I am managing the workload, just keeping a handle on things, as it were. But that isn’t to last. I am serving when it starts to fray at the hems, unraveling, as if in slow motion.
There is a line at the counter, a large, shiny-headed man tapping his foot against the tiles, arms crossed in front of his chest. His suit jacket strains against his girth, tie hanging from a meaty neck. In front of him, one of my regular mums orders a long black and a “fluffy,” steamed milk in a small glass, for her son, who tugs at her hand. His knees are smeared green with chlorophyll, and above them his school uniform shorts are swiped across with a rust-colored stain I assume to be Marmite. Behind the thickset man is Yok Lan, who gives me a consoling little wave.
I put the two drinks on a tray and gently push it toward my customer. She is distracted by her boy, swinging dangerously from her arm.
“Oh, I wanted it takeaway,” she says, apologetically.
I pour the long black into a cardboard cup and make a new fluffy. Although I am getting used to more customers, the queue still makes me nervous. The milk frother sings with steam as she moves to the side and the gentleman behind her comes to the front. He puts fleshy, wet palms on the counter and scowls at me. He orders a latte and a roast beef sandwich while I pour the steamed milk into a paper cup for the boy and quickly make the man’s latte. Both are passed across. Then the man’s mobile phone goes off, the Star Wars theme piercing the air. The mum jumps, the boy yelps as she treads on his foot. Then he falls back against the man; the man drops the latte onto his shirt. The stain soaks through to his skin, dark hairs sticking to the wet, pale blue fabric. The boy starts to cry as the man starts to yell. Yok Lan hobbles backward and, fortunately, out of the way.
All I manage to say is: “Oh.”
Then I am dashing around to the front of the counter, checking first on the boy, whose tears are falling full and fast. His face has crumpled into itself, mouth twisted upside down. His mum begins to berate the man, who is yelling at me for not worrying about him first. He slams his cup against the counter, which breaks off the handle and splashes the last of the coffee onto my back. Now he is swearing, and the smell of hot coffee floods my nostrils. The woman gathers her son into her arms and marches out the door. The man too is gone by the time I straighten up, pieces of the cup in the palm of my hand. Latte on the floor, fluffy and long black left on the counter, and none of them paid for.
Yok Lan clucks her tongue and pats my arm.
A tall blond woman comes rushing in. Long white dress, gold sandals.
“I saw it all from outside. Are you okay?” Her eyes are round with concern.
It is the woman from my second day, this time without her dog. Yok Lan looks up at her and smiles.
She reaches for napkins and presses them against my back.
“What an animal,” she mutters, taking the broken pieces from my hand and putting them into the bin by the espresso machine. She looks at Yok Lan and back to me.
“Can I get you a coffee?” I offer wearily.
“How about I wait till you’re cleaned up and the rush is over,” she says. Then she adds kindly, “Maybe we can have one together?”
“Okay.” I am so tired my tongue feels thick and swollen in my mouth.
Half an hour later the chaos has subsided. The last of the lunchtime customers leave, the mess is mopped from the tiles, the afternoon light settles in, pale and still. Yok Lan sits facing the window, the steam of her tea floating up toward the collar of her shirt. She closes her eyes and leans back into her chair with a sigh. The blond woman looks at me over the top of a magazine. I make a cappuccino for her and a cup of tea for myself, pile some macarons onto a plate. They won’t be sold at this time anyway.
“Sorry about all that,” I say.
“All what?”
“The ruckus. Maybe it’s a British thing …” I give a small laugh. “I’m not very good at confrontation, you see.”
“Oh, that’s okay,” she says sympathetically.
“And I’m just so tired,” I confess. I offer a macaron to Yok Lan at the other table, and she accepts eagerly. She places it gently on the edge of her saucer.
“Well,” says the blond woman, “I don’t think it’s just a British thing. I’m hopeless at it too. Although I’m normally the one causing the ruckus.” Her brown eyes have fine wrinkles radiating from the outer edges. She is older than I’d first thought, perhaps in her forties. She looks like one of the confident, cool girls from school, all grown up. Yet she seems slightly awkward. “I always say the wrong thing,” she explains with a shrug. “I’m Marjory, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you, Marjory. I’m Grace.”
My tea is only half finished when my phone rings. I get up to answer it. Pete needs my passport number to file some kind of paperwork with the government. I am reading the numbers to him when Marjory comes to the counter. I finally hang up and apologize again. She smiles and leaves some money against the till. I try to give her change, but she waves it away.
“Hey, I’ll see you tomorrow. Sorry I didn’t come back earlier. The place is great.” She gives me a shy smile.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Take care of yourself, Grace. Don’t work too hard,” she says warmly, then she is walking out the door.
* * *
At home, after Lillian’s has been cleaned and the door locked on the end of a long day, Pete gives me a considering look. I am slumped on the lounge, swollen feet soaking in a laundry bucket full of hot salted water. He starts at my feet and finishes at the top of my hair, the very ends sticking up in places they shouldn’t. He moves his head from side to side and releases a sigh. I know he is going to give me a hard-edged little truth even before it leaves his mouth. This is Pete’s way.
“Grace,” he starts, “you need help. You need to hire someone.”
There is a small electric pulse of pride, knowing that this beat-up feeling is due to the café becoming something of a success. Hey, this waitress is running a café, I think defiantly, giving him a quick, slightly smug glance.
But although he is right about getting help, it makes me feel strange. I’m used to doing it all myself. My way. I look up at the ceiling, or perhaps the heavens. Mama, dear Mama. I am so tired I ache in every single muscle. Especially the ones holding up my eyelids. I look back at Pete, standing tall, his long arms crossed in front of him. Steam drifts up from the bucket.
“You might be right,” I say reluctantly.
* * *
Léon, with his contacts in the restaurant business, helps to line up several interviews for me; cousins and friends of people who work for him at Aurora. I’m grateful. I barely have time to stick an ad in the paper. And to be completely honest, I’m jittery about sharing Lil’s. It makes me feel a bit vulnerable, somehow. Like letting someone wear your favorite pair of shoes.
The law here ensures that only Macau citizens are employed as dealers in the casinos, the need for which is immense. The salaries are so good there is barely anyone left over to be employed in cafés, bars, and restaurants. They’d have to have a burning desire to work in hospitality—and there aren’t many with that burning desire at the best of times. Léon suggests I interview someone from the Philippines who can speak English with me. Everyone from the Philippines seems to know just about every other Filipino in town, he tells me; it is a wide net of connections. Léon assures me that finding someone will be an absolute cinch, but I’m not convinced. I can’t imagine finding someone with the same commitment to Lillian’s; someone who will treat macarons as if they are semiprecious stones.
* * *
“It couldn’t have been worse,” I complain, phone pressed to my ear.
“What happened?”
“Well, the first one …”
“Cristina?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. She was terrible. Turned up half an hour late, was obviously desperate for the job, proceeded to coo her way through the interview. Everything was ‘wonderful, ma’am’ and �
��for you, no problem, ma’am.’” I don’t want to be ungrateful for the help, but the interview had made me feel so uncomfortable.
Léon tries to stifle a little snort of laughter. “You didn’t like her because she was desperate for a job? Grace, they’re all desperate for a job. They’re supporting their families back home on the salaries they can make here. You cannot blame them.”
I lift my eyes toward the ceiling and nod reluctantly, as if he can see me through the phone. “Maybe she was desperate for the job or maybe she was just guilty because she was so late. Anyway, it made me feel … strange.”
“Okay, okay. So what about the second one, then?”
“Worse. Couldn’t speak a word of English,” I say. “I ask her a bunch of questions, figure she’s really interested, and that we totally understand one another. Her eyes are lit up and she’s nodding …”
“Sounds good.”
“Until I stopped asking yes-or-no questions.”
“Pardon?”
“But kept getting yes-or-no answers.”
“Ah, I see. Well …” Léon laughs again.
“It’s a waste of time, I’m afraid. There’s one left, and I’m thinking I should just cancel. Thank you for everything you—”
“Grace.” Léon’s voice is calm and low, almost a purr. I pause and feel myself leaning into the sound of it.
Before he can continue, I interrupt. “Okay, don’t tell me. I’m being ridiculous. I’ll meet this last girl.” I give a resigned sigh.
“There you go. Rilla, right? My people here say she will be the best.”
“Okay, okay,” I mumble, realizing Léon and his accent could convince me of almost anything.
“Good.” I can tell he is smiling. “Have fun …”
* * *
Five minutes before Rilla is due for her interview, I sit at one of the tables looking down the street for her. My chin is propped up in my hands, and I can feel the slight scowl across my face. I resent having to close Lillian’s for half a day to interview people. All the cups and saucers are stacked and unused, the macarons resting in the chiller—it feels fruitless, and I miss my work; my real work. The Japanese green tea I made has settled cold in the bottom of my mug when I see a young boy walking up the street, heading toward the café. Young boys don’t come to the café alone, as a general rule, so I sit up a bit and watch. He gives a shy smile and waves. I instinctively look behind me, to the wall, and then back again. He wears long shorts and a long-sleeved white T-shirt, which hangs loosely to midthigh. His shoulders are curved forward, the fingers of one hand grasping onto the bottom of his sleeve. His hair is thick and dark and shiny, cut blunt above his ears. Then he stops and knocks sharply on the window. He smiles at me again, and I realize there is a prettiness in his face.
“Sorry,” I mouth, while shaking my head. I point to the Closed sign on the door. I give a weak, apologetic smile.
He looks at me, clearly confused, and says something that I can’t hear through the glass.
I shake my head again. He holds up a few sheets of paper, which look like a document. I shake my head more vigorously and lift my hand. I hate being sold anything, as I’m always too polite to refuse.
“No, no, no. We’re shut. Sorry.”
He looks even more bewildered and leans into the crack between the closed doors. He says something again, in English. It sounds like “Sir.”
I walk over to the door.
“Ma’am?” he says in a high voice. “Ma’am, Sir Léon sent me. You are Ma’am … Grace?”
As I come closer to the doors, I can see his eyes through the small gap, ringed with short but thick lashes. They are like the lashes of a little child. His skin is smooth and flushed.
“Yes, I am Grace,” I say, opening the door a sliver.
“Oh, good. I am Rilla.”
As he says this, I hear the gentle pitch in his voice, and all the other observations tumble into place. I am a fool. For the first time today—perhaps for the first time this week—I laugh. It creeps up on me, tickling in my chest, and then I let it go, loud and free. I swing the door wide, so she can come in.
Rilla enters and stands in front of me, her shoulders back and face lifted. Only now she is inside the café, standing in the light, can I see my mistake and I’m laughing so hard she joins in, cautiously, not sure what is so funny. Her round eyes sparkle with her smile. I ask her to sit down and go to make a fresh pot of tea, still chuckling as I walk into the kitchen, trying to cover my mouth with my hand. When I come back with two cups, Rilla is sitting up straight, her young face bright. Her résumé is on the table between us.
“Sorry about that,” I say, grinning at her.
“No problem,” she replies. She looks around Lillian’s. “This is a really nice place, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Rilla. It’s taken a bit of work.”
“Oh yes. I remember it was Portuguese café. Dirty and many old mens. You know …” She screws up her face and makes a motion with her hand toward her mouth. Then she looks up at me quickly and retracts her hand into her sleeve.
“Smoking?”
“Yes, always smoking. Not a very nice place. But now … very nice,” she murmurs.
I think back to the heavy, stale smell clinging to every tile, wall, and piece of furniture. She is right about the smoking clientele. I feel as though I have scrubbed every past puff from the very fittings and floors.
“Well, now we are a nonsmoking café.”
“Oh really, ma’am?” she says, sounding surprised. Almost all restaurants and cafés here and certainly all casinos allow smoking. Most places are clogged thick with it.
“Yup. No smoking around here. Only macarons. And coffee, of course. Sometimes screaming babies and kids too, I have to warn you.”
“That is no problem,” she says easily. She takes a sip of her tea and leans back into her seat. She is now looking around the café with interest. She seems to be taking in every light fixture and every table with wonder. She looks comfortable in this place. Happy.
“You’ve made it look pretty. And it feels safe,” she says quietly, as if to herself. She pulls down her sleeve over the thumb of her left hand absentmindedly.
“Yeah, it’s a safe neighborhood. I like it here.”
I look down at my notepad and list of questions. There are eight questions, written neatly under the title “Interview Questions,” with a space at the bottom for comments and a score. When I lift my head toward Rilla, she has two hands around her cup and is staring into the bottom of it, a gentle smile across her face. It is not a cold day, but she looks warmed by the tea. Tea has that effect on people; I love watching it bring comfort. She is so small, the cup seems almost to dwarf her, her soft, full cheeks and round, dark eyes childlike behind it. Taking a breath, I ask her only one question on my list. Number eight. Trust my instincts, right, Mama?
“Rilla, when could you start?”
Her eyes flick up toward me eagerly, and her face lifts. “As soon as you like, ma’am. Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” I repeat firmly. I lean over to shake her hand as if to seal the deal, her tiny hand in my big one. Then we both smile together.
* * *
By the time Rilla has worked three days at Lillian’s, I’ve finally started sleeping at night, rather than lying awake, eyes wide and dry, mind churning over the chores to be done. I have told her that she is a godsend, but I’m not sure she understands what I mean. She smiles, as she always does, and carries on cleaning dishes, humming and scrubbing away. She works so quickly I don’t have time to give her instructions. Before I ask for the storeroom to be swept out, it is mopped sparkling clean; before I ask her to wipe down the milk frother, she has all the machine’s moving parts soaking in a bucket. She doesn’t say much, but when she does it is normally “No problem, ma’am,” her standard reply to any request. I try to encourage her to call me Grace, like everyone else, but this results in being called Ma’am Grace or Miss Grace. The address feels so
foreign. Sometimes I don’t realize she’s talking to me. Earlier, I was staring off into the distance, hands plunged deep into the lukewarm, sudsy water, wondering whether to clean the tiny slice of window above the sink. The view outside is distorted by thick splatterings of grease and sticky dust.
“Ma’am? Miss Grace?”
“Oh, sorry. I was off in my own little world.” I try to brush the hair out of my face with the back of my arm but instead succeed in dragging dishwater across my forehead.
Rilla laughs and dabs me with a clean tea towel. She pushes back the stray hair, tucking it behind my ear. Her touch is casual, almost sisterly.
“There is a man to see you. Out front.”
“Pete?”
I pluck off my gloves and wipe the dampness from my hands on the front of my apron. He has come in a few times but doesn’t stay long, always neck-deep in work and phone calls. I don’t tell him, but I almost prefer it that way, to have Lillian’s all to myself, my place.
“No. Another man. Ummm …” Rilla puts her head to one side, searching for the right words. “Tall with black shirt. Ummm, gray hair?”
“Oh, okay.”
Finally someone has come to help fix the dripping air conditioner in the toilet.
The man has his back to me as I walk out of the kitchen. He leans on the counter, one elbow behind him, propping him up.
“Hello, can I help you?”
As he turns around, I see it is Léon, his face lit up in a smile. He is holding a bottle, its neck tied with a fat yellow bow.
“Grace!” he exclaims. The way he says my name always unravels me a little, the rolling r, the softness in his voice. He takes hold of one of my hands while I frantically consider my wilted appearance. Wet hair, flushed face, apron wrapped around my middle. “I’m so sorry I didn’t come sooner. Aurora has been so busy. People are talking about this place, you know. Now I can see it for myself. Well, it is”—he shakes his head—“marvelous.”
I feel myself blush. I’m tongue-tied.
“Oh well … thank you. It’s all thanks to you, Léon. Your teaching, the macarons.” I nod to the counter fridge. “And of course, now Rilla.”
The Colour of Tea Page 10
