House of Bathory(88)
She crossed through the short, dark tunnel of the Michalska Brana Bridge to Zamocnicka Street, where the tires of hurrying cars turned the snow to dirty slush. Nightclub Raucous Scandal was a twenty-minute walk from Michalska Brana, and passing headlights illuminated a different universe. Gone was the fairytale world of Stare Mesto: the pastel buildings, cobblestone streets, pretty shuttered windows, and old streetlamps of wrought iron.
The streets were asphalt, neon lights screamed. Graffiti in bold colors were scrawled over gray buildings. Young people in hip clothes with boots and trench coats filled the sidewalks. Prostitutes lined the streets, their stiletto heels spiking the dirty ice. A few homeless people slept huddled in the entrances to apartment buildings, their dirty rags and old sleeping bags wrapped tight around their bodies. Police cars prowled, slowing down to monitor groups of pedestrians on the snow-dusted sidewalks.
Punk hair colors—garish blues, purples, and reds—were more common here than her own jet-black Goth hair. Men and women wore a lot of leather, spiked dog collars, or crucifixes that swung on their necks as they stomped down the stairs to the basement club. Several men and women sported Mohawk cuts.
A man with bleached yellow hair, dressed in biker leathers, sat on an orange stool, taking money in his tattooed fist.
“How much?” Daisy asked.
The man smiled, flashing a silver tooth, a glint in his eye. He touched her cheek with his hand, spiraled in a black-and-green snake tattoo.
“For you, Beauty, it’s free.”
Daisy shied away from his snaked hand but nodded her thanks.
“Go on, shy one,” laughed the bouncer.
Daisy made her way to the bar, pressing against leather-clad bodies.
“A beer,” she shouted over the Slovak chatter, clashing cymbals, drum beat, and electric guitars.
Several Goths lifted their heads at her English. One girl with streaked red-and-pink hair motioned to her.
“You are American? American Goth?”
“Yes,” Daisy said, lifting the frothy beer to her lips. She breathed in the tobacco smoke and the smell of beer that permeated the sticky floorboards. “I wanted to see the Goth scene in Bratislava.”
“Ah!” said the girl. “See!” She gestured with a wide sweep of her arm. “We are a happy people.”
The two young men with her laughed at her English. A blonde girl, several years younger, said nothing.
“Welcome, American Goth Girl. What is your name?”
“Daisy. Like the flower.”
“Ah, I am Jarmila. This is Ignac and Jarak. And my little sister, Lubena.”
There was a small stage at the front of the club, where a band banged out “Gothic Girl.”
You can see her
Whenever it rains
A frenzy of pale arms rose in the air, writhing, bracelets jangling, undulating with the music like current-swept coral. A dark-haired singer in leather and spikes strutted the small stage, the microphone pressed to his lips. The guitars on either side of him whined. Daisy noticed the girls’ waving hands had fingers bent in the sign of horns.
“Larson. The singer. They love him,” nodded Jarmila. “He is mobbed after the show.”
Just like a gothic girl
Lost in the darkened world
The screaming of the crowd made it difficult to follow the words of the song. Daisy cupped her ear, trying to hear the final verse. But cheering and howls made it nearly impossible. She could make out the collective voice of the crowd: My lil’ gothic girl.
Larson whipped off his sunglasses, finishing the song. A screech of feedback made the crowd cover their ears, screaming and cheering. The singer shook his hair from his eyes and looked at the group by the bar. He held up the mike, his black leather gloves cut away at the fingers.
“For luscious Goth girls who like to dress in black!” He pointed at Daisy.
She smiled back at him, canine tooth glinting. The singer feigned a swoon, grasping at his heart.
“I dig that tooth, girl,” he said. “Bury it in my neck tonight.”
Lubena scowled at Daisy.
“He speaks English,” said Daisy.
“They are Scandinavian,” said Jarmila. “We have a lot of nationalities here.”
The blonde little sister said something in Slovak. She frowned at Daisy.
“My little sister wants to know why you are here.”
“I told you already,” said Daisy.
The girl stared at her. Daisy stared back until the girl looked away.
Chapter 74
BRATISLAVA, SLOVAKIA
DECEMBER 26, 2010
It was near 4 A.M. when the band finally finished. Daisy took a final sip of beer and bid Jarmila, Ignac, and Jarak good-bye. Lubena was not with them.
“Come back tonight again,” Jarmila called.
“Then we have breakfast together,” yelled Ignac. “I will fry sausages.”