After wandering inconclusively all around the Hong Kong international airport’s arrival hall, and after 15 hours flying, the three tired Italian travellers had to face it: nobody had come to pick them up.
They had to learn on their own how to get the hotel reservation, this time, how to get the VISA to go to communist China, where to choose a nice-fake Italian restaurant for the evening and where to find the hookers for the night.
They were in three, three men, if one wanted to call them so, and there were no women along with them. Why, then, on the complaint they presented at the Wan Chai police station, there was the signature of an Italian woman? She helped them with the translation, no doubt, but she did not come with them from Italy, so who was she?
Who in the hell was that woman and why the devil she had not been capable of minding her own business? If they were 3 men, where did they find that help to translate their bullshit at the police station? Those questions and others kept Giorgio Reali busy before he decided to go back to Hong Kong himself, in order to clarify his position with the police and, most importantly, to collect the cash stuck in those bank accounts registered on his company’s name.
One of the three men at the airport was clearly more disappointed than the other two. The reason was quite obvious. Their partner had not come and, if he had not come, it was obvious to them that he had done something wrong, according to their mental schemes. Had he closed the company’s bank accounts and flew away with the cash? That was the most likely hypothesis, according to the other two guys, but him, Francesco Paolo Mazzei, no, he continued to pretend that everything was going to be as usual, particularly that following night. Their host would have joined them later on, and would have taken them to those bars in Wan Chai, where Francesco Paolo could have spent long hours sitting close to some young Indonesian prostitute and whispering a lot of nonsense in her ear, just to smell her black hair, while Francesco Paolo was also a little bit death and talking was anyway impossible, given the extremely loud music plaid at the “Amazonia“.
Francesco Paolo Mazzei was around 59 years old, he used always to travel together with his second son, the son of the second marriage, and he had also one third son, three years old, delivered by a tramp lawyer named Roberta Sarrantonio, who came down from a lousy little village nailed at the tip of a hill in the province of Viterbo.
The one son accompanying him for business was around 30, he was the son of another woman, the one of his second marriage, and yet he did not want him to know his plan for the night, precisely, to fuck a hooker in the ass. He spent with Giorgio Reali too many nights in Wan Chai already, at the Amazonia, and, on most occasions, he saw him, Giorgio Reali, his partner, picking up girls and taking them in his hotel room, at the Empire Hotel, conveniently located at walking distance from the most whore-crowded hole in the Southeastern Asia subregion. And yet, him, Francesco Paolo Mazzei, he had never taken the initiative of getting a hooker for himself, as if he didn’t want to.
The joint was always packed with women, Giorgio Reali had tried many time to induce him to some action but he had always found some excuses. He was already very much afraid to be seen from his second son, the son of his second marriage with his second Italian freeloader, while in the act of flirting with light women, let alone taking them in his room. His room? There was not such a thing as “his room”. The two travellers, father and son, inseparable, in every single damned occasion, they were like Laurel & Hardy. One could not go anywhere without the other. The room was one, as a consequence, they had always shared a double room in two…