The Dark Cafe

I wished I could leave the room inconspicuously. I cursed the brazenness with which I had reefed open the heavy, wooden door and proceeded directly inside, my companions following blindly. If I had been more casual I could simply have peered in, regarded the clientele, turned and fled. But I’d strolled in rendering my presence known before I noticed the crowd at this small, dingy café, somewhere in Rome.

A handful of tough, menacing looking men, clearly bemused by our stumbling entrance, stared at us. Tristan, my fellow Australian traveller, drilled his eyes sideways into mine making it clear to me that he wanted to escape as swiftly as the water we’d just noticed spouting from the Trevi Fountain. But to leave surely meant offending our gruff hosts, and I’d seen enough gangster movies to know - these were men we didn’t want to upset.

Behind the bar stood a man, whose giant stature defied all genetic regulations. Size however, was not the most startling feature of this dark bearded monster, that dubious honour went to the near foot long scar etched across his throat, from left ear to right collar bone like one of the jagged cracks I’d noticed earlier on the side of the Colosseum. It was easy to imagine this man as a gladiator in that arena and assume he had been gifted his horrific blemish by a sword’s sharp blade.

Tristan turned around and left the bar. Just like that, he walked out without a word, leaving my friend Virang and I to our fate. We continued to the back corner of the room and sitting opposite one another on a worn wooden table, Virang discreetly fixed me a wide eyed, stiff jawed expression clearly showing his awe, terror and the excitement that comes from the unknown. As scared as I was, I was excited too. A dingy, smoke stained, out of the way café in a quiet side street in the Italian capitol, occupied by locals who could have been straight from a Mafia film, this realistic slice of culture was a far cry from the pubs and bars of rural Australia with which I was familiar. Virang’s reaction told me that if there were places like this in Mumbai, he had not frequented them.

The giant bartender with the sinister scar approached us. As he loomed over our table, eyes steely and giant form squaring us purposefully, a smile as wide as the scar for which I’d prematurely judged this man, spread across his face. “Bon giorno,” he offered in a cheery voice that belied his nefarious appearance, “Something to eat or drink?”