Where Did She Go

Where did she go I knew of her, had seen her in adverts wearing short hair being, sort of dubious sex, let them guess and smoking a cigarette with the fragrance of the oriental express, yet here she sat in a pavement café drinking Pernod, and as Russian tanks rumbled through the stone cobble streets she coolly beckoned to me to sit on the chair at her left. I had a cold beer and lit an American cigarette, feeling tired had carried a heavy suitcase across the town for a woman claiming to be an actress, I had hoped she was a spy and I needed information about troop movements and all I got was stalk about her upcoming film “La Strada.” On the opposite wall across the café, a movie began a film about Rome and a gang of youth stealing bikes Vittorio Gassmann had a leading role that was delivered with aplomb about the question of the value of morality in a society that has lost its bearing and is crippled by war. A sudden blackout it might be caused by the Russians but the restaurant used to this stoppage, producing candles and the flickering flame from hundreds of candles made the night romantic; the Monte Carlo woman had vanished like cigarette ads on the TV screen.