The cafe with five faces, p.11
The Café with Five Faces, page 11
“Sad, but true,” conceded the stranger, realising he wasn’t leaving the bar for some while.
“Three: the media somehow managed to portray Nigel Farage as a harmless, bumbling buffoon who was quite a nice man and worth supporting. Instead of which, we all know now what many of us knew then: that he is a toxic little fascist.”
“No arguing with that.” The stranger seemed as though he was being won over, although his personal views had never been expressed.
“Four: some people at the time, I believe, saw ‘Leave’ as an anti-government protest vote. David Cameron was the government; the government, particularly George Osborne, was unpopular in some areas, ergo vote to leave – ‘I don’t really care if we leave or not, just let’s damage the government.’”
“Makes perfect sense.” The stranger was now close to becoming another ally in Mike’s endless fight against the pointlessness and suicidal futility also known as Brexit.
“Five: we didn’t know this straight away, but dirty money and foreign intervention.”
“Not actually proven,” James reminded the speaker.
“Not yet, maybe, but we’ll see. But I mean, just how much smoke can there be without fire? Anyway, reasons one to four were enough to pervert the so-called ‘will of the people’.” The last phrase was uttered with a heavy dose of sarcasm even by Mike’s standards.
There was a pause long enough for the stranger to make his excuses and leave – I indicated I would bring his beer over just to make sure he didn’t abandon the café altogether.
“And the whole thing,” continued Mike, not realising he had lost a sizeable chunk of his audience, “left me feeling so stunned, depressed, bereft of hope and impotent; I was so angry at the time and even now, well over two years later, I am still so angry I can’t bring myself to speak comfortably to the very small number of people I know who actually voted to leave.” There was clear sadness in this final statement.
It quickly passed. “Do you remember before the referendum when Farridge said a 52-48 vote in favour of Remain would represent ‘unfinished business’? That was when he was sure he would lose. It’s amazing how quickly the tune changed afterwards when 52-48 suddenly became a definitive outcome!” Regret had changed to scorn and derision.
“Point three,” mused John, returning to Mike’s enumerated lecture. “You’re right, Farridge was, and still is in some circles, conveyed as, what was it, a ‘harmless, bumbling buffoon’? The problem is, so is Boris Johnson. And, as you say, most of us now recognise Farridge as a toxic little fascist, but is Johnson really that much different?”
“Interesting question,” Mike responded. “The crimes of the ultra-right-wing press, I’m afraid. Making them seem harmless,” he clarified.
“For which there are so many repercussions,” added James.
“Well, the whole fuck-up is causing crap everywhere, isn’t it?” The falling intonation, if nothing else, indicated that there was no question in Mike’s question. “Just look at the mess the Tories are in! The alt-right keep blaming everyone other than themselves for breaking up the Conservative Party, when in fact they are quite blatantly the ones to blame; Rees-Mogg and his fellow pedlars of fiction. And the same is likely to happen on the other side of the central fence with Momentum breaking up the Labour Party and doubtlessly pleading innocence. What’s that guy called – Jon Lansman, I think, the hard-left founder of Momentum; he says Labour will never go back to Blairite policies and insists Blair was in the wrong party, implying he was a Tory in red clothing. The worrying thing is, this guy isn’t even an MP but seems to have a belief he can control Labour policies for generations ahead by forcing all the moderates out of the party and making Labour into something one of their own members called a group of Trots, Stalinists and assorted communists. Even Chuka Umunna, who, in more moderate times, would possibly have been the leader of the Labour Party now, and a far more widely respected one at that, inferred the far left were ‘dogs’ in telling Corbyn to call them off. And how can anyone truly believe this is the way forward for the UK? Stunning stupidity, in my opinion. And this guy is Corbyn’s chief puppeteer. Terrifying, really.”
“Not exactly Brexit-related, though,” John pointed out.
“Maybe not, but the disintegration of British politics from a battle between two centrist parties into a battle between two extremes is a direct spin-off of the Brexit debate,” argued Mike, rather forcibly. “Left and right aren’t quite the same, though. The difference is that the drift to the extreme left in Labour under Momentum is real, acknowledged and totally deliberate, while the drift to the extreme right in the Conservative Party under the European Reform Group is also real but not acknowledged by many, if any, and tries to remain covert, dwelling alongside the rest of the ERG’s cloud-cuckoo-land beliefs.”
“Lots of problems and very few solutions, don’t you think?” I got the feeling James wanted to stir Mike up a little more, which wasn’t a wise move in such an emotive subject.
Mike didn’t rise to the bait but continued his not-to-be-derailed train of thought. “I’m a big supporter of the People’s Vote campaign – it seems to offer the best way out of an almighty shithole. It’s made up of people from all parties, although I worry a little about the slight Labour bias in their daily communications. Mind you, at the moment, I think I’d accept any government which isn’t extreme. That rules out anything led by Corbyn or his ilk, which is essentially Trotskyist and rag-bag communist, or led or propped up by any member of the European Reform Group, which is essentially neo-fascist.”
“And your solution, therefore, is…” John provided a drum roll on the bar top.
“Increasingly, I’m in favour of some kind of new Central Democratic Party to combat the drift towards Islamophobic fascism through the European Reform Group and the drift towards Antisemitic Trotskyism through Momentum.” James and John seemed to find this statement a little extreme in itself but opted for silence as a weak form of protest. “And as the Lib Dems seem incapable of filling what is currently a huge void in the middle, a new party which includes the sensible right-of-centre Tories and the sensible left-of-centre Labour MPs would seem the best idea.”
There were a few moments of silence.
“Are you sure you’re a Tory?” John asked the question again.
“Oh yeah; it’s just that the pillocks in the European Reform Group really, really, really piss me off.” We got the impression that this particular group of people might be a source of some annoyance. “To the point I’m really not sure I can vote for the party as a whole again, until their influence is greatly reduced. Or preferably removed. Democratically, obviously.” There were a few moments of silence, although all those present suspected it was a temporary respite. And all those present were soon proven correct. “I often think of them as Dementors sucking the joy and life out of the Tory party, or Death Eaters bulldozing their way through society against the will of the majority.”
“Harry Potter,” James informed me. “He’s a bit of a fan.”
“And before you ask,” John added in a whisper, “we think he’s Dobby.”
“I’m not sure I appreciate your literary analogies,” said James with a sigh, knowing Mike would continue regardless of the presence or lack of further prompting, “but if the European Reform Group really are Death Eaters, who is the Voldemort of British politics?”
“Jacob Rees-Mogg, I presume, although I may have offended BoJo, Gove and Duncan Smith by saying so.”
“BoJo is Lucius Malfoy, surely,” James argued. “You know, always siding with whoever will help him the most at the time, regardless of ‘the greater good’, while actually being quite weak.” James was clearly a Potter fan as well.
“And who is Theresa May?” asked John. “Bellatrix Lestrange?”
This was greeted with roars of laughter. “She isn’t evil or driven enough for that,” Mike said, although he had to strain his brain for a moment or so before delivering this damning verdict. “Thinking about it, the Death Eaters had one clear leader and one clear goal; scarcely what you can say about this crowd! So, I suppose that actually blows my theory out of the water. Shame; I quite liked it!”
“Poor Theresa May,” sighed John, expecting a mild rebuke at least, which wasn’t actually realised.
“I couldn’t agree more in most ways,” said Mike. “She might have been a half-decent prime minister but all she will ever be remembered for is effing Brexit and the likeliest balls-up of all time. If she doesn’t get a deal, she’ll be accused of screwing up Brexit; if she does get a deal, or even not, she’ll be accused of screwing up the country. Talk about a lose-lose situation. You have to feel some sympathy with her, especially when she has the Boris sideshow to put up with.” The half-word ‘side’ was emphasised, I suspect, on purpose to show just how significant, or rather not, Mike considered Johnson to be in the greater scheme of things.
“You really are remarkably passionate for a moderate Tory,” James commented.
“I’ve been told that or asked questions in the same vein so many times,” Mike sighed with a degree of exasperation. “Pretty amazing, innit? I studied politics at a mildly left-wing university, worked, or at least tried to work, in the media and music businesses, and ended up teaching English as a foreign language, and yet through all those predominantly left-wing environments, I remained a devoted Conservative voter. It worries me that you and others ask me, though, as if there is something stereotypical about Tory voters that they’re not interested, not passionate or don’t care. I get told, ‘You can’t be a Tory; you care too much!’ Well, Tories care, too! And so do moderates – being passionate about something doesn’t mean drifting to extremes – and a lot of people would benefit from knowing and acknowledging that!” Mike now seemed a little too close for comfort to boiling over. I started to consider which of my herbal teas might have a calming effect.
No one was about to argue, however, be it out of agreement, fear or respect for Mike’s blood pressure.
Despite that, James tried. “Are you sure it isn’t about loyalty? I mean, these days, not many would argue that Man City aren’t a better team than Man United, but I don’t change my allegiances just because of that. I’ve supported United since I knew football existed and I’m not about to drift to one of our biggest rivals just because they are temporarily better. Are you sure your political voting patterns aren’t the same?”
Mike considered the treason involved in changing allegiances to Manchester City and seemed momentarily struck dumb, although the change of subject back to football may have been a cause of mental turbulence. James and John used the unexpected lull in the Mike-rant to start discussing coffee avec moi and by the time he had regained his composure, the conversation had well and truly moved on.
At least for today. We knew it would be back.
Listening to Mike, James and John often makes me think of setting suns – not in a romantic way, obviously – as you might realise as the chapters progress… This one is from Cape Town.
2018: 21: Granada: For the Love of Lebanon
“Isn’t it time you changed these Gangnam-style tablecloths, Chaelli?” Lois might have had one beer or two, but it made little difference. I debated correcting her but decided it was such a fossilised error, correction would be pointless; the timing, in the midst of fluent interaction, also seemed inappropriate.
Lois wasn’t in the best of moods in any case, even without a focus on her linguistic accuracy. Her two drinking companions had just come back from a two-week spell in Lebanon, during which time she had been (a) lonely and (b) jealous. As a result, she seemed initially intent on making them feel bad, although I took this in the jocular sense. I wasn’t a hundred per cent sure, though, and she soon got past, it in any case.
“Haven’t you ever been afraid in Lebanon?” The question was quite innocent. “I mean, it sounds such a scary place to most people and you talk about it as if it were home!”
Matthew smiled. “Well, I’ve been accused of having more second homes than John Prescott has Jags, but Lebanon really feels like it. As for being scared, well, maybe four or five times. On my first ever visit, I went to inspect a school in the south and, at the end of the day, they told me there had been two security guards on duty outside the building instead of the usual one, simply because of my presence. Now that really spooked me at the time because it endorsed the preconceptions I had about the place. Had I known that at the start of the day, one, I would have been a bit more distracted, and two, I wouldn’t have sat right next to the window all day.”
“No curtains?”
“No curtains, no blinds, no nothing. Well, there was glass!”
“Hmmmm.”
“And then on my second visit, well, it was a few weeks after the Israelis over-reacted to something and invaded in 2006. I think that was the only time when I told my family where I was going and had the news greeted with total silence! Anyway, I was staying in a flat on the top floor of a block in Achrafieh, and the first night I was there, there was the most horrendous noise outside which went on forever. I really couldn’t decide if it was fireworks, Israelis or thunder. I tried to ignore it – I mean, there was nothing I could do, was there? – so I carried on watching a DVD of The Holiday or something until it passed.”
“You would,” Mark commented, aware of his friend’s surprising yet quite open addiction to the romcom genre. “What actually was it?”
“A thunderstorm – quite common there at certain times of the year but I hadn’t heard one like this for ages. Good job I’d seen the film several times before and I didn’t need to understand the dialogue, though.” Matthew added this as if it was rather more important than a potential invasion. “And then I went to a wedding.”
“I know weddings can be dangerous,” Mark responded with a feigned look of fear, “especially if you’re taking part, but why should that scare you?”
“It was when we were leaving,” Matthew said with a laugh. “I got a message on my mobile welcoming me to Israel. I knew we were close to the border, but I think I screamed at my friend who was driving to turn around. That’s one place I don’t want to get caught as an illegal immigrant. I’m not in the least bit bothered about being banned from Israel, but I might have been banned from re-entering Lebanon as well. They don’t like anything Israeli in your passport. I can laugh now, but I was so not laughing at the time!”
“Point taken.”
“The next time was pretty similar,” Matthew continued. “I was being taken by taxi to a school in the east of the country. The driver didn’t speak English, I don’t speak Arabic, and for once, I was travelling without any local colleagues. We started going down some really poor roads off the beaten track, so I checked on Google Maps to see where we were. The Syrian border was rather close and for a few minutes, the word ‘kidnap’ was in my mind.”
“And?”
“Turned out he was taking a short cut, or actually a faster-moving long cut, to avoid a bottleneck.” It was a limp ending to the story, as Matthew apologetically acknowledged, but Mark and Lois seemed relieved it hadn’t turned out any worse. “And finally, on my last visit to date, I decided to extend my usual Sunday walk beyond its usual route, took a wrong turning at some point and ended up walking through a part of town where Hezbollah have quite a strong presence, so I’m told. I felt I could no longer look at Google Maps on my phone, although blending in had long since ceased to be a realistic scenario. I remember getting to one junction and obviously seemed confused about which way to turn, however hard I was trying to hide it, and this guy standing outside his house looked at me and pointed left.”
“And you trusted him?” Lois sounded very unsure.
“Well, I looked right and saw a road, for want of a better description, which disappeared into nothingness, and looked left and saw a mosque, so yes, I trusted him. And he was right.”
“We’ll share a Chemex in celebration of that story, I think, Chaelli,” said Mark. “Surprise us with the origin!”
“Don’t the cultural differences ever bother you?” Lois was returning to her would-be television interviewing days when I returned a few minutes later with a Colombian coffee from the Nariño department and three glass cups.
“There are many differences, I suppose,” said Mark thoughtfully, “but the ones I notice most are on the road.” Matthew groaned in humorous despair. “Let’s think…”
“The list is potentially endless,” Matthew interrupted. “There was one time a friend took me to a beach resort just south of the airport. One thing I have never understood is valet parking. The idea of paying someone to park your car for you is anathema to me – what would make anyone do such a thing? I first saw it in Philadelphia in 1991 and I just assumed it was rich Americans showing off. But in Lebanon, it’s almost everywhere there’s a restaurant. Someone told me that some valet parking firms pay up to $30,000 a year for the right to park cars for a restaurant, and they make it back by charging poor motorists to sometimes park it where it stands! Anyway, I digress; my friend took me to this beach resort. When she saw it was valet parking, she decided to park her car herself but one of the valets, with obviously nothing better to do, followed her up the street and charged her for parking in what he considered to be one of their spaces! I call it daylight robbery; I’m just glad I rarely drive there, much as I love the country.
“And when we came to leave, the slip road onto the motorway – well, it isn’t called a motorway but it’s like one – is a two-way stretch through the car park of a shopping centre, so every time anyone reverses out of a parking space, the whole slip road grinds to a halt. Quite amusing, really, when it isn’t frustrating!”
