The cafe with five faces, p.12
The Café with Five Faces, page 12
“Some would say that sums up a lot of Lebanon!” Mark interjected.
“And then,” continued Matthew, doggedly hanging on to his conversational turn, “once we finally got on the motorway, we were driving behind a motorbike or a moped or something which was doing a fair rate of knots with two guys not wearing helmets – fairly typically – with what at first looked like a rolled-up mat or something between the two of them. The closer we got, the more it looked like first of all a dog and then a fur coat. When we overtook, it turned out to be a sheep! I assumed it was alive as it was being held very firmly by the guy at the back and was probably rigid with fear anyway. It could have been dead, I suppose, but if not, imagine, one swerve and the poor thing would have been running around the motorway causing total mayhem! I’ve seen far worse on the back of a bike in Vietnam, mind you, but this was pretty alarming.”
“There’s a complete lack of self-service petrol stations as well, isn’t there?” Mark’s conversation seemed to have been hijacked, so he tried to wrestle it back, although asking a question didn’t seem the best method of achieving such a result. “It’s like way back in Britain when someone filled up your tank for you, the difference here being that you are expected to give a tip.”
“Same in South Africa.” I had been silent for too long.
“And,” Mark continued, acknowledging my brief contribution with the slightest of guttural noises, “while the tank is being filled, drivers leave their engines running, use their mobiles and often have a lit cigarette casually dangling out of the open window! I’ve never understood the dangers apparently implicit in using a mobile in a petrol station, but none of those things is permitted in the UK.”
“I’ve only ever driven in Lebanon on two visits,” said Matthew, taking over the wheel of the conversation once more, “and not at all recently, but even being a passenger there can be quite infectious. Like the way they merge at junctions rather than waiting for a real gap in the traffic. I drive like this when I get home sometimes, to the consternation of my passengers and those sharing road space with me!”
“Tell me about it,” muttered Lois, although a wink accompanied the mild insult. “Any other pearls of transport wisdom?”
“We’ve barely started!” Matthew and Mark were enjoying the flow.
“The highways are unique in that some six-lane roads have no lane markings at all or just ones which have been eroded with the passage of time and no one has got around to re-painting them,” began Matthew, casting his mind a few thousand kilometres over to the Eastern Med. “With markings or without, some drivers quite happily spread themselves across two lanes to stop others overtaking on the outside or inside…”
“And overtaking on the inside is completely normal, probably legal,” Mark butted in.
“While other drivers just stay in the outside lane for the entire time they’re on the motorway.”
“And tailgating and weaving are totally normal as well, even if you’re chatting on your mobile at the same time and driving at over eighty kilometres an hour.”
“Of course they’re using mobiles,” said Matthew, laughing. “Just driving is a waste of time; there is always something else to do as well, such as texting or chatting or making bills out. I still think the scariest thing, though, is when you’re driving along a four- or six-lane road and you find a car driving up the hard shoulder in the opposite direction just because the lazy sod can’t be bothered going down to the next junction and turning around!”
“That happens on all types of road. You will have done the Beirut to Zahle run, I suppose?”
“Oh yes.” Whatever the delights of the aforementioned journey are, Lois and I were not to be made privy to them.
Matthew and Mark sat back in their chairs with the kind of dreamy expressions normally reserved for discussing overseas lovers. Lois watched them for a number of seconds and then let out a barely suppressed giggle.
“What’s up?” asked Matthew.
“You two – you love that country so much, despite what most would see as obvious flaws!”
“Fantastic place,” Mark concurred, without hesitation. “Just so long as their driving rules don’t export themselves to the EU!”
“It’s the land of the horn as well, of course.” Matthew returned to the topic. “Even if the traffic lights are red, someone will be pipping away as though you are entirely to blame for causing a hold-up.”
“You’re also pipped at if you’re a pedestrian,” said Mark, “although if you hear a horn behind you, you can guarantee a car with a red number plate will pass you a second or two later. Taxis touting for custom,” he added by way of explanation.
“Mind you, there aren’t that many pedestrians to sell to,” Matthew noted. “A friend of mine once told me that the definition of a Lebanese pedestrian was someone trying to find their car!”
“And it’s such a land of contrast when it comes to cars.” Mark took over with real enthusiasm, presumably about the country rather than the cars, although who knows? “Beirut is a city of BMWs, Audis and Mercs, and more Porsches than I’ve ever seen anywhere else in the world, plus the only two McLarens I have ever, ever seen on a road other than a racetrack! It was quite good fun watching the driver of one trying to manoeuvre this bright orange beast of a vehicle around all the potholes in a car park, of which there were many, as always, with his car about two inches off the floor!”
“And there are lots of speedsters doing nought to sixty in ten seconds on streets better suited to walkers,” Matthew chipped in.
“And yet alongside these,” Mark continued, “are some of the most clapped-out bangers imaginable, which wouldn’t even be allowed inside a garage to take a British MOT test, let alone pass one!”
“Yeah,” agreed Matthew, almost fondly. “Patched-up wrecks, some of which the owners haven’t even bothered to patch up. And quite often, so I’ve been told by friends who insist on buying brand-new, cars which are made of at least two cars stuck together.”
“Frightening,” commented Lois.
Mark returned the conversation to the higher end of the market. “I was walking along the Corniche near the posh fish restaurants one day and within 100, maybe 150 metres of parking spaces, I saw four Porsches, four top-end Range Rovers, a Lamborghini, and so many Audis, Mercs and BMWs, I didn’t even bother to count them. And yet, barely thirty minutes earlier, I had been surrounded by mobile contenders for the scrapyard.”
“I think we’ve got the idea,” said Lois, including me in the interaction. “Anything non-road-related, perchance?”
Matthew and Mark considered the new question and seemed, momentarily, lost for words, as though their bubble had been prematurely burst.
“Pollution, especially of the plastic variety, is more obvious in Beirut than most other places I’ve seen,” Matthew finally responded, with the enthusiasm in his voice reduced by several notches. It was the first time a look of distaste had clouded either male face. “Walk along some of the beaches to the south of the city and you’ll see the high-tide mark is permanently denoted by a line of cans and plastic bottles and other rubbish.”
“Yeah, even at scenic spots like the Raouche Rocks, the sea and the cliffs are covered in discarded plastic,” confirmed Mark. “Really sad.”
“Changing topic slightly.” Matthew didn’t seem to like the negative turn in the discussion. “What’s really strange about the Jewish Quarter in Beirut?” It sounded like the first line of an unlikely joke.
“The fact there is one?” ventured Lois.
“Good guess, but no. No Jews live in it.”
“But they still refer to it as the Jewish Quarter?”
“Well, it still has a synagogue and the name has stuck. And I went on a tour recently, which included the district, and the guide told us the last Jew died only a few years ago, an old lady who was given to disturbing parties of tourists by running up to them, shouting, ‘I’m a Jew, I’m a Jew,’ just to get her side of the story in!” Lois dissolved into fits of giggles at this.
It seemed, however, Mark wanted the last word. “One final piece of advice before I give in to the call of the bathroom,” he said, standing up slowly. “Beware the Beirut launderettes – never send in a pair of socks for washing – buying a new pair is cheaper!”
“I feel homesick,” said Matthew and, in an unusual departure, ordered some decent Leb Red. “A bottle of Ksara Reserve du Couvent, please, Chaelli!”
The Corniche in Beirut with an example of what Mark terms a ‘posh fish restaurant’. The luxury yachts sometimes moored next to the jetty suggest he may have a point!
2018: 22: Hebden Bridge: The Things One Will Do...…
Having overheard the tale of John-Jeffrey’s sexual problems, I was now treated as more of a friend, rather than a barman in a sarong, although, not wanting to presume too much, I still used his full name.
It was around two weeks later when the pair, John-Jeffrey and friend Robbie, were reunited on the sofas of Hebden Bridge. The former ordered a Tanzanian coffee from the Lunji Estate, brewed using a Siphon, while Robbie, as it was early in the day, ordered a small Cruzcampo from the Granada menu.
“I can’t believe you don’t drink these days.” Robbie’s tone was a mix of admiration, envy and stone-cold astonishment.
“It began in January after a particularly heavy Christmas and New Year,” said John-Jeffrey. “You may, just about, remember the latter.”
“And a very good night it was too!”
“No arguments there,” concurred John-Jeffrey. “However, I had been advised I was over-doing it. I think the bottle of red a day in Lebanon throughout the autumn months followed by a gin-fest over Christmas and then a New Year flowing in real ale might have combined to construct the final straw, so I decided to give it a rest for a while and took some tablets in the hope of stirring the lower regions back into life.”
“Forgive me for saying this,” said Robbie, sounding genuinely, as opposed to sarcastically, apologetic, “but isn’t that rather like slamming the stable door after the horse has bolted?”
There was a long pause with some deep sighing, which plummeted the depths before words once again came to the surface. “Sad but true.” Not a long utterance, for sure, but one laden with meaning and regret.
“Any, erm, improvement at all?” This isn’t the type of question men often ask each other, and I have no idea if women do or not, but I presumed the two gents were even closer friends than I had imagined.
A shake of the head ensued, which continued for so long, the screws, had there been any, would have loosened to a potentially dangerous level. Neither Robbie nor I could think of a word to say.
The silence was finally broken by John-Jeffrey with a slight but surprising change of direction. “What is your opinion of people becoming parents in later life, like, say, when they’re sixty?” he enquired.
“That’s a tough one,” I said, not very helpfully.
“You hear of the Mick Jaggers of the world having them, don’t you?” I wasn’t sure Robbie’s response was any better than mine. “I suppose they can afford it easily, which, like it or not, always helps.”
“Damned money!” It was patently obvious John-Jeffrey and Mick Jagger lived in different financial universes.
“I suppose one has to consider death as well.” There was nothing like being blunt and Robbie was from Yorkshire, so it came easily. Nevertheless, John-Jeffrey’s face registered a degree of shock which could have affected the facial equivalent of the Richter scale. Robbie continued, although the forecast didn’t really get much better. “I mean, if you have a kid now, you’d be almost eighty by the time he or she went to university. And with your lifestyle, or at least your former lifestyle, do you reckon you have much chance of making it that far?”
I’d never heard Robbie speak for so long, so forcibly or so negatively. Negativity was usually the prerogative of John-Jeffrey, who was now looking increasingly confused and downcast, not that Robbie seemed to notice as he dug himself, or rather John-Jeffrey, an even deeper hole.
“I wonder what it would be like having people, such as other parents, dropping their offspring off at school, thinking you’re the grandfather, or even the great-grandfather in your case, when you’re actually the biological parent.” I deemed that Robbie was taking things too far now – this was the stuff of final nails in the coffin in terms of ideas (excuse continuance of death analogy, but at least I tactfully kept this thought to myself).
John-Jeffrey looked more depressed than ever, but I decided he was responsible for choosing his own friends and so remained silent, awaiting the next development with interest and some trepidation. Another surprise was in the pipeline.
“You’ll be delighted to know, then, that we’re contemplating surrogacy.”
Had he been trying to silence Robbie, this statement was as effective as a pistol to the temple. The latter drained his glass and gestured for a refill. There was still stunned silence in the air when I returned, as quickly as etiquette allowed, granted, some two minutes later.
“Do you think that’s wise?” I was reminded of Sergeant Wilson in Dad’s Army and Robbie’s demeanour was scarcely different.
“Well, we have been through every other option, I’m afraid,” said John-Jeffrey, a little testily, although had anyone other than Robbie said the above, I think a physical and verbal explosion might have been a more likely consequence.
“IVF?” queried Robbie.
“Yep.”
“Ah.”
“We have thought about it very seriously,” said John-Jeffrey, “and although you made the points a little harshly, you didn’t really say anything we didn’t already know. It was just a little unsettling to hear someone else say them, and say them with such, erm, conviction. And lack of empathy.”
“Sorry about that.” The wind had somewhat gone out of Robbie’s sails and he returned to his regular persona. “So, where are you up to?”
“The testing phase,” replied the would-be father. “And before you feel obliged to ask, that means making sure my swimmers are still capable.”
“Oh.” This was Robbie’s favourite response and I sort of understood why.
“And, of course, they have to be sure I’m STD-free as well.” John-Jeffrey was nothing if not frank.
“I’m not sure how I’d feel about all that.”
“I feel the same as you,” said John-Jeffrey, although seeing as Robbie had just confessed to not knowing how he felt, I’m not sure anyone followed this logic. I began to wonder if Viagra affected the mind.
“And if everything’s good?” Robbie was either very curious, very interested or very polite. Or possibly all three.
“All in good time,” sighed John-Jeffrey. “And that applies to me in this process, as well as to you. Patience is a virtue one is forced to have sometimes.”
Silence once again reigned over the table. I emigrated to another room.
The light of inspiration shining on the centre of Hebden Bridge. I’m inclined to think John-Jeffrey needs an abundance of luck rather than inspiration…
2018: 23: Budapest: The Long-Term Cost of a Misspent Youth
Jimez, after a few days’ absence, reappeared with his basset-hound features, Sainsbury’s Bag for Life and a notebook of the electronic variety, and settled himself down at one of the polished marble tables in search of artistic inspiration. His latest two visits had produced unfinished – or barely started, if one was to be completely honest – works of various merit and I had to admit to some curiosity about what might be pulled out of the hat, or bag, on this occasion.
He began by ordering wine, which was good for my takings, but a little worrying for his well-being at 10.45am, but who am I to argue, with my dodgy drinking past?
Jen, with her ever-expanding Hungarian-cake-inspired waistline, turned up, out of breath, a few minutes later and collapsed into an adjacent Biedermeier, prompting some disconcerting creaks from the reproduction legs.
“Cup o’ tea, please, Chaelli,” she ordered, “and one of them cheese scones.” I must have winced slightly because she followed her request with, “What’s up?” I wasn’t sure whether to comment on her poor functional language or the questionable pronunciation, or whether to be polite and justify the facial expression with an impromptu lie.
“I always find that interesting,” I responded, as neutrally as possible. “For me, s-c-o-n-e has an ‘e’ at the end, which means you pronounce the word to rhyme with ‘stone’ and not with ‘con’.”
“I think you’ll find I’m in the majority,” argued Jen, stretching out so that the back of the Biedermeier groaned as well.
“That’s as may be,” I grunted, “but in this case, the argument is irrelevant as what you actually want is a sajtos pogácsa.”
Unfortunately, the seriousness of my comment was undermined, as Jen always found the Hungarian word for ‘cheese’ (‘sajt’ – pronounced as ‘shite’) highly amusing, all the more so when asking for a cheeseburger – possibly enough to put one off one’s dinner. I left her having a fit of the giggles and retreated to the kitchen to make her tea, without asking for the variety desired, and to plate up a pogácsa.
Jimez, to this point, had been silent, except for a vague noise of greeting. One couldn’t really say with any certainty whether he was engaged in deep thought or mentally off the planet. Finally, he felt obliged to make an utterance of some kind, although it was initially hard to discern what prompted this specific one. “I was listening to the radio this morning and they played the Kevin Johnson track, ‘Rock ’n’ Roll, I Gave You All the Best Years of My Life’.”
“Erm, and?” Jen wasn’t sure how to react, fearing a lengthy tale of woe may ensue.
