The cafe with five faces, p.30
The Café with Five Faces, page 30
I was beginning to wish Mark would call a halt to his voyage of self-discovery as it was in danger of becoming a veritable hippo-like wallow in self-pity.
“I sometimes long for the days when I was verbally abused as a ‘tall white man with no hair’,” he continued, referring to a story of yesteryear from his brief time in the Philippines. “At least that was in good fun, or so I thought at the time.” The dejection was self-propelled and gathering steam, and I just wasn’t equipped to deal with it. There again, few untrained ears are. “And then a few years later, and that’s over ten years ago, I was in the loo in a bar or a club of some kind in the centre of Hanoi, and a couple of lads were overheard by my friends referring to me as ‘some old guy’ who was occupying the bathroom, presumably when a young person’s alcohol-fuelled need was greater.” Depression was mixing with anger, a dangerous cocktail at any time of day. “And when I was in Ireland the other week, just walking down the street, I felt like I was being abused merely for being an irrelevance in someone’s line of sight.”
“Just tell ’em to eff off,” I said, thinking that being verbally abused a mere three times in twenty years was something to celebrate rather than get morose over. My advice was hardly well-considered and no one in their right mind would pay a penny for it, but I didn’t want to use the ‘p’ word. Some people don’t take kindly to being termed paranoid, whatever the justification or likelihood of it being closer to the truth than they wanted to believe. I decided to change the subject. “So where exactly is Matthew?”
Mark’s plight was certainly not being helped by the fact that Matthew wasn’t there to keep him upbeat and perky, and I suddenly wondered if mention of him might not have been the best idea. There was, however, a slight upward curl visible on the mouth of my patient. “No idea, if you want an exact location. He’s away on a self-inflicted trip taking in nineteen flights in thirty days. I wouldn’t mention the term ‘carbon footprint’ when you next see him. And absolutely never mention air miles! He’s like me – travels all over and never earns so much as an upgrade, let alone a freebie.”
I wasn’t sure if this was a joke or another source of discontent. My mind half-joked with itself about getting the number for the Samaritans on his behalf, and then I saw the look in what I could see of his downcast eyes. This was ‘happy-go-lucky’ Mark, but just who knows what goes on underneath the surface of anyone? He always seemed so easy-going, but a constantly cheerful bunny, he most certainly was not. Mind you, who is?
“Just never tell Matthew or Lois what I’ve been rambling on about,” he implored. “This is something I’d rather keep to myself.”
“Unfortunately, mate, bottling it all up is not really the most helpful thing you can do,” I replied, wondering why I didn’t count as a person with whom he had shared, but consoling myself with the thought that this piece of advice was at last something worth the breath used to impart it.
Regrettably, it didn’t prevent the ever-decreasing circle of despair, although at least the victim changed to a broader object. “And just look at the mess we’re in as a country. What on earth does it take for thirty-four per cent of the electorate to actually want to vote for that pillock Farage? I mean, what is wrong with people? It makes me want to emigrate, but if Brexit goes through, I’ll probably be forced to come back and live in some fascist shithole.”
I really wanted to tell him there were enough sensible people left in the UK to prevent it from ever becoming either fascist or a shithole, let alone both, but I wasn’t a hundred per cent convinced.
“Look at the three most likely future prime ministers at the present time,” the depressed one continued. “Farage, Johnson and Corbyn. Makes you want to look for the nearest bus to throw yourself under.”
In the circumstances and context of the current conversation, this comment did not seem wise. Having given it a second thought, I realised that a genuine prospect of any one of the aforementioned trio of incompetents occupying Downing Street would be sufficient to drive the average liberal-minded and principled human into a severe bout of alcoholism at the very least, and in the case of Farage, contemplation of the local express bus timetable would begin to look like an attractive option.
I decided that giving voice to my true thoughts was inadvisable. “Suicide by means of a bus is not a good option, mate.”
“Beats hiding in one to avoid being milkshaked.” My initial reaction was to laugh, but I quickly realised Mark’s comment was a sad reflection on the pathetic nature of Farage and his ilk, the like of which the majority never want to see anywhere near the seats of power.
I had exhausted my repertoire of advice, good and questionable. I was also aware I may have other customers in need of the type of service I was more capable of rendering, such as the provision of decent coffee and tea. Maybe someone else was available to talk to Mark and cheer him up, I hoped. I left Beirut in search of help. And found Anna.
“Oh shit!” I said, rather too audibly.
Anna looked a little hurt, as one would when being mildly sworn at without due cause, and I couldn’t really explain the honest reason for my outburst. She was an infrequent customer, but I stand by my description of her as an overly sincere lady who termed herself a good listener but rarely offered oral product of the useful kind. Experience suggested Mark might spiral out of control if forced to spend more than ten minutes in the company of one who might cruelly be described as a damp blanket capable of eliciting despondency where none was known to exist. She would certainly have empathy with Mark, given her own history of issues, but the two of them alone together in a room the size of Beirut with no positivity to feed off did not bode well.
I came to the conclusion alcohol might be the best short-term solution and, regrettably at my own expense, took a bottle of Lebanese red into Beirut with two glasses and the hope that someone else was serving my other patrons. If, indeed, there were any left…
Mark’s club of age-discriminatory gloom was somewhere near where this picture was taken, this being a lively Friday night in the bia hσi bars of central Hanoi. Bia hσi is a fresh and low alcohol beer, great for evenings out when you’re in the mood to drink a lot without getting anything more than tipsy!
2019: 50: Budapest: The Silesian Toilet Episode
“My first time was in a Polish toilet, 13th January 1995.”
“I’m sure you’re not alone,” Jen replied, her attention inevitably distracted by the arrival of a tray of goodies borne by my good self. I, for my part, was close to dropping said tray, as I had more than a little difficulty, as men often do, in carrying out two tasks at the same time: task one, namely bearing a salver of the non-silver variety with two drinks and two slices of finest Hungarian baking produce, and task two, trying to interpret the two-line dialogue I had just overheard.
Jen was only interested in assisting me with task one and seemed totally unconcerned by her friend’s behaviour in an Eastern European lavatory some twenty-four years earlier.
“That looks as good as ever,” she said, removing the cake and, after a momentary pause, whilst trying to weigh the two plates, handing one slice to Jimez and keeping the slightly larger one for herself.
“Your Chemex, madam,” I said politely. “And your milk,” I added with the usual begrudging tone which accompanied the glass jug. “And your cappuccino, sir.”
“Why are you being so formal?” queried Jen through a large mouthful of Eszterházy. The plate had barely had time to touch the table.
“Absolutely no reason,” I lied, and turned to leave. I gave up any pretence. “OK, what exactly were you talking about when I came in?”
Jen snorted, not a particularly pleasant sound, nor sight, when accompanied by a slice of Eszterházy, and gave me a knowing look. “You’re really scared of missing a smidgeon of gossip, aren’t you?” she teased, rather cruelly, I felt. She continued with her cake, not dawdling quite as much as she could, but clearly waiting to see how long it would take for my bubble of curiosity to burst. I merely watched, looking calm and collected on the outside while feeling like a lemon on the inside. “Oh, go on, then,” she finally conceded. “We were discussing love at first sight. Personally, I have no time for it,” she went on, by which I assumed the experience had never presented itself, “but it seems there is an exception in the room.”
Jimez had kept quiet to this point, as though he didn’t really want to discuss the happenings of a bygone era in a Polish washroom, but two sets of inquisitive eyes – once Jen had emptied her plate, obviously – didn’t allow him much room for manoeuvre. And, when all was said and done, he had actually raised the subject himself and, having piqued our curiosity, telling all was now his responsibility.
“There really isn’t much to tell,” he whispered with a squirm of embarrassment. “It was in a theatre bar in small town Silesia, the only bar in the city which opened after 10pm. There was one shared facility with a toilet and a small outer room with a washbasin. Well, after my third beer, I, you know, wanted to, erm, you know, so I went to the loo, only to find it occupied. After standing there in the outer room for a couple of minutes with legs tightly crossed, the loo door opened and there stood this blonde Polish goddess of a woman.”
There was a pause. “Is that it?” asked Jen, her voice laced with disappointment.
“Well, I was so desperate that once I picked my jaw up off the floor, I just went in and relieved myself ASAP,” Jimez finished tamely and a little defensively.
“Never to see her again.”
“Oh no, no, I saw her again an hour or so later, after three more beers when feeling, you know, a bit braver.”
“Sounds like a recipe for disaster,” muttered Jen.
Jimez didn’t exactly deny the possibility. “We did go out, sort of, for a while, but it was rather doomed from the outset, granted.” He sipped his cappuccino thoughtfully. “One of those things; I was besotted and she wasn’t.”
“Such is life,” Jen noted unsympathetically.
“Was there any particular prompt for this discussion, dare I ask?” I’d already dared.
“He’s writing a chapter,” Jen explained.
“Of which book, or is it a new book?” I asked, rather fearing the answer.
“It’s just a chapter,” Jen sighed. “A stand-alone chapter.” I was a little unsure if this collocation made any sense whatsoever.
Common sense would have led me to leave the room at this point. However, common sense is something I do not have in great abundance. “I thought you were writing a book about breaking up, not falling in love.”
“I was,” replied the writer. “I am, but let’s face it, you have to fall in love before you can break up.” There was, almost scarily, a touch of logic in this statement, although the less romantic side of me wanted to suggest that lots of couples break up without ever coming close to falling in love. My mind had been read. “I just want to look at the two extremes; really falling for someone and then having one’s dreams truly shattered.” Clearly he was only interested in the highs and lows; what came in between was apparently of little significance, even though it is the latter which dominates most relationships in reality. Jimez’s grip on reality had been questioned before, as much by himself as anyone else.
“Anything to show us yet?” asked Jen, maintaining the conversation when silence might have been the wisest course of action. Or non-action, in this case. We both had the experience of being left bereft of comment when seeing what the pen had actually put on the page.
Jimez reached down for his Sainsbury’s Bag for Life, although it was now one of the Tesco variety, suggesting he might have outlived the former. There was some bated breath while we waited for a wad of completed work to appear; instead, there was one sheet of crumpled A4. “I haven’t got very far.” The mumble was so mumbled, I was guessing a little as to its content, but prior knowledge enabled me to piece the utterance together.
Jen smoothed the page out on the polished marble table-top. There was no doubt Jimez had done it again. Or not done it, depending on whether we’re talking about his audience being left speechless or him producing a full chapter.
This chapter is dedicated to all the girls I’ve loved before who have never got me in quite the same way as I have got them.
I felt eloquence was lacking somewhat but decided silence would suffice.
“I’ve got loads of ideas,” the would-be bohemian defended himself before an attack had even been launched, “and they’re all based on real life. The six girls I’ve completely fallen for bigtime and…”
“And what?” Jen demanded impatiently, after a pause so brief it barely allowed for a breath to be drawn.
“Nothing ever happened,” Jimez finished lamely. “That’s one of the things I want to write about, not just falling in love and breaking up, but why people in general, or I specifically, fall for people they shouldn’t.”
“‘Ever fallen in love da blah-blah da blah-blah da blah-blah da da da’,” I ‘sang’, somewhat vaguely to the tune of one of those classics frequently in contention for my top ten of all time.
“Exactly,” responded Jimez, with something one might almost have defined as enthusiasm. “Sometimes, it was just bad timing; you know, she wasn’t free or, rather more rarely, I wasn’t free. Sometimes, it was distance; none of them lived in the same country as me.”
“You love making life easy for yourself, don’t you?” Jen’s comment came across as half-hearted; she was surveying her empty plate, presumably with thoughts of a second slice uppermost in her mind.
“Where’s the fun in that?” I wasn’t sure if Jimez really meant this or it was merely a sad reflection on his catalogue of failure. “I only really notice love when it’s gone, anyway. I mean, the toilet episode was probably infatuation rather than anything else; I only ever realise that I feel something like real love, whatever that is, when it’s too late. I’d love to write a song called ‘I wanna know what love is’, but it’s already been done.” He had a rather unfortunate habit of having good ideas after other people had had them and, unlike his own regular habit, actually done something about them.
“Love means different things to different people,” Jen remarked, almost deeply.
“Tell me about it,” said Jimez with more feeling than I’d heard so far that day. “I know a teacher who uses ‘Love you’ with her adult students as a form of praise rather than something like, ‘Well done’. I have a friend who’s told me more than once that she loves me, even though she has a boyfriend whom she does actually love. And then there are the likes of me, for whom uttering those three little words is a virtual impossibility.” He sighed in despair. “One woman’s throwaway comment is another man’s sincerity nightmare.”
“You’re certainly not alone there.” Jen and I threw away almost the same comment at the same time and exchanged looks of surprise before chuckling to cover any trace of honesty which might have accompanied the shared viewpoint.
Jimmy and Nawel chose that moment to wander in, which was probably a case of good timing, given the slightly awkward turn the conversation had been taking. The immediate impression, not for the first time (but for the second, as we had only met once before), was that Nawel was obviously far too young and far too pretty for Jimmy and, although this remained conjecture, I also suspected far too intelligent. Time would tell, but thirty years apart and a religion apart was an unlikely scenario for a bed of roses. Jimmy, however, had this smug aura, which many, if not most, would find annoying. One could easily imagine the queue of detractors waiting to say ‘I told you so’ when it all fell apart. Nevertheless, it was heartening to see two people living for the present, rather than dwelling on the past, Jimez-style, or panicking about the future.
Jen had hit it off with Nawel on their first meeting and was quick to engage with her again, losing no time in suggesting she try some of my cakes. Jimmy ordered a repeat of the El Salvadorian AeroPress and Algerian mint tea. I left the room, curious to know if Jimmy and Jimez would find each other in my absence, or whether the nerves of the latter would prevent or curtail fluent interaction (or even mere pleasantries). Jimez had clearly been a little starstruck when finding out Jimmy was a television producer and presenter, although I don’t think he had realised what a part-time activity this was. I didn’t know if it was cruel, kind or cruel to be kind to let Jimez know that Jimmy’s entire ‘success’ was limited to a handful of YouTube videos, and you could find his entire back catalogue on my rather empty YouTube channel. For the time being, I decided not to disillusion him, hoping, in part, he may be inspired into some creative activity of his own, something which went beyond dedication to a stand-alone chapter.
Some five minutes passed while I made the AeroPress with the loving care and attention it merited. It’s largely a silent method of making coffee, so I was able to hear the verbal noise emanating from Budapest. All of it had female tones. Clearly Jimez and Jimmy were not bonding. Mind you, Jen’s voice is capable of drowning out a passing Boeing, so perhaps I shouldn’t have jumped to such a hasty conclusion.
