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    Luca used a microphone but I sensed he didn’t need one in that small space. He performed a set of crooner-type numbers, all of which might have been dismissed by anyone of my generation. Frank Sinatra. Perry Como. Nat King Cole. But to hear this live performance, even I had to concede that some of these old tunes were pretty good.
    He wound up his act and went into “Autumn Leaves.” Idid my best with the light gels, as instructed. At the climax of the song he hit a superb, soaring note, and as it faded I brought the colored lights down through a narrowing circle. Luca finished to rapturous applause. When I killed the stage spots and brought the house lights up, I noticed that amid the applause one or two women were dabbing their eyes with a handkerchief. I wanted to laugh: not at them but at myself. It
was
moving. Transforming, even.
    There was a small dance floor in the nightclub and the show was followed by a disco, mostly of golden oldies. The fact is that in the 1970s only kids like me listened to ’70s music. The music most people listened to in the 1970s—that is everyone over the age of twenty-five—was their preferred ’60s and ’50s and ’40s music.
    After a while Luca came out of his dressing room clutching a makeup case, ready to make a brisk exit. I intercepted him. I wanted to ask him if I’d done okay with the lights.
    “Beautiful, my boy!” He had a strong Italian accent. He was a tiny, dapper figure who somehow managed to project himself as much larger onstage. “Thank you! I appreciate. Very much.”
    I said I was glad and all that because I’d been a bit nervous. I was burbling at him. He smiled at me. “Come. I buy you drink.”
    “That’s not necessary!”
    “I insist.”
    We went to the bar and sat on high stools. He ordered a glass of wine for himself—which in 1976 in that place, and had he been an Englishman, was dangerously close to a declarationof homosexuality. I opted for a manly pint of Federation ale.
    “You are studenta? What you study?”
    “English literature.”
    “Ah! Shakespeare! But you know in reply I can offer you the divine Alighieri!”
    “Dante. I know of Dante.” Well, I’d heard of Dante. I can’t say I’d read him. Perhaps I’d read the book cover of a paperback.
    “We are all in hell,” he said cheerfully, “we just don’t know what level. What a joy, to have a person of culture in a place such as this.” He offered a hand to shake and I told him my name. He held up his wine so that we could clink glasses.
    He asked me what I would do with my studies and with my life. I did have one half-formed and slightly ridiculous ambition, one that I tended to keep very quiet about but for some reason I blurted it out. “I’d like to be a writer.”
    He widened his eyes at me and tilted back his head. Then he stroked his chin judiciously and leaned forward close enough for me to smell his coconut-scented hair oil. “Then I advise you. If you go into this kind of life, you need a strong a-heart. And a strong liver. In some ways it is like show business. You need a strong liver because some days you only eat bread. And find a good woman. This is terribly important. Not one of these silly girls who likes shiny necklaces and bangles and such things. No.” He summarized this advice for me. “Good heart, good liver, good woman.”
    Then he tipped back the remains of his wine, stood up, and bowed formally. He wished me “
Buona notte
” and wasgone. I stayed at the bar sipping my beer. When I looked round the nightclub, I noticed quite a few women who seemed to like shiny necklaces and bangles and such things.
    BUT I LIKED the holidaymakers. They were relaxed, friendly, and hell-bent on enjoying their well-deserved break from the grubby offices and the scruffy factories and the dirty coal mines of their industrial year. I saw them at their best for the two weeks when they put down their loads and kicked off their shoes. They laughed easily and loved to