The cafe with five faces, p.22
The Café with Five Faces, page 22
“How many people do?” asked Jen, semi-rhetorically. “To be fair, I suppose there has been increasing awareness in recent years, you know with plastic bag usage being slashed by making shops charge for them, and by wildlife programmes on TV, but even in some parts of the EU, I don’t see other countries being as concerned.”
“It makes you feel a little helpless, doesn’t it?”
“That’s very true of so many things in life, and increasingly so these days,” Jen concurred demurely.
“I thought of writing a song about it.” Jimez was surprisingly confident in saying this; none of the usual hesitancy was present. Yet.
Jen’s reaction was the predictable sigh and a half. “Didn’t we agree you were going to focus on just one project for a while?” she asked with a rising intonation indicative of her increasing despair.
“Yeah, but it isn’t 2019 yet and I still haven’t decided what the one is,” argued Jimez with a modicum of logic tinged with his more regular indecisiveness. “And I thought a song would be quicker to complete and might reach a wider audience.”
Jen was lost for words, a minor miracle in itself, and picked a little at her cake as a means of temporary distraction. “So,” she said eventually, accidentally spitting a crumb of chocolate at her audience, “you think you can write a song, even though you only actually write lyrics, which is going to change the way people think about plastic pollution?”
“Wasn’t that the name of a band once? Yazz and the Plastic Pollution?” Jen and I looked at each other and wondered if this was an attempt at humour, a slip of the tongue or rank stupidity. Jen decided to take the question at face value.
“Yazz and the Plastic Population,” she gently corrected.
“It might make a nice name for the band, though, Jimez and the Plastic Pollution, don’t you think?” Jen stared at her friend, wondering what he was on. Jimez suddenly laughed out loud. “You should see the look on your face! I’m only joking!” He took a sip of his cappuccino. “Well, partially, anyway.”
“Which parts, dare I ask?”
“The band name was a joke and my expectations are very limited. But I do want to say something about it; I just have to decide on the means.”
“Have you gone green all of a sudden? I can’t remember anything ecological in your previous, erm, ‘works’.”
“It gives me a direction,” rationalised Jimez. “Something to talk about with passion.”
“You can’t invent passion, though,” countered Jen. “It’s part of you, something you feel. When you were discussing your latest idea for a book, you know, Break-Up Breakdown, was it? That was something you had natural passion about – something you had experienced yourself and could talk about, write about, compose songs about. How committed are you to the environment and pollution?” Jen had made a number of valid points, in my opinion, and I awaited an impassioned defence or, more likely, a capitulation, from the would-be bohemian.
“Well, it’s been happening for a while. As you mentioned, there are the programmes on TV about wildlife, particularly at sea, but also on land; they’ve really hit home. I watched one the other day where fish were cut open and you could see how much plastic was in their stomachs – it was ghastly. And of course, they have no choice in the matter – it’s kind of like passive smoking, particularly as it was in the past – you’re being damaged without having an opt-out clause. And Matthew showed me some pictures of the coastline in and around Beirut – remember, this is the Mediterranean we’re talking about, not some far-flung small sea or lake, but the major sea in Europe. There was just so much plastic and other crap on the beaches and close to the shore, and they seem to be doing so little about it, while we, as in the world at large, seem to be doing too little, too late.”
OK, this was far more impassioned defence than the capitulation I had expected. Jen sat back in her chair and listened with an interested expression which bordered on the surprised.
“And actually, Jen, I think you are wrong,” Jimez continued, his usual basset-hound visage morphing into that of a Staffordshire bull terrier to the point that Jen’s features moved progressively towards amazement and semi-feigned fear. “Huge companies like Ikea are starting to introduce bans, McDonald’s and others are phasing out straws, one country in Africa has even made it illegal to use plastic bags. These represent huge shifts in attitude.”
“Wow!” exclaimed Jen. “Thanks for correcting me, although I do really believe there is still a lot of progress to be made. Plastic bottles are being produced at an horrendous rate and there is no sign of a decrease.” She sounded as if she was reading from a script, but I decided my version of levity was not called for in the middle of a debate on a topic which both parties were, quite rightly, taking seriously. I hadn’t been aware of Jen’s interest in, or knowledge of environmental matters either, so the development of this conversation was not one I would have predicted, forcing me to listen far more attentively than might otherwise have been the case.
“True, otherwise my song would be out of date!” Jimez stated this with an almost triumphant tone as though he had won an argument with Jen for the first time. “Awareness of the issue is there; the scale of the problem and what we can do about it, maybe isn’t.”
I was used to slipping Jimez an edible or drinkable treat by way of consolation after listening to one of the conversations in which he partook; on this occasion, I was thinking more of something to calm him down, but actually, it was really good to see him not being cowed by even friendly remonstration.
“I joined Greenpeace as a supporter the other day,” he went on, ignoring the surprised splutter as Jen sipped her coffee at the wrong moment. “They have some really easy-to-follow advice which everyone can take, you know, such as reusing water bottles or buying a reusable coffee cup. Mind you, they also suggested having your milk delivered in glass bottles to be returned, washed and reused, but I don’t think I’ve seen a milkman in years!”
“Maybe you just get up too late,” I suggested, although, to be honest, I can’t remember when I last saw a milk float either. They were such a feature of my childhood as well; I can recall lying in my upstairs bedroom, hearing the clinking of milk bottles on the front doorstep. I suddenly started feeling nostalgic. And I don’t think I was alone, as Jen had a pretty vacant look on her face as well, although her repertoire of expressions had been overworked in the last few minutes and maybe her facial muscles were in need of a rest.
“Not one of the benefits of so-called progress, for sure,” Jen finally said. “You don’t have plastic straws here, do you, Chaelli?” she asked with a slightly sharp, accusatory tone.
“I don’t really stock anything you can use a straw with!” I retorted. “And all my bottled water is in returnable and reusable glass, before you ask.” I considered for a moment before adding, with a sense of guilt, “I do buy milk in plastic packs, though. Perhaps I should google ‘milkman’.”
“Every little helps,” said Jimez, with still no sign of his usual reticence, but managing instead to somehow sound like a popular supermarket advertisement. “No harm in having two coffees in one afternoon, is there?” he continued cheerily. “Another cappuccino and, why not, another slice of Eszterházy, please, Chaelli.”
A wine-free Jimez with a firmly held opinion and confidence? Clearly his ‘few days off’ whatever had done him some good. This may take some getting used to.
My visual evidence for rubbish on the beaches of Beirut is minimal in quantity and picturesqueness (I love long words), so rather than show incongruous lines of plastic bottles et al, I’d prefer to post an image of the beautiful Raouche Rocks just around the corner. After all, I don’t want to spoil your appetite for Lebanon, nor for your dinner!
2018: 40: Cape Town: Resolution
Cape Town was unusually packed. Apart from Mike, John and James being propped up by one side of the bar, Matthew, Mark and Lois were warming themselves up with hot chocolate at the other end, having realised even street heaters didn’t make Granada palatable during late autumnal cold snaps. Jimez was looking for inspiration and some decisiveness in a place other than Budapest and had dragged Jen along with him, although the lure of the Beigli (Hungarian Christmas cakes), of which I had three, one filled with poppy seeds, one with walnuts and one with chestnuts, and the Kürtőkalács (aka Hungarian chimney cake), all of which I had on the Cape Town bar, had unquestionably made her very willing to follow. Micky, Jo and Misha had come to see why the room was so noisy, while John-Jeffrey had clearly been feeling lonely, to say nothing of drink-free, on a sofa in Hebden Bridge. So many different regulars in the one place at the one time put quite a lot of pressure on my serving capabilities, to say nothing of my selective hearing, but it made for a cordial and convivial festive atmosphere, no doubt helped along by my very small, artificial Christmas tree with its very untrendy non-blinking lights. All this despite it only being the end of November; it was yet another of my non-too-commercial marketing activities to close my establishment for the entirety of December and January.
Don’t ask.
“Anyone got any New Year resolutions?” There had been so much babble, I couldn’t state with any certainty who said this.
“It’s a bit soon for that, isn’t it?” was a predictable reaction, but nonetheless, the room was soon filled with quiet contemplation and, I suspect, a fair degree of alcohol appreciation, or, in some cases, the savouring of chocolate and caffeine.
I suppose one has to define the difference between a resolution and a wish, the former usually involving a substantial amount of investment and commitment on the part of the resolution-maker, which is why so many fail so quickly, and the latter largely out of one’s control, which is why so many fail eventually. I found myself unable to come up with any of the former, as I had long since given up thoughts of abandoning alcohol, exercising more or losing weight. My only wish for myself was still to be here this time next year and that was very clearly in the lap of the gods and several other factors.
I found myself, instead, making wishes on behalf of some of my regulars. I hoped that Jimez actually manages to complete some kind of ‘work of art’, even if it is only a chapter of a novel, but preferably a little more than an anti-pollution verse. I hoped Matthew, Mark and Lois continue to travel and return with either new stories or old ones their memories somehow manage to recall. Although I wish Jen well on her diet, self-interest dictated a hope that she doesn’t give up on Hungarian cakes. Despite some reservations, I sincerely hoped that John-Jeffrey’s surrogacy scheme produces the desired offspring. I hoped Misha manages to make his mind up about something or someone. And I really hoped Micky comes face-to-face with a girl he can talk to in real life as well as he can online.
Mike, not surprisingly, came up with a set of different wishes. This was inevitable, mainly because, to the best of my knowledge, despite some common professional interests, he didn’t know many or any of the people on my list, but also because his mind worked on a far broader scale than mine. Fortunately, Manchester United winning the Champions League was not on his inventory, as this seemed even less likely in the immediate future than some of the things which did make it into his dreamland. It would be unfair in the extreme to label Mike a fair-weather supporter, but the forefronting of his beloved team in conversations of late had been lacking since he had accepted by the middle of November that the only way he would be watching Champions League football next season would be by winning this season’s renewal – and even Mike considered this to be rather far-fetched.
He began with what could have been construed as (and probably was) a pre-scripted, Obama-esque, attention-grabbing speech, rather than amiable attempts to wish friends and acquaintances all the best for a new 365-day period. A surfeit of alcohol no doubt helped. “At the end of this year, I feel distraught, angry and fearful, with a sense of hopelessness and, sadly, more hatred than I can ever remember feeling. Although I am a lifelong centre-moderate supporter of the Conservatives, I’m going to steal the words of John Lennon” – so he did – “knowing I am far from being the only dreamer, and enumerate some of my wishes for the world in the forthcoming twelve months.” The silence which had briefly pervaded the room was interrupted firstly by some semi-embarrassed giggles and then by mumbled comments which I couldn’t hear but probably went something along the lines of, ‘Is he for real?’. James and John, being well used to Mike, knew full well that he most certainly was for real and that an end-of-year rant was in the pipeline.
“Number one,” began Mike, indicating quite clearly that a list was indeed to follow, and probably not a very short one. “I sincerely wish that Brexit is peacefully consigned to the deepest part of the rubbish bin it should never have been allowed out of.”
“Hear, hear!” said considerably more than one person.
“It isn’t over until it’s over!” chimed in a high-pitched voice from the nether regions of the room.
“I haven’t got any children,” said Mike, “but if I did, and who knows, one day I might, I would want them to know that I did everything possible to prevent this happening.”
“Within the limits of the law, of course,” James added, for the benefit of those who didn’t know Mike too well and could have misinterpreted ‘everything possible’.
“Obviously,” confirmed the wish-maker.
“Well, it’s good to see Arron Banks is being officially investigated at long last!” said John, clearly seeing this as a step in the right direction.
“One has to ask whether Banks’ money came from Russia,” mused Matthew, quite happy to intervene in what could easily have become the Mike show with James and John as the support acts. “It’s been long rumoured.”
“Exactly!” agreed Mike. “And we all know Russia wants the UK and the EU separated for their own benefit. Nothing to do with what’s good for us.”
“I know Banks has to be treated as innocent until proven guilty,” John said, “but really, just how likely is that?”
“Hopefully we’ll find out for sure and it won’t be shovelled under the carpet Brett Kavanaugh-style until it’s too late.” Mike was on a roll, ignoring some of the confused glances going around the room by those not familiar with his, at times, mountain-goat-like mind. “But if there is any truth in this at all, and I’m sure there is, it’s final proof, if further proof were actually needed, that the Leave campaign not only lied but also cheated their way to victory.”
“I believe Arron Banks and his sidekick applied to join the Tories earlier this year,” Mark contributed.
“I heard that, too,” said Mike. “Just what we need – a neo-fascist joining the party, determined to get another neo-neo-fascist to replace Theresa May as prime minister and force through a bleeding hard Brexit. Fortunately, in this case at least, the Tories displayed enough common sense to reject the bastard.”
“Thank goodness that didn’t work out!” John said it, but almost everyone, if not everyone, felt it.
“As I’ve said, time and again,” Mike continued, raising a smile on the lips of James and John with the phrase ‘time and again’, “the main beneficiaries of the UK and the EU not being together would be Trump and Putin, so just why are we even thinking of letting it happen?” The question required some thought because the ‘why’ seemed unfathomable. “Well, we’re not going to just let it happen!” The last sentence was delivered at a few decibels’ higher volume and caused some of those present who had already imbibed a little too much to wobble.
Mike was in full flow and intervention seemed, for a few moments at least, to be bordering on futile. “For the UK and the EU, it’s a case of ‘united we stand, divided we fall’! If ever there was a case of stronger together and weaker apart, this is it, and it’s time everyone realised, not just the Remain supporters. Why aren’t the politicians of all parties waking up to just how serious this is?” James and John, if no one else, knew this was yet another question where no answer was expected. Mike rolled on. “And yet despite all the evidence, Theresa May buries her head so deep in the sand, even an ostrich would have trouble extricating itself, and carries on regardless, saying like a complete idiot that democracy must be heard when it’s obvious democracy was cheated!” The sighs around the room were possibly audible to passers-by. “I mean, why be so focused on and so obsessed with the will of the people in 2016 and ignore the will of the people in 2018 when it has so demonstrably shifted? And now, now, she is trying to prevent people from seeing the legal advice behind her policy decisions! Fishy or what?”
“And despite calling your glorious leader an idiot,” James said, with a half-smile, “I presume you still consider yourself a Tory?” One or two eyebrows in the room were raised in surprise, particularly by those who had not been fully tuned in when Mike began his oration.
“Essentially, yes, but…” said Mike, thoughtfully and with some unexpected hesitation, “well, I can’t see myself voting for them next time around, unless things change, and that will be a lifetime first. My abstention will speak volumes for the shame and disgust I feel towards the European Reform Group, and the disgrace the Brexit process has brought upon the party.” One or two smiles and glances were exchanged at the content and dramatic delivery of this proclamation. “You can’t honestly cast your vote for someone who seems to be intent on damaging the short-term and long-term interests of the country on the basis of an out-of-date and clearly fraudulent vote, can you?”
Those not used to Mike may have interpreted his frequent end-of-segment questions as invitations to take a turn and contribute to the ‘debate’. How wrong could they be?
