by Janet Pywell
It was gently tapping against me as we rounded the bend, swaying drunkenly against me. The boy went with the rhythm. He had stopped being so protective as the bus become emptier and the last stop became nearer. Although there were empty seats he didn’t move away from me. It was as if we had become joined, stuck together in a journey of movement and motion and I wondered what would happen when we got off.
‘Excuse me,’ I said.
I raised my hand to ding the bell.
His face was at the level of my cleavage. His pointed nose would have fitted perfectly between my breasts but he turned and laid the box on the seat across the aisle, steadied it with his leg and I squeezed past him. It was a tight fit and I brushed against his bottom.
‘This is where I get off too,’ he said.
I tilted my head.
‘Do you want to walk with me – just in case?’ he asked.
‘In case of what?’
He nodded down at the box. ‘It escapes.’
When I jump down from the bus he’s behind me. It is already turn to dusk and the yellow street lamps cause dark shadows like giant monsters across the path. I wait until the bus takes off and watch the dim lights fade in the distance.
He tries to smile but the heaviness of the box and the gloominess of the street make him look like the grim reaper.
I turn and walk away from the lights of the shops on the main road and he follows me. He’s a few paces behind as I walk toward the residential houses. It becomes darker and the streetlights fade and the only sound are my high heels clipping on the pavement and his laboured breath behind me.
‘Do you know where you are?’ I ask without turning around.
‘I believe so.’
I slow my pace to match his. He’s skinny. Half of my width and I’m conscious of my lumbering body beside his graceful gait.
‘Are you frightened of snakes?’ he asks.
‘I don’t like them.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t like the way they slither and slide. I think they also move rather quickly.’
‘Does that worry you?’
I don’t reply.
‘It could kill you.’
‘How?’
‘It could wrap itself around you and squeeze.’
He struggled with the box to get a better grip as if there was movement inside. He holds his knee in the air and rests before hiking it further in his hands for a better grip. He’s skinny but strong.
‘If it did that, then I might lose weight – it could squeeze me skinny.’
‘You’re not fat.’
My heels click until I stop outside the Indian. My favourite restaurant. I inhale the exotic aromas coming from the kitchen vent; turmeric, garam masala and cardamon.
My friend Namdev peers out of the window and waves. The restaurant is not busy and I can hear the faint twang of the Sitar coming from the old cassette player in the corner.
When Namdev smiles, I wave back.
‘Do you eat in here?’ he asks.
‘I live across the road.’ I nod and he follows my eyes to the drab Victorian house now that’s converted to flats.
‘Can I take your phone number?’
When I don’t reply he thrusts the box at me.
‘Hold this and I’ll write it down.’
I hesitate. Not because I’m not strong enough to hold it. I lug boxes around all day in the Health Shop.
‘Here. Take it.’ His coriander eyes gleam in the glow from the restaurant but I fold my arms.
‘Where are you going now?’ I ask. ‘I’m going to have dinner if you want to come inside with me.’
He blinks at me. ‘This is Indian food?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m an Arab.’
‘So? Are you hungry? You look like you could do with some feeding up.’
‘You won’t hold this?’ He offers me the box.
‘You won’t eat with me?’ I nod at the restaurant.
A young couple in boots and jeans squeeze past us on the street and as the door to the restaurant opens my stomach rumbles. I can taste the creamy Korma on my tongue and the sharpness of the crisp onion bhajis.
‘We will meet again one day,’ he says.
It’s a lie.
‘No, we won’t.’
He blinks. ‘I have asked for your number.’
‘I only meet people who tell the truth and I only want friends who are honest.’
‘Of course.’
‘Everyone lies. They lied last week in the paper when they said coffee was bad for you and that red wine should be avoided. This week they say, they’re are both good for you and not to eat eggs.’
‘They can never decide,’ he agrees.
‘So what’s in the box?’
He hesitates then smiles. ‘Gertrude.’
‘Who’s Gertrude?’
‘A writer.’
‘The box isn’t big enough to hold a dead person.’
‘You’re wrong.’
‘Have you chopped her up?’
‘I intend to dissect her mind.’
‘Who is she?’
‘An archaeologist.’
‘Why would you do that?’
‘To learn.’
I scratch the pale fleshy mound of my cleavage. ‘Is this important to you?’
‘She was fluent in Arabic and Persian and she was involved in the reinvention of Mesopotamia…’
‘And this means?’
‘She was the only woman present at the Cairo Conference with Winston Churchill to determine the boundaries of the Iraqi State and she continues to be studied and referenced by policy experts today.’
‘What do you think you will learn?’ I ask.
‘That the enemy is fear. We think it is hate – but it is fear. Once we conquer this and understand ourselves then we can help other. We can understand others and form lasting world-peace.’
There’s a commotion down the street outside the pub. Two men are walking toward us, laughing loudly. One playfully punches the other man’s shoulder and the other dummy ducks before throwing a punch at the other man’s face. They disappear down an alleyway toward the pub’s car park.
‘Well,’ I say. ‘Goodbye and good luck.’
Still holding the package, he shifts his balance and rests it on his forearm. He offers me his hand and wiggles his fingers. There’s a gold ring on his baby finger and it twinkles in the streetlight.
I reach out but in that precise moment the restaurant door opens and a woman carrying a plastic carrier bag filled with foil containers hurries down the steps and collides with us.
Food goes up into the air. Flying rice, poppadoms, pickles sauces, Rogan Josh. He falls to the ground and they land on him and he cries out. He drops the box. The lid falls off and it lays open and exposed.
We all lean over the box and a lifeless face stares back at us. Black sockets where the eyes have been and a nose squashed and beaten, now covered in curry sauce.
‘Oh no,’ he cries.
‘What’s this?’ the woman asks.
‘You’ve spoilt my book.’
He scrambles to his feet and begins wiping the debris from his treasure. A hardback: Gertrude Bell Biography (1868-1926).
‘You’ll pay for this?’ He asks the stranger but she’s already gone. She disappears from the mess on the ground and her food at our feet with a stream of angry expletives.
In the glow of the streetlamp a boxful of books was a relief and I begin to laugh.
‘Come on. Come and eat something,’ I say.
‘My name is Rashid,’ he replies, wiping the book with his sleeve.
I’m still smiling as I turn toward the steps of the restaurant. Then, just as I open the door, from the corner of my eye, I think I see a baby cobra sliding out from under the torn box. It slithers away into the darkness of the gutter leaving me to wonder if he’d told me the truth at all.
Hattie
Hattie had trawled countless dating websites bu
t when she stumbled on something new her eyes lit up. She tapped the keys with expert precision, flicking crumbs and tiny pieces of bacon from the keyboard. She couldn’t believe her luck. She mulled over the information as she headed into the kitchen and cut three giant slices of fresh bread, like doorsteps, and applied a heavy coating of peanut butter.
She sighed happily mulling it over. She’d always wanted to go to Barcelona but none of her friends were ever on holiday at the same time as her. The fast food restaurant where she worked didn’t let staff have the same holidays although how Rach and Effie got the same two weeks holiday each year was a mystery.
Hattie protested to Micky the Supervisor but he waved her complaint away like he was swatting a fly so it meant that Hattie had to go on holiday alone again.
But now she’d found this website where she could actually stay on someone’s sofa!
Perfect.
She was still licking the paste off her finger and picking bits from her teeth when she read a review posted by another solo traveller:
The first time I CouchSurfed solo, I went to Toronto in Canada. Two really nice guys collected me from the airport and drove me to their apartment. They had plenty of room and insisted I stay in their spare guest room. They cooked me dinner and suggested places for me to visit in the area. They gave me my own set of door keys so I could come and go. They were working the next day and told me to ‘have a good day.’ Since then I’ve stayed with hosts in Chile, Mexico and Thailand. AND I've also hosted foreign travellers myself from Spain. (Here's my profile.)
Hattie looked around her cramped kitchenette with the double bed pushed against the wall, an armchair and sofa where she sat, and a small dining table. But it did have a separate bathroom with a proper bath, she thought. There might be enough room for two people. I wouldn’t mind. They could sleep on the couch. It could be quite fun having someone to stay. She would have to tidy up the place but it wouldn’t take long to pick up the clothes and pop the remains of the last night’s Chinese in the bin and her dirty clothes in a plastic bag to take to the laundrette.
She read the testimonial again. Her flat was well situated in the High Street. It was a blessing to live above the local Indian takeaway where rich and enticing herbs and spices wafted up to her each evening. In fact, it was a nice change to eat curried chips instead of the double cheeseburgers she ate for lunch most days. It was so handy just to be able to pop downstairs to get her dinner. Gergit often gave her extra poppadums.
Hattie swung her legs up onto the sofa. One of the perks of her job was to eat breakfast and dinner at work or, if she was on the late shift, it was lunch and dinner. She never had to cook which saved a lot of time and it meant that she could spend her free time meeting and chatting to people on the Internet.
Hattie had lots of friends. Three hundred and eighty-four on Facebook.
Now, encouraged that she could host foreigners from abroad, Hattie Googled: Spanish men’s names.
She spent a couple of hours gazing at handsome images of soft, smooth olive skinned men, the type that Hattie liked so much, so different to her pale pallor.
Sometimes in the winter when she was cold her veins came to the surface causing her white skin to appear blotchy like a mottled mosaic. Her mother had passed a particularly nasty remark about her complexion last Christmas. She told Hattie not to have the extra portion of Christmas pudding but Hattie had been hungry. That had been right after Hattie’s stepfather had thrown a turkey leg onto her plate - on top of her Christmas pudding and custard. It had ruined her meal. The turkey had tasted awful with custard on it. After dinner, Hattie’s mother had taken a pair of scissors to Hattie’s new jeans and she’d cut the seam saying Hattie would get into them now and then she’d laughed. She had been drunk again and had not noticed that Hattie was upset.
Wouldn’t it be funny if I ended up marrying a Spaniard? Mum would sit up and take notice then.
Researching the Internet was thirsty work so Hattie opened a tin of coke and left it with the empty cans on the table. If she owned a can opener then she could make the empty can into a pencil holder. She had one biro that she’d nicked from work so she didn’t really need a holder, so it wasn’t worth all that effort.
Hattie yawned and stretched. She’d put on her pyjamas after she’d come home. They were much more comfortable that those tight black trousers she wore to work. They must have shrunk. They felt very tight. She’d have to get a new pair sometime.
Hattie scrolled and scanned the CouchSurf site.
This is easy. I can find common interests with strangers. She logged onto a forum and decided to send fifteen emails to different CouchSurf hosts living near Barcelona:
Hi – My name is Hattie. I’m twenty-three and live just outside London. I’m happy, fun and positive. I enjoy cinema and films.
Hattie paused, then read what another host had written and added to her text:
I’ve always wanted to go to Barcelona. I love to travel, meet new people and I want to learn about different cultures.
The fact she didn’t know much about her own culture and she didn’t even go into London, was not worth mentioning. It was too busy and there was never anywhere to sit. Although on the last occasion Hattie had gone to the West End, she’d found a clean spot on the pavement in Covent Garden. She’d rested there eating her sandwiches watching the world go by, as they stepped over her. She’d enjoyed that. She was a people watcher.
She read another host’s profile, then she typed: I love people watching.
Well, that bit is true.
She wandered to the fridge and raised the milk carton to her lips and left the box on the draining board beside the mugs and plates. She decided that while she was in the kitchen she would have some of the strawberry cheesecake she’d nicked from work. It was delicious. She cut a thick slice and with her mind on efficiency, she decided it would save her coming back if she just took a larger piece. She cut it in half.
She sat down with her plate and stared at the screen. She continued with her email:
I like cooking, food and I don’t drink alcohol.
Now that had to be a point in her favour. She’d seen what it did to her Mum.
I eat a healthy diet.
A litre of milk, strawberries and cheese - wasn’t that protein? Besides, bacon wasn’t fattening like everyone said it was. There were loads of skinny people who ate bacon and cheese burgers. You just had to look at all the students who came into the restaurant.
It just goes to prove that scientists had it all wrong.
How did they do all their stupid research?
Hattie popped the last piece of cheesecake in her mouth and wiped her lips. She scrolled through the ‘Find Hosts’ and ticked the ‘Wants to Meet Up’ box.
This will include meeting locals who aren’t hosts, Hattie read aloud. Oh? I can write a message to anyone in the area that I would like to meet. For best effect, she read and licked her spoon, include a specific request such as: I see that you love playing frisbee. I do too! Want to toss a disc around in a park?
Hattie hated parks, too many dogs and children running around. Besides she’d never thrown a Frisbee in her life. She thought hard and ten minutes later with the tap of a key she sent her emails. Hattie sat back. Feeling contented she burped loudly. It was just a touch of heartburn.
She liked to think of her messages sent from this tiny apartment in Essex going out through the airwaves across land and sea to strangers in Spain. She’d felt the same thrill when she started online dating with men in Russia, India and Malaysia.
They’d been heady days when she’d spent all night on the Internet. Once or twice she’d even missed work. But it was worth it. They were happy to talk to her. She’d used an old school photograph for her profile and they said she was very sexy and attractive. One man from Calcutta wanted to sleep with her. She’d sent money to another man in Turkey who wanted to learn English. He’d talked of marriage which had been exciting but then she’d never heard fr
om him again. That had been two years ago and she’d learnt her lesson since then. No one was getting any money out of her now.
That’s why she liked this CouchSurfing idea.
It was perfect.
She’d just made a mug of hot chocolate, eaten two digestives and placed six marsh mallows on a saucer when her laptop binged. She’d received a reply.
Hola Hattie, I live near Las Ramblas a busy and popular street. It’s a one bedroom flat in the old town. I would like to welcome you as a guest to our home. When would you get here? Best regards Enrique.
Enrique - male or female?
She checked the host profile and photograph and smiled in satisfaction at his handsome serious face.
Hattie reread his message. Our home?
Wow!
Hello Enrique – Do you live alone? What do you do?
He replied immediately: I live with my older brother. I am an engineering student and he is studying medicine. We like to meet and host foreign travellers. What about you?
Hattie settled down behind the screen and dunked a marsh mallow into her chocolate. Then typed:
Hello Enrique, I could come over next week? How far are you from the airport?
He replied: There is a bus but I could meet you at the airport?
Hattie sighed and stood up. She had a stomach ache so she sat on the toilet thinking. What can I say to show myself in a good light and appear interesting? When she sat on the sofa ten minutes later, she typed:
I work in a restaurant. I haven’t been to Spain before and I would like to learn Spanish.
Enrique replied immediately: That’s great. Are you a fully qualified chef? We like food and we both like to cook. We can teach you some Spanish but there are classes you can sign up to – if you want to. How long are you coming for?
