The cafe with five faces, p.45
The Café with Five Faces, page 45
“It’s certainly no good making promises about the NHS if it’s going to be sold out to the Americans, as several leaked documents have suggested,” James pointed out angrily.
“I’ve often wondered about leaks,” said John, more calmly and reflectively. “Sometimes, they just seem to happen as a matter of course, just like part of a pre-determined process; at other times, when you really want them to happen, such as to inform us how the Russians have interfered in British elections, strangely enough, for the benefit of the Tories, there are no leaks being sprung anywhere!”
“Very convenient, Mr Johnson,” said Mike in an accusatory manner. “More lies, cheating and cover-ups until it’s too late to do you any damage.” It suddenly sounded as though a pack of Rottweilers had sneaked into the room as the three beer drinkers growled in unison.
“I suppose,” Mike resumed, when canine noises had abated, “voting for the Lib Dems is always going to be risky, given the current electoral set up, which so blatantly encourages the two-party system. If people really believed they had a chance of winning, a lot more would vote for them, although I don’t think they did themselves any favours by announcing they would scrap Brexit on day one if elected – that would be as undemocratic as Johnson forcing it through, although clearly more beneficial. A system such as proportional representation might well mean we never have a majority government again, but at this stage in history, a hung parliament is what I emphatically believe we need and is the result I’m praying for. Then, we might finally get the Brexit referendum we deserve and a display of genuine democracy at work.”
“So, who are you going to vote for?” asked James.
It was crunch time at the Cape Town bar.
“I really don’t know,” responded Mike disconsolately. “In the past, it was always so easy – whichever candidate was standing under the Conservative banner. Now, I have to decide if a vote for the Lib Dems is valid or wasted. Whatever I do, it will be tactical; a small drop of protest in the ocean aimed at preventing a Johnson majority which would plunge this country into chaos and a level of disruption not seen since I don’t know when. The Second World War comes to mind.” I decided a slight exaggeration was permissible in the circumstances, although I was a little fearful just how much of an overstatement this, in fact, might not be.
“The really weird thing,” Mike continued, causing to me mentally enumerate just how many ‘really weird things’ there were concerning this election, “is the predicted result. I’ve got every level of qualification in British and European History up to degree level, and I have been a close follower of politics throughout my lifetime, and this, without doubt, is the worst prime minister and the worst cabinet we have ever had. And yet Johnson is predicted to win. How did that happen? What on earth does it say about the quality of the opposition when someone so obviously unfit for public office is odds-on to claim an outright majority?”
Another question with no rational answer.
A former diehard Tory, such as Mike, voting Labour seemed a step too far, in my view. However, to use a footballing analogy, it has been known for him to want deadly rivals Manchester City or Liverpool to win a game if it benefitted his beloved Manchester United’s position, so it was far from inconceivable that he might well welcome a Labour election victory if it helped to derail Brexit. There again, if the Monster Raving Loony Party were opposed to Brexit (and I really haven’t a clue on that score), I think he would accept them in Downing Street in preference to the rabid Johnson.
In case you’re wondering, my postal vote has already gone in, and I was as tactical as I could be. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and times have rarely been as desperate as these in peacetime Britain.
Is this sundown for the ‘Great’ in Great Britain? Here is a picture of a more pleasant sunset, but still with threatening clouds, from south of Beirut.
2019: 67: Budapest: Oral Rambling
The last time I had seen the fading muso who identified himself solely as The Presence, he had been snoozing his way through a debate on bullying between Jimez and Jen. The fact anyone could doze while Jen was contributing to an interaction, even on a topic as non-stimulating as that of drying paint, was something to marvel at, although I wouldn’t dare say that to her face. Several weeks later, I walked into Budapest intent on giving the tables their annual treat of a polish, only to find the head and shoulders of the self-styled rocker draped across one of the two said marble-topped items of furniture, with the slow and gravelly sounds of snoring emanating from the slumbering beast. It was almost as if the intervening period had never happened, except this time, the room was otherwise empty. In fact, the entire café was otherwise empty.
I polished the second table before, rather unkindly, spraying the cleaning solution on the carefully balanced Colombian cowboy hat and rubbing it gently. This had the desired effect, as The Presence returned to the present with a cough and a splutter.
“How long have I been here?” he muttered, just about audibly.
“No idea,” I replied. “Unless you’ve been locked in overnight, which would have been rather remiss of me, less than the hour it is since I opened up. Coffee? And don’t even dare to suggest something with alcohol.” I can be very firm with misbehaving punters, even before they actually stray off-piste.
“Double-shot cappuccino, then,” he ordered, before slumping back on the table.
When I came back, The Presence was sitting bolt upright, looking a little startled. I immediately shared his surprise as, sitting opposite him at the same table, presumably uninvited, was Anna. Anna was a very infrequent customer who didn’t really ‘belong’ to any of my five rooms, preferring to sit wherever there were people she could ‘talk to’. She was very sincere and, despite considering herself a good listener, was far more content talking about herself, regardless of whether she knew her interlocuter, or whether the intended receiver of her communication was remotely interested. There were extenuating circumstances relating to her mental well-being, however, which demanded a level of patience, but one had to be aware of these to know how to take her. The Presence was blissfully unaware of anything and, having just been disturbed from the thirty-fifth of his forty winks, he was completely unprepared to be talked at by a total stranger.
I placed a beautifully made cappuccino in front of The Presence and made sure he knew it was there, if only to stop him staring at Anna with bemused and unusually wide-open eyes. He reminded me of a rabbit, perhaps one caught in the headlights of an oncoming armoured vehicle. I turned to Anna, whom I believe I had offended on our last encounter by greeting her with the word, “Shit,” in a rather loud and not very amicable manner, and chose to adopt a slightly artificial, over-friendly demeanour, as far as this can be conveyed in one hyphenated word. “Pu-erh?” For the benefit of the uninitiated, this is a type of fermented tea hailing from China.
“Yes, please,” came the welcome warm reply. Thankfully, her memory was either short or selective in my favour. Hoping The Presence and Anna were safe in each other’s company for the few minutes it took to boil some fresh water and locate the required leaves, I returned to my preparation area.
I was very curious what the pair of them might have found to discuss, but when I hastened back, tea tray balanced on one sweaty palm, I got the impression the getting-to-know-you ice breaker was barely coming under starter’s orders.
“So, erm, what do you do?” Anna was asking.
“I’m a musician,” came the reply. I would have offered no guarantees that this was the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth at the time of speaking, but maintaining a diplomatic silence is one of my frequent, if not consistent, virtues.
“And does that pay well?” I considered this to be a very personal question to ask so early in the acquaintanceship.
“It did, once.”
“Ah.”
The arrival of the tea did them both a favour. In terms of breaking the ice, I think a pick-axe and some global warming might have been called for, without a supply of some flavoursome and hot liquid sustenance.
I don’t think The Presence was big on social interaction. He stared at Anna over the rim of his cappuccino with a degree of inquisitiveness but an unwillingness to break the silence. Eventually, he felt the need to say something and opted for mirroring. “And, erm, what do you do?” Had I been scoring him out of ten for expressing genuine interest, one would have been on the generous side.
“That’s a long story.” I was desperately hoping The Presence did not ask the obvious follow-up question or, even worse, indicate that time was not pressing. In lieu of these two rather undesirable options, he chose to nod sagely, prompting Anna to the same. I could not stop myself thinking of the good old days when one might keep a pair of nodding dogs on the back shelf of the car. Most of you are probably too young to remember such items of kitsch.
Anna could nod for England, in the unlikely eventuality of such a talent ever being required, and The Presence wisely decided not to launch a challenge and returned to his cappuccino, expressing a mild grunt of what I optimistically took to be appreciation.
How long the silence would have lasted, I cannot guess, but the potential for mind-numbing boredom was curtailed by the arrival of the beautiful Nawel, unusually by herself, without her lapdog Jimmy in tow. I’m being a little unkind here, as Jimmy is a friend of mine, but you probably know the feeling of fancying someone you know you shouldn’t, but you just can’t help yourself. The Buzzcocks’ iconic song on this general theme is one of my all-time faves, and for good reason, as the despair suggested in the title lyric has been a recurring occurrence in my hit-and-miss love life.
Putting petty jealousy to one side, I greeted Nawel as one should the current partner of one’s friend, with a smile and an offer of Algerian tea. This was accepted with a wordless, radiant smile, which led to one half of my internal dialogue instructing the other to ‘shut up’.
The conversation had intensified upon my return. This was not a considerable achievement, as little other than awkward peace and quiet had preceded my exit. It hadn’t taken too long for Anna’s interest in Nawel to be piqued, although my initial impression of The Presence was one of renewed snoozing. I deemed his retirement from live performance to be something of a boon to the music industry, as narcolepsy and stage work are rarely compatible.
I imagine Nawel has been asked many times more than once, even within the confines of my walls, about her background, and it appeared that Anna had followed suit with questions relating to culture and attitude and, presumably, absent boyfriends.
“I’m not traditional for my culture at all,” she was saying in response to the interrogation, “but I’m traditional in believing men shouldn’t be late.” She glanced at her watch with a mild trace of annoyance.
“Just be grateful he ain’t Colombian,” came an unexpected, ungrammatical growl, with a strong element of truth, it has to be said, from underneath the hat of the said nationality. “Otherwise, he’d be late every time.”
“Same with the Lebanese,” I added, to maintain the conversation. “My timekeeping leads some people to believe I’ve become half-Lebanese.”
Anna had reverted to nodding mode during this mini-digression into international issues with punctuality, but now redirected the discourse towards areas of greater personal interest and possible controversy. “Do you have to marry who you’re told to marry?” she asked. She could be very direct at times.
“Well, arranged marriages are possible in Algeria, yes, but they’re not very common nowadays,” came the fairly straightforward reply. “What bothers me more is the extent to which couples struggle to live fully in a relationship without marriage. There’s no sex life without marriage and it just leads to sexual frustration. Added to which, abortion is illegal in Algeria and women put their lives in danger if they do try to abort through some means or another.”
“It was the same in Ireland until very recently, so you’re not alone there,” Anna pointed out. “It can cause a lot of problems, but I know there are major arguments on both sides and I haven’t really decided which I agree with yet.”
“Algeria is still quite a sexist society, although there has been progress in recent years,” Nawel continued, deciding a debate on the pros and cons of abortion was not one in which she wished to partake with a complete stranger. At this point, glancing up into one of my stylishly dark mirrors, she caught sight of Jimmy’s reflection entering the room behind her and changed the tone of her voice to one demanding of a miscreant’s attention. “Many people still believe women belong in the home and that they’re somehow less intelligent, less capable than men.” Without turning around, she added, “And I dare any man with a faulty timepiece to agree.”
Jimmy clearly had no intention of doing anything of the kind. Delightful though Nawel undoubtedly was, she did not look like the sort of individual one would want to cross in anything other than extreme circumstances. Instead he gave her a quick hug from behind and pecked the top of her head. It was a little sickly, but quite sweet, really.
“Very sorry, babe,” came the expected apology.
“Don’t ‘babe’ me,” came the less expected response, although those facing her pretty features were privy to a playful wink.
“So, what have you been talking about?” the occupant of the metaphorical doghouse asked.
Nawel decided a dose of gentle teasing was an appropriate form of female retribution for male tardiness. “Arranged marriages.”
Jimmy was at a loss for words. To be honest, so was I. “Are you being forced into one?” The question was accompanied by a nervous giggle, the like of which I had never heard Jimmy produce before.
“One never knows,” Nawel replied with a magnificent degree of cultured indifference. “I went out with someone at home once who my father didn’t like at all, so my parents took me on one side and said they’d found someone suitable for me.”
“But you survived?” asked the jittery one. “Obviously.”
“How do you know I’m not on the run from my family and the man in question? I don’t think they’d think much to you.”
There were a couple of moments of very tense silence as the eyes of the masses moved from Nawel to Jimmy and back again in the manner of those watching a very short tennis rally.
“You’ve got a very Algerian sense of humour,” said Jimmy, finally realising he was being led up the garden path. Or, at least, he hoped he was.
“What’s that?” asked Nawel, as innocently as she could muster.
“I’ve never heard it before, so I’m not sure!” muttered the red-faced Jimmy. The occupants of the room, including The Presence, laughed out loud at the exchange and the tension, feigned or otherwise, eased considerably.
“The bit about my father threatening me with an arranged marriage was true, though,” Nawel said with a very straight and honest face.
“How did you get out of that one?”
“I had an idea he was winding me up, so I just confronted him and said, ‘Father, look at me, I’m beautiful. Why would you want to marry me off to an ugly man like that?’” Despite the vanity implicit in this one-sided argument, the collective response was one of completely unforced hilarity.
“Have you heard Matthew’s story about arranged marriages?” I asked the assemblage.
“Who’s Matthew?” asked Jimmy.
“Spends his time outside in Granada,” I explained.
“Oh, I know,” said Anna, “the one who fancies himself. You know the sort, wears Armani jeans on the outside and frayed boxers underneath.”
“I couldn’t possibly comment,” I said hastily.
“Not sure I want to know,” said Jimmy.
“And I certainly don’t want to look,” added The Presence.
“I haven’t seen anything wrong with his boxers,” commented Nawel impudently, causing what has to be said was an over-dramatic coughing fit to emanate from her no doubt soon-to-be estranged boyfriend. She smiled wickedly before turning to me. “What was the story, anyway?” she asked, as if determined to bring an end to the bizarre and banal exchange regarding the underwear of a person not present to defend himself. “About arranged marriages,” she reminded me, rolling her eyes ceiling-wards towards a spider’s web my cleaning ‘routine’ had bypassed.
“Oh,” I responded, returning to reality. “He met a Yemeni girl in Jordan who had been forced into marriage by her parents twice before she was even a teenager. It’s a long story; I’ll get you her website if you want the full version, but she’s been nominated for the Nobel Prize for Children and is the chairperson of her own foundation.”
“Oh, Nada Al-Ahdal?”
“That’s the one, yes.”
There was a sudden commotion in the doorway, assuming Jimez and, more probably, Jen, don’t mind being referred to as a state of noisy and possibly confused disturbance. In Jen’s case, she would have little defence, in my opinion. She had clearly been to a Christmas party, as she was decorated in far more tinsel than my abject tree offering and was a wee bit squiffy and more than a wee bit louder than usual. They froze on entrance and there was no doubting their collective surprise and, perhaps even horror, at finding their regular two-tabled room already occupied by five other people.
