The Waiter

by Matias Faldbakken

  “They probably don’t like onion.”

  “But now there aren’t any Indians,” says Edgar.

  “Yes, there are,” says Anna. “Catarina in my class is an Indian.”

  “Where is she from?”

  “Venezuela.”

  “She’s probably mixed,” says Edgar.

  “I don’t know, but she’s got a lisp,” says Anna.

  “Thee lithpth?”

  “Yeth, thee lithpth.”

  “The Thpanith do that, too. It meanth that thee hath Thpanith blood in her veinth. Thee’th half-blood.”

  “I thee,” Anna says seriously.

  “Venethuela,” says Edgar.

  Edgar rubs the bridge of his nose, making a slight smacking sound with his right eye. After that, he clears his throat and blinks until his eye focuses. Edgar is tired of me. I ask whether Anna still eats meat. Edgar points to the beef patties. Once, she talked about how meat was disgusting because of animal abuse, I say. Unappetizing, or “appa,” as they said in the village. Edgar has money in the bank, I know that. He doesn’t have an appendix, I know that, too. Edgar can come out with things like: In everyday speech, meat is the muscle and fat tissue from slaughtered animals, which is sold as food for humans, and then pull a meaningful expression, as though he’s revealed something. As though he had single-handedly uncovered the perverseness of fetishizing food intake. Edgar can be so conceited. He talks away. The abuse of animals is one thing, he says. But what does that abuse say about the people looking after the animals?

  It’s time for an explanation. He wets his lips. Edgar takes it upon himself to talk about an article he read, about a new book written by an author whose starting point was a news report recounting the Norwegian Society for the Protection of Animals’ welfare investigations into the abuse of animals on Norwegian farms. And imagine, says Edgar, the Society claims that serious abuse often testifies to the farmer’s depression or mental breakdown. In other words, the neglect of animals is almost always a sign of human breakdown. The book he is referring to is a novel, and the trick in the novel—listen, says Edgar—is to depict a farmer’s mental collapse from the animals’ point of view. An Animal Farm of psychiatry, if you like. The farmer was a bachelor, aged forty-seven. The pigs were thirsty. Things dragged on. What was he doing? The only one who had contact with him was the cat, who moved freely in and out through the cat flap and sat on his lap. The TV was on as usual. The dog complained from its kennel. Its lead reached almost to the kitchen window, but it couldn’t see in.

  The sheep were freezing. It was early November. For seven whole days they had stood outside. The snow hadn’t arrived yet, but there was frost in the mornings and it was bitingly cold. A couple of them had diarrhea and got muck on their wool. A border around the fence was stripped bare: the sheep had forced their heads through and ripped up all the edible stubs and roots. There were howls from the pigpen. The sow had licked and nibbled at one of the piglets so much that it was dark and looked like a seal cub. What about the hens? Two had been pecked to death, and one was featherless and covered in open sores. The other hens skipped past and dealt out heartless bites and nips. The author had done thorough research, because there were details in the book that she couldn’t possibly have made up, Edgar argues. Edgar himself has worked on a farm, he says, and knows how long it takes before, for example, a horse becomes dehydrated or, say, the pigs turn on one another. The book was well written, in Edgar’s opinion. Conceptually comprehensive and not at all over-the-top. And that wasn’t an easy task, given that the book’s point of view is the animals’ and, as we know, animals have no language. How do you describe the feeling of starvation felt by a cow? Cows have five stomachs but no vocabulary. What should an author write when, through the mistreated pig’s emotional register, she needs to describe confusion and fear? Edgar hadn’t thought anyone would manage it before he began reading, but the author had certainly found a clever solution to that particular narrative problem. Any solution to Edgar’s endless harangues is not mentioned.

  TRANSPORT

  I THINK WITH HORROR ABOUT all the transport, all the transportation, the truly endless transportations, which must have happened for Blaise to be sitting here, glittering—as he sits at the Pig’s usual table ten—repetitively raising the espresso cup to his lips. Where does the marble beneath the tablecloth come from? Bolzano? Where is the porcelain from? Hungary? His suit is from London—or rather the stitching and cutting was done in London—but where is the material from? The material comes from here, the lining from there. The tie might be Scottish; it’s a tartan pattern. I recognize the cuff links: they’re from a big French fashion house. His shoes are from Lombardo, I’ve noticed, and his socks, believe it or not, I recognize as American. He has bought the socks from Neiman Marcus. And so on. I know that he, Blaise, gets his hair cut by Joao Fuentes, the Portuguese hairdresser and stylist, at a salon called Federer. The hairdresser has flown in from Portugal, while his socks came flying from the USA. And so on. Then there’s the coffee: the beans are dragged, heaved, driven, and shipped all the way from Bolivia; and it’s a claustrophobic thought, that the only thing in my field of vision right now, here at The Hills, as I stand looking at Blaise and his constituent parts—the only thing from Norway is the splash of milk in the little steel jug. But the cow was still milked up in the valleys somewhere, by a farmer, mentally ill or not, and the milk, it was tanked and sloshed and jostled down the milk route towards the capital just so it could end up in the petite Gebrüder Hepp milk jug that I’ve placed in front of him. Everything is dragged in. The building has been here a long time, but nothing comes from this place. The overall experience of a Grand European in central Oslo is a patchwork without parallel. It’s made possible by plundering items from every corner of the world; they’ve trawled the ends of the earth for matter and means, materials—and ideas. Because the idea itself is, of course, from Vienna, or Paris, or possibly Berlin, with one approach or another from the pubs and dives in Amsterdam or Rotterdam, to which the Norwegians have had access over the years as a result of sea travel. But at the same time, The Hills is one of the capital’s defining institutions, one which gives Oslo character and draws the long lines. The space, or the premises, where I now and will forever stand in my waiter’s jacket, is an intricate meshwork of scraped-together items, and I sometimes feel sick at the thought that the longest-standing, most constant and unchanging “traditional place” is a mosaic of items dragged and scraped together. This place is a conglomerate and a concentration of snatched-together items, and I often think about all the transport lines which are established, maintained, and worn out; which point to The Hills from all directions so that the plunderings can find their way here, to The Hills, and down into the cellar and up into the kitchen, to be carried by me to the tables, right over to Blaise’s marble top. They point from every corner of the world, to Europe, to northern Europe, to Oslo, to The Hills. Early morning here, with this level of tradition and quality, would not be possible without the tankers, suburban depots, railway shunts, loading ramps, loading slings, trucks, bleach buckets, dinners, the transporters, pallets, and cranes. How much land and stretches of Europe and the rest of the world are torn apart, slumified, and buried under traffic, with all the wear and tear that transport brings, so that Blaise can repeatedly lift his espresso cup to his lips and feel a sense of belonging to something European, is anybody’s guess. Transportation is important because it enables trade between people—so I’ve heard, probably from Edgar—which again leads to civilization. It’s through transport that civilization is established, and it’s through transport that civilization will go under, I should think, or at least that’s what Edgar thinks. Anyway, I digress. Out of the cars and down into the cellar go the goods. Everything goes down to the cellar. Via the trapdoor or the loading window. The men who do the lifting push two loading rails into the hatch and let the boxes slide down. What is the name of that piece of equipment? I once asked them while they were lift
ing.

  “What do you call those rails?”

  “No idea,” he said.

  So the equipment has no name. Down into the cellar it goes, in any case. We have an intricate goods cellar beneath the restaurant.

  SERVING ERROR

  FRIGIDITY, SOMEONE ONCE SAID, IS the truth behind nymphomania. Impotence is the truth behind Don Juanism. And anorexia, well, that’s the truth behind bulimia. I can’t remember who said it, but I think about those words as the unstoppable, I’m close to saying, young lady who asked after the Pig makes yet another entrance. The curtain moves to one side. Here she is. “Herself,” 100 percent, but also painfully generic. She’s suddenly, it might seem, after only a few days, the most frequent guest at the establishment. What does she want? With a choppy, zeitgeist stride, she heads in the direction of the Maître d’, who is bent over the register, fuming. She smiles with her full dental arch.

  She’s too early this time: it’s one fifteen, a quarter before the Pig’s table is set. And yet again she brings with her a feeling of déjà vu, stronger today. Her power. Her posture, the squeezing together of her shoulder blades. Her shoes. The intelligent contradiction of her outfit. She makes the room light up. My workplace immediately becomes a scene, an arena. At the same time, it’s as though she drags all of The Hills’ grandeur, age, and long-standing diligence down to the level of her hip bone. The Hills is an eatery, but in many ways this girl expresses a hatred of flesh, a fantasy of the fundamentals of the physique—the skeleton. She’s on the phone.

  “Oh God, you’re gross!” She continues to smile.

  With her hand over the receiver, she asks the Maître d’ about Graham. The Maître d’ tells her—with help from a mouth which is more a taut ring, a sphincter, than two separate lips, and a couple of bent fingers suggesting direction—that the Pig’s table will be ready in five minutes. Could she take a seat at the bar until then?

  The talkative Bar Manager, owner of a brand-new timing belt and an elegant Twa pot, is standing with her spine as straight as a spear, with her smart expression, and firmly asks what she would like. The girl gives her a blank look, as though there were water in front of her eyeballs, and places an order. And this is when the plot thickens. I pay close attention: she asks for a quadruple espresso. The Bar Manager doesn’t exactly widen her eyes—she’s a professional—but you can see that she has thoughts on the matter, as they say. She goes straight over to the machine and pours one espresso on top of another until it’s a quadruple. I’ve paused with the crumber. The Bar Manager is filling an ordinary coffee cup to the brim with espresso: it’s a shocking sight. The very thought of the espresso being quadruple makes me sweat. I stare at the girl’s face. She sips. How to describe that sipping? In a time like ours, as Edgar says, where the existing political language is unable to offer any other solution other than keeping people’s suffering at a distance through control, market expansion, concern for white people’s health, extreme tourism, and entertainment, how should I describe this girl’s drinking of a quadruple espresso? There is no political language to express the conflicts of our age. But this much I can say: the girl drinks the coffee as though it’s me who should be drinking it. Does that make sense? The cup, made from quality stoneware, placed on an adorable saucer, is raised to her mouth with hypnotizing calm. The small clouds of steam or whatever it is that rises from hot coffee—it must be water vapor? Mixed with some scent particles? What is it that smells like coffee in and around the rising steam? Coffee atoms? I’m rambling. What I’m trying to say is that the vapor from the cup produces some kind of receptive, inviting “breath,” which—how should I put it?—“sells” the coffee to me. The quadruple espresso is sold to me, the highly sensitive, by the espresso itself, aided by the girl’s interaction with it. What kind of agent is she? What is her product? It seems like the Bar Manager needs a shot herself: she’s watching just as intently as I am.

  •

  He’s well-off, the Pig, with plenty on his plate. Some kind of prosperity in practice—that’s what he does, on a day-to-day basis. Everyone he surrounds himself with plays one role or another in this activity. It’s crucial that the demonstration of this practice and maintenance of wealth is done with class. The conversation taking place between three ordinary moneymen on table seven, for example, would never be heard from the Pig’s table:

  “He’s a fool . . . he benched the boat at thirteen. You know how much salt’s on the liter? He came down with pure slush, PURE slush.”

  With perfect timing and a whiplash-like motion, the young girl downs the last of her coffee as the Pig comes through the curtain, with Blaise Engelbert hot on his heels. It looks like Blaise is uncomfortable with the order, as though he’s never walked behind another person before. But the Pig, without being some kind of shameless alpha, has a natural authority—or is it slyness?—which means he consistently pulls his right shoulder in front of Blaise as they approach the Maître d’, as they are shown to the table, as they take their seats.

  I act like an idiot by saying “Voilà” to the young woman, to indicate that her company has arrived, but she’s already worked that out. I, the Bar Manager, and the Maître d’ stand idly by, watching her slide off the barstool, grab her “creation” of a bag, and her seamless (not literally: it does have seams) jacket. With confident, stony steps, she walks over to the Pig and his group. The Pig and Blaise spot her at the same moment; they let go of the backs of chairs and napkins and turn to her “like flowers towards the sun,” as my grandmother would have put it. They are ready and waiting, and the girl hugs them in age order, meaning the Pig first, then Blaise. She isn’t related to either of them, that much is clear. The fawning and fuss which the Pig and Blaise show her isn’t something you do with your nearest and dearest. And a grandchild would never be so coquettish with their grandfather.

  She seems rushed, breathless, as though the clock is ticking. Why such a hurry? Maybe she’s buzzing from the quadruple espresso. She is like a flapping fish, fresh food demanding to be consumed, because she is approaching her expiry date with every passing moment.

  The Pig’s table is mine. Maybe it would have been appropriate to pull out a chair for the young lady, but I hang the crumber on its hook and start to shuffle the menus instead. “Lady,” I say. It’s hard to say whether she’s a lady or a girl. Child or lady. She’s some kind of child lady. In every respect, she’s an adult. Definitely adult in appearance as well as in her habits, which are far too refined to belong to a child, not to mention expensive. And the youthful tenderness, the slightly undeveloped impression of being fresh, seems cultivated, and in a refined rather than innocent way. A professional way. Dare I say a speculative way?

  “The thinnest string makes the finest music,” the Maître d’ says, sending me an impenetrable look from behind his eye bags. I know I have to take the drink order. The Maître d’ shouldn’t have to make an effort with glances and so on. I hasten over.

  “What do you know,” the Pig says with a smile, indicating that a bottle of white burgundy would be appropriate.

  I hand out the menus clockwise. Not to boast, but the way I elegantly open the cover with one hand, straight to the lunch page, and hand it to the Child Lady at a comfortable reading angle is both quick and smooth, experienced. She looks up at me and nods. Blaise gets his menu last. I don’t open his; since he’s sitting at an awkward angle to the right, Blaise gets a closed menu.

  “Would you like me to go through the specials?” I say.

  “No thank you,” says the Pig.

  “Let me just say that the plaice is very good today.”

  “Thank you.”

  Let me just say? What is it with my brazenness? Didn’t the Pig say no? The plaice is completely ordinary today. What am I talking about? I go over to the bar and ask the Bar Manager for two brandies. She quickly pours two Stravecchios and I place one in front of the Pig and one in front of Blaise. The Pig politely turns to me as he takes off his menu glasses.

  “
What is this?” he says.

  “Stravecchio,” I say.

  “What?”

  I feel a tic in my neck and apologize, say, “I’m so sorry, it must be a mistake.” A serving error. I shake my head, pick up the glasses of brandy, and return them to the bar.

  “Was it off?” the Bar Manager asks. She opens the Stravecchio and sniffs it. With my jaws grinding, I sway on the spot and continue my head shaking.

  •

  “Who is she?” I ask at a whisper, almost right into the Bar Manager’s ear, like a sleazebag.

  “What can I say . . .,” she says with a knowing look on her face. “We can try to work it out.”

  “Then let’s do it.”

  She holds up three slim unmanicured fingers and racks her brain.

  “I think Graham is three score years. How old do you think the girl could be? One? One and a half score? She can’t be any more than one and three quarters. There’s no way. And no younger than one score. Could she? Seven-eighths? No. She must be a full score, at the very least. I’ll be damned if she’s a teenager. I’d guess she’s one and a half, but it’s hard to tell. As you can see for yourself, assumptions about age bounce off her face like water from a block of butter.”

  “That’s for sure,” I say.

  “Graham’s daughter is well over thirty and studies in London, we know that. It’s not her.”

  “No.”

  “As far as we know, Blaise doesn’t have any kids, and definitely not any grandkids. He’s barely fifty.”

  “Could she be a stepchild? Katharina’s daughter from a previous relationship?”

  “No, Katharina has a son. And look how they’re behaving. They’re not family.”

  “I noticed that,” I say.

  The Bar Manager alternates between twirling the espresso tamper in her fingers and weighing it in her hand, right by her belt buckle. Her gaze is fixed somewhere beyond the horizon. I’m waiting for some kind of continuation.