This story in particular is special to me, because it is based on one of my favorite movies, "Porco Rosso." The movie is about ace pilot Marco Rosso in presumably just before World War I, who was mysteriously changed so that he had the face of a pig. The story here, however, is about Gina, the proprietor of a popular cabaret in the middle of Mediterrannean. His last childhood friend, she waits patiently for him to tell her he loves her. It is set after the movie ends, where we presume he had changed back to his human form (the movie never says). I highly recommend this film to anyone, regardless of age or whether they like cartoons or not,. If you start reading this short story, please finish it! It's longer than my usual stories, but hopefully you'll gain something from it.

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Gina was a torch singer and owner of a piano bar on a private island not far off from Sicily. Despite the skirmishes going on on all sides (the radios and newspapers all had been calling it a "World War"-- how strange, Gina thought as she recalled her diverse and eclectic patrons), customers still flocked to the tiny cabaret in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea. Truthfully, her private home-turned-enterprise was situated on little more than a large rock jutting out of the sea, rather than a full island (as it technically was), but to her many regulars, Gina's Place was so much more.

Air pirates drank from their wines and cheap liquors literally tables away from the fighter dogpilots who usually took them in for bounty. Wealthy but anonymous playboys and couples took up the majority of the seating in the tiny but cozy lounge, and the quartet of dubious but harmless Mafiosos never failed to appear at their reserved table in the corner, just before Gina came out for her first round of songs each night. It was true that many were admirers whose hearts would all inevitably be broken, as well as that just as many simply liked her sonorous alto voice. But by far, people came here to forget the rest of the world and its troubles. No fighting was allowed anywhere on the premises or else Gina herself would see you out the door (she had thus far proven her word on this at least three times, and no one ever wanted to be banished from Gina's Place). Here, war-weary people came to forget their past and their present. Here they found refuge and a haven for the nights, a temporary Elysium.

Gina put on her earrings, large but simple golden orbs dangling from deceptively thin chains, one at a time and then looked herself over one last time in the mirror. Her short dark brown hair was plastered against her head, combed in undulating waves from the left to the right. Curly locks pressed close to her cheeks by her ears, framing a narrow oval face. Her light cornflower eyeshadow perfectly accented her unusual purple "smiling" eyes (Gina had no idea what this term meant; it had been ages since she last felt like smiling). Pale patches of rouge adorned her almost gaunt cheeks, the same color as her thin glossed lips.

She nodded approvingly at what she saw, but adjusted the spaghetti-thin straps of her sparkling purple flapper's dress. Gina thought they exposed too much of her bare shoulders and lean lanky limbs although it really didn't, so she added a gauzy lavender scarf around her neck. Completely satisfied, she stood and walked through the dressing room door. She turned off all the lights before she left, and closed and locked the door after her.

Not far down the hallway, she came across a young man, struggling with a black silk bowtie as he peered into an oval mirror hanging from the wall. Except for the bowtie, he was impeccably dressed in a brilliant white shirt and matching black vest and pants. Spotting her, he stopped and gaped, color flushing into his cheeks. Gina smiled genuinely at him, despite his misplaced childish crush on her. He ran a hand through slicked-back black hair and grinned sheepishly at her. "Evening, Miss Gina," he said, "Full house tonight, or so says Julius at the door. Nervous about singing?"

"Rodolfo, what a silly idea," Gina said to him. She took the bowtie from his hands and suppressed a smile as she felt and saw his body tense. Despite being an Italian, if he could not stand being in such close proximity to a woman, he would only be an average lover at best. Not that she would take him-- or almost any other, for that matter-- as a lover. "What on earth makes you think a little crowded room could make me nervous? You know I've been singing for almost ten years now...."

"Back when your father owned the place, yes. I know," he finished for her as she quickly and methodically did his bowtie. "Everyone within thirty kilometers knows. They all love you, you know. I still can't believe I'm working for the legendary Miss Gina. I also can't believe that the great fighter pilot Marco is often seen here, too--"

"Finished," Gina interrupted him, putting on the final touches on the bow. She straightened his lapels and patted him in an almost motherly manner on the cheek. "Flattery will get you nowhere. And everywhere, child." "Rodolfo, please help Carmine over in the kitchens; I understand he's terribly short tonight on help. That's a dear," she said, not waiting for his reply.

Questioning and confused looks fought over his face, but he nodded quickly enough. "Yes, Miss Gina," he said, and walked down an alternate corridor leading towards the kitchens. Gina watched him for a moment until he stopped and turned around and asked, "About Mister Marco, Miss Gina. We haven't seen him in here for several days."

Gina understood the unasked question that hung in the awkward silence that followed. "He's alright," she said after a moment. She wasn't sure that was true, but perhaps she said it more for herself than for her overly curious employee. You could never be sure with fighter pilots. "I haven't heard from him either in several days, but he'll surface when he feels like it. He's stubborn like that."

Rodolfo nodded, satisfied, and continued down the hallway toward the kitchens.

Gina shivered as he turned around a corner and disappeared. Marco, she thought, where in God's name are you? Her hand drifted to the tiny gold cross that hung around her neck, as she surveyed the crowd.

The lounge area was indeed packed tonight, as Rodolfo had said. The dogfighters and pirates were all accounted for, even the four mobsters in the corner, although that was no surprise. All of the stools by the bar were occupied as well, and a handful of people had taken to merely standing against the wall to drink or listen to her sing. Or possibly both. Everyone was being civil to each other, respecting the sanctuary she'd provided or were merely afraid to break it. Candlelights flickered at each table, giving the strange sensation of performing before a field of fireflies. Antonio played on the piano, loud enough to lend to the atmosphere and be appreciated, but quietly enough to remain in the background.
Gina nodded to Antonio as she stepped out and then to her patrons. Many of them pounded on the tableclothed counters and whistled; those would be her regular admirers, she thought. Others shushed the crowd in eager anticipation and the rest clapped enthusiastically.

"Good evening," she greeted, and waved to the devoted crowd.

A chorus of "Good evening, Gina!" answered her back, and she laughed.

"Thank you so much for making it out here tonight," she said. "For my first song, I would like to sing something a friend taught me a long time ago." Gina stepped off the low stage and nodded to Antonio, who played a somber melody on the piano. As she walked among her patrons, she sang her song:



Quand nous chanterons le temps des cerises,
les gais rossignols et merles moqueurs seront tous en f\^ete,
les belles auront la folie en t\^ete
et les amoureux, du soleil au coeur.
Quand nous chanterons le temps des cerises,
sifflera bien mieux le merle moqueur.


When we sing of the time of cherries,
gay nightingales and mocking blackbirds will celebrate,
pretty girls will have folly in their heads,
and lovers, sunshine in their hearts.
When we sing of the time of cherries,
the mocking blackbird will sing better.
Mais il est bien court le temps des cerises,
o\`u l'on s'en va de cueillir en revant des pendants d'oreilles,
cerises d'amour aux robes pareilles
tombant sous la feuille en gouttes de sang.
Mais il est bien court le temps des cerises,
pendants de corail qu'on cueille en revant.


But it is very short, the time of cherries,
where some go to gather earrings* in a dream,
cherries of love in similar gowns**
falling beneath the leaves like drops of blood.
But it is very short, the time of cherries,
coral pendants which one gathers in a dream.
[Quand vous en serez au temps des cerises
si vous avez peur des chagrins d'amour, evitez les belles.]
Moi qui ne crains pas les peines cruelles,
je ne vivrai point sans souffrir un jour.
Quand vous en serez au temps des cerises
vous aurez aussi des peines d'amour.


[When you are in the time of cherries,
if you fear the sorrows of love, avoid the pretty girls.]
I, who do not fear the cruel distress,
I will never live a day without suffering.
When you are in the time of cherries,
you will also have the distresses of love.
J'aimerai toujours le temps des cerises,
c'est de ce temps-l\`a que je garde au coeur une plaie ouverte,
et Dame fortune en m'\'etant offerte
ne pourra jamais calmer ma douleur.
J'aimerai toujours le temps des cerises,
et le souvenir que je garde au coeur.


I will always love the time of cherries,
it's from those times that I hold in my heart an open wound,
and the offerings of lady luck
can never soothe my suffering.
I will always love the time of cherries,
and the memory I hold in my heart.

When Gina finished, the crowd stared at her silently, transfixed. Gina sucked her breath in nervously, and wondered what had happened. Then, slowly, one person began to clap; it was one of the Air Pirates. Then another, and then another two, and soon everyone was clapping wildly for her. Several people (newcomers, she noted, for she knew every one of her regulars) even stood and gave her a standing ovation, although the majority of the audience was content in banging on their tables for more. Gina smiled and nodded at them all.

Suddenly, Rodolfo was at her side. Looking around the applauding room nervously, he leaned closer to her and whispered in her ear. "There's, ah, um, a gentleman looking for you," he said.

"Can't it wait? I just started my first rounds," Gina replied in another whisper, somewhat annoyed at the gall of the mysterious patron. Admirers usually at least waited till her first set was done before attempting to woo her, for whatever reasons. He must be new, she thought to herself.

"He said it couldn't. He said you knew him, and to give you this." Almost magically, he produced a large brown envelope and handed it to Gina. They could both feel the audience quiet down expectantly around them, most curious as to what was being said in the whispered conversation and, more importantly, just what was in the envelope.

"Oh, very well." Gina took it from Rodolfo and tore the package open. As she peered inside, the audience collectively held their breath and seemed to lean forward in their seats, trying to get a glimpse at what she was holding without actually moving from their spots. Gina's eyes widened momentarily, and handed the envelope back to the young man.

"Tell the gentleman to please wait for two more songs," she whispered to him, "then put this in my dressing room. Be careful with it!

"I'm very sorry," she said, this time to the audience aloud. "For being interrupted. For my next song...."