June 7, 2024 0

Haunted Restaurant: Part 1 (“I haunt” Series)

in Viviana Ioan Books

This tale recounts a ghost hunting night in a restaurant. A photo spree on old streets among once glorious properties ended with a lush supper. The venue—a fin de siècle palazzo revamped high-end restaurant.

Star-struck fun-twins

My only best friend, Amanda, lives in far-away Canada. But almost each summer, she visits her native town. I too spend summers there, in the city on the Danube where I was born. So we meet to chat and exhilarate each other.

As high school girls, we shared a desk, class, break—you name it—and impish amusement forbidden by rules. Not quite in the popular group, but cute and star-struck, we bridged between commoners and aristo-teens.

In sophomore, though, airy stardom gained viscous substance, to upgrade to junior gold-medalist. Then, in senior, we performed a swift jump. Whoa, to diamond brilliance. Yet, we kept our status—untouchable, inseparable fun-twins. Above groups, but frequented by any. And wowing a large fan-ship.

Well, the confetti schoolmates showered on us glinted with jealous tinsel and sparse grudge. But smelled colorful. You can’t raise envy’s stamp off a stardom package. In fact, we relished the mark. On the outside, though. Because oh, summers, vacuumed of fans, breathed solitude breezes over our podium.

Anyway, after graduation, freedom rewarded us. Full. Colleagues dropped youthful fantasizing and picked important careers. No frills. While we went … crazy.

Adventurous graduates

Amanda did a carousel of jobs. Geologist, speleologist. Explorer on mountain bottoms and peaks. Cool, yeah. An adventurous backpacker, she fled the country. Mind that—while still under the communists. A brave feat.

She married, divorced, married anew. Flew to Switzerland. Lived in Paris. Later, she settled in Ottawa, then in Quebec. There, post-university studies. And on top, the infamous knot. Tied with a millionaire. Ha.

My BF manages a colossal state company now. Drives the latest electric sports vehicle and lives in a mansion. With a private park, lake, mountain.

I too lived my passions. Dozens. Word paintress, novelist, blah. On top, diva inamorata. And later, globetrotter myself.

Housewife in Italy, aw. Where, in tandem, I played at business woman. In Spain, I flipped a time-sharing agent. On a dream island. Then I had fun as a rent-a-car lady. In my spare time, mermaid in the Atlantic. Of course, inamorata anew.

Fate, though, brought me back to serious stuff. Studies in Edinburgh, teacher trainer, and educational manager. Projects galore. In Spain, Turkey, China. High school principal, oh my God!

When Amanda and I meet, minutes shrink. Too many lives’ stories to share.

Photo spree for eerie haunts

Last summer, Mandy divulged she ran a fancy-bag small business. With a friend, but guess where? In … La Réunion. I showed her my latest stuff, published. Articles, ghost stories, books. And artistic photos. Oh, and I resumed fitness training and aqua gym.

“Girl,” she said. “Let’s go for a ride in my rented electrical.”

“Cool. We’ll resume ticking our exploits later.”

She invited me to a posh restaurant. The best, in and off town. Her husband’s favorite—on his last visit. Meanwhile, oh, she had bought … a tiny apartment in Montreal. Central, just for herself, where to contemplate their matrimonial fate.

“I booked for eight o’clock,” Mandy said. “Till then, ma chérie, how about hunting for derelict mansions? Maleficent, haunted.”

“Yuppie, you nailed me! I intended to go on a photo spree. For my book Darxination.”

“Oh. The one you autographed for me? Earlier?”

“Yeah. The second edition. It will feature, for each weird chapter, a picture. Neglected palazzos, cobbled streets, that stuff.”

We took off in the pretty electrical. After winding on a maze of lanes off the historical center, we parked the car outside a wrought-iron gate to a withered coquette. Blind eyes, caked foundation on its facade, of a lame pink. Wrinkled vines over cracked frontispiece.

“Amanda raised her phone. “Picture?” she said.

“Shacky enough, yes. But not eerie. Not the haunt in my vision.”

We wobbled to the harbor area, each phone in hand, ready to touch the camera buttons. And we touched them, oh, hundreds of times. This sculpted door here, that pompous frontispiece there. A forlorn window, a stray dog, or a lazy black cat.

The street in my novel

Rose and bougainvillea coats on rusty or brick fences scented our pursuit. While the misty sultriness evoked the grand lady river in the distance.

Soon, we reached a rare street. Cobbled and dreamy, it slanted toward the bluish Danube gloam. I gasped for a mouthful of air. Stale, but fragranced. In a charm I remembered. Somehow.

I had painted that street in my novel. With the same peculiar houses, suspended terraces, hanging roses. Never aware, though, it existed for real.

These perfumes enchanted Estera, my heroine. And beyond flowery curtains, I guessed the fairy garden where Carol danced naked. With night insects.

I stood statue. Raised my arms. My fingertips tasted God’s summer glory.

“Mandy, I’m in my novel.” I performed a revering lunge, ogling my friend’s icon. “Je t’aime, ma chérie. Never been here, but—”

“Laura. No kidding?”

“Cross my heart. I lived in this quarter while writing. Darxination. For one month.”

Mandy goggled at me. “What?”

“The story existed, yeah. I received and put it on paper.”

“Oh, Laura. Incredible. So quick?”

“Yeah. A gift from beyond.”

Amanda’s mouth, a beauty, split her healthy-boned face. It revealed the sexiest teeth gap. Now, the cutest. Her peals of laughter infected my spirits. So I burst into chortling, too.

On our haunches, we paused the city hike for a happy while. Then, a wild photo session began—from this angle, in that light. Hey, capture that fin de siècle evocative sight.

A tableau beyond ages

As we descended to the grand river, warm gold gilded ripples upon ripples of tin roofs that bathed the harbor valley. Far away, under the nebula of a different sky, the ancient Macin Mountains. They dozed fairy dreams, swaying.

Wonder petrified me in an open-mouthed statue—the adoration of Jesus revamped. A dove fluttered her wings above. I gasped incense.

“God, Mandy! The tableau ahead lingers in my novel forever. Beyond ages, when Dobrogea Mountains will have dulled to waste plains. When the sea covers this realm. Their rocks ground to dust and Danube’s last spasms together.”

“Oh, Laura. You stayed a fantasist teen, ma chérie. Books don’t resist cataclysms.”

“Physical? I mean, printed books?”

“Yeah. Electronic, too. Stick-stuck, chipped, you name it.”

“My irises melted in the distance. “How about … metaphysical? That sort of storage.”

Amanda showed her front teeth again. Ha, designed for humor.

“Hey, don’t poke fun at me, Mandy. The universe stocks imagined landscapes and stories. No sham. Read my novel, you’ll see.”

We switched back to buoyancy. And our photographic spree.

After a long walk on those streets, our phone galleries burst. With unusual stuff. Praised trophies.

“Ma chérie,” Mandy called me. “It’s past seven. Let’s put smart shutters on hold. Leave this … alluring heaven.”

“Smart, yes. Yours is an iPhone.”

“Blah. A label in the mobile league. But lo, no random pick—I’m a smart artificial intelligence freak.”

“Rhymes, Mandy. Oh, since when? God, you imitate Marcus.”

“What? Marcus who?”

“No last name. My protagonist. Ha, a smart male. The rhyme-speaker. And Mandy, you haven’t even read Darxination.”

Amanda sat on a block on the curbside. To shake off astonishment. Exhaustion, too. And … hilarity.

“Ah, your book is killing my judgment. And senses. Don’t tell me fictional characters haunt actual places and people.”

““I’ll knock you off feet, Mandy. If I tell more.”

“Shoot. I’m sitting.”

The restaurant in my novel

“Well, on a summer night, Marcus invited Estera to a swish restaurant. Guess where. In the harbor area.”

“Oh. Around here, you mean? Are you serious?”

“Exact guess, Mandy. They walked past picturesque mansions and gardens in what I named the Greek quarter. Then, I invented the Jewish quarter for them.”

“They once existed, you know? The wealthiest in Braila. My dad described them — the proudest, he said.”

“Mine too. But in my vision, they thrived with palpable charm. Smellable fragrances, visible rose petals. And … gramophone waltzes.”

“Ah. Wait. Darxination guided our steps here, not I. What if we are in the ancient Jewish quarter?”

“If yes, no wonder. Oh, Mandy, I remember. I designed Estera green-eyed. She is you.”

Mandy shivered with a confused giggling. She stood up and said, “Come. Our supper is waiting.”

“Now, girl. Don’t tell me you reserved a table … at the restaurant in my novel?”

Restaurant flip

I knew well the building. An architectural jewel in the old center. Where, as kids, we ate vanilla and pistachio ice cream. From ornate coupes laid on marble tables.

Sometimes parents ordered millet brew—braga. Or assortments of divine cakes. Chocolate moist sponge inundated with whipped cream was my favorite. Yummy, sprinkled with walnut grind and currants.

As a teen, I had lunch bites there. Or dinner steak with rice and veggies. Well, at the cake shop turned … brasserie. When older, cups of Turkish coffee or lemonade. Lounging on the street terrace. Of a … café.

“So, Mandy. You kept the venue a secret. Ha ha. We used to drink braga here. After classes, remember?”

“Sure, my dear. But look how the current owners renovated this place. To revive its old charm.”

Stained-glass windows and monumental front door panels. Art nouveau. A bijou entryway, then a few steps to a sculpted portal. I had climbed those steps innumerable times. But never in luxury.

As soon as a liveried male attendant ushered us in, a starlet materialized before us. To take over the hospitality protocol. Mm. Sticky short locks and carmine rouge. You would say she had alighted from an early Hollywood talkie.

We lingered, though, in this larger foyer. The former cake shop’s binging room. It led to bright entrails. Hidden in the communist era, as we stepped further, they revealed their glory to us. A dark-oak staircase unrolled its burnished splendor to a coquette respite landing.

Radiancy had drawn my glance there. It came from a tall mirror. A matron that dominated my eyesight and spirit from those heights. Rimmed in baroque intricacies—gold, I thought. It glinted crystal nobility and alluring leers.

Amanda dismissed the hostess. “Thank you.” She knew the way to the pledged chamber. So we stuck free in the lobby.

“Laura,” I heard. “You stared enough. Dare, my darling. Well, you never imagined a wow flip, right?”

“Mandy, I’m stunned. Who the hell owns this dining museum?”

She pointed to the towering mirror. “Up we go.”

“Wait. Not before I take pictures.”

Restaurant fancy rooms

Bewitched through the viewfinder, I climbed light steps on the imperial-blue carpet. Rococo settees flanked the Venetian regina. Amanda sat on one, inviting me beside her. Perched on that vantage spot, we took more pictures.

The staircase branched and fanned lustrous steps higher. When I glanced at the ceiling, I dared not compare it but with vaults in my dreams.

Art nouveau, yes. But a mysterious thrill seeped in through the vitreous panes. Blue, emerald, violet caught in stern, yet lascivious shapes. They grieved inside a huge, tomb-like wooden frame. Ha, an upside-down pedestal. Not peeling my eyes off it, I snapped photos.

On the next landing, Amanda unleashed her guide talents. She led me along corridors decorated with signed paintings. Art objects dozed on slim console tables. Alabaster, bronze, rose quartz. Wow! An exclusive collection hid in the restaurant. A compound of styles and beauty.

“Why so many doors? They also run a hotel?”

Mandy shrugged. “Don’t know,” she said. Then pondered. “Most rooms, though, re-create period dining styles. More than food, they serve bygone gist here. To please customers’ fancies. Ancient, Rococo, Art Deco.”

“Oh. Different from the restaurant in my book. Moroccan. To please Marco.”

“Ma chérie. You called him Marcus before.”

“Sorry. For rhyme’s sake.”

And we partook of a laughing break. For starters.

Amanda neared my ear and said, “I’ll show you some rooms after supper. Of course, if they are unlocked.”

“Aha, so. A secret dessert, to spoil me.”

“Last summer, I peeked with my husband into the Arabian Night. A marvel. Cross my … Canadian heart.” She lowered her voice. “Then, guess what? We poked our noses into the Austrian Stern, Pompadour Boudoir, and … Venetian Carnival.”

“Oh, my God. You saw them all?”

“Who knows how many they have? But we sure did not reach the Hollywood Heights Opulent.”

“Amanda. I bet.”

“I, too. You kidding me? It perches on top. A glass-walled latest addition. And, listen. It allows only owners inside. Said a gossipy waiter.”

“Traitor,” I ruled. And I tittered. Then got mock-serious. “Hm. Shame on them. To spoil sacred historical roof territory.”

Ha ha ha.

“Laura. I’ll share a secret. After Pompadour, my husband, bless his wealth, promised me a four-poster bed. I ponder whether to accept this luxury over liberty.”

We laughed again. Our stomachs, empty. So I needed to check the supper details with my guide.

“Mandy, stop. In what style are we going to eat? If we’ll eat at all.”

Her lips froze. Then got moldable. “They offer mostly Art Deco—New York Ritz, Gatsby Glitz. But yay! I picked … Cozy Hall.”

“OK, Mandy. Sounds fine.”

Art Deco Cozy Hall

The Cozy appealed to me from the hallway. Through crystal door-wings wide open to receive guests. It enchanted your steps with brilliance and soft, sensuous tango sounds.

Despite the lush space and the vast vacant middle, the atmosphere effused peace. Chandeliers, high, hung glass leaves. Oh, a sweet balm. On a feasting table covered in green velvet, three candelabra waited.

At smaller tables, companions ate and whispered. Candles on brass sticks and mosaic lamps embraced the room with a mellow mist. They shone from tops of French buffets and sideboards. Or consoles. Lustrous flares showcased slender bronze damsels and sleek boxes inlaid with ivory, emerald, enamel.

Lonely on a wood mantle, a phonograph played centerpiece on the back wall. Its mute horn reverberated no music, but light. From the mirror behind. As I sent love waves toward it, Amanda showed our table.

“Look, Laura. Our guest tag.”

It lay on an oak-rimmed, spacious top. As we sat, its downy antique green coddled us.

We ordered, ate, drank lemonade, laughing over each morsel and sip. Late, after the other guests left, we photographed the museum room.

Restaurant terrace velvet & gossip

When silence took over, Amanda suggested we slick out to a side terrace. For coffee and cigarettes. An intimate one, looking out into a garden fenced by sycamores. The sky, an immensity of electric deep blue, lowered its peace veil on us.

To compare that night with velvet is no cheap stylistic feat. Satiny cilia caressed our cheeks. Secluded at the building’s back, we unrolled further episodes. Divulged mini-secrets. And of course, laughed and made merry. Merrier. Our peals ruffled lashes of dormant stars.

In their sleep, the sycamores rustled leaves. Their secular breath foregrounded the tiny balcony where we sat. Our incredible night-cup venue on earth.

I breathed in the night. Then sighed. “Never guessed a garden tucked in the town’s center. Hidden from citizens’ eyes. The braga joint treasured unthought-of secrets, therefore.”

“Yeah. Secrets today’s magnates scavenged,” Mandy said. “And brought to fresh life. While retaining the mysterious flair and charm. As you see.”

“Fresh mysteries too, Mandy. Who has the financial power to undertake a project this grand? The architectural plans alone must have cost a fortune. Then the army of designers, I bet. And craftspeople—moldings, silk and wood paneling. Carved stairs.”

“Marble, Venetian mirrors, French crystal. Oh, silver and gold—my husband’s guts fainted.”

I cackled a little. “Oh, poor fellow. And when I think of the fine art collection…”

Amanda startled in her seat. “Let’s not offend his pride, yeah? He’s a rich devil, ha.” She leaned toward me. “This reconstructed restaurant would wow anyone.” Her voice lowered. “I bet it beats the ancient aristocrats’ villa.”

“Restaurant? Mandy, you must be kidding. This gilded mammoth hides more.”

“You got me thinking. Whoa, a sanctuary for smuggled art. Period pieces.”

“Unlawfully private, mm-hm. You must be right. Pieces worth ogling in museums. What if they are … stolen? Shh!”

I pointed to the French door’s frame. A peeping waiter lurked there.

With a titter, Amanda peeked sideways. Then said in my ear, “He’s eavesdropping. Ooh.”

“Was, dear. He cared to disappear. Perhaps checked whether we left without paying.”

“Ha ha.” Amanda fished a card holder from her purse. She flapped it open, and with pincer fingertips, drew a platinum. “Few have this. A speck of its fill … will settle the bill.”

Creepy gran clock

I got up and leaned on the trim, minimal iron rail. “Oh, fragrances of antique roses. They remind me of Carol and her night dances. I wonder how they landscaped the garden.”

“When we have lunch here, ma chérie. Now, forget your novel, it’s eleven.”

“Mandy, look! The glass penthouse. I see a wide slanting panel. The magnate owners sure reserved it for under-stars sleeping.” I swiveled to her. “Your flair, my dear, guesses the stairway there?”

“Never bothered. Next time, we’ll spy on the modern heights. Now we’d better raid the premises for a French boudoir. Or weird Venetian glamor … in carnival.”

We stood. Adieu, balcony dear!

We ghosted the corridor on that level, jiggling knob after doorknob. On either mute side. The imperial-blue runner’s tiny end got larger with our each step. So, less creepy, thank God.

A pendulum clock, though, stuck on the card-narrow end wall. Oh, a timeless gran. It watched our advancement with forbidden ticktocks.

“Mandy. Let’s turn around. The creepy gran clock shows twelve. What if they close and lock us inside? Aw. I wouldn’t spend the night here.”

“That clock’s dead. My actual iPhone says twenty past. Then, do you think they leave the premises without mopping? And washing up?”

“They? Ugh. At … near twelve, this word gains horrific dimensions. In my novel—”

“Darxination? Forget it. We’re not in your novel. Calm down, Estera.”

“Estera was you. I depicted myself in Carola.”

“Whatever. But—Laura. You forgot our mission. Tonight, we hunt for spookiness, right? The absolute kind. That’s how we started our adventure. Your second edition needs spooky pictures … for real.”

“You’re right. I’ll sacrifice my guts’ peace … for art.”

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