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“Come on…” She winks at me. “It’s more fun with a few high-octane drinks!”
Actually, even aCinderella’s Punchcocktail can’t enhance the unique ambiance of theTurquoise Piano Lounge. The bar is already well-crowded.
But thanks to Pauline’s unique flirting skills and her liberally distributed kisses, two guys with stylish hipster beards clear a place for us on the leather sofa in the central music area.
One of the guys--he introduced himself as Tim--jumps up hurriedly to get cocktails for us at the bar.
Tim aside, hipster beard aside—I’ve internalized my lessons at Aunt Mareike’s. “Thank you, but no, thank you,” I inform him. Because three-dimensional images flicker in my head of dark-haired hands dripping knockout drops into a glass.
He shrugs, stands up, and mumbles something about just getting drinks for his friend and himself then.
Pauline nudges me with her elbow, pointing at him and forming curves in the air with her hands as she stares at his butt with a double-raised eyebrow. She seems to have found in him a suitable flirt object to comfort her over her sprained ankle.
I smirk silently, get caught in the unfamiliar heels as I cross my legs, and let the atmosphere work on me.
A good half dozen lathe-crafted candlesticks of varying heights and woods are arranged on the granite cube, forming the central point of our seating area. Instead of the rustic pillar candles, one would expect to find on them, chandelier-shaped LED lights illuminate the space with their warm glow. The arrangement is completed by two upholstered stools with brightly colored velour covers, a far-eastern-looking seating element in bamboo cane, and a classic English club chair. Actually, none of this fits together. And neither do the room dividers made of black lacquered metal racks reminiscent of arid ‘70s string shelves. Nor shelves made of light wood veneer. But lushly sprawling greenery and stylish decorative elements of white porcelain, wicker, and glass somehow make the intentional clutter seem like one unit.
“I’m thirsty.” Pauline snaps me out of my contemplation of the lounge.
“All right.” Meanwhile, I have a little more practice with the killer heels and make it to the top without an accident. “A water for you…?”
“Water?” She gasps before realizing I’m pulling her leg. “Nah. Acaipirinha. Like usual.”
“It was obvious to me,” I smirk at her.
“So, what are you getting?” she calls after me over the soundscape of piano music, the clamor of guests’ voices, and the clinking of glasses.
“Oh, I’ll figure it out when I get there…” I weave my way past the guests and get stuck in the hustle and bustle in the aisle in front of the bar. This is when I first notice the melodic voice of the pianist sitting at the lounge’s namesake turquoise piano.
Lamps made of upside-down wine goblets hang from the ceiling above. Their bright light transforms the musical instrument with its striking color into a double eye-catcher amid the dimmed atmosphere.
The artist, dressed all in black, stands out all the more against this colorful spot. His adaptation of the hit song byAlle Farbenand Graham Candy makes the spark of good humor in this song jump out at me.
I laugh softly and join in the chorus. “Far away, far awa-y!” The fact that my singing skills aren’t exactly stellar doesn’t matter to me at this moment. The squeak of my voice causes those standing in front of me to involuntarily back away and clear the way to the bar for me a bit. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice how a small jolt goes through the pianist.Has he noticed my failed croak over the distance and the noise level?
His back, encased in a loosely falling short coat, straightens. He lowers his head forward and slightly to the side as if really listening for me.
Am I tipsy already, imagining this?I recall how much champagne I drank and have to admit the possibility. Nevertheless, something about this piano player looks familiar.My God! If only the wide brim of the soft felt hat didn’t hide his face in the shadows!
“What will it be,Bellissima?”
Oops.In my musing, I missed noticing the crowd had moved on and pushed me toward the counter. I have to blink for a moment to compose myself. “A caipirinha,” I order for Pauline, “and… what do you recommend with grenadine?”
“Pink Lady,Planter’s Punch,Zombie,Florida Comfort…”
I shudder to think of the cloying gummy bear flavor of Southern Comfort in the last cocktail. The gin in thePink Ladyisn’t my cup of tea, either. “ThePlanter’s Punchsounds good,” I decide and pay, whereupon the bartender gets to work and a short time later slides the two glasses across the counter to me.
In the meantime, the pianist has finished “Far Away” and more sustained chords fill the air along with his singing.
However, this does not seem to have a moderating effect on the people present.
To find an accident-free way back to Pauline with the drinks, I have to mumble apologies right and left.
One of the bearded men on the sofa politely stands up as I approach. He passes the glasses to Pauline and lets me take a seat.
I smile, we toast in turn, and with my eyes closed, I let the mix of two kinds of rum, orange juice, and grenadine melt on my tongue.
“…if only you could see me,” I now perceive the voice of the pianist. “Kiss me now, don’t let me go…”
