Between Cups of Coffee

by Tajalli Keshavarz

  ‘She is at the back, will be here soon. Can I get you something?’

  She talks like her mother. I suppose they have an intertwined life, one in which physical attributes and boundaries become hazy, difficult to identify until there is a revolt, a heartbreak, a mother feeling martyred, a daughter’s guilt – and that goes with a subsequent freedom – rediscovered. What a beautiful contradiction! I shall remember that!

  ‘Yes Hanna, could I have a whisky please? I’ll have dinner after.’

  ‘Of course!’

  I sat there by the window with my whisky and watched people passing by. I felt exhausted, I needed a holiday but for no good reason. There was no extra pressure; the work was going fine apart from the usual hitches. But I was tired. What would people do on these occasions? They would go to the pub with their pals talking sports, women and work. Some would go home to their family, play with their son, relax looking at their little daughter talking baby talk, complain to their wife about anything that comes to their mind, try to taste the old naughtiness with her for a brief moment and go to bed. This image made me happy. I was happy that I didn’t fit in that picture. I stretched my feet under the table until it hit the foot of the chair on the other side. I was surprised that just a single whisky had relaxed me so much.

  Anita came over. She looked preoccupied. She made a friendly gesture. ‘Can I talk with you for a few minutes?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Only one other table was occupied and Hanna was dealing with it.

  ‘I wanted to ask you something,’ she sat on the chair next to me, ‘there is this man who comes here very often, you might have seen him. He is a calm and quiet sort, doesn’t talk. He comes here when there are only few people around, eats his usual, always the same, no change; sits there for a few minutes afterwards and goes. The other day he asked me if I could join him at his table. I did of course, he is a longstanding customer. Then he asked me, suddenly, if I believed in God. I was afraid, you know. He was looking at my face as if I had done something wrong, as if I should repent.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Well I tried to avoid answering, not because I had no answer, but because I was afraid of him. I began to think that he was ill with some sort of imbalance, a mental disorder or something. People don’t start a conversation with someone for the first time asking about their beliefs, do they? He was looking into my eyes. I looked away, trying to avoid his glance. Then I thought, if I answer him, it might calm him down. I said, ‘yes, I do.’

  ‘Do you really?’

  ‘Yes of course, don’t you?’

  She asked me with such innocence.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘But are you disappointed?’

  ‘I had guessed, you being a scientist. It is normal isn’t it?’

  I thought she had a trace of Kate in her. Now she was making assumptions about me without knowing me much!

  ‘So what did the man do when he heard your answer?’

  ‘Nothing! He just said, hum, and left.’

  ‘So that’s alright, you shouldn’t worry really.’

  ‘No, I am afraid. John is not around any more and I think this man is dangerous.’

  ‘But how do you know he is dangerous?’

  ‘Just a feeling; anyway people don’t go around asking people if they believe in God,’ she repeated.

  ‘But perhaps some people are sick; they are sick because they don’t know how to communicate with each other. I sort of like what the man did!’

  ‘Maybe you are right, but so what if I believed or didn’t? What did it have to do with him? It is none of his business.’

  ‘Perhaps he adores you and wants to have a mental picture of you. Perhaps he wants to know your beliefs before trying to get closer to you. Some people have strong beliefs.’

  ‘I suppose you might be right. But what am I to do if he comes back with a knife?’

  I laughed, ‘bring him a chicken, but make sure it was cooked well!’

  She stood up and looked at me with a smile as she was walking away.

  On my short walk home I thought about Anita and her fear. Does fear alleviate loneliness? I suppose if you think you are watched, that someone might even hurt you, then in your mind you create scenarios with yourself at the centre of someone’s attention. In a funny way, you might be pleased because you are wanted. Why should she want to tell me about her fear? The fear makes her bold enough to talk about herself and bring another person onto the scene. But it was also interesting for me to see that she was alarmed by a person approaching her, out of the blue, questioning her belief in God. Would she be as alarmed if the man had asked her about her views on a question of fashion, or a film? I am sure she wouldn’t be so alarmed. So it is obvious what it was that made her edgy. The question of God! But after all, is God that relevant to our lives? I go to the office, I see colleagues, I get into a routine day after day and one day I drop dead. I suppose that is where God becomes important; God and his paradise. I know that most people I know do not subscribe to the idea of paradise or hell but then it seems that there is an internal defence mechanism to the potential danger: what if there was something after life? So when people are asked about God they would move a bit in their seat and say ‘I am not sure about God but there must be something.’ But why? Why should there be something? A scientist tries to justify it by the laws of physics; lack of vacuum and the like, but all is a premise with a vague guarantee based on rules and regulations and codes of behaviour. In essence, there is no answer. But as a safe measure man has decided that he needs God. Seems quite harmless; although the harm is so obvious.

  They say: So what if I believe in Him? Don’t ask any more fundamental questions. People tend to get impatient when it comes to this sort of stuff! And if they don’t, they start an essay on the benefits of believing in ‘God’. They do want something to pray to. So if that’s the case, why shouldn’t it be a piece of wood or a statue? It would be cheaper, economically much more viable and certainly more tangible. Yet, people are afraid, in degrees, and ask for a secure way out. Security in ambiguity!

  37

  Carol was getting ready for her move. I still couldn’t understand how one could decide like that; leaving a life behind, going to another country she had never been to, in the hope that a man like Fernando would accept her into his life. But then, in reality, she didn’t have any life here. She was living with me, sleeping in my bed; she had no job and wasn’t trying to find one. So perhaps she knew that she wouldn’t lose much. Clearly, I wasn’t interested. Perhaps it would make a difference for her had I been more forthcoming. But then she knew how I was and how I lived. Still, the thought of the possibility that she might go all that way just to find out that she had made a mistake, made me nervous. I don’t know why. I didn’t have any sympathy for her. After all, if someone wishes to ruin her life, it is her business. But why did I even think about it if I didn’t have the sympathy? Perhaps I admired her for her courage. Perhaps this was something I lacked; the ability to make serious decisions. It is funny that I thought she was making a serious decision while she couldn’t think what life was all about! Now I was attacking her in my mind. The woman had decided for her life, her future; something that I have never done. But why should I make decisions when I am not in a decision making situation?

  Carol was putting her stuff into the red suitcase she’d bought.

  It reminded me of my mother. I wondered why. My mother was a totally different character and as for the suitcases, there was no similarity between hers and those of my mother. My mother rarely travelled. The suitcases were there mainly to keep her personal stuff. Nobody would go near them. When I say nobody, there was only me and my father. I am not sure if my father was even aware of such things and if he was, he didn’t consider it his business. As for me, I was afraid of getting anywhere near my mother’s territory. I would have been happy just to be left alone; and most of the time I was. I was curious to know what wa
s in them. And of course, as is usually the case, you get to know about the contents when the person is dead. This somehow takes away the intrigue but gives it that melancholic feeling from then on for years later. I opened one of the suitcases with a demonstrable reluctance. Perhaps by that time I knew what to expect. There was little emotion involved. I did it as part of my responsibility, to go through the motions. My father had died five years before, and apart from monthly visits, there was little between my mother and me. ‘Cup of tea my dear?’ she was always elegant in her later years. She made sure her hair, now very thin, was tidy with some sort of thing in it, a small decorative flower or the like.

  ‘No, thanks. I’m OK.’

  ‘I am going to have one myself, are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  She would bring the tea in her best china; old china with small flowers. I remember it from my childhood. I wondered how she managed to keep it intact. She would bring the tea on a silver tray with the biscuits she liked. I brought them for her every time I visited her. I see the same brand in the supermarkets. I wonder how the biscuits would taste now. Would I immediately think of her if I tasted them? This will mean a rush of all sorts of memories, events of a lifetime. Imagine me sitting in a meeting with colleagues, and those biscuits on the table; what would I feel?

  ‘Are these the biscuits your mother loved? Did you buy them from Alberto’s? He has the best.’

  ‘I find them a bit on the sweet side.’

  ‘Going out of fashion though, aren’t they?’

  Then she would sit quietly having her tea, looking at me from time to time with a polite smile as if she was entertaining a guest. How she had changed!

  ‘Everything alright at work dear?’

  ‘Yes thanks, I am fine.’

  I suppose things changed between us after I left home. She did try to control my choosing partners, buying the flat, even what I ate, but she soon gave up. I was surprised about that as I expected to have her reign for longer; but it was welcome. We got more detached after my father died. I always wonder how some relationships are linked together. A child dies and the parents separate as if they were waiting for an event, an excuse. I suppose I am very harsh here, but this could be one interpretation. As for the children, they have great hopes for their family, their relatives; but then there is a divorce, a separation. People then start feeling sorry for the kids. Perhaps the kids wished it! Perhaps they were much better off after the parents separated. Do we assume things to follow a linear logic?

  Carol, putting stuff in her suitcase, asks me: ‘Do you miss me? Will you miss me?’

  ‘What a question, of course!’ I say.

  ‘Not enough to come over to visit me though.’

  ‘Not at the moment, no!’ and I laugh.

  ‘So, maybe sometime in the future?’

  This reminds me of a carpet seller in a bazaar who never despairs, who never accepts that you are not interested in his carpets. ‘You want to think about it? Maybe later?’ He brings you tea or sherbet, talks about all sorts of things, shows you, one by one, layer over layer of carpet and when you don’t buy, he doesn’t bat an eyelid, smiles and says ‘maybe later’. I think this is amazing. It is as if selling is a side issue; for them, showing their stuff and having a chat is the main thing. I would like to think that they have a good amount of capital hidden securely somewhere, otherwise how could they continue? I get so self-conscious going to a shop and coming out without buying anything. How do these people live? Have you ever thought about that? Day in day out they go to the shop, sit there waiting until some intrigued tourist enters, then the ritual starts, a cup of tea, perhaps some rose water or a Cola if you prefer. It is hot outside and the fans are in full swing inside. ‘Why not have a look sir? You don’t have to buy.’ How do they respond when they go home to their family day after day sitting there to eat dinner and the wife asks: ‘How was your day? Have you sold anything today?’ Maybe they don’t even talk about it. Have something to eat and go to bed, get ready for tomorrow to be fresh and active. But worse than that is the case of those who frequent coffee shops and restaurants with a bunch of red roses in their hands. The carpet seller has a big bank account, but what about those people? Have you ever seen couples sitting in a restaurant buy flowers from them? Even if they do, one or two stems...how much is that? How do they survive? I cannot even think about that. I try to look busy or to go to the toilet as they come near. I feel so embarrassed. It is as if I am responsible for their misfortune. I am the guilty party.

  Carol asks me if I would go to Rio to see her and I feel embarrassed to say no, it is finished, it had finished when you tried to leave the first time. Why do I feel responsible towards her and not only her, towards Anita too? I even feel vaguely responsible towards Fiona. But why is that? I suppose it goes back to my loneliness. I am essentially a lonely man. The funny thing is that I don’t mind it, I even enjoy it. I enjoy it differently at different times. Most of the time it gives me a sense of independence. It is great to go home and not have another creature move around the house. I can’t understand people who don’t have a family but keep cats and dogs. Just thinking of it...! The smell, the cleaning, the need for taking the miserable dog for a walk, the shopping. Shopping! Shopping for the pet! Have you seen the rows and rows of stuff for pets in the supermarkets? It is bizarre as far as I am concerned. I love this sense of independence that comes with being alone, and being alone has to bring with it loneliness no matter how much people say they are two different things. Of course, when I get tired of loneliness, there is always the good old ‘feeling sorry for myself ’ option. I can accommodate both feelings in my home and be a happy lonely man.

  Carol is looking sentimental with her stuff. The last thing I want her to say is, ‘would you please take care of this for me?’ An ugly stuffed woolly thing. What is it with women, particularly for her type, that they should always have something to cling on to? A large bear in bed, a syndrome carried over from their early teenage years. You might disagree; ‘it is the stereotyping from childhood.’ I suppose they want to say, ‘although my boyfriend was lousy, I can always have my teddy bear.’ What a miserable state of affairs! It is also an invitation. They want to show how sensitive they are. This is an open, morally acceptable invitation to their private lives, a statement about themselves! But Carol doesn’t say anything, though she looks sentimental all the same.

  ‘How long do you think you’re going to be?’ I ask her.

  ‘Why? Do you have a plan for me?’

  I don’t feel like joking. ‘Thought we could go grab something to eat.’

  ‘Yes, sure. This will take me hours. We can go when you are ready,’ she says.

  ‘I am now.’

  ‘Let’s go then.’

  It was a good suggestion considering she was getting flustered. We got out of the flat and there was a nice breeze.

  Coming out of the flat, Carol suggested a new restaurant we hadn’t been to before. When we arrived it was packed. We waited for 20 minutes in a congested part of the restaurant where the waiters with their plates passed by and the new customers with reservations accumulated. The table wasn’t ready when we sat. A hasty waiter came with a small automatic brush to clean the table. Carol’s mood had changed. She was now talkative and jolly. ‘There is good food there, good meat, the sea,’ she said.

  ‘I am sure you will enjoy Brazil.’

  ‘And the group is energetic; they get together after rehearsals in small restaurants with a good atmosphere.’

  I wondered if she was telling me this or was trying to reassure herself.

  ‘They organise dinners too, it is a ritual! And each time one volunteers to bring the food. They have lots of fun.’

  ‘I am sure they will have more fun when you go there.’

  I don’t think she got my remark. The waiter came and I ordered some wine.

  ‘I have already been invited to their party in June.’

  ‘They must be well organised.
I thought artists lived chaotically.’

  ‘Oh you must see them.’

  ‘But you haven’t seen them yet, how can you encourage me?’

  ‘I am sure you will like them. One in the group is a professor of history.’

  ‘Surely he doesn’t dance?’

  ‘No silly, he is the boyfriend of one of the dancers. She is gorgeous; I’ve seen her pictures in performance. She is on the way up. You will see her on magazine covers. You will, mark my word!’

  ‘And what about Fernando?’

  ‘What about him? He is there. He is trying to continue with his group. It is not easy. It is not like going to a classroom, teach and come out.’

  ‘Well, teaching is not exactly like that,’ I said.

  The dinner was good. We talked about her future in Brazil, what she would do, how she would spend her time, what galleries she would visit. She had read about all those. She could even give me the names of local birds!

  Going back home, we asked for a taxi but there was none available for another 40 minutes so we decided to go out and try our luck. Walking slowly, Carol was leaning on me with her hand wrapped around my arm.

  ‘You must answer my calls, you must return my messages David,’ she said.

  ‘What do you think?’ I said.

  ‘I don’t know about you, sometimes I think I know nothing about you. Sometimes I am afraid of you,’ she said.

  ‘Afraid of me? That is a novelty.’

  ‘I am, I am. You can be cruel.’

  A taxi came and stopped for us. He was going home and we were on his route. It was lucky.

  In the bed, Carol curled next to me and pulled me close to her.

  ‘You must promise,’ she said. And the next moment, she was in a deep sleep.

  Next morning I woke up early with palpitations. I didn’t have breakfast, left the flat quietly not to wake her up. I was in no hurry. I was not thinking of the day-to-day events. No noise in my mind from the office. I just wanted to walk to end my thoughts and my thoughts gave no indication of abating. It was as if I had been ambushed. It happened before I knew it and it affected me where I was vulnerable. Funny feeling, walking in the streets early in the morning, remembering years ago walking slowly in a street with plane trees on either side one early morning. It has been difficult for me to talk about my early youth. It is as if my life started when I was 18 and everything before that is blanked out. But then, from time to time, this image comes back....when I was 14 walking with someone who seemed to have been wiped off my memory. I remember walking in that street next to her with tall plane trees losing their leaves.