Appearances Greeting a Point of View

by JJ Marsh

  “Today’s success was only the start. Andrews will move on soon, leaving your path wide open.”

  I stare. They speak in freaky unison about something they could not possibly understand.

  “Right, you bloody sows, who put you up to this? Don’t tell me, I’ve got a pretty good idea ...”

  They separate, doing some bizarre modern-dance moves and each turns to face out a window. One of them speaks, I can’t tell which.

  “No man can harm you. You are safe as houses.”

  “Only when bricks become paper will your castle burn.”

  God, how these mentalists ever expect to get a bloke is beyond me. Hanging round in Eighties’ gear, playing sodding mind games and generally getting up people’s noses. But how do they know? They’re singing again.

  “Oi! Can it, will you?” I feel sweat on my lip. Again.

  I hate myself. Insecure, desperate, needy. But I have to hear it. My voice is weak.

  “Banksy. A real threat to my partner recommendation, or not?”

  Their heads wobble. Snakes. Indians. Walk Like an Egyptian.

  “Beware of Banks. You can rise to the top. Over Andrews, and over McCrail. You can go all the way. You have it in you.”

  “McCrail?” I laugh. “You seriously think I could depose the CEO? You’re mad as a box of frogs. Whoever briefed you ...”

  My phone rings. I shake my head at these esoteric eccentrics and retreat back outside to answer.

  “Lennox, you git. What do you want?”

  “Still standing, you big girl’s blouse? I thought you’d be on the great white telephone by now. Listen, Ross is on the graveyard shift tonight and he’s just heard some interesting news. Andrews has done a runner. Gone over to England Investments, the sly tosser. Obviously Birnam would have stepped into his shoes, but she’s up the duff. So to the good news – you and the Bankster are first choices for Acting Head of Asset Management. Briefing at nine. And if you land this job, you are officially a jammy bastard. Changing up two gears in two days? Beers on you at The Eight Kings.”

  Banks appears at the base of the stairs, ghostly in the misty light. He sees me and lifts his middle finger in greeting. I need to end this call.

  “Lennox, my man, if I get this, it’ll be Cristal and coke all night long. Have you told Banks yet?”

  “Nah. Thought I’d give you the edge. But Ross might. You know what a brown-nose he is.”

  “Yeah. Cheers, Lennox. Appreciate the heads up. I owe you one. Laters.”

  Banks looks every inch the successor. He’s matched me pint for pint, but looks louche and predatory, whereas I know I look florid and desperate. Is that what his Tae-Kwon-Crap provides? Maybe I should try it again. Passing clouds seemed less fun than passing wind, but it gives him an edge, no doubt about it.

  He walks straight past me. “Fag,” he says. It’s a request, not a pejorative.

  The train’s due in two minutes. The waiting room’s empty; the Hags of Hexham have vanished. I follow him into the shadows, head clearer, vision sharper.

  “Where’ve you been? How long does it take to get sodding cash?” I hand him a Marlboro.

  He flicks the lighter and I see his grin. “Got chatting to three birds outside Barclays.”

  “I can see for myself you didn’t pull.”

  “Not strictly true. Got a phone number and a promise. They were right space cadets but one of them had a certain bohemian something.”

  Not possible. Must have been a different hippy trio. Because they were talking to me at exactly the same time. He’s pissed, that’s all.

  We smoke in silence. I have information. I have power. I’m ahead.

  “Train’s coming,” he says.

  Stepping to the edge of the platform, we flick our stubs onto the tracks. I notice Banks is unsteady on his feet. As Lady Luck would have it, the train comes from this direction, out of the blackness. I glance down the platform; no one can see. We’re in the dark.

  I turn but he’s faster. He lunges, shoulder down, and spins on his left leg, bringing his right round to kick me between the shoulderblades. I fly, graceful for just a moment, before the impact separates body from head.

  Thunder.

  The Reservation

  The waiter takes the napkin from the plate, unfolds it and places it across my lap. I stiffen. It’s an oddly intrusive gesture and he doesn’t smile. My companion pre-empts this courtesy by flipping out the linen and tucking it beneath the tablecloth with a flourish. The waiter bows and leaves us to face each other in the saffron glow of an art deco lamp.

  My eyes are drawn across the room to a mural of slave girls bathing each other. The scene, less graphic than others which surround us, nonetheless holds a charge. Somehow you know those girls are preparing themselves for the next course.

  “It’s quite something, don’t you think?” My companion turns his head to the doorway, where we came in. The entire wall depicts an orgy which, due to the trembling candlelight and shadows cast by passing waiters, convinces me the figures are actually moving; arching, rocking, shuddering.

  “Yes, it is.”

  I should be impressed, but I’m embarrassed and intimidated by the other diners, who reek of privilege, radiate confidence. Tables of young men in suits, couples gazing at each other, an elderly group of aristocratic ladies wearing so much jewellery their movements appear weighted. Everyone is dressed as if for an awards ceremony, with the same air of sophisticated anticipation.

  “How did you get a table?” I ask, to demonstrate I am not ignorant of the prestige he has afforded me.

  He smiles. “I thought you might enjoy it. I could hardly take such an elegant creature to a tea shop, now could I? Shall I order for both of us? I’ve been here several times and I think I know the perfect dishes for you.”

  I watch over his shoulder as another waiter spreads a napkin across the lap of a black-clad woman, who wears long satin gloves. She looks up at him and parts her lips. I turn away.

  “Please.” I hand back the unopened menu. The door opens to admit more guests. Heads turn, as they do for each new arrival, but on this occasion, they don’t turn back. All eyes follow the party to their table while mouths mutter into nearby ears.

  An older man, with silver-grey hair to match his suit, leads the way. On his arm, a distinguished lady with an upswept coiffure. Her makeup is immaculate and her dress catches the light. She turns one way, it’s green. Another, it’s blue. On their heels come a younger pair. I barely notice him as I cannot stop staring at the siren on his arm. Her dress, silver lamé, spotlights her hips, her breasts, the curve of her shoulder. Very little flesh is on show, but her shapely figure is evident, crowned with a perfect blonde chignon. Her escort nods to acquaintances around the room. He is polished, with a pleasant, rather one-sided smile.

  Their table is directly to our left, against the wall. The younger woman exudes delight. She gasps at the murals, laughs at herself, clutches her man’s arm, smiles at the waiter and giggles with anticipation as she sits opposite her mother. Mother-in-law?

  I stop myself from staring and wonder if that is how I should comport myself. My companion is giving the waiter our order. I listen but it makes no sense. Carpaccio, blini, mille-feuille, Roederer ... my attention wanders over his shoulder, back to the woman in satin gloves. A waiter stands beside her, taking the order from her gentleman friend, while she absently caresses the waiter’s buttock and thigh.

  I look down at my place setting, using my hands as blinkers. If I look neither left nor right, perhaps I can pass this evening enjoyably.

  “Is something wrong? Do you have a headache?” my companion enquires.

  An intake of breath makes us both turn. The waiter attending to the glamorous party has summoned the maitre d’. The atmosphere changes, anticipation charges the air like that of a courtroom when the foreman of the jury rises to his feet. People stare openly as the maitre d’ tilts his head, first listening to the waiter and then bending to hear the younger man.


  I notice the rest of the table. The older gentleman is beaming, hands on his thighs. Both women’s eyes shine, their excitement visible. The whole restaurant seems to hold its breath.

  The maitre d’ straightens with a nod and gives a brief instruction to the attendant waiter. Conversations break out at every table, heads swivelling to either end of the room, checking the doors as if awaiting the star performer. The thrill pulsing around the room affects me too, although I have not the faintest idea why.

  “What is it?” I ask my companion, noticing the fresh pink patches on his cheeks. His complexion reminds me of my mother’s best tea-set.

  “I don’t know.” He shakes his head but his eyes drop from mine in less than a second. “I mean, I’ve heard rumours, but I can’t believe ... ah! Here’s our first course.”

  We eat something, thinly sliced, highly priced. It’s not unpleasant. We comment on the fineness of the flavour although I doubt he tastes any more than I. We make the smallest talk imaginable.

  While we consume this nothing in particular, two waiters bring a pair of Japanese screens to our neighbouring table. Unfolding them, they place a wall around three sides of the party, the fourth provided by the blacked-out window.

  I check my companion in enquiry, but can see his curiosity is equally aroused. And it appears that is not all. His pupils, dark and intent, fix upon my lips.

  The door to the kitchen opens and a man in a pale green overall enters, carrying a black box resembling something a magician might use. Two waiters in his wake hold trays covered with white cloths. They make their way behind the screens and the chatter from the rest of the room erupts, accompanied by the percussion of tines on china.

  I want to stand up and call out. “Hush! How can I possibly hear what is going on with all this racket!” But my attention is caught once more by the gloved woman, who, with great ostentation, drops her knife. Their waiter kneels to retrieve it and she kicks him with a high-heeled foot. He crawls under the tablecloth and she slides down in her chair. Her escort stares at her, chewing on a toothpick.

  I realise my mouth is open. Fine features and noble expressions on every table now seem flushed and lascivious. One couple are feeding each other with their fingers. Several parties are calling for champagne.

  Seconds later, the hush descends once more as one of the waiters slips out from behind the screens. In his hand is a kidney-shaped stainless-steel bowl. He drapes a cloth over it and strides towards the kitchen. The green-clad man emerges with his peculiar black box along with the second waiter and follows. The maitre d’ gives a signal and busboys remove the screens.

  The party revealed has changed. The older of the two women has lost her upright posture and her make-up is smudged. Some of the shimmering blonde’s hair has escaped and hangs loose across her face. The senior gentleman, florid and sweaty, pours red wine into their glasses and claps the young man on the back. It is this latter who is the most materially altered. His wholesome colour is entirely gone, leaving his skin grey and lips bloodless. His left hand, in a brilliant white bandage, is held to his chest by a sling.

  They raise their glasses in a toast and I notice much of the clientele silently doing the same. I start as my companion’s leather brogue rubs my foot. He is breathing heavily.

  “The staff here are remarkable. Personalised service.”

  Behind him, the waiter emerges from beneath the table and rises to his feet. I cannot see the gloved woman’s face. Her companion beckons the waiter, who bends down to him. It looks for a second as if the two men will kiss, but instead the man palms him a tip, which is swiftly pocketed.

  Voices rise, laughter bounces off the walls and the businessmen have discarded their ties. One bejewelled aristocrat lifts her dessert bowl and licks out the last chocolately traces. Heat rises from my knees as if I have been drinking gin. My companion’s gaze now moves to my chest. I pick up my beaded bag and inform him I need the ladies’ room.

  My voice rings out as all others fall silent. The kitchen door opens and four waiters emerge, carrying covered platters. I cannot get to my feet while everyone is watching. The platters are placed in front of the beautiful foursome, but everyone is staring at the one in front of the young man. The maitre d’ gives a signal and the burnished silver cloches are lifted.

  I see quite clearly what is on that plate. Carrots, calabrese, potatoes and green beans surround a small triangular white bowl, containing what appears to be a small chipolata, covered in breadcrumbs and herbs. No one speaks. No one moves. The young man, unable to use his left hand, reaches for his fork. He spears his chipolata, says, ‘Bon appétit,’ and places it in his mouth.

  His eyes close as he chews and he releases a long moan of ecstasy as he rocks back and forth.

  Applause thunders around the room. I join in, smiling at such vicarious satisfaction. The older man applauds wildly and stands to shake hands with the maitre d’. His left hand is missing two fingers. The distinguished woman has her hands clasped together, but I notice a gap between her first and third knuckle. The gloved woman is no longer gloved. And she has no more than three fingers on either hand.

  I stare around the room, spotting more and more missing digits as the room retreats to the end of a telescope.

  His voice comes from far away. “It’s quite all right, you know. It’s perfectly legal to eat your own.”

  Appearances Greeting A Point of View

  11 September 2001

  Jacquot

  He always sat with his back to the counter. It was the perfect spot to observe her. Reflected in the huge age-spotted mirror, she moved between the tables with grace and a certain absence. Her hands wrestled with the coffee machine, her lean brown arm handed change over the counter. She bestowed brief smiles on customers before turning her attention back to the TV, fixed high in the corner.

  Jacquot asked himself why he wasted such energy on a hopeless fantasy, still searching for the answer in the mirror. His companions usually drank a brandy after lunch. Today was no different.

  “Virginie!”

  Gilles called over to her, making a circular gesture. A round of drinks for their table. She nodded once and he returned to his theme.

  “A threat. Plain and simple. If we don’t like their dangerous activities, they’ll take the factories elsewhere and our jobs with them. Poland. Hungary. Czechoslovakia or whatever they’re calling it now. They have us by the balls.”

  Roland snorted. “Your balls are retired. It’s people like me and him who tread the minefield now.” He gestured with his chin to Jacquot.

  Jacquot’s eyes followed Virginie as she poured cognac into two balloon glasses, but he picked up his cue.

  “You must remember, Gilles, it was the city that spread towards the industrial estate, not vice versa. Jospin is right. You can’t expect them to pack up and move to a convenient distance like some kind of fast-food stall. If the site makes you nervous, move away. Move north.”

  His companions withdrew their chins in outrage, like a pair of affronted turkeys. Jacquot sat back and waited for the ruffle of feathers.

  Gilles shook his head in dismay. “You sit here, at this table, and quote Jospin? You should be ashamed.”

  Roland wagged his finger. “Jacquot, you are young. Naiveté is to be expected. But when you know nothing, it is better to keep your mouth shut.”

  Virginie arrived, placing the two balloons in front of the old boys and the glass of concentrated yellow, along with a little jug of water, in front of Jacquot. His heart leapt. She remembered. So she should. They ate at Café Trente et Un as often as their shifts permitted. He wondered what her reference points might be.

  ‘The two old fellas drink cognac, but the young, good-looking one with the ponytail and tight jeans? He prefers a Ricard.’

  He looked up and caught her eyes. “Merci.”

  “Je vous en prie.” Her bland smile popped his bubble. The progressive young rebel existed only in the eyes of Gilles and Roland. The girl sim
ply saw three argumentative old farts. He watched her return to the bar and lean her chin on her fist. An old fart, aged forty.

  Disappointment made his tone harsh as he resumed the discussion.

  “What do you want them to do, hein? Relocate the plants away from the city? The people will leave Saint Simon and move closer to their place of work. A town will grow up around the factory because that is where the jobs are. Le Mirail and Lardenne will be left empty, the only residents being the poor and the unemployed. But it will be safe from industrial pollution, that’s true. The fact is, people don’t care how dangerous their work is, so long as they receive a wage.”

  Gilles made a show of spluttering on his brandy, although he was careful not to waste any. Roland lit a cigarette and fixed his eyes on him.

  “You’re wrong, Jacquot. And, I notice, far too cynical for one so young. People do care. Or at least they would if they knew the real extent of the dangers. Why did so many demonstrate at the summer protests against the safety standards of La Poudrerie?”

  Dabbing his lips with a napkin, Gilles agreed. “Roland is right. No one feels happy living next to a site containing enough explosive to blow France and most of Spain into outer space.”

  Jacquot laughed loudly, flicking a glance to see if she’d noticed. She hadn’t, still absorbed by VH1 or MTV.

  “You exaggerate, Gilles. Yes, dangerous chemicals exist there, and so? The council should do what exactly? Write all the potential dangers on a leaflet and terrify the entire population of Toulouse? Or Lyon? Or Marseilles? Because it’s not just us, is it? You know me, I am not a right-winger, but tell me, what can the government do?”

  “The government has a duty; protect its citizens, provide jobs and minimise threats. And legalise pot.” Roland’s cheeks testified to the quality of the cognac.

  Gilles chuckled and made a decision. “Another. This argument is unresolved. We’ll have another drink and discuss further.”