by Andrew Sharp
‘All finished now duck, change back again and leave your uniform there,’ said Mrs Brenda.
‘I don’t take these clothings with me?’ Perhaps this party dress was a one-off side matter, said my hoping heart.
‘No, the photo’s all we need.’ She sighed and smiled at me. ‘Fancy being in the promotional! I wish I was you. Now let’s go through and I’ll introduce you to Dave. He’s the Marketing Director.’ She wink-eyed me. ‘Very important, he is. Be on your best behaviour.’
I was eager to meet Mr Dave, to understand the irregularities that I had experienced that morning, but I declare that I found Mr Dave to be a let-down. I cannot exactly say why. Perhaps because his eyes shifted slyly —like a liar’s— in his doughy face when I polited, ‘Most pleased to meet you.’ I shook him, but found his hand curled disagreeably around mine, soft and damp like an ox’s tongue. Neither he nor his clothing appeared straight and upstanding. As example, his thin red tie traversed at an angle over his gestationing white shirt to be tucked into the side of his trousers, but the end stuck back out like another tongue, dangling limp. His sleeves were untidily furled up his forearms. In all, it appeared that he did not appreciate that he was in the exalted position of Marketing Director to the great Mrs Camlyn, that he had a position of office to respect. Even Mr Bin had sometimes looked more presentable.
Reciprocal greetings were not his style, instead he scanned me lazily up and down. Was I a product for sale? Would he part my lips to check that my teeth were straight and white? My impression, I could not deny, was unfavourable. He did not inspire me. Where was the praiseworthy Mrs Camlyn?
‘Mr Toothy,’ Mr Dave said, speaking high through his nose, ‘you’re a damned lucky man, but I know you appreciate that so let’s cut tedious niceties and go straight to the eatery. Mrs Camlyn thought you ought to see it. It’s across the road.’
Said eatery was entered via an eye-sore frontage debauched in the style of the party clothing I had attired for the photographer. Across the door was a flashing sign, surrounded by grinning and mocking monkeys. Party Places. On Safari, grrrr!’ Mr Dave turned on lights and I found myself in a room teeming with plastic animals deformed into chairs. Zebras, warthogs, buffaloes and such around picnic tables in the same party-themed colours. Mr Dave operated switches. A curved wall of glass leading up to the ceiling at the end of the room glowed with a scene from a misleading tourist brochure. A big red sunset somehow cast a strong green light on a lushful savannah with giraffes and wildebeests fatly grazing. Off to the side, elephants squirted water at each other from a blue waterhole. Sounds of the bush came from all angles, no escape, causing me to startle and rubberneck from side to side.
‘There we are!’ Mr Dave beamed. ‘I hope you’re absolutely wowed.’
‘This is for children?’
‘We call them Safari Cubs.’
‘May I ask my duties?’
He made a theatre of saluting me. ‘You’re our genuine safari-chef! Respect! Respect!’
‘I’m cooking for the Cubs?’
‘No, good god no! We’ve got our own chefs. You’re our promotional. Thing is, Mr Toothy,’ he pinched my neck and pinned me with his button eyes, ‘you have twenty-four carat cultural identity. One hundred percent authenticity. You’re from a genuine African safari location. Totally credible. We’re not going to dress up some Brit chef from Hackney. There’ll be no cultural appropriation from us. Mrs Camlyn insisted on you.’ He waved his hand at the eatery. ‘So, quick now, what do you think of our Safari Place?’
‘In the safari locations, it’s bushy, stony and dry. It’s a hostile environment. The animals live in fear and often starve.’
‘Which is why this is so much better than the real thing, don’t you think?’ He had a debating point, certainly. There was no dust, no flies and there was no danger from the plastic beasts. ‘It’s the make-believe the kids want and it’s got the wow factor for parents who want to impress other parents with their choice of venue for their kid’s birthday party. Luckily for us, the more it costs, the more they can impress.’
‘This is … like a party place for kids.’
‘You’re damned quick on the uptake, Mr Toothy. Party Places are party places!’ His grin was that of a patronising hippo. ‘We also have Ocean Party Place, and Antarctic, and Mountain. Not to mention Mars, so I will!’ He laughed at his wit. ‘Every city’s going to have them.’
Maybe my reaction was not as appreciative as he expected because he came close, personal-friendly, wrapping his soft hand around the back of my neck and delivering to me a sweat and fresh meat odour. ‘Of course, we’d appreciate suggestions you have to make it even better. You’ve got first-hand knowledge of the environment we’re virtualing. Are there any little authenticating details that will help? Have we got it right? What are we missing?’
I stepped back. ‘But safari chefs, they wear white and wear a toque. I’m to wear party clothing?’
‘We are what it says on the tin!’ I had the impression that I was amusing him. ‘Let me present to you the menu. We’d value your comments … although we’ll not be allowing you into the kitchens. Health and safety and all that. Are there any tasty items you serve on safari that we could do a Party Places take on?’
Said menu read, Giraffe Juice – The tallest drink on safari! Lion claw nibbles – Nuts, Party Places style! Buffalo Bangers – Big bangers for little cubs! Elephant Trunk – Chocolate roll! Tiger Tasties – Stripy cheese straws! and such.
‘We don’t have tigers in Africa.’
‘So wouldn’t it better if you did? Proves my point. Party Places improves on the real thing.’
‘When am I taking my appointment in Boston?’
‘Boston?’
‘Your high-end restaurant in Boston, USA.’
‘Major confusion here, Mr Toothy. We don’t launch in the States until next year. Mrs Camlyn recently opened an Ocean Place in Boston, Lincolnshire. Whatever you’ve heard, it’s not a backwater surrounded by stagnant ditches. But it is a long way out of town. Our waiters wear wetsuits and the kids sit in submersibles.’ He slapped his chest. ‘My idea that.’
Why had I been assigned to the Dave Division of the company? Was this a test? A temporary holding?
He fake-consulted his watch as if he had become bored and wished some other amusement. ‘I’ve got work to do. The taxiwaala will take you back to your lodgings. We’ll be in contact before long. About three weeks, I’d say.’
He was exiting but I was not so perplexed and disturbed as to forget to say, ‘I have a delicate matter to ask. Can I receive an advance on my remuneration?’
‘Nice try Mr Toothy! I’m sure Mrs Camlyn would have explained it’s illegal to put you on the payroll when you’re on a visitor’s visa. Don’t want to break the law, do we?’
I stiff-faced to assimilate this information.
‘Give us a break,’ said Mr Dave. ‘Your accommodation and return flight’s on us. You’ve been given a rare privilege. Your name and picture on our promotional material will be reward enough for your co-operation. You can’t even put a price on its value for your future career, wherever that is. Many of our local chefs would love to be on the poster but bringing you over is our —what did Mrs Camlyn say?— contribution to a fairer world. We like to be seen to be doing the right thing. We like to promote it.’
He scratched around in his back pocket and passed me a sat-on envelope. ‘But lucky you reminded me. Here’s cash for your bus and living expenses. Strictly a gift to compensate you for your informal voluntary role.’
‘I’m grateful.’ I had been well brought up.
‘Good to hear it, at last.’ He grin-faced. ‘Enjoy London and don’t disappear or apply for asylum.’
Chapter 13
After I had drunk from my basin tap to ease a thirst, I perched contemplative on the edge of the trench of my mattress in Lochview Gu
esthouse. My situation had admittedly upended. I enumerated what I had learnt that day. There was no white toque to wear, no fresh-pressed apron to attire, no stainless-steel kitchen to work in. There was no head chef position to fulfil, or even sous chef. There were no VIP guests to please with superlative creations. There was no USA posting. I was to be seen in fanciful dress on a promotion for Party Places. I came to the judgment that the promises I had been given had been withdrawn or, at the best, postponed. Furthermore, there would be no remuneration to send to Dorothea. The envelope moneys were only enough for minor transport needs and staple food sustenance. Dorothea would not be able to pay for the most expensive brick in history or to honour our overdraft. Yes, my journey to success had suffered a road-block. If I had been a man of superstitious belief, I would have concluded that Dorothea’s holy brick had brought a curse.
Some people faced with a difficulty, with a setback, ask themselves, ‘How do I feel?’ Such a question is without rewarding purpose, of no profitable benefit, and liable to cause a fit of pessimism followed by melancholy. Far better to ask, ‘What shall I do? How shall I proceed?’
I wished to cook. Even if only to comfort myself. But tartan-woolled lady had instructed ‘no cooking’. The traffic on the Grand Circular Road was somewhat moaning and discordant and there was a cold draught through the nostalgic window making further sitting unappealing, so what I did was to go walking.
I footed all over London in those days and only returned to my room to sleep. I walked away from the Grand Circular Road whose rubber and diesel vapours caused a thickness in my nose and a scratchy cough. I walked for many hours but never came to the end of the city. I discovered the great river, named The Tems according to the native peoples. When no one could tell me the source of the river —it seemed that they had never even asked themselves the question— I followed it up upstream like a colonist explorer. But without porters and provisions, I became somewhat tired and lost motivation. In any case, I had no one at home who would be lionizing such a venture.
I encountered a high number of persons in my footings. Indeed, London teemed like an industrious ant nest, there being even a labyrinth of tunnels underground for transportation named —to make plain— The Underground. All the people in the city were fortunates living in that go-ahead place like myself and from every sociology and geographic as if the dream of living in a foremost city was common to all the world. They had achieved such, but I observed a certain anxiety, a fidget, even a certain dissatisfaction, as if their hopes had not been realised. It was a disappointment to see such discontent, indicating a lack of appreciation of their good fortune. I made a personal note not to fall into the same error.
I had only one difficulty on my footings. Without the duty of work to occupy me, I wished to greet and converse with persons, but their ears were spigoted with phone buds and their legs hurried them to private destinations. If they looked my way, they looked away again as if they had seen nothing there. As if I was just another scurrying ant. But I was the only ant in the colony who wished to touch antenna with other ants. Once, I turned in gladness to the sound of a man happy-greeting me to find him speaking to his phone. All these livings, I was close to them, brushed them, but I was in solitude. London trumpeted and clacked, not to forget rumbled and squealed so that some days my tympanics hurt but, without conversation, it was also a great silence. I had previously thought that the only place to be alone was in the cursed wilderness, but no, the modern city could also deliver. Sure, I had short interplay with whomever I could. For instance, I greeted people bedding on the street, being not surprised to see the lengths some went to live in the city. Better to be sleeping in the city than sleeping in the bush. I have very little money, I told them, I’m sorry, I cannot spare you. They were pardoning, but not inclined to chit chat of my employment confusion or to enthuse on their own grand plans for their futures in the city. One gifted me a coat to go over my wedding suit jacket, which he saw was too lightweight for the cold winds afflicting London. This kindness stirred in me a soft yearning, a misty wanting. To what, I could not exactly say.
I received a text from Dorothea.
I imagine ur working hard. Any BLESSING to send yet?
Your good wife, Dorothea.
I could not answer in the affirmative to her question because there was not yet any capital advancement to remit. I had not even met the praiseworthy Mrs Camlyn. I could only remain expectant that Mrs Camlyn would hear of Mr Dave’s error and rescue me. I wrote, Awaiting a start date. Your faithful husband.
I continued street after street every day until evening, having to slurp water from drinking fountains and snack bread baps from stores named Convenience, whose owners watched me closely until I had paid. I missed Dorothea. I wished to be joyed by her. I wished her excitable company, her bright and dancing eyes. A week later I received another text of a brief and bare nature.
Please ask for an advance. Pastor Cain is pressing.
After much roving and ranging to discern the truthful way to reply, I wrote, Keep faith.
Immediately she wrote, No need for you to instruct me on my faith. My faith is strong.
Was this a reprimand or a reassurance? I replied, Of course, dear wife. Then I wrote, I’m missing you.
It was three days before she sent another text. Anything yet?
I could not find a satisfactory reply as it would be too costly in texts to explain in unbelievable missives about promotionals, kids’ parties, fancy dress, plastic animals. I had to wait, expectant for my fortunes to turn. I could not ‘dear wife’ her again as yet. All pleasantries would not get past the elephant of her unanswered question, waving its urgent trunk at me.
Several days into my footings I saw a man in a thick black coat and black knit-hat sitting on a bench in a park named Kensington. I perched on the end of the same bench and after some moments to allow him to become comfortable with my proximity, this being the culture in the city, I said, ‘Good day to you, I’m Savalamuratichimimozi Mlantushi.’ I had to repeat.
‘Yes?’ he said, into his lap.
‘Yes indeed, it’s very sunny but strangely cold, is it not?’
‘Yes?’ He still did not look at me. He spoke as if I was disturbing him or wanting something from him such as money or that I wished to put him under obligation. The city created suspicions. From his accent on his singular word vocalisations, I identified him as an offspring of the southern part of the same continent as my own.
I waited for him to show friendly but when he did not, I tried again. ‘May I ask your profession?’
He looked only at his hands and rubbed them together. ‘Teacher.’
‘A fine profession.’ I waited again but he needed facilitation to talk. ‘You have pursued an honourable ambition and achieved.’
‘I thought,’ he said.
When he said no more, I said, ‘I’m a chef. I journeyed here to take employment in a high-end establishment, but I’ve been delayed in that regard.’
He remained lip-shut.
‘Perhaps you have advice for me on how to proceed.’
‘My break’s up, I’m going.’ He stood and moved to depart, but said without eyeing me, ‘Very well brother, let me advise you. Take what you can. Any work. I empty bedpans. It pays.’ He footed away.
I stayed fixed to the bench. We were alike, him and I, in nativity, in anthropology and in pursuit of a high profession, but that man —yes, a man not unlike me— had lost all expectation. He had abandoned his dream. He had taken a side path downhill. I was not like that man; I was always in sure hope that tomorrow would deliver. But I felt a little apprehension that I could become such a man. I had encountered a dark potential for myself and I determined not to allow it. Yes, I had suffered every setback in the book, but the most needless and ill-disciplined thing to do would be to lose my vision, to swerve from the path to my destination. Had I not lost my father to an instance of d
eviation? Not again. I would stay on the straight. I would not quit. I had been disconcerted beyond strict necessity.
I heard a bird somewhere near, the first bird that I had taken note of, maybe even heard, in London. A certain surprise came to me that I liked to hear it. I found it somewhat pleasing, this dainty, bright, chirrupy singing. Surely it signified that the promised spring would arrive soon and with it my destiny. The small bird dropped from a tree and hopped nearby. I held out my hand to it. Come here little scrap of all living things, be a companion to me, sing to me. My movement frightened it. It flew away.
Maybe my encounter with the bird explains what happened next. Close to Lochview Guesthouse I was in the custom of passing a shop named Pet Paradise. Small children pulled at their seniors to look in the window. I saw how eager they were to possess a pet. They wished a little friend, something dependent on themselves, something they could talk to as they pleased. I remembered Mr Bin and his pets. They were his friends to talk to. They were his companions in the solitude of that lonely house in that empty place.
A juvenile impulse came on me and I pushed open the door to encounter an odour suggestive of hay, sacks and dusty seeds. A hamster ran down its short life, spinning its wheel. A rabbit big-eyed me, but without malice.
The shopkeeper was a man of fisty features, namely a sharp nose, hard-bead eyes, oiled-back black hair, and a thin bar of a moustache. He wore a black-leather jacket with dull-metal buttons and a scorpion badge on his lapel. Would he not frighten little children coming to buy a hamster? I already regretted opening the door to his pet zoo.
‘Can I help?’ he said, eyeing me doubtfully, his up-lip presenting to me a chipped tooth.
‘I’m looking for a pet,’ I heard myself saying.
‘How old is your child?’
What a fine-most question. I had no child except the one that I remembered from years ago. Namely myself. It seemed to me that this child was not older than the day of his father’s brain stroke when he had to take leave of his friends to look after him.