Translated Accounts (7 page)

I was going to the water’s edge, near to the designated building, but away also from people. There can be always people and the next meeting was to come afterwards, and afterwards would
come. I could not set my head properly for it. And she was to arrive, thereafter she would arrive, meeting with her, if she was there, I would see her and escort her, I would take her, she would be
there.

I was crossing the square beyond the parking-area. I had got here so quickly.

Three buses were there, tourists and cameras, and all the vendors there for them and seeing no other, this lone individual, myself. But not all vendors were there, one was now by my side, a boy
with shoe-polishing brushes. There is always such a boy, appearing. He lurks in wait, espies me, appears. If there is the thought, I have it, then no sooner and he will be there, called into
existence, who else, yes, this individual. What age, ten years, not more.

I polish your shoes sir.

He was curious of the bag on my shoulder. I said to him, You are not in school, why is that?

I polish your shoes sir.

This is not a joke. I ask you seriously. Now you look at me with hate, you are suspicious, you are hesitating, thinking to run off. Why? I speak your language. I am no stranger. There is not a
reason for hate, it is the opposite.

Sir, I polish your shoes.

My shoes are too old, they cannot be polished.

I polish them.

You cannot polish them, they are too old.

Sir, only they have no surface I give them surface. I bring them new for you.

You cannot bring them new for me.

Sir.

They are too old.

Sir I have brush, special kind.

Now showing the brush to me. It was from some decade or other, very old. His mother’s pride and great treasure. Brush with a metallic back, engraved. It was not silver.

If it was, so, silver, yes, perhaps. I looked at it more closely, he also, showing it again for my special attention. Sir you buy?

I do not buy, return this to your mother.

My mother is not here.

But return it to her.

I do not have my mother.

Yes, it is hers, if your family returns home one day from this place, it is your treasure, take it to her.

More hatred now and moving from me he retreated to a stance nearby the parking area, seeking a proper customer but away from the coaches, foreign people. Once there he stared to me, no hate now
but with interest perhaps that I could play such a trick, a foreigner yet not a foreigner. If a tourist to this country, what, he did not know. I saw him now talking to one very old man who carried
silk scarves and cloths in the crooks of both elbows, layers and layers, tied round the upper arms. His white hair in patches, standing upright. It was amusing to see. Perhaps the boy’s
grandfather, great-grandfather, perhaps, too old for the grandfather, and now examining the brush, holding it, peering to it. But they did not know the value of the brush, yet such a brush would
have been worth money, property of their family, not stolen, not by them.

How could I be contemptuous of these people? It was not possible.

There was a place to sit.

I did not see them walking from that area. I was by now close to the water’s edge and the designated building was nearby.

Across the estuary dwellings were there, huddled together, yes, layers of them, one above and another and another, so on. Lines of clothes hanging to dry, I could see people moving, women, their
backs to the water. But they will see the boats and wonder. Where do these boats sail, are they leaving the country. To which land do they sail. Who is aboard. Who gives these men such good work.
Their uncles perhaps are employed in the offices of government, but our men do not get such work, our fathers were honest men, now dead, early, yes, the honest will die young. The angry are killed,
the impatient are not always the angry, but they also are killed. The sarcastic can survive, they do survive, sarcasm continues, but now it is only from bitterness. The women see the men, they will
wonder, and of their husbands who are bitter, bitter only to them, to the children they are silent.

The women seeing the boats, smelling the faraway lands, the freedoms. He is bitter only to me. But the bitterness smothers her and will smother the children. Where does this bitterness come
from, as a girl she loved him, an adventurous boy, the life to come. Now nothing, she hangs the washed clothes, seeing the boats.

It was now cold here sitting on the stone dyke. I lifted the bag to my shoulder, walking down from there and to the side, a street up a street, returning, another street, returning. I was
meeting the woman. The time approached. I passed along to the row of restaurants, some open to the water, and so to the one chosen. Inside tables were on a raised platform and I could gaze out upon
the estuary and watch the water-vehicles. Who could call these ships. I could not. This town was an amusement. Yet local people so boasted, calling them so, these water-vehicles, not even boats.
For those who have travelled it was an amusement, certainly.

A large restaurant, many tables, all empty but one for the waiters, seated together, to the side of the kitchen door. It was too soon for food. They were dressed in formal outfit, white shirts
black trousers, hardly talking but yawning, recovering from sleep, now thoughts of these long long hours, death of their mind, staring upwards to the television. Its volume was turned low. I could
not hear it but could see it, football match, European, perhaps South American, low voices of the commentators. What might the day bring. Evening. But might it offer some event, other event. Was it
possible. So far it brought forth myself only and I was not wanted. I was an irritant. Yet was an interest, if I might choose the table, how selection occurred, if the table makes the decision, who
lays the table with such artistry, I choose this not this. Where I sat down, between kitchen and entranceway. But why on that side close to them, why not miles apart, allowing more respite to them,
they wondered.

My coffee was to spoil their morning. They had judged my value thus continuing to smoke their cigarettes. One now was talking, others listening, one nervous man ending his cigarette too soon,
seeing it in the ashtray, rubbing his chin and pulling on his ear, now chewing his fingernails, the others having much left to smoke and this was the last now, soon customers would come and none
could leave this place for three more hours, and all smoking would be outside in the alleyway, back entrance to the kitchen. I saw the brains in this man’s head, thumping on the shell, let me
out let me out, I cannot stay in this job, it is not a job, how can a man live like this, I am leaving, I am going to Germany, to Copenhagen, I am told Oslo is good, in Amsterdam people have
respect. Yes yes, go there. I go there. Why not Paris. Paris. Or London, Amereeca, New York, a fellow from our family’s village was leaving to New York, our grandfather’s friend, many
years ago, our grandfather gave him a present in farewell, his shirt, very fine shirt, our grandmother was impatient with him, she said, You have no shirts for other people, he has a ticket to
travel to America and you have nothing.

And onwards the past, never-ending, what future, what life to come, there is nothing, continuation only, if there is that. And I was to relax, these nerves were my own, chewing my fingernails, I
had cigarettes, one now one later, money for cigarettes later, yes it would come, future was to come also. At this table I could not see to the harbour but to the side, and through the window there
was the alleyway, route as she would arrive safely by my side. Now the waiter, an older fellow, moving as though to approach my table but he did not, merely shifted one chair, returning to the
other waiters, not looking to myself, I did not exist for him. He was too old for such a job. He was the clever one among them. Yet his trousers were very shiny and the sleeves of his shirt, cuffs
of these with threads coming from them. He was always the waiter, not having progressed. This was his final opportunity. Even so he could not ever be good, not at a job such as this. No, he could
not even smile, he had not learned how this might be done. He tells his wife, I cannot even smile.

But you must try.

I try.

No, you do not, you do not, if so, otherwise, then you would.

This leaves him silent. He has no answer.

And she continues. Oh you must try.

I shall.

You must. If it is the last thing.

But it lies always beyond him, he cannot smile, not even that. And here now in the middle period of his days, watching the young men, hoping better for them, instilling in them questions, not to
accept, not to conform to such expectation, low-level. Who tells you, whose expectation, what authority, by whose authority. He tells the young men they must not look to him as an example, except
if as a bad example. Do not become like me, above all.

And there is the story of his brother, or his uncle, what of his uncle, or wife’s father, that old man, now dead, long since, of his dreams. And the women, all of them, and their stories,
what of them, these people, could they take leave from my brain, go, please go.

These waiters were not serving. These waiters who were not serving myself.

What was the time, near to food, people arriving, as also the woman, when she would arrive if she was to arrive, not to arrive. What then, if she did not. I was to consider it, I had to, and
then further, all possibilities, if she did not arrive then, what I was to do, the bag at my feet, lying there. And these lives around me, all were there in my head, filling my brain, boys with
their great-grandfathers and girls and their mothers and ancestors, old old ladies, wizened and laughing, waiters and their wives, their dreams and clothes drying, sea wind. This waiter, this
elder, his face opened then hardening, I saw how he observed myself, for myself he was the worse one, noting all of myself. But did it matter, if it did, I could not think, did not care. The hate
from him. Yes, hate was there, hate firstly then inquisition, his stare now unconcealed, what I was, what? my clothes, tourist not tourist, stranger to our country, if that I was so, and what was
my bag, what was in it. He looked at me fully, one second, two, three, now shifting on his chair, making it known for myself of his valour. Yes, valorous man. I know it. Beware also he carries that
threat, that I should treat him with caution. I know it. Do not think only I am a waiter and such an age thus to be treated contemptuously. He would soon show to me another reality, fool that he
was, I could smile at him. What might he tell to the younger men, how valorous he has been, what he has achieved. Nothing.

No. I should not have been in such a restaurant at such an hour. If my brains were to be in such turmoil, no, I do not think so. I had two cigarettes. I took one from my pocket, with matches,
and soon was smoking, staring also to the football match, South American. But these waiters were on duty, if it was my fault they were to be disturbed. No, no matter. I should not have been treated
this way. Customers would arrive at noon. This was 11.30. Even so I also was a customer, they should serve me.

At all costs they would not look busy.

Why they should look busy in such a job. A man has respect for himself and colleagues. I was no threat to them. It was of value to receive such a rating.

But I required coffee, beer, why not brandy, large brandy. At last a waiter moved from the table. I was his burden. He approached with one eye still to the television, standing in front of me
but his head averted. I asked for that beer. He now glanced at me, unsmiling, indicating his wristwatch. I looked to it and in this moment saw also the doorway and through it beyond to outside
there was the elderly fellow who carried these silk materials, walking towards the designated area. I could not see the shoe-polishing boy, if he also was there. The waiter looking to me,
indicating his wristwatch.

It is too early for beer?

Yes, he said.

I can have brandy.

Yes, brandy.

And coffee, glass of water, iced water, lemon, yes. And why not beer?

Sorry.

The waiter looked to his colleagues but none saw it, looking only to the football. But I would salute them one to another when the brandy arrived, if they glanced at me. And if ten minutes were
to pass before this brandy was brought to me then I would leave, yes, I cannot wait so long as this, explain to your owner it is too late, you cannot call this service, this is not service for any
restaurant, this is a railway station and the train is late. You go sir?

Yes.

Good, do not come back.

Of course I do not come back, I shall tell the owner and the owner sacks you.

The owner does not sack me, he is first cousin of my wife’s uncle.

The waiter was placing a napkin and tea-plate by my elbow, jug of water, now returning to his colleagues, slouching into his chair, as that he had not left it, had not performed work services.
But his energy could not be disguised. He had performed the napkin and tea-plate service easily, carefully. Minutes passed. He returned to the kitchen and from there now to my table, setting down
my coffee, brandy, returning to his own table. One waiter spoke quietly to him and he replied also quietly, and there were smiles from them.

I had one urge to approach their table, to address them all, Gentlemen, why so foolish? Instead I drank water, reached for the brandy, salute, yes, we must work together, what is solidarity, it
has a meaning, under the surface are we colleagues, we are colleagues.

Other customers were there and now, now came the time, and through the window to the alleyway I saw her approaching, her walk normal, shoulderbag, silk scarf covering her hair. I rose from the
table to greet her, kissing, grasping her hand, looking to one another, kissing, returning to my table, my hand on her hand, she whispering to me, How are you?

I smiled to her, waving my hand, ordered coffee for her, one more brandy for myself, and she said, I also, brandy, thank you, if there is not money for food?