Victoria Scacci ( partly fiction)

“I see. You want to keep me in the fighting spirits.”

I took another cup of coffee, drank it this time in one gulp and mounted the bike. The last blue letter had to be delivered.

A man was alone when he opened the door. He was tall and slim with the half-scared, half- defiant look in his eyes. We all had that look. He tore the envelope, read the letter and tossed it at me.

“You, Tanat.”

“What?”

“It is the ancient Greek God of Death. Don’t you know how they call you here? I have vodka. Wanna drink with me?”

We drank in silence. No toasts, no lamentations. He was young; maybe he would find a woman to comfort him or do something else.

“Hey, Tanat,” he said, “Ever considered a Foreign Legion?”

“What’s that?”

“French have a regiment they recruit from the foreigners only. No questions asked.”

“I have a family.”

“Poor bastard. To your hopes then. If you get a rejection you know where to find me.”

My manager took care of the advertising. When I came next day the place was packed. People sprawled over the counter, leaned against the walls, sat on the stairs and smoked, smoked, smoked. A computerized board was placed in the middle of the hall, so that everyone could see it. A small table facing the bare wall was for me. There was a cup of coffee and a piece of cake on it. An electronic board screen on another wall was showing the moves to the people. Money passed hands back and forth.

“The screen displays the odds after every move,” said my manager.

“Check the batteries.” I said.

I zipped the most delicious coffee I ever tasted and took my first bite of the cake.

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