The cafe with five faces, p.34
The Café with Five Faces, page 34
I can’t say I was expecting such strong opinions on such a matter from two childless middle-aged souls. Perhaps it was because they had no offspring to worry about, however, which made them so carefree in their attitudes towards the younger generation. I was making the conceivably rash assumption that Jen had no driving ambition to climb a tree herself.
“Mind you,” Jen continued after a few moments of what might have been interpreted as careful consideration, “at least keeping them out of the trees is probably of benefit to the trees themselves.” I had wondered how long it would take before the environmentalist within reared its concerned head.
Jimez had gone quiet and appeared to have developed a sudden fixation with Jen’s nose. The object of his unwanted attention became aware of this curious display of interest and returned his gaze with a perturbed expression, featuring a questioning eyebrow. “Can I help you?” she asked.
“I was just thinking…”
“Do you have to?”
“It happens from time to time,” confessed the thinker. “Has that thing in your nose ever had an effect on others’ impressions of you?”
“By ‘thing’,” Jen retorted, in tones indicative of feigned displeasure, “I assume you are referring to the only bit of jewellery I wear?”
“Where I were a lad,” Jimez said, sounding like the Oldhamer he was, “such things were considered rather unseemly.”
“When you were a lad, I reckon that applied to a lass going out on her own on a Friday night,” countered Jen, although I suspected her example wasn’t as cutting as she might have wished.
“Have you got any tattoos?” Jimez was being unusually direct.
“Just the one.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere you’ll never see.”
Jimez decided not to despair at this putdown to any lingering romantic aspirations he held in Jen’s direction. He clearly had another argument on his mind. “But I used to find piercings, other than earrings, and tattoos really…” He tailed off, perhaps aware he was on the verge of causing offence to his would-be nearest and dearest.
“Please, do continue,” teased Jen, who could detect an awkwardness which was there to be exploited.
Jimez seemed happy, if not desperate to retreat into his shell, but he had poked his head out too far to go back without loss of credibility. “Well,” he squirmed, as if my Biedermeier chair had developed an ant infestation, “I know some people who, for example, wouldn’t employ someone with a visible tattoo or piercing.” I quite admired his ability to turn a potentially dangerous first-person argument into one of the depersonalised third.
“More fool them,” commented she of the nose ring, trying to hide her smile at the sigh of relief emanating from the other side of the marble-topped table. Jimez clearly thought he had escaped retribution for his indiscretion. “But, actually, you do have a point. Back in the nineties, I was told to take it out at work; now, no one bats an eyelid. As for tattoos, I think it depends on your job. Rock stars and footballers can be covered from head to toe in them and everyone in a certain age range thinks ‘fashionable’. See them on a cashier in the bank and even now, some people won’t like it. And I suppose that could affect their employability, however discriminatory it may seem.” She sipped her cappuccino, looking at it in mild surprise as though it wasn’t her usual afternoon beverage of choice. Which it indeed was not.
“I have to admit…” Jimez took advantage of the interlude and seemed to have a renewed outburst of bravado. “I don’t mind seeing them on other people at all, but I’ve never wanted to kiss a woman with a tongue stud, and I’d hate to get into bed with someone and find their body covered in assorted paint and metal.”
“I doubt they’d be interested in you either, love,” retorted Jen, ‘love’ being used in its northern English way, usually bereft of genuine affection. “Each to their own, as we say. There’s someone for everyone somewhere.” She winked at me, rather mischievously. “Well, nearly everyone.”
Jimez opened his mouth as if to demand elaboration but clearly thought better of it. He looked into his own cappuccino in the vain hope of finding an answer to the woes of life and love, and then looked up again to find himself dwarfed by the arrival of a tall stranger in a Colombian cowboy hat. I assumed it was Colombian, as I have an identical one, which I wear when I visit Colombia. It was a pretty safe supposition, as I had met this guy once before, on which occasion we had discovered a highly unlikely shared liking for a small café by the name of Sybarita in the quaint town of Villa de Leyva, around a half-day’s bus ride north-east of Bogotá.
The new arrival shook my hand with a very firm grip and a smile, the latter of which caused him to lose the cocktail stick he had been remorselessly chewing on. If you think of Bradley Cooper’s character in A Star is Born and then double some aspects of it, you might begin to get an inkling. I think ‘faded hard rocker’ would be a useful term with which to move on to a deeper level of appreciation of our latest acquaintance. On our initial meeting, a mosquito of a particularly annoying and persistent nature had temporarily forced him to remove his headgear, which was apparently there to hide a considerable lack of hair. The hair which could be seen by one and all was long, as in a quarter of the way down his back, dark to the point of being black, except where touches of grey had dared to infiltrate, and with the still-noticeable remnants of burgundy highlights which occasionally caught the light and attracted a second glance, perhaps more out of bemusement than admiration. He also sported a neckerchief, surprisingly in the place where you would expect one to be worn, in a vain attempt to look cool, presumably whilst hiding his turkey neck.
There was no doubt he had turned up in the right room. I can’t remember why he had opened up to me so much, but he certainly seemed to have had more than a fair share of tears for what might have been. Having said that, some post-interaction Internet research suggested he was more of a ‘never-was’ than a ‘has-been’. My café, or at least this corner of it, at times seems unfairly laden with characters, myself included, who fall into one of these two forlorn categories.
Seeing I was not alone, he turned to Jen and Jimez, who had been conspicuous by their silence since the newcomer had arrived. “How are you doing?” he asked in a deep, gravelly voice, offering his hand to both. “I’m The Presence.”
“What did I do?” Jimez mumbled to Jen. “What have I done to deserve a present? And if I am getting a present, why does it have to come in the form of a man with a voice like a quarry?”
In the confines of a room the size of Budapest, even a whisper is heard by all but the stone deaf. The Presence had apparently not been rendered hard of hearing by years of aural punishment and seemed a touch embarrassed by the question he had probably not been intended to hear. “If you’ll excuse me while I use your restroom a moment,” he said in an Americanesque drawl. “And could I have a bourbon on the rocks?”
Allowing a pause of around two seconds for him to, hopefully, walk out of earshot, Jen asked the obvious. “Where’s he from?”
“Bradford.” I went to see if I had anything which could be even loosely described as bourbon. I knew the rocks would be no problem.
Upon my return, the room was to be found in an uneasy state of silence. The Presence had decided not to encroach upon the hospitality of the curious strangers and had seated himself at the other table, sucking on a newly installed cocktail stick and shutting himself off from reality by pulling the brim of his hat low down over his eyes. Not low enough to expose any lack of hair at the rear, however. My two regulars were, well, curious, but as the jaw of the rocker was relentlessly working on splintering the wood in his mouth, it was safe to assume he would also be capable of hearing any gossip in the close vicinity.
“Your drink, sir,” I said over-politely, placing the glass rather loudly on the polished marble. I was left to surmise the ensuing grunt was a gesture of thanks.
Jimez clearly decided there was little point in trying to develop a conversation with or about The Presence and so reverted to the random prattle which had been interrupted by his entrance. “Were you ever bullied?” he asked of anyone who was listening. I marvelled at how seamlessly he had moved through the seemingly unrelated topics of conkers, piercings, tattoos and bullying. Being of a mathematical-logical disposition, I mentally busied myself for five seconds, endeavouring to establish a link. Having failed, I looked enquiringly at Jen, hoping she might have some kind of response. She, in turn, was looking at her coffee cup, hoping there would still be some cappuccino left to imbibe as a pleasant form of diversion.
Jimez, however, didn’t seem to care if anyone answered or not, as he had his own story to impart. “I was,” he began, as though happily having a conversation with the inner self. “It was nothing serious, really, but I remember it being a bit of a surprise. I was always one of the oldest and tallest in whatever class I was in, although I suppose I was rather wimpish.” He looked at us, as though fishing for the non-existing compliment that we couldn’t imagine him being anything of the sort. Having accepted that such reassurance would not be forthcoming in the foreseeable, he proceeded regardless, if only to distract himself from the elephant in the room who was now snoozing on the adjacent table. I had no idea when his drink had been drunk, but drunk it most certainly had been.
“I think it was in the third or fourth year,” resumed the narrator. “I was standing at the back of the school hall, minding my own business, when I suddenly got pushed by two kids from the same year, one being a supposedly innocuous bean with a double-barrelled surname from my own form. I seem to remember asking if anything was wrong, concerned, perhaps, that they were suffering from blurred vision, but then they started poking fun at me and pushing me around some more.”
“The beginnings of nastiness,” declared Jen. “What did you do?”
“Remember, this was a long, long time ago,” said Jimez profoundly. “I’m not even sure bullying was an issue in those days. I just looked at them with a degree of sympathy and wandered off. They must have been really disappointed by my reaction as they decided never to bother me again.”
“Ah, the good ol’ days,” sighed Jen in the manner of a geriatric, “when such poison was relatively insignificant. If only it was so minor nowadays.” A considerable amount of head-shaking ensued, spreading from Jen to Jimez to me like an infectious ailment. We glanced over at The Presence, but he appeared immune.
“These days, it’s everywhere,” Jimez mused. “Now everyone over the age of four has a smartphone, it’s so easy to abuse anyone, anywhere, anytime, and get away with it, without anyone knowing the distress being caused.”
“And the victim just bottles it up because it all seems too silly and pointless to make a fuss about,” Jen continued. “Until ‘it all’ suddenly becomes too much and then people look to… well, not good outcomes.” The end of the sentence wasn’t really necessary.
A sombre and reflective mood took over the room as Jimez and Jen somewhat noisily drained the foam from their already-empty cups. I really was at a loss to explain why they hadn’t ordered something else. They both looked on the verge of dozing off when a loud snore from The Presence, whose presence hadn’t actually contributed much to the afternoon’s musings, brought everybody back to the real world with a cup-dropping jolt.
“Good job that was empty!” Jen restored the cup to its saucer and looked at her empty plate. “Same again, methinks.” I waited for the inevitable. “But make it a Chemex this time. With…”
“I know! Milk!” The woman will never learn.
Going to the source – picking coffee near the town of Andes, Colombia. And the hat is the same as that worn by The Presence.
2019: 55 Cape Town: The Kipper and the Boris
“Sir Kim Darroch!” The toast rang out loud and clear around Cape Town and the echoes in support of the betrayed former UK ambassador to the USA resounded from every room in my café. “A man who tells the truth!” More table-banging in appreciation could be heard, some so loud I made a mental note to inspect my furniture for damage exceeding regular wear and tear, come the close of business.
“It’s so ironic!” James said with a level of passion his wife would probably appreciate from time to time (but don’t ask me how I know that). “He tells the truth and then gets ridiculed as stupid by the most stupid president of any country the world has ever seen!”
“Imagine being termed a pompous fool by the biggest fool in world politics!” John added with a groan which exceeded the usual decibel count associated with cries of despair.
“And then,” Mike said, having recovered from the slight choking fit induced by overabundant quaffing to his own toast, “to quote a supposedly fellow Conservative MP, the ambassador was summarily ‘thrown under the bus’ by the future British prime minister, a man so in The Trump’s pocket, he daren’t support a British civil servant who is actually doing his job with the honesty, integrity and ability required of it!”
The collective fumes of the three men had the potential to light a fire from a pile of damp driftwood at dusk.
Mike had, by no stretch of the imagination, finished. This would have been so completely out of character as to demand a public inquiry. “And the two-faced American twat, merely one month after being treated in a totally undeserved way by the British establishment, slags off the UK and its government for not doing exactly what he, the great modern dictator, says.” The revulsion and hatred incited by the mere mention of an American president ought, one thinks, to be shocking to Americans everywhere, but somehow seems not to be.
“And, if we have to talk Trumpton,” chipped in James, clearly finding the topic distasteful, “what about his developing policy of repatriation? Sending American congresswomen home because, as they are neither Republican nor white, they’re obviously anti-American?”
“Even Nancy Pelosi, Speaker of the House, who isn’t the greatest fan of the four victims of the president’s abuse, called it evidence of the Trump’s underlying policy to ‘make America white again’.” John’s intonation was flat with anger.
Mike, having bided his time while lubricating his vocal cords with a fine South African craft beer, indicated his wish to take a new turn with a deep intake of breath, indicative of quite a long speech in the making. “Quoting the Trump, as close I can recall, he declared it ‘so interesting to see “progressive” Democrat congresswomen, who originally came from countries whose governments are a complete and total catastrophe, the worst, most corrupt and inept anywhere in the world, if they even have a functioning government at all, blah, blah, blah’. I mean, three of them were born in America, so Trump’s use of the word ‘inept’ to describe their ‘home’ government seems to endorse Sir Kim Darroch’s view as being a hundred per cent accurate. I see his intended accusation as the closest he’s so far come to confessing to his own incompetence!” This well-worked argument prompted considerable approval from the assembled.
“I mean,” Mike went on, as though his arguments needed further explanation or elaboration, “his rallies are increasingly like the Hitler rallies of the 1930s with crazed people chanting ‘send her back’. And all his rhetoric is just encouraging racism and hatred throughout America and beyond, and no doubt endangering the lives of not only those he targets but many others besides.”
James decided to relocate the conversation to the other side of the pond. “Apparently, in the latest twist of our laughable special relationship, he is telling us how to trade with China,” he said with some derision. “And if we don’t behave, there’ll be no post-Brexit trade deal.”
“So much for ‘taking back control’,” mocked John, “if I may quote the Brexit-backing wankers’ flagship slogan in trying to sell us this crap.”
“And the one who will be leader is so effing ridiculous, he waves a pre-packed kipper around his head at a conference as an example of the EU control he so wants rid of, when what he was criticising was actually a British law!” James was not amused. “Ineptitude can be funny in a television sitcom, but it doesn’t belong in national government, especially in a supposedly advanced democracy.”
“And now look where we’re at!” Mike took over the baton, increasingly scarlet-faced with rage. “Two Brexit-loving candidates to be prime minister; one of them, Jeremy Hunt, says Brexit is worth companies closing and people losing their jobs and livelihoods over. Farridge, who may well become Johnson’s other puppeteer, besides the Trump, I mean, says it’s worth losing the United Kingdom for. And yet nobody, nobody, actually tells us what we are going to gain from it, nothing except utter mayhem! I mean, what is wrong with these people?”
“A new prime minister elected by virtually nobody,” commented James in despair. “My assessment of them: Jeremy Hunt, one out of ten; Boris Johnson, a big fat zero. Sums the latter up quite nicely, actually.”
“Is this any way to choose a new leader?” asked John, adopting Mike’s mantle for asking questions with such obvious answers, they were greeted with stony silence.
After a few seconds of a well-deserved drinking interlude, Mike decided to continue the one-sided debate. “Well, the Tory leadership contest is decreasingly about who can do the best job but rather who can inflict the most damage. As you said, James, it all belongs in a sitcom, seeing two grown-up five-year-olds vying for a job by out-promising each other about just how bad they will be for the country.”
“The cleverest thing you can say about Johnson,” interrupted John, “is that he surrounds himself with people who realise what a prize chump he is and therefore keep him out of the public eye until most people have cast their votes. And this is the man who is likely to be representing the UK at the highest level. How did this happen?”
