The cafe with five faces, p.5
The Café with Five Faces, page 5
“Too shy,” Micky muttered.
“And too camp sometimes,” Jo proffered rather bluntly.
“So my last long-term partner told me,” Micky growled. “Again and again.”
“Have you ever questioned your sexuality?” Jo’s question came rather out of the blue after a few seconds of silence and took Micky rather by surprise. “I mean, I know these days you’re seen as something of a womaniser…”
“Charming,” Micky commented. “And not exactly true.”
“In your dreams, though,” Jo responded a little unkindly. “And in your virtual world. Has it always been like that? Just interested, you know.”
“I have a history of occasional interest from men, but not really in men,” Micky replied with a clear degree of honesty in the pipeline. “In my mid-teens, I think I would have thought I was gay had I actually been aware what homosexuality was. You see, when I was young, it simply wasn’t talked about; I really didn’t even know what it was until I went to university and wondered why so many people were making sarcastic comments like ‘backs to the wall’ when the Tom Robinson Band came to town. I finally put two and two together. And probably made five for a very long time.”
“I can imagine.” Jo sounded more sympathetic.
“But looking back, I went to an all-boys school from eleven to eighteen and lived in a neighbourhood where the only girl was three years older than the rest of us and kept herself well away from the football-playing boys like me.” Micky looked happier thinking about his footballing youth when he had been, in his words and no one else’s, a quarter-decent player. “I only came into contact with girls of my own age when I went to uni and I was so awkward, it took me over two years to accidentally start going out with someone.”
“Accidentally?” This seemed a strange concept to Jo.
“We just fell into it, you know,” Micky answered. “We were friends who hung out, basically, and I’m not really sure we were ever anything more to her.”
“Ah, another one.” Jo sighed.
Micky also sighed, went silent and finally returned to the original subject. “So, I went through most of my teens surrounded by other males of the species without knowing it was possible to have feelings for the same sex, let alone that such feelings weren’t abnormal. But I think I did. I was certainly more interested in cocks than fannies, but maybe because I’d never seen, or even imagined, any of the latter!”
“Things don’t half change,” breathed Jo, a little sarcastically and seemingly without an attentive audience, as Micky’s expression did not alter one iota.
Micky was on a roll, though, now. “And then when I went to uni, I remember my bemusement when a waiter in a restaurant flirted with me when I was out on my birthday dinner with a group of friends. I just didn’t understand! And then in Rag Week, I was on a float playing an arty-farty film director in very gaudy clothes and make-up. I remember my dad’s look of deep concern when he saw the pics. It was only several years later, I realised he had been horrified at the thought of his one and only offspring possibly being gay. But I was playing a role, as I naively interpreted it at the time.” This thought seemed to sadden him.
“Well, I can see how he might have come to that conclusion,” said Jo. “Innocence can be a curse.”
Micky smiled. “And then one of my group of friends, a male one, who I had no idea was gay, asked me if I was interested. It was one of those occasions when I was so lost for words, I started saying really stupid things like, ‘I’m sorry.’ I can’t remember what I was sorry for now, but I do remember saying it, and he interpreted it as me feeling sorry for him, which I’m pretty sure wasn’t the case.” There was a pause. “I was really confused.”
“That I can imagine,” said Jo again, although it wasn’t exactly clear whether she was imagining the situation or the prospect of Micky being confused, the latter requiring considerably less effort.
“I went to stay at a female friend’s house once; a mostly innocent friendship,” he added, noticing Jo’s raised eyebrow, although the word ‘mostly’ only succeeded in raising the other brow to an equal degree. “Her mother thought I was around thirty-five and gay, at a time when I was actually forty-five and straight. I was quite flattered by the age mistake, though!”
Jo had nothing to say to that, perhaps wishing to avoid making an insulting comment.
“Oh, and a few years before that, I was working for a theatre company and the very overtly gay stage manager was very keen on me and told me so. I occasionally stayed at their house – his and his partner’s, believe it or not – and I remember him coming into my room one night. I didn’t stay again, which meant no more long evenings of martinis! Mind you, he admitted knowing he was on to a loser.”
“How do you mean?” Jo prompted as Micky seemed to falter.
“He said he was sure I was gay until he saw my reaction when a girl called Caroline walked into the room,” Micky continued with clearly fond memories of the long-lost Caroline. “Apparently my entire demeanour changed and I lit up a little like Blackpool illuminations, and the guy said he knew from that time I was straight. Funny really, because, although I knew I fancied Caroline, I was completely oblivious to any visible change which overcame me whenever I saw her.”
“And what happened to Caroline?”
“She already had a boyfriend, unfortunately,” Micky said sadly. “But easy come, easy go.”
“From the sound of it, she never came, if you’ll forgive the expression.” Jo seemed determined to lighten the mood.
Micky was still reflecting. “I’ve been told gays are very perceptive about others’ sexuality, though. So, even though this theatre guy finally knew I was straight, why have so many at different times thought otherwise?”
“Has it happened again since?”
“The last time was the most serious.” Micky heaved a deep sigh as if deciding whether his roll had come to an end or whether he should continue with something very personal. Jo decided to be patient and wait, as if she knew this was the way to encourage Micky in a difficult moment.
“I was working in Russia, hardly the friendliest of environments for homosexuals,” Micky suddenly blurted out. “There was one night, at a friend’s flat. She had this friend, Dan, who came around for drinks once or twice. On this night, let’s say too much alcohol had been consumed and my friend had gone to bed. I was looking out of the kitchen window, admiring the Soviet agglomeration where my friend lived, when Dan came back from the bathroom. I turned around and suddenly found his lips pressed very firmly against mine. Alcohol had numbed my reactions, so I was a little slow to push him off, which he may have taken as uncertainty on my part.”
“Many people would be curious,” Jo remarked as Micky took a breath.
“Maybe,” Micky conceded. “But I’d hardly had time to recover from an attack from one pincer, when he went for another approach and unbuckled my belt!”
“Oops!”
“That was too much and I left; very, very quickly.” Micky shuddered to a halt.
“Was that the end of it?” Jo had to be patient for a while as Micky seemed to have been struck dumb.
“No,” came the response finally, followed by another two minutes of silence, which was ended by another deep sigh. “Two nights later, I was round at my friend’s flat again, just me and her. We had drunk a lot and I was about to leave at around half eleven when Dan arrived bearing more alcoholic gifts. I decided it would be rude to leave straight away so I stupidly had another drink.”
“And then?” Jo’s patience at the number of lengthy pauses seemed to be wearing thin.
“I don’t know,” admitted Micky. “I really have no idea, nothing, nada, niente, rien, whatever.”
“What do you mean?”
“The next thing I knew it was around 5.30 in the morning, so I had lost five or six hours. I’m pretty sure I wasn’t that drunk, so I can only assume my drink had been spiked. It’s the only explanation I can think of, to explain why I, erm, why I woke up in the spare bedroom, naked from the waist down with a gay man leaning over me, pretending to be concerned.”
It was Jo’s turn to be speechless for a few moments. “And you have no recollection of anything at all?”
“I have one vague memory, an image of someone masturbating, but I have no idea if it was real. No idea at all.” And it was obvious he hadn’t.
“What happened next?”
“He took me home by taxi, telling me all the way that nothing had happened,” Micky replied. “I was actually crying. God only knows what the taxi driver was thinking.”
“What did you do?” asked Jo. “I mean, did you tell anyone?”
“In Russia?” Micky’s reaction left no room for doubt. “Not a chance. I avoided him for the rest of my time there, perhaps obviously so, even to others, but I didn’t mind. I asked my doctor in England when I got home whether there would be any evidence to prove I’d been, you know…” He tailed off and drank some tea. Jo ruffled his hair in a consoling but ineffective manner. “I had some STD tests done a few weeks later and everything was normal so I’ve basically forgotten about it. I just never drink to that excess anymore. I almost felt I’d deserved it, or it was a warning of some kind.”
“No one deserves that, whatever,” said Jo.
“True,” agreed Micky. “Let’s say I’ve heeded the warning. Most of the time…”
“Can I get you another drink?” Jo asked, sympathetically noticing the empty cup and glass teapot.
“A bottle of Lebanese red?” Micky was still able to smile.
Mint Tea, as brewed in the Chréa National Park, Algeria. I rather doubt I’d get this version past British Health and Safety, which, to be honest and a wee bit controversial, is something of a shame.
2018: 12: Granada: In Bandit Country
It was nice to see Matthew, Mark and Lois so often – nice people and relatively big spenders rolled into one. Today, they were starting with a Chemex, my own favourite filtrado coffee, on this occasion made with beans from Santander in Colombia, perhaps because they didn’t dare start on beer at eleven o’clock in the morning. Matthew, who has a more than passing resemblance to his namesake from the TV show Friends, many would say deliberately cultured so, had experimented rather too often on his travels with early-morning beers and had finally arrived at the conclusion that his constitution was not sufficiently Eastern European to drink ale for breakfast. Mark, who had very little hair to make himself look like anyone (other than Kojak, for those with a good history in TV viewing) and was considerably less fashion-conscious than his friend, was inclined to agree.
On this occasion, Lois, an open and friendly girl in her late thirties, often prone to dramatic outbursts, seemed to be setting the topic for the first discussion of the day. “What’s been your most frightening travel experience?”
“Hmmm,” mused Mark. “The first thing that comes to mind is a train journey from Belgrade to Budapest. To be honest, I’ve made that journey too many times. It’s OK by day but to be avoided overnight. I think I was ill twice and it’s too long a journey on which to feel queasy. The last time was the worst, though.”
“Which presumably is why it was the last time,” Matthew butted in.
“Too right,” said Mark emphatically, savouring his coffee while clearly not savouring the memory. “It was a strange one because when I was boarding the train in Belgrade, the train guard told my Serbian friend, who was seeing me off, that I needed to be careful. So, I was. I was in what passes as first class, a two-bed sleeping compartment by myself, and I double-locked the doors.”
“That doesn’t always work.” Lois apparently had had a similar experience.
“Tell me about it!” Mark obviously didn’t need telling. “I took the warning semi-seriously but I’m paranoid enough as it is.”
“Weren’t you once called Captain Paranoia in Poland?” Matthew was in possession of an eye with a wicked gleam.
Mark and Matthew go back a long way. On this occasion, Mark turned a deaf ear to his friend’s comment. “So, I had wound the strap of my computer bag around my wrist,” he continued. “Anyway, at about five in the morning on the Hungarian side of the border, I suddenly felt my strap being pulled. Initially, I thought it was just me turning over in bed…”
“You had room to turn over in a sleeper on that train?” Matthew exaggerated his surprise. “I assume this was back in the days before middle-aged spread set in?” Lois failed miserably to suppress a giggle.
Mark was clearly experienced at ignoring sarcasm and continued as though the only interruption had been silence. “Anyway, I could feel the strap slowly slipping out of my hand and woke up with a jolt and saw this dark shadow at the end of the bed.” Matthew interjected with feigned music from a horror film. “I basically forgot who I was, you know, this shy, timid northern Brit, shouted something, I have no idea what, stood up and whether I chased him out or not, I don’t know, but he vanished pretty damn quick.”
“What did you do then?” Lois asked.
“Got dressed…”
“You weren’t in your underwear, were you?” Matthew pretended, or maybe not, to be horrified. “No wonder he ran away! I’d have been out of there like a shot!”
“I checked everything was still where it should be.” Mark had told the entire anecdote as though he was in a one-to-one with Lois. “Good job he didn’t take my shoes because that’s where I’d stored my watch and wallet! But I just sat there for the rest of the journey staring at the locked door and wondering how he had managed to break in so silently in the first place. I was also wondering how he had got into a supposedly locked carriage and, if the guard had let him in, why had he warned my friend before I got on?”
“That train has a history of stuff like that,” said Matthew, returning to seriousness. “It’s supposedly even worse these days because there have been cases where the intruders have used a spray to temporarily blind you while they take whatever they want.”
“Bastards,” summarised Lois succinctly.
“Unfortunately, I was due to travel on another four or five overnight trains in the following two weeks and I barely slept a wink on any of them. It was supposed to be a gentle fortnight and I ended it looking like a zombie,” Mark concluded. “What’s your story, Lois? I assume you have one as you started it.”
“I can’t really compete with that,” Lois answered.
“I can,” said Matthew to two pairs of eyebrows raised in a surprise that one could never consider genuine.
“In which case, let me get in with mine first,” said Lois quickly. “I was flying from Riga to Yerevan with Baltic Air, or Air Baltic, whichever, a few years ago with a friend. We had already waited around eight hours at the airport because of poor connections from London, so I wasn’t in the best of moods, even less so when a later plane from London arrived early and long before our second flight. That’s a side issue, anyway; this is a tale of alcohol.”
“What else is there to do when stranded in Riga, or indeed any other airport for eight hours?” Mark’s question didn’t seem to warrant an answer.
“It wasn’t me!” Lois protested vehemently in defence of her innocence. “First of all, there was this Japanese guy, I think, who had bought a bottle of duty-free vodka and was told he couldn’t take it on board so he drank it as though it was water. That was scary to watch.” She paused and sipped some coffee. “We didn’t see him again.” There was silence while each of them conjured up visions of where this mysterious Japanese person might have ended up, none of them being particularly pleasant. “So, we got on the plane and sat in the back row – window and aisle. Well, it was supposed to be window and aisle but when we got to the back row, there was a guy in the window seat.”
“That happens so often,” Mark interrupted. “It’s so annoying, especially if you’ve checked in early just to get the window seat.”
“Well, we asked him to move but he was barely conscious; I’m not even sure how he got on board,” Lois continued. “I sat next to him, but he started leaning all over me – he was incapable of sitting upright. We complained and fortunately they were able to move us, at which point the guy flopped out across all three seats.”
“Why did they even let him on?” asked Mark. “I thought that was illegal.”
“And the cabin crew just left him there?” Matthew wasn’t impressed.
“Yeah, and we kept looking back during the flight, while the crew were serving dinner, thinking what if he wakes up, forgets where he is and tries to open the back door? There was no one there to guarantee otherwise.”
This was a frightening thought but one which seemed to hold some amusement for the two men, so long as it wasn’t them in this position.
“Go on then,” said Lois, addressing Matthew. “Let loose with your award-winning monologue.” It’s just possible there was a sarcastic component to her tone.
“Well,” began Matthew, as Mark and Lois sat back in their chairs, knowing they might not get a chance to say anything meaningful for a while. “It was on my only trip to one of the Stans, Pakistan, a few years ago. There’s quite a back story to the main event – I assume you’ll want to hear all of it.” He didn’t wait for any indication of approval; it wasn’t his way. “I arrived in Lahore very late one night and after a while was invited into the back of a van, which turned out to be full of guests going to the same hotel. When I say full, I mean three or four. That in itself was a little intimidating, but I guess it was some kind of security measure.
“The first twenty-four hours, otherwise, were pretty par for the course, you know, chatting about schools and English education, and then my host took me out for dinner. It was really nice, actually.” Matthew added this as his partners, for whom the term ‘Delhi-belly’, although not related to Pakistan, was more than familiar, looked dubious. They had probably also decided that this story had a predictable toilet-filled conclusion. “The mistake I made, apparently, was eating something I had considered safest of all, and that was the salad, which friends told me afterwards may not have been washed in the cleanest of water. Eighteen hours later and queasy was not the word.
