Paradime (6 page)

‘You heard the professor there. This is a private corporation that gets to make up its own foreign policy. So you can be damned sure that at the very least all of their lawyers went to actual
law school
.’

The look I get for this is one of momentary incomprehension. It’s as if my statement has to be translated from another language. Except that it doesn’t.

‘Jesus,’ she whispers, after a long silence.

I’m immediately sorry and want to say so, but I know if I start, the words will catch in my throat.

‘Anyway,’ she goes on, a little shakily, ‘my ignorance of the law is hardly the point.’ She turns and flips the laptop closed. ‘Man, they really did a number on you over there, didn’t they?’

She walks past me and goes into the living room.

The next morning things aren’t any better and we’re giving each other the silent treatment. I don’t know what I can say without making the situation worse. Because the thing is, I really want this job at Barcadero. It’ll be a chance to claw our way back a little. But taking it will effectively preclude me – preclude
us
– from voicing any criticism whatsoever of Gideon Logistics. And after last night, how do I break that to Kate?

Though maybe the job won’t work out – maybe this Yannis guy chugs down a bottle of Pepto-Bismol, shows up for work, and I’m back at square one. At least in that case I’d no longer feel the need to be so defensive. And hypocritical. And like an asshole.

On the subway, I stare vacantly across at my reflection as it flickers in and out of visibility. I know it’s just a job, but I’d like the regular pay cheque, and I guess I wouldn’t be unhappy with the step up in prestige either. At the same time, I briefly imagine how I’d feel if Stanley were to tell me this morning that Yannis is fine, that he’ll be back tomorrow, that two shifts is all I’m getting.

Actually, I’d probably be okay with that. I might even be relieved. It would mean I could look Kate in the eye again. It would mean I could stop lying to her. So, as I walk the three blocks to the restaurant, I convince myself that this is what’s going to happen, and that when it does I’ll make the necessary adjustments – I’ll express disappointment, but be professional about it, I’ll use the momentum (and maybe some of Stanley’s goodwill) to try and find a new job elsewhere. And then I’ll go home and patch things up with Kate.

I arrive at Barcadero and the place doesn’t seem as frenetic as it did yesterday. The atmosphere is a little muted. There’s none of the usual banter going on. With Pablo I’m guessing it’s a hangover, but they can’t all be hungover. So maybe it’s that someone is in a mood and the whole kitchen is affected. I’ve certainly seen that happen, though I’m not familiar enough with everyone here to be able to read the signs with any degree of confidence. Nevertheless, things grind into gear and before long I’m totally focused on precision-dicing some pork for a ragù.

After a while, Stanley shows up, catches my eye from across the kitchen and indicates for me to follow him. I wipe up around the prep station before taking off down the dimly lit hallway that leads to the cramped office at the back. It’s clear that Stanley is just as downbeat as everyone else is, and when I see him slumped at his little desk I get a weird feeling.

Without looking at me, he says, in a quiet voice, ‘Nadine, our accountant, will be in later and you can talk details and stuff with her, but I’m just going to go ahead now and slot you in for all of his shifts, okay?’

When I don’t respond, Stanley eventually turns to face me. Up close like this, I can see that his eyes are red and slightly raw-looking.

‘Stanley, no one has said a word to me this morning. I don’t know what—’

‘Yannis died,’ he says, and his face contorts a little. A tear runs down his cheek.

‘Oh shit, Stanley. I’m sorry.’

‘Yeah.’ He wipes his eyes with his sleeve and sighs loudly. ‘Two years he worked here, almost from the beginning. He drove us all crazy with his stupid jokes . . . but he was a real sweetheart. Everyone loved him.’

I swallow. ‘Was it . . . the ulcer?’ I can’t believe I’m even asking him this. People don’t
die
of ulcers these days, do they? ‘Perforated, you said?’

‘We don’t know. His boyfriend found him last night, in their apartment. He was just . . . lying there.’ His face contorts again. ‘It’s fucking awful.’

I stand in the doorway for a moment, but it’s clear we’re done.

My walk back along the dim hallway to the kitchen is a long one. Yesterday I was covering for Yannis. I was anonymous, invisible. Today I’m replacing him. Today I’m the new guy.

I feel like I should be sending a text to Kate or something, but what would I say?

And so begins this new work regime in my life, which is not unlike the one I had before I left for Afghanistan – better restaurant, okay, and slightly better pay – but basically the same. It’s still kitchen hours, still kitchen
work
. . . nicks, burns, high heat, tempers, ego, shouting, mind-numbing repetition. A bit like a war zone. Unless, that is, you’ve ever fought in a real war zone.

At home, however, in terms of pre- and post-Afghanistan, things are markedly different. It’s my fault, but what’s going on between me and Kate is awful. The truth is, I’m losing her, and in a way I’m also losing
me
– losing that version of Danny that she allows me to be, the one who doesn’t have a label, who’s sane, who’s in control.
That
guy. So if I do end up losing Kate, what happens to him? Where does he go?

I have no answer, and with each passing day things just get more complicated. My final cheque from Gideon comes through, accompanied by a three-month unofficial severance payment, which is fucking great, but I find myself not mentioning this last part to Kate. My hours at Barcadero mean that I have fewer opportunities to mention anything to her, but when I do have a moment, my brain is usually fried and I’m not inclined to – which means it’s easier to just let things fester.

How this plays out on a day-to-day basis is that I get home from work in a sort of operational coma, and, depending on which shift cycle I’m on, early or late, Kate is either there at the kitchen table doing her coding stuff, or she’s out, or watching TV, or having a bath, or even already in bed. We talk, and are cordial, we deal with the small stuff – shopping for food, cooking, doing the laundry – but day after day the subtext gets buried that little bit deeper. Occasionally, a ripple of anxiety will surface. A violent item on the news will spark an unwelcome association, say, or a phone call from the debt-collection agency that now owns Kate’s student loan will detonate like an IED in the quiet of our living room. Or a simple sex scene in a movie we’re both watching late at night will serve as an uncomfortable reminder of how long it’s been for
us
.

The worst thing is that we don’t seem capable of going into reverse on any of this. I’m genuinely exhausted on a permanent basis now, and Kate has become more determined than ever to turn her coding MOOC into a job opportunity, so we are busy, we are preoccupied, we do have these brutal demands on our time – but how sustainable is all this over the long term? How compatible is it with the notion of our being in a serious relationship? And how corrosive is it to our periodically expressed desire to have a baby together?

As it turns out, things aren’t that much better at work. If I had a honeymoon period at Barcadero, I suppose it was just that first shift – those ten hours when I wasn’t the guy who was replacing the guy who died. But ever since then no one has been willing to see my presence in the kitchen as anything other than bad juju – snippy comments are routinely made, looks are exchanged, cooperation is withheld. This makes for a shitty environment. The work still has to get done, though, orders have to be filled. For my part, I can lock into an intense rhythm and hit a flow state.

There is one thing that helps. It’s the partial but clear line of sight I have from my prep station out into the dining area. During service, when the atmosphere in the kitchen gets too weird or toxic, I’ll glance through the pick-up to see who’s out there. I’ll go around the table, rotating my attention, filling in imaginary details, names, job titles. I’ve done it once already this evening, and now, with service in full swing and tempers fraying all around me, I do it again. I glance out and this time see just two people sitting there – a youngish-looking couple. The guy, from what I can make out, is a business type in an expensive suit, but it’s
she
who catches my eye. Most of the women who come to this place have that brittle, moneyed look, too tanned and coiffed, too much work done. This woman isn’t anything like that. Even from a distance, I can see that she has an ethereal quality, a natural beauty so intense that she looks unreal, out of place, almost like an alien.

In fact, I’m so distracted by her that at one point, chopping asparagus tips, I nearly slice off the top of my left index finger. There’s a tiny spurt of blood, but I manage to conceal it. I go over to one of the fridges where we keep a tin of Band-Aids. Taking cover behind the open door, I quickly stick two on my finger in an x-formation. On the way back, avoiding eye contact, I decide I’m an idiot and should just keep my head down in future. Because another slip like that – a more serious one, time spent at the ER, someone having to cover for
me
– all of that could jeopardise my position at Barcadero. But once I’m over at the prep station again, standing there . . . I can’t resist.

I raise my head and look through the window.

She’s not there any more.

That’s the second thing I notice. The first thing I notice is that
I
am.

The woman’s seat is empty, and the guy is sitting at a slightly different angle, looking in my direction, more or less. I have a clear view of his face, and . . . it’s the weirdest thing . . . I’m still chopping asparagus tips, but it occurs to me that I should slow down, that I’m not in full control here, that unless I want to lose a finger for real I have to actually pay attention to what I’m doing. So right now that’s what I do, I look down at my cutting board, at the kinetic blur of wrist and hand and knife. I slow my pace, eventually bringing the operation to a complete halt. After a moment, I glance through the window again, but I can’t believe my eyes . . .

Which I close.

At this point I become hyperaware of every sound in the kitchen, of Pablo to my left, slicing duck breasts and muttering continuously in Spanish; of Alex, our Australian sous chef over to the right, crucifying one of the line guys for putting too much seasoning in the soubise; of every whoompf and sizzle, every plate clattering, every unit humming and shuddering – and it’s in this simultaneously heightened and almost paralysed state, like some partial form of locked-in syndrome, that I open my eyes again, just a fraction, and look out . . .

And holy shit . . .

He’s still there, the guy in the suit, still alone, still facing this way. He’s not looking at
me
, not directly, but I’m looking at
him
, and I can see his face, which is just like
my
face, remarkably so – the face that I see when I look in a mirror, or at a photograph.

It gives me a sick, dizzy feeling, and I turn away.

‘Danny?’

I glance down at my hands, which are shaking slightly. I’m still holding the knife. I tap the edge of it gently on the cutting board.

‘
Danny?
’

This is Alex. He’s standing by the pass now, next to Chef, but staring back at me. ‘The fuck, mate?’

I ignore him and look out again – I can’t not. The likeness is uncanny. I’m a little scruffy and need a shave, I’m pale, I could do with some proper nourishment, whereas this guy is tanned and chiselled and healthy-looking . . . not to mention that suit he’s wearing . . . but still—

‘Wakey, wakey, over there. Jesus Christ. Someone slip you a fucking roofie?’

It suddenly strikes me – because of the angles and where people are standing – that no one else here can see what I can, that no one else here is looking at what I’m looking at. And I’m glad. I wouldn’t want them to. Because this feels very personal.

Tapping the edge of my knife on the board again, I reach for the next handful of asparagus stalks. I then tear my eyes away from the pick-up window and glance over at Alex.

‘Quaalude,’ I whisper, mouthing the word very clearly for him to see. As I start chopping again, I hold his gaze. I wait for him to roll his eyes and turn his attention back to the production line. When he does,
my
eyes dart back out to the dining area.

But the guy in the suit is standing up now, facing away, and moving off to the right. The woman appears from the left, obviously back from the bathroom. She glides across my line of vision, and the two of them disappear.

I feel something next to me, a sudden movement, then hear a sharp intake of breath. I turn to Pablo, who’s staring bug-eyed down at my hands.

‘
Pero ché coño?
’ he says.

I look down. There are tiny speckles of blood everywhere, not only on my cutting board, but all over Pablo’s as well.

It’s a measure of the shit storm this causes – shouting, name-calling, a tricky sequence of refires, the ceaseless animosity that ripples down the line at me all night – that it’s not until my shift is over and I’m on the subway heading home that I remember the guy in the suit, the guy who . . . who what? Who
looked
just like me?

I gaze down at the floor of the subway car for a moment.

Did he, though? Really?

From this remove, it seems a bit implausible, the image less distinct now, the whole episode sort of blurry in my mind.

Except . . .

I remember the woman all right. She was gorgeous. So was it maybe a little wishful thinking on my part? Instead of peeping at her, undetected, from a distance, like a deranged creep, my mind decides it’d be nicer, maybe, to sit across a table from her, with a glass of wine, and admire those high cheekbones up close?