she was head over heels for Otto laid not in his average mind, weak conversational skills, or Norwegian temperament, but rather in his glorious Nordic body: Muscular, handsome and snow white. The Senator’s daughter was a caramel colored princess who was both admired and feared by her fellow islanders. So as the spell of Nasser’s angst broke, we eagerly leaned into Sana’s announcement as if we too were preparing to cross the Atlantic. Otto seemed lost and confused. Sana whose dark eyes glittered from the chandler lights, amended her statement, “if Otto agrees.” Otto took a gulp of wine and said, why not? You are a good sailor and a fine hostess. Mario added with about as malicious a tone as possible, it is hard to find such a good combination. Rare indeed he added with a twinkle in his eye. Margo shook her head. “Otto you and Sana make a beautiful couple.” Nasser stood up and announced, with tears in his eyes. (One would surmise the water on his cheeks were from his eyes, as his glasses were so dark and thick his eyes could have be dark holes.) My uncle died of lung cancer. We killed him with our packs of cigarettes. He fell back into his seat and lite a cigarette. Donna added, free cigarettes are a curse. We should all earn our smokes at this table so dear Nasser will not suffer if one or all of us dies from these nasty things. There was great laughter. The game was on. As host I asked what should be the rules? Frances led the way. We cannot do anything that is our primary occupation. Donna says or secondary hobby or skill. You must do something that both serves the table and entertains the group. Agreed? Frances stood up and held his wine glass high toward the starry sky and pronounced, we need more wine! Just then the hostess arrived with more wine and small plates of olives. “More wine?” Caterina bowed and smiled in a grand theatrical flourish. She handed the wine to Nasser, who was closest to the stairs. She slid the plates of olives into the center of the table. I noticed Donna put her hand on her back as she leaned forward. Cat as we all called her smiled and kissed her on the top of the head. Otto smiled. We are starting a new game. Cat smiled and opened her eyes wide to me as if to say how dare you start a game without me. We are just figuring out the rules. What good is a game with rules? She asked. Frances answered quickly. Without rules we would have no competition. Her eyes flashed. The game of life has no rules, yes? Without rules we would just have chaos and what fun would there be if everything was chaotic all the time. Donna asked how the heart would survive chaos. Everyone was engaged with questions and answers the intensity rose as if we were just about to find all the answers to the eternal questions, when Nasser interrupted. Looking directly at me he said, you have been very quiet. What do you think? My only thoughts were of my beautiful Caterina. She was the youngest of us all. Many years my younger, some say obscenely younger, yet she was filled with a wisdom and intelligence that no one at the table could closely measure, at her age nor their age present. She was grace without knowing grace. She was wisdom without out knowing why? I answered directly to Nasser. I was thinking that in one moment we were ready to play a silly game, where I am sure Donna would have been guiding us to some kind of orgy. “No that is not true”, she protested. However my dear Caterina guided us into a conversation of substance. Caterina laughed and said I was hoping for the orgy! Sana grabbed Otto’s arm and whispered in jest. Donna braced herself from a lost opportunity. Frances shook his with a Gallic world weariness. Mario was eager. Margo left the door open to most everyone surprise. Margo said, I am Italian and making love is a national past time. Caterina agreed I too am Italian. Love is important to us. Mario was about to burst in laughter. Nasser kept staring at me waiting for my answer. He was cool and dark. I was sure the memory that so disturbed him moments earlier was coloring his question. I placed my hand on Caterina’s. Her hand was warm and soft something my hands were not. After decades of work and toil my hands had become grizzled and calloused. What of chaos? Nasser nodded. The table fell quiet. Francis leaned forward. Would I support him? History should tell him that I am an independent thinker. His films had seen some success, but it wasn’t until I rewrote one of his features for an American Producer that became a big hit. He was against the changes. He argued to get me off the project. At the end of the day, I helped him become far more successful than he would have been. I profited very little in comparison. He had put the struggle behind him once the residual checks began rolling into his bank and now he sat at my table. What of chaos? Rules are just a way of helping us feel comfortable. Game rules operate so the result is a winner and a loser. It is a neat little environment where we can enter and stay comfortable in the order of things. But chaos is exactly what the word means. Unpredictability in every measure, with only a minuet sense of reoccurrence.
Posted on: Mon, 17 Mar 2014 19:55:48 +0000
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