Rush Hour Romance

RUSH HOUR ROMANCE

The rain was stronger now. Herr Aldo Six stepped into the shelter of the Belgravia Cafe’s resplendent British Racing Green awning. He caught the attention of a waitress inside who would bring his usual order.

The Cafe was a favourite haunt for Aldo who liked it’s Art Deco theme. He sat next to the outdoor heater enjoying the warmth it offered against the slight chill and enjoyed being in the dry just a yard away from the downpour. He was under the most sheltered of the Cafe’s alfresco part, the rest of which extended out to the wrought iron railings with flower boxes atop that ran parallel along to the Jeweller’s shop next door.

Aldo’s preferred reading material at the Cafe was the German national paper Die Welt which he always collected en route from his accommodation, from an Iranian called Fuzz who owned a Newsagent’s and who ribbed Aldo mercilessly about his e-scooter and his football team.

For the time being, Aldo was working as an hotel Concierge not far from the Cafe. He’d moved from his home in Berlin as a matter of safety as he worked for the Bundesnachrichtendienst, Germany’s equivalent of Mi6 - his role was tracking drug dealers from Romania, his identity had become compromised and he was found a job in London.

He wasn’t that sorry to have a break and was even reflecting that it might be even be a good time to make a career change. It was an “in limbo” situation for him to a certain extent.

Aldo had peopled watched from where he was now sat on many an occasion and savoured the Cafe’s old world atmosphere. He had an ever increasing penchant for older things in general, liking more style and originality than plethora of modern day faceless product. In part and to that end, he had a commercial sideline, importing old Bauhaus period typewriters from Berlin and selling them on line, using Fuzz’s address for receiving delivery.

Aldo looked through the window to inside, taking in a gorgeous richly coloured Venice scene painted on a wall that made one feel you could walk into and materialise in the Piazza San Marco. Period music by Erik Satie filtered out as the waitress appeared from the colourful art nouveau doorway.

‘Your usual Herr Six, plus we’ve put on a complimentary almond croissant, not only that but its all on the house.’

‘Most kind of the house. Why?’

Miriam said its a thank you for the group of Swiss tourists you’d sent last week by way of recommendation. They mentioned you and spent a fortune!’

‘Ah yes I remember them, they were good spenders at the hotel as well.’

As a regular at the Cafe he was on nodding terms with others who also enjoyed the rich ambience.

He looked up to see one of them , in the back of a black taxi that was stuck in traffic. He’d noted she like he, was always elegantly dressed. They also had an apparent shared love of at least one piece of music. That being Khachaturian’s Adagio of Spartacus and Phrygia. Evidenced when the piece came through the Cafe speakers at a high volume. This caused much amusement among patrons. Midway through the piece, both caught each other performing a conducting gesture with their fingers.

Aldo returned his attention back to the newspaper and then poured himself a coffee from the Cafetière.

He heard a shout from further up the street followed by more and increasing in volume he craned his head to see the source and saw the end of a mugging.

A young hoodie wearing man had evidently wrenched a handbag from an older lady. She’d lost her balance and fallen, people rushed to the victim’s aid.

The mugger sprinted down the pavement in Aldo’s direction.

He'd previously noticed a walking stick hanging on the back of on an empty chair, looked around there no apparent owner so unhooked it and rammed it through the Cafe’s railings at just the right moment, catching the robber’s leg’s mid-stride.

Whilst not falling to the ground at that precise moment, the mugger’s gait changed. His attempt to cope with the loss of balance, an almost slapstick performance in his efforts in trying to remain vertical.

After ten more yards, his balance problems were resolved when his head collided with a lamp post, jerking him back and then hitting the kerb. He lay motionless in the gutter. Aldo looked around to see what there was in the way of nearby cameras.

The once elegant walking stick itself was at an angle and lay on the pavement.

It occurred to him that despite his honourable intention to catch a thief. The mugger was still lying unconscious in the road, there may be legal consequences. Doing the right thing was, in this day and age, not always a good idea.

As his refreshment was gratis, he had no tab to settle and made himself scarce. He decided with some reluctance to not patronise the Cafe for the foreseeable future. Seconds after Aldo had left the premises a man appeared from inside the Cafe. He looked bemused as he approached his table started to look around .

‘Is this yours?’ he heard a woman’s voice say.

‘Yes, what have you done to it!’

‘Not me if you don’t mind, it was used to .. ‘ She stopped and pointed at the mugger still lying in the gutter nearby.

‘Oh who did it?’

‘I don’t know they’ve gone. As must I.’ She walked a hundred yards further up the road and got back in the same black cab she’d just got out of as she’d earlier seen no hope of the traffic moving any time soon.

Over the next couple of weeks of her making her usual visits to the Art Deco cafe she hadn’t seen the German gentleman again who she was on nodding terms with whom she’d seen bring down the mugger.

Aldo was reminded of the incident a few weeks later, when bored on a night shift. He was thumbing through a London free paper, a guest had left in the hotel reception.

His eyes fell on the “Rush Hour Romance” column. The third ad down, triggered instant recognition.