Bowl of Fruit

by Panayotis Cacoyannis

  Two Men and a Child: a Pope’s Crucifixion (1937) proved a seminal painting. Painting it, showing it, taking the whole world’s breath away with it, selling it at an unheard of price for what the Art Establishment initially had labelled an absurdity, what all of that revealed to me was the void of an out-and-out absence of pleasure. I should have gone out to party.

  Instead I discovered Franz Kafka.

  5

  The Girl with Hair on her Legs

  Apoplexy

  ‘Hey, Luigi, Luigi! My ghost, she’s right here!’

  I have been caught unawares by the unpunctual apparition’s absolute spectacularity (my ghost deserves absolutely the invention of words), and swept by an enchanted swell of absolutes I am making an equally absolute fool of myself. What the hell am I doing, waving my arms at Luigi across a crowded restaurant, hollering and whooping like… like I’ve never whooped or hollered before in my life, and I don’t just mean across a crowded restaurant!

  But the world of Luigi is again about to prove that it’s a multitude of better worlds apart from the world of Federico, who has paralyzed himself in a corner to perform an aghast exhibition of contorting his features, including the possible mouthing of unspeakable words in Italian. It is very fortunate for Federico that I have been diverting everyone’s attention to myself, and commensurately very unfortunate for Anna Tor: I have not even asked her to sit down yet, and perhaps you are as surprised as I am that my clownish behaviour has not yet made her take to her heels, but absolutely you are not as delighted! The girl is even smiling, and… oh my God, now she’s even waving to Luigi herself, although I must say rather more discreetly than I am! I am more than just fond of her already.

  Luigi has grasped my apoplectic outburst for exactly what it is, and after he has snapped his fingers two or three or four times in his brother’s face (he may even have gently slapped him), with hurricane speed, swerving lithely he meanders to our table through a pre-war Expressionist sea of re-opening mouths. By the time he has arrived, it’s as if I am in quicksand and an otherworldly strangeness has cut off my tongue.

  ‘O, o, right here, si, si, I can see… But is not ghost, uh? When you say ghost, Luigi make in his head, how you say? No, no, Signor Leon, is not fair, I give you my best scramble egg and you, what you do? Prego, prego, Signorina.’ He pulls the chair out for Anna and beckons her to sit, all the time shaking his head. ‘Uh, mio dio, English manners… Ghost, Signor Leon? You think is funny joke?’

  I suppose I have a thing about eyebrows, and now it’s Anna’s I can’t take my eyes off. Frida Kahlo, eat your heart out, and I think I’m in love! I only say “I think” because I am prey to an emotional upheaval to which I am virgin, and like a primitive tribesman who first comes into contact with the pleasurable microbes of the outside world, I must be wary of the possible effects.

  ‘Signor Leon! Uh, is impossible, is like he can’t hear me!’

  But in my innocence I mustn’t let myself be deceived, if this is love then it can only ever be Platonic; Anna Tor looks almost young enough to be my daughter. Add to that the thickness of her eyebrows, so disorderly and free, that were she ever to be seen in and out of my house, the neighbours would fret that they now have in their midst not one, but two foreign-looking neighbourhood freaks.

  ‘Unless he don’t answer because he don’t like that I call him Signor.’

  Who knows? Perhaps she’s older than she looks; she’s definitely older than Billy. But what am I saying? She definitely isn’t young enough to be my daughter, and she’s definitely older than she looks, and I know because she told me so herself: she is exactly the same age as me!

  ‘Leon, but why you don’t sit down? You’re not very good host for your ghost.’

  And if age were not an issue, what in the world would Anna Tor make of the room? What am I supposed to tell her of its purpose, and of the effect it has already had? But then she half-knows my story already, although it’s anybody’s guess what might happen when eventually she knows it all.

  ‘Ah, I think Luigi see now. You two, before today you don’t know each other, right? Now you sit, Leon, please!’

  Hands are grasping my shoulders and steering me down onto my chair.

  ‘Tsk tsk, his own world again.’ Suddenly like an eclipse, Federico is in my face obscuring the rest of the world. ‘But this time at least he don’t swear.’

  I’m back in the real world, which I have been two-dimensionally aware of but unable to interact with. Luigi has shooed Federico away, and is nudging me to speak by jabbing at my back with his finger. But unfortunately Anna speaks first.

  ‘It’s uncanny, I know,’ she says, ‘how our eyebrows are exactly the same.’

  ‘Our eyebrows are exactly the same? I’m sorry, I… Oh. Oh, I see, you thought… Because you saw me… you thought I was…’

  ‘Staring at my eyebrows,’ says Anna bluntly.

  ‘Was I? No, I can’t have been…’

  ‘I’m pretty sure you were,’ Anna insists.

  Luigi’s finger jabs at me more violently now, but the effect is hardly the desirable one.

  ‘I was wondering…’ I falter for a moment, but then a lack of hesitation suddenly overcomes me: ‘How old are you, Anna?’ I’m now convinced I must have misremembered what she said. Perhaps we share the same birthday but were born in different years – years most likely far apart.

  Anna laughs. Luigi, on the other hand, is mortified.

  ‘How you can ask such a question, you must never ask woman to tell you her age. See? Ghost is laughing now, but she don’t really think is very funny.’ Then turning to Anna, ‘Is not himself since you arrive, I think maybe too much coffee while he wait for you. And man with strange moustache give him headache, he like to talk, blah, blah, blah, and Leon too polite to make him stop. Is definitely not my scramble egg.’

  Luigi’s case for the defence has given me the necessary time to get a grip.

  ‘Definitely not,’ I say. ‘And the ghost’s name is Anna. Anna, this is Luigi.’

  ‘Very pleased to meet you, Luigi,’ says Anna, extending her hand.

  ‘Pleasure is all mine,’ Luigi fawns while he bends his head to kiss Anna’s hand. ‘But why you call her ghost? Is our joke, but now is not nice.’

  ‘When I came in and I asked for a table, I said I was expecting a ghost. I meant to say guest but I said ghost, just a silly slip of the tongue. And Luigi’s been teasing me ever since.’

  ‘But I am a ghost,’ says Anna. ‘So the slip of the tongue wasn’t silly.’

  ‘You are ghost?’ Luigi whispers.

  ‘She’s a ghost-writer,’ I explain.

  ‘Uh, ghost writer, so you like to write stories with ghosts.’

  ‘Not exactly,’ says Anna. ‘I help other people to write their own stories.’

  ‘About ghosts, yes?’

  ‘If they want to write about ghosts, then yes, why not.’

  ‘Okay, I think I leave you two to talk now. Scramble-egg-on-toas-ciabatta with extra big sprinkle of rocket for beautiful ghost-writer?’

  ‘It’s delicious,’ I say.

  ‘I’m fine with an espresso, thank you,’ says Anna Tor.

  ‘Maybe next time,’ I say.

  ‘Next time is on the house.’

  ‘I’ll definitely take you up on that,’ says sweet Anna Tor.

  ‘I look forward, Anna, always very welcome.’ Luigi’s smile is as broad as the width of his face will allow. ‘And another espresso for you?’ he then asks me, forgetting that I’ve had too much coffee already.

  The opposite of beauty

  ‘You know how old I am, I’m the same age as you,’ says Anna Tor.

  ‘But you look so young.’

  ‘I am young!’

  ‘Of course you are,’ I say. ‘What I meant was that you look so much younger than me.’

  ‘I think we’re both young and we both look our age,’ says Anna Tor. ‘If you’re happy to, let’s just settle for that.’

  I
nod my acquiescence inanely.

  ‘And I’m sorry if I was staring before. At your eyebrows, I mean.’ Then leaning towards Anna like the pear in Bowl of Fruit (1907): ‘By the way,’ I say, ‘have you noticed Federico’s?’

  ‘Is Federico the other waiter?’

  ‘Luigi’s brother,’ I say.

  ‘I’ve noticed him giving you looks,’ Anna says.

  ‘He took an instant dislike to me as soon as I walked through the door.’

  ‘If you stared at his eyebrows the way you stared at mine, then I can’t say I’m surprised.’

  ‘Honestly, I love your eyebrows.’

  ‘But you don’t like Federico’s, because he likes to pluck them and you don’t. Has no one ever teased you about yours?’

  ‘I’ve had the occasional comment,’ I say. ‘But I like my eyebrows, so I don’t really mind.’

  ‘Well,’ Anna says, ‘I’ve been teased about mine once too often, and I don’t find it fun.’

  ‘We’re having a strange conversation,’ I say.

  ‘And you know what it reminds me of? Hang on…’ Anna digs into her handbag, and when she finds it (believe me, it’s an enormous handbag), she hands me a book. A Single Man. ‘Have you read it?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘George is the protagonist,’ says Anna, ‘and he gets on my nerves. On his way to work – he’s a literature Professor in L.A. - he drives past what for him is obviously the embodiment of beauty: two young men exposing their athletic bodies in a fast game of tennis - a blond Adonis, and a Mexican hunk with gorgeous curly hairs on his chest. And on the way back, he drives past the embodiment of the opposite of beauty: a girl with hair on her legs playing tennis with a middle-aged man - in other words, an unattractive man defined by his age, and an unattractive girl defined by the hair on her legs. It’s supposed to be Isherwood’s masterpiece, and ahead of its time, but I found parts of it outrageous.’

  ‘The hairy parts,’ I quip.

  Anna likes my jokes; I seem to always be making her laugh.

  ‘Go on, you can ask me if you like,’ she says.

  ‘Ask you what?’

  ‘Whether or not I have hairs on my legs.’

  She’s wearing jeans, but if I had to make a guess, I’d guess that she doesn’t have hairs on her legs. I can’t see any evidence of hairiness anywhere below her eyebrows. Her skin, much paler than mine, has the smoothness and sheen of a photographed flower, and her mouth, uncoloured, has the understated succulence of edible kindness.

  ‘No,’ I say.

  ‘No? But how can you be sure?’

  ‘I meant I’m not going to ask you.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You’re supposed to be the one asking the questions,’ I remind her.

  ‘You’re not at all what I expected,’ says Anna Tor. ‘I never thought you’d be funny. I thought you’d be impossibly intense.’

  ‘And melancholy,’ I say.

  ‘But you’re not.’

  ‘Oh, I have my moments.’

  ‘We all do.’

  ‘I take your point about the hairy legs and the eyebrows. One shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, as they say.’

  ‘So you haven’t read it?’

  ‘This?’ I’m holding up A Single Man. ‘No. No, I haven’t. And I have a confession to make.’

  ‘Good!’ says Anna. ‘I hope you have many.’

  ‘That’s another story,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, who knows, perhaps it’s not,’ says Anna.

  ‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘Perhaps it’s not.’

  ‘So what is it, this confession?’

  ‘I don’t really read that much fiction these days. But I have read a lot of Kafka. I also like History books. And I do go to the cinema a lot…’

  ‘I thought there wasn’t so much Kafka to read.’

  ‘There isn’t really. Not so much. But you can read what there is more than once… Oh, and I also like to read magazines…’

  Anna squints imperatively as if to say, ‘Come on, never mind magazines, magazines hardly count as a confession, now please tell me more about Kafka!’

  ‘I suppose you want to hear about Kafka,’ I say, almost unconsciously answering her squint. ‘What happened was, I came across The Castle in my father’s study… Well, first I came across Picasso, when I was twelve or thirteen, but I noticed The Castle beside it, and when I’d had enough of Picasso, years later…’

  Anna Tor has taken a notebook out of her bag and is screwing up her face while she scribbles away - with a biro that every so often she pauses to chew on.

  ‘When you say you came across Picasso…’

  ‘Two volumes of Picasso.’

  Her eyes are now agog, and her lips have slipped apart.

  ‘So you had seen his paintings before. Before you started painting them I mean.’

  ‘Yes. And that’s an extra bit of truth for you already.’

  ‘And what did you read after The Castle? Can you remember?’ Anna is as impossibly intense as she said she’d imagined I would be.

  ‘First I read The Metamorphosis. Then I read everything else, novels, short stories, letters - literally everything. Then The Castle again. Then back to The Metamorphosis, and so on, over and over. For years after Picasso I did little else.’

  ‘And then what happened?’

  Voluntary ghost or not, I’m finding this rapid-fire of rat-a-tat questions unsettling; I feel again like I’m being cross-examined. As for Anna Tor’s copious note taking, is it not premature? I have her word of honour that nothing is decided until we’ve completed the process, but that there will be a process she seems to be taking for granted.

  Anna Tor has read my hesitation.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she tells me non-specifically, but she does pack away her notebook and pen.

  ‘Every word you say is confidential. It stays strictly between us if that’s your decision.’ She’s reminding me a little as though she’s reminding herself.

  ‘In what way is our meeting important to you personally?’ I ask, but the question is dissolved in the rumble of Luigi’s arrival.

  ‘Allora! Uno Sprinkle of Rocket espresso for Leon, e uno for beautiful ghost. Very late, so sorry, but today is very busy and I forget.’ Then picking up A Single Man from the table, ‘Is one of yours?’

  ‘No,’ says Anna. ‘It’s quite an old book.’

  ‘A Single Man. I think is hint for Leon, no?’

  Anna laughs. I laugh too, and so does Luigi, delighted that we appreciate his wit.

  We finish our espressos and Anna has suggested a walk. The Sprinkle of Rocket is packed now, and more than half a dozen people are hungrily and angrily eyeing up the tables being hogged by obstinate chattering stragglers. After a short sharp exchange the two Sicilian brothers have swung into a synchronized routine of waiting on their allocated tables with an equalized degree of bonhomie, which in practice means a radical, and rather unilateral, reduction on the part of Luigi.

  Intruding on this choreographed efficiency, catching Federico’s eye I gesture with a smile for the bill, and almost instantaneously both brothers have descended on our table.

  ‘I promise Federico I introduce you, is not often we have gentleman and beautiful ghost in Sprinkle of Rocket.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ someone dares to attempt to interrupt.

  ‘One moment, please!’ Luigi peremptorily instructs them, and returning very swiftly to his task: ‘Anna, this is my brother Federico, always give me hard time but I love him. Federico, this is Leon. Anna and Leon meet today in our place for the first time, and is big success, no?’

  ‘Hi, Federico.’ Anna has taken Federico’s hand in both of hers, and as Federico adoringly lowers his head, she stands up and they kiss each other’s cheeks.

  Politely I also stand up, and already Luigi has embraced me and it’s time for the exchange of more explosions. Then he swings me around and brings me face to face with the eyebrows, only this time I know better than to stare. We b
oth smile at each other instead, and I give Federico a bear hug, but he pulls back his face and holds mine into place by pinching my cheeks, then he breaks into a giggle and affectionately pats me on the back.

  ‘Now you kiss each other, please,’ Luigi entreats us, and obediently we do. ‘And Anna and Leon will kiss maybe later, si?’

  When I ask to pay, Federico blocks my mouth with his hand, and the brothers then escort us past the hungry angry queue to the door, where another effusion takes place before we are allowed on our way.

  ‘Will be always our pleasure to see you.’

  ‘And we like to see you soon,’ adds Federico sincerely.

  Karl Marx

  For me this is perfect weather: the crisp and chilly sunshine of early October, and as we walk steeply uphill towards Highgate Village, we exchange our impressions of the Sprinkle of Rocket, and - almost parenthetically – also our impressions of each other.

  ‘You’re very social,’ says Anna Tor.

  ‘I’m as surprised as you are,’ I say.

  ‘Did I say I was surprised?’

  ‘No, but I think you implied it.’

  ‘How did I imply it?’

  ‘By saying earlier that I wasn’t at all what you expected.’

  ‘Did I say that?’

  ‘You said you thought I’d be impossibly intense.’

  ‘And melancholy,’ chuckles Anna Tor.

  ‘And probably anti-social.’

  ‘But you’re actually the opposite.’

  ‘Today I was the opposite. Well, only partially the opposite. Until I was put in my place.’

  ‘You mean by me?’

  ‘I mean by the girl who has hair on her legs.’