My Life Among the Apes (16 page)

THE STREAM TOWARDS THE COUNTER diminishes and the customers still arriving stop for a few minutes at the tables to hastily consume their purchases. Edison wipes spilled sugar and cream from the counter, tosses away stir sticks, mourns the absence of spoons. Music from the mall’s hidden speakers seeps in, treacly leftover Christmas tunes, overlaid with the more barbaric thumping from the shoe store across the way. Nearby are a tobacco shop, a walk-in dental clinic, a hair salon, a stand with men’s ties and, in the passageway, a bench and stunted Ginkgo tree in a pot.
Ersatz outdoors, not a real street at all but a non-place leading to other non-places. What sort of destination is this? We ought to be a warm light in the darkness, a sapphire amidst the dross. But look at us! We are dross ourselves. Disposable. Sham. Without love.

But even as he wipes, Edison’s thoughts are not so hopeless. When he sees the Hand Woman squinting into the café, her breath clouding the glass, he feels a renewal of purpose.
Even something made without proper motive can be a receptacle for good. People have a need. They unknowingly conjure us, and so we are here.
What fantasy and arrogance in unhealthy combination.

The Hand Woman makes sure that Beatrice is not visible before taking a few nimble steps to the nearest table. She gives Edison her scarecrow grin: missing teeth. Edison nods. He calls her the Hand Woman because of the
glorious pathos
of her shawl, stitched like a quilt from dozens of gloves and mittens. During Edison’s time it has grown two feet and drags along the ground behind her, the mantle of an exiled queen. At night she sleeps in one of the storage rooms which Alfonso leaves unlocked, an ease to his conscience for throwing out all the others. He always comes in for a fortifying espresso after tossing some bum caught huddling over a heating vent. “Letting in one, okay. But two, ten, a hundred? Is impossible. I lose my job.”

Edison peeks into the back room to see Beatrice still on the telephone and then brings the Hand Woman a tuna sandwich and a double-double coffee. Bowing slightly he retreats, Viennese fashion.
A waiter is a true democrat; he treats all patrons the same.
The Hand Woman settles her bulk deeper into the plastic chair, causing the legs to splay, and slurps her coffee.

Mr. Lapidarius comes in.

He drops his enormous case beside his regular table, places his fedora carefully on a chair. To Edison, the sight of Mr. Lapidarius is always welcome. If nothing else, Edison likes the way he sits so pleasantly at his table, as if he, at least, has all the time in the world. Mr. Lapidarius is the café’s only regular in the genuine sense, accepting it as a second home. Absolutely bald, with a greenish scalp and impressive eyebrows, he wears the same suit every day, discreetly mended and well-brushed. Now Edison formally presents the menu, which most customers don’t know the existence of, but which Mr. Lapidarius scans with interest despite the fact it never changes.

“Thank you, dear boy. I’ll have tea and a scone. Have you got Irish Breakfast today?”

Edison’s face darkens in shame; he still has not managed to convince Beatrice to buy anything other than discount orange pekoe.

“No matter, friend,” Mr. Lapidarius says quickly. “Anything will do. I picked up the tea habit in London, you know. Never been able to get over it. Of course that was forty years ago. I hear they all drink coffee nowadays, like everyone else.”

Because Mr. Lapidarius is the only customer who treats the café with respect, Edison always becomes self-conscious in his presence. He warms a small teapot, then puts in the bag and fills the pot with boiling water. Arms tucked in, chin held up, he brings the tray to Mr. Lapidarius’s table. The bill is tucked beneath the rim of the cup, for Beatrice demands that customers pay up front.

“Ah, the warmth alone makes one feel jolly, doesn’t it?” Mr. Lapidarius says. “I feel expansive today. After all, tonight is New Year’s Eve and another year always brings hope for better times. Perhaps you would care to sit for a few minutes?” “I sh-sh-shouldn’t.”

“Yes, of course. But a fellow likes a little company now and then.”

“Well, I’ll ask.”

As a matter of principle, Edison believes that waiters ought not to fraternize with customers, but somehow Mr. Lapidarius is different. He pokes his head into the back room where Beatrice is pleading into the telephone.

“I swear I’ll never ask you to do anything again. What do you mean, you don’t believe me?”

“Pardon me, B-B-Beatrice. May I take my break? Mr. Lap-p-p-pidarius is here.”

“What, that Arab? Or is he Greek. All right, but only ten minutes. The salt shakers need filling.”

Edison has already replenished them but says nothing, happy to take a seat beside Mr. Lapidarius. “Very companionable,” the man says and smiles. “There’s no need for me to hurry. It is still too early to begin. I will confide to you a secret of my trade. Never approach people first thing in the morning. They’re still in a foul mood for having to get out of bed. It is a salesman’s commandment.”

“I’m sure you are a v-v-very good salesman,” Edison says.

“Well, one mustn’t blow one’s own trumpet, eh? But it has kept body and soul together all these years. Of course, when I began it was a real profession, even an art form in its small way. Everything’s changed, but I’m too old a dog to teach new tricks. Each day I go from office to office, presenting my wares. There are so many buildings and so many floors I never go to the same office twice in six months. My suppliers say that I would do better selling the new gadgets — calculators, pocket video games, electronic calorie counters. But I stick to the old. Pen sets, imitation pearl earrings, watches with hands. Little indulgences, pleasant gifts. I admit lately business has taken something of a downturn, as they say of the stock market, but then I’ve known too many rises and falls to count. In Cairo, Madrid, San Francisco. Do you know what King Nebuchadnezzar had engraved on his ring? ‘All things change.’ If times are bad they are sure to get better. And if they are good — well, they are certain to get worse again. In the meantime, one enjoys oneself as one can.”

“Yes,” Edison says. “I better get back to work. Would you like some hot w-w-w-water?”

“Very kind of you. And you have been good to keep me company. Here, I want to give you something.”

He unclasps the latch on his case and takes out a brightly coloured tube on a little cardboard stand, which he places on the table. It looks to Edison like a toy cannon. “This is out of my usual range, but given the date I couldn’t resist. You see this fuse? All you need do is light it. In a few seconds a burst of confetti fills the air. So lovely and useless, its only purpose is to make a moment of delight. How is that for a festive New Year? I expect to sell out completely. You take this one.”

“Really, I can’t.”

“You have certain rules. I admire you for it. But this is a gift between friends.”

Edison sees a movement out of the corner of his eye, Beatrice stirring in the back room. “I have t-to go!” he says. A moment later he is prying the Hand Woman out of her chair and urging her out of the café.

Turning back again, he sees Beatrice beckoning with a crooked finger from behind the counter. “Was that bag lady trying to come back? That’s right, you give her the bum’s rush. The last thing customers want is a whiff of that stink. Hey, is that sales guy still hanging over one lousy cup of tea? Go tell him his fifteen minutes is up. Never mind, he’s leaving. I don’t like the way you arranged those pastries under the counter. It’s too goddamn artistic. Mix them up —”

Beatrice stops abruptly and Edison, already moving obediently towards the counter, hears a rasping breath and then a sob. By the time he turns back to her, Beatrice has dissolved into noisy tears.

“Why d-d-don’t you sit down?” He risks a hand on her shoulder and she complies as he steers her to a chair. He might have put a consoling arm around her if he didn’t fear her taking a swing at him. Instead, he slips behind the counter to spoon some honey into a glass of milk, add a few drops of vanilla, and use the steam spout of the espresso machine to turn the mixture into a warm froth.

“Here, this will m-m-make you feel better.”

Beatrice stares at the glass a moment and then took a long draught. “I hate New Year’s Eve.”

“But why?”

“My first marriage busted up on New Year’s. We were in this ballroom with a full swing orchestra. I was wearing a gorgeous silk number with matching pumps, cost me a fortune. We drank a bottle of Moët and when midnight came all these balloons cascaded down, hundreds of them, and the band started playing ‘Auld Lang Syne.’ We started to dance and Albert said something but it was so noisy I couldn’t hear. I kept saying, ‘What?’ I thought he was trying to tell me that he loved me. But he was really saying, ‘I’m leaving you.’ I couldn’t blame him, the marriage was the shits, but it almost killed me anyway. This time I want it to be different. Marcus keeps asking me to marry him and I keep putting him off just to make sure. I figure that if we can get past the New Year’s curse we’ll be all right. So I had him book us a table at this classy restaurant, four hundred bucks a couple, Tony Bennett singing, twelve course meal. Then a week ago I got cold feet and told him to cancel. He lost the deposit. Then I changed my mind and made him reserve somewhere else. But then I wasn’t sure about that one either. I kept thinking, what if I choose the wrong place? So now tonight is New Year’s and we don’t have a reservation anywhere. Marcus got fed up and cancelled the last one yesterday and today everybody’s booked solid. He says he’s too busy to try anymore — they’re pouring concrete this morning. He says I’ve got to stop calling him before he loses his job. I know he’s right, it’s all my fault, but I can’t stop myself. Two minutes ago I phoned again and when he heard my voice he hung up. You see? It’s all gone to hell. I’m ruining my own life.”

She looks a ruin: eye shadow in rivers down her cheeks, hair dangling limply, blotches forming on her neck. A thought, fully formed, comes to him, which you may judge yourself for its degree of self-delusion.
A waiter who aspires to greatness must make it the sole occupation of his life. That other people should have affairs of the heart is only right. But we are here to be minor players in the dramas of others, not to dwell on our own. It is a sacrifice, but worth everything to make.

Three silver-haired ladies enter and stand indecisively, trying to choose a table. Perhaps they are senior secretaries forty storeys up, or retirees who like to do their shopping underground. “Push the quiche,” Beatrice sniffles. “It’s starting to get mushy.”

THE FULL LUNCH-HOUR ASSAULT begins, a line of hungry people or, in Edison’s mind, a terrifying horde with mouths gaping,
like figures in a painting by Edvard Munch
. They stand four-deep at the counter, shouting their orders, waving office lists. Grabbing the paper bags, they rush out again to get shoes re-heeled, pick up dry cleaning, line up at the pharmacy for Robaxacet, Temazepam, Metamucil, fungicide. He operates the espresso machine and the microwave, Beatrice makes the sandwiches, the tubs of tuna, sliced salami, cheese, jars of mayonnaise and hot mustard placed strategically around the cutting board. For this hour Edison feels them to be comrades almost, and his heart beats fast.

BEATRICE RETREATS ONCE MORE INTO the back. Edison tips the sack of coffee beans into the grinder, gets down on his knees to pick up splotches of egg salad from the floor behind the counter. Only now does he feel the ache in his arms and back.

Rising again, he sees her.

How long has she been sitting there, enveloped in her otter coat? She doesn’t look at him but stares out the glass wall into the corridor as Alfonso goes by pushing his mop. A thin band constricts around Edison’s chest. He wipes his hands on a towel and comes warily around the counter.

“Hello, m-m-m-Mother.”

Mrs. Wiese turns her head, the dense collar brushing her sagging chin. She wears horn-rimmed sunglasses, a Gucci scarf over her hair, violet lipstick. With one leather-gloved hand she removes the sunglasses in order for him to see her reddened eyes.

“Can I get you s-s-something?”

“I never ask you to wait on me at home.”

“But s-s-since you’re here.”

She sighs and drops her glasses into her purse, clamping it shut. “All right. A cappuccino. With just a little chocolate on top, will you, dear?”

Edison almost bows, catching himself in time, and merely returns to the counter. He attempts to operate the machine with his usual precision, but his hand shakes. When he brings over the cappuccino his mother doesn’t look at it but drops in three sugar cubes.

“Your father and I want to know if you’re coming tonight or not.”

“I d-don’t know. I haven’t had t-t-time to think about it.”

“But you know we’ve been planning this for months. Don’t you even want to wish your mother a happy New Year?”

“Of course I do. I just d-don’t know —”

“If you’ve got a better invitation, then just say so.”

“I might have to w-w-work.”

“Here? They’d bother to keep this place open? What for? Nobody will come, people want to have a good time on New Year’s. We’ve always celebrated together. It wouldn’t be the same without you.”

“I have r-r-r-r-responsib-b-bilities now.”

Mrs. Wiese laughs out loud.
What a brave act she is putting on; I know how much it costs her
. She looks small in the lushness of the otter coat, an anniversary gift from his father that makes her feel uncharacteristically guilty.
Yet she tries to wear it with an air of defiance that exhausts her to keep up
.

“I’m glad you take your job so seriously,” she says. “It’s just that we know how much you’re capable of. I’ve got to meet your father. He closed the office early to go shopping with me. You know, paper hats, noise makers, cute little gifts. You just have to come. I know there are going to be wonderful things for you in the New Year.”

She clasps his hand with her own. She must have had a manicure that morning, as the nails are immaculate. Edison sees the grayish-blue veins pulsing. “I have to g-get back to work. Do you w-want anything else?”

“The cappuccino was delicious, I admit. How much do I owe you?”

She opens her purse again, like a shark’s jaws. “It’s on the house. I’ll t-t-try to come.”

She holds his arm as she gets up and kisses gently the corner of his mouth. Edison watches her check her reflection in the glass as she leaves.
Cafés ought to have special mirrors, to make old women look beautiful again
. Cleaning up the table, he sees that she has dropped a glove under the chair. He picks it up and holds it to his face. Chanel Number Five.