Il Capo di Tutti Frutti all Ruetti

Il Capo di Tutti Frutti all Ruetti

The giant Romanian paused and prodded his finger emphatically at the azure sky. “Claudius.”

“Indeed.”

“He was called it, for, of course, his one feet was not even bigger than his other one feet.”

“Of course.”

“There is no word in English for such a thing, my dear friend.”

“But how did he stand for leaning, then, Alexandru?”

“That can never be known. But, believe me when I tell you, Claudius was known throughout the history of all Latin countries. I,” he continued, “am a Latin. We are all Latins. ‘Il capo di tutti capi’. The leaning tower…it is no coincidence.” I patted Alexandru on his shoulder. You had to stand on tiptoe to do that, you understand, but with effort, it was possible.

Sometime after Eid and the sun was raging over the skyscrapers. A soggy flannel – no, flannelette – no, wet leatherette of a breeze teased us like a coy lover between damp armpits chuckling at the idea of cool and we kicked our way through desert dusted streets.

The sand falls finely.

It gets everywhere, coking everything, even borne on the wings of air conditioning units to invisibly frost the marble tiled floors of our apartments, so that five minutes of walking barefoot and your soles are tarnished black.

Yes, those too.

For in this land of plenty, everything can be bought. You may as well spark fires, sneeze black pepper and smoke for all the good abstinence will do you. So, of course we do. The dust is everywhere anyway. And it gets dark so, so quickly, like the flick of a switch. Dusk? No…there is no dusk, only a sudden vertiginous plunge into black.

We are cherry picking our way across the uneven paving, avoiding the mewling stray cats and the overheated automobiles; gigantic behemoths parked without concession, smouldering like tinted glass ovens, perpetually hot so that those inside stayed cool and those outside burned.

Two strange creatures, we, who washed upon these shores cast iron castaways, holding conversations in every language, for all languages are here; swapping stories from every culture, for all stories are here and looking out across the rest of the world, for the world is here. Or so it seems.

And on Alexandru’s birthday we probably should get together and cheer the old fellow on.

He clapped me on the shoulder, all seven foot of him. “Now, I tell you this, my dear friend, for Nikolai, he has one leg considerably shorter than the other leg. All his life, he suffers, he wears one shoe bigger than his other shoe – but I call him ‘Godfather’, Il Capo. So, like Claudius, no?”

“Why, because he has uneven legs?”

“No. He bears himself like the head of all the heads. Why, on his birthday, we, that is my beloved Mihaela and myself, bought him gifts. We took him to the finest restaurants.”

“A man to be reckoned with.” I was humouring him, I guess. He was, in fact, a teacher in a school and not a particularly good school at that – head of heads? Probably an honorary title, no more…but still, you could never be totally sure. Whispers were everywhere.

“Of course. I asked to see him, on my birthday, why it is an honour. A pleasure.”

And I’d met a few headteachers here, over the years. They tended to be wizened walnuts who considered themselves fallen too soon from the tree; generally good at cultivating the occasional talent that they came across, grateful to be embraced in the warmth of the sun, after suffering winters of recession. But here? Maybe we had something exceptional, if Alexandru had it just so. And he was a man in whom I had an absolute trust.

So we buzzed the bell. To be honest, I’d never met him – one of Alexandru’s friends from his last school. All I knew was that he’d left Croatia. We’d all done that, fleeing the rotten stench of home. We missed it, of course, family, friends…but there comes a time when you just get fed up with being screwed and you need to be paid a living wage and not scavenge from streetside foodbanks. But as for Nikolai? Maybe different reasons entirely.

I was prepared to be impressed.

A tiny Filipino girl opened the door, quickly running her index finger down the side of her mouth and smiling. “Hello, sir,” she sang, her mouth full - of falsetto music.

I looked at Claudiu.

“It is not my doing. Probably she helps him.”

I was sure it couldn’t be to stand straight, due to the one bigger shoe, so I dismissed that sordid thought from my mind. As we entered through the iron gate – and I’d better explain that here in Kata, many, many villas sit flat roofed squat behind large metal and concrete walls, to be entered through a square steel door – there was little behind. No heaped sandstone piled mansion, no villa, not even gravel or clinker, just a bit of the desert and a largish, yellowing tent a few hundred yards away, the sort you might find in a Eurocamp site.

It looked a little rickety. A little askew. A little lopsided.

Well, because it’s difficult to get a strong purchase in the soft sands. Or maybe to befit the owner.

So, we were led towards the canvas. “Please remove your shoes,” our hostess sang, well before we arrived at the flaccid aperture. Alexandru shrugged and took his sandals off, so I followed suit and let me tell you, that sand was bloody hot, too. And one or two unpleasant looking insects were in attendance, so I was not altogether delighted.

The flap was lifted. Alexandru had to crouch beneath the metal poles of the entrance and we were ushered inside which was empty save for a white plastic table and three or four canvas camping chairs placed around it. The table was bare, not even glasses for water and I wondered where the promised birthday feast could possibly be.

“You are late. You missed starter.” The voice came from…somewhere. My eyes were still blinking away the sweat which cascaded from my forehead in salty rivers and made bringing things into focus difficult. I wiped myself with my wrist.

“Starter? What is this?” boomed Alexandru, still bent over, to avoid getting snagged in the canvas roof.

Boy was it hot in there. The yellowing materials of the tent provided little to shield the malicious stare of the just a little past midday sun overhead and a few flies droned miserably round and round in orbit above the centre of the table which, I now could see, had a PVC wooden look top which had been all the rage in late seventies caravans but now provoked only apathy and gloom.

One of the flies hit my face and I swotted at it irritably which only seemed to fill it with enthusiasm as it now strafed again and again. What is it with them, anyway? How do they always know where you are?

I still couldn’t see our host, but then noticed, at the back, another opening that appeared to conceal a linking canvas corridor – presumably to a tent extension. Possibly a dining tent or a kitchen tent. Who knew? Maybe we were in a surface complex of interlinked tents covering a huge subterranean abode, full of people preparing food for our pleasure.

I knew we weren’t though. This had all the omens of a disaster. Portents, you see. Portents? Oh well, have it your own way.

Anyway, our Filipino guide had shoved us towards the canvas chairs and we sat down opposite each other, Alexandru and myself, wobbling precariously and Alexandru doing his best to look reassuring, mouthing ‘il capo di tutti capi’ and tapping the side of his nose with a huge finger. I was impressed with his optimism.

Until the canvas supporting his backside ripped and he collapsed beneath the table.

“That cost plenty of riyals, Alexandru.” snapped the voice, the flap shoved aside and our host, Nikolai, approached the table, limping. A small man, wearing shades and somewhat surly in tone, he plonked himself down on one of the free chairs. Now, I could feel the canvas of my own chair starting to sag and one or two stitches were popping, it’s true. So, imperceptibly, I pushed down with my feet to ease buttock weight. It was uncomfortable to support myself in this position, hovering above canvas, and I wondered how long I could keep it up. “May I join Alexandru on the sand?” I asked.

“You not like my chairs?”

“No, no, it’s not that…”

“You show no respect.”

Alexandru’s voice was muffled, but apologetic. “My friend, my dear friend, I am so sorry. I will of course pay.” He must have pulled out his wallet and a few colourful bank notes were held aloft from beneath the table in supplication. Nikolai snatched, riffled and trousered; somewhat mollified, he clapped his hands as befitted a sheik and the entertainment began.

Unable to continue on tiptoe, I gave up, sank into the seat and the canvas ripped in two. I joined Alexandru on the floor, following suit in proffering riyals which were, as before, grabbed.

Two Filipino men danced and sang unenthusiastically to a CD player, dressed in satin veils, satin pants and waving wild gestured satin handkerchiefs mumbling ‘Tutti Frutti, All Rooti’ whilst the girl bashed her hands against a biscuit tin to keep time. My friend looked entranced all the while whilst I tried not to snigger.

Behind his shades, it was difficult to work out what Nikolai was feeling; his mouth remained fixed in a straight slash across his face. I nudged Alexandru, “she’s keeping good tin, at any rate.” But it was lost in translation, anyway, feeble as it was.

When the excruciating performance finally ended, Alexandru whooped in genuine joy – no, really - and wiped what might have been a tear from his eye. “My dear friend, I am truly touched that you should have remembered. To bring to life my culture in such a way. It is a heart breaking moment for me. Such pain.”

I sympathised entirely. Indeed, I wondered what a Little Richard karaoke routine had to do with Romania, anyway. But presumably it was some sort of tribute which I wasn’t privy to. Still with that assault on the senses, I was hungry, so I kicked at the sand beneath the table, feeling the urge to call an Uber, a camel, anything – but my friend stayed me with his wide palm. I thought at least I might have a cigarette but feared the flimsy tent might ignite in the heat.

Now the small one came over and whispered. “You like, sir? You want more? My husband ask what you need.”

“Husband?” I looked at Nikolai.

“My wife is serving you this afternoon,” he scowled, and I wondered what sort of husband gave his partner a biscuit tin to keep rhythm and tempo. She was such a slip of a thing, I felt sorry for her. She smiled, nevertheless.

“Well, I am hungry. Where’s the birthday feast for Alexandru?” I asked, in what I knew wasn’t quite cheerfulness – there was that awareness gap between what you were attempting to project and the actuality of what came out of your mouth. It was tangible and felt like lead.

I’d rather be anywhere but this place; even bed. Bed, ah, what a prospect that would be. But still, I was prone to narcolepsy, and so.

Nikolai glowered and clapped his hands yet again. Our three poor Filipino’s now scuttled away, presumably to get food, and I could only hope they were being right, royally paid.

Bums burning on the scorpion sand, whilst our host pulled himself nearer to the plastic table by shuffling his chair with his sandaled feet, we anticipated. Alexandru, sensing my discomfort, winked and tapped his nose whilst, now returned, newspapers were spread in front of us. Mine was the Daily Mail. I squinted to see what the lead story was, caught a glimpse of the word ‘immigrants’ and a picture of blonde Boris looking pretty vacant beside a starting pistol just before some mutton stew was slopped all over it.

Mrs Nikolai smiled prettily and opened a packet of ‘Lays’ tomato ketchup crisps, daintily sprinkling an almost generous portion on top of the luke warm meat concoction and knelt. She used the fingers of her right hand and scooped some stew towards my mouth.

Alexandru was less lucky. He had one of the men.

I dutifully opened my mouth and allowed some in. I’m not lying when I tell you that it tasted of Pedigree Chum.

You know what that’s like? Me neither, but the smell conjured round bowls, collars and muzzles, I promise you.

I spat it out immediately and looked to my left. Alexandru was chewing with all the appearance of someone immensely enjoying the experience, savouring, turning each piece of horsemeat around with his tongue. I was sure he was going to put his fingers to his lips and kiss them, such was his blissful expression.

It might have been whale, of course, given the bones.

Anyway, I was having no more. Not wishing to upset Alexandru – clearly having the time of his life – I discreetly pushed the majority of the dog food into the desert. Thought it best.

“Sir!” my lovely lady exclaimed, “you spoil your food.”

“I need to read the latest on Brexit,” I lied. But even as I picked up the paper, I could see some fishbones had obscured Boris, as though they’d penetrated his brain by way of the nose, and, at that point, I almost loved him, I really did.

No, of course I didn’t. That would be stupid.

Anyway, the meal was clearly over, because Nikolai, who’d had nothing, now leaned forward in his chair and, with a gesture, the newspapers were taken away. “All these times you do not call me Godfather,” he said.

“Sorry, Alexandru, I’m off,” I snapped. Because I may be many things, but I’m not sleeping with the dishes, in any case. No amount of hand shouldering would prevent my exodus; some explanation, for sure, but I know dog food when I taste it.

“Wait, my dear friend,” Alexandru smiled, in some sort of communion, well because it was his party, I suppose.

“You never once called me Godfather,” continued Nikolai.

Well, I stood up. “I have to tell you, Nikolai, that having been served dog food on newspapers…”

“Wait. Do you not eat your British fish and chips in newspapers?”

Well he had me there, I had to admit.

Nikolai leaned forwards. He probably would have pinned me with his gaze but for his shades. “You will stay. I only want to wet my beak.”

“What do you mean?”

Nikolai now spoke conspiratorially. “I know that you chop, you chop plenty?”

Alexandru smiled politely, “Of course, my dear friend. We, all of us chop most handsomely, here in Kata. I myself have amassed five hours of chopperage every week, more than enough. I take an Uber, go to chop, take the riyals. It is our benefit to be in this beautiful country and chop.”

The dog food beside me was smelling abominable and attracting more biting flies than ever, so I tried to cover it with sand, using Boris as a scoop. It was partially successful, too. Yet still the flies buzzed tirelessly in a sound cloud and I idly wondered what the chop they were going on about. It seemed to be one of those conversations composed of exclusive language – designed to exclude me. “Chop?” I asked, in the end.

Alexandru leant his face into my ear, dwarfing me, as he does. “Nikolai refers to our evening tutoring. It is his code to hide intentions from those who listen. Il capo.”

Ah, the worst kept secret in Kata – our evening activities, extracurricular and a little naughty – but visiting the palaces and drinking karak and nibbling pistachio fancies whilst we explained the finer points of language was a way of life. And the little extra came in handy.

Nikolai continued, however, unaware that I was now on the same page. “I only want to wet my beak,” he repeated. “Let’s say 25% and I will be happy to protect you.”

“Il capo, il capo,” murmured Alexandru, “you request something that I am not happy to give. We all enjoy our chop here. You chop more than most, I’ve heard that you chop plenty and make a good profit, spending little on life or your poor wife.”

Nikolai exploded. “You think it easy for me? You think it easy? Walking the streets with one leg shorter than my other leg? They see me and they bar my entrance, Alexandru. And look at my overheads, my friend: two chairs to replace, servants to house and this meal you have enjoyed does not come cheap. No, my friend, I will make you an offer you cannot refuse…” he looked at me and whipped off his shades, “you too, my good friend. I only want to wet my beak.”

Well, I was outraged. Was this bribery? Who did he know that he could split on me? I leapt to my feet, but almost immediately, the two satin clad men closed cover. Nikolai scowled. “You want I set my dogs on you?”

Well that explained the food. “No, I want dessert,” I blustered, “all that tutti frutti, you see?”

Alexandru rose to his feet as well and I swear his head ripped straight through the canvas ceiling and popped out into the sun as though he was wearing a fading yellowed dress. “Claudius, Claudius.” he hissed, a little muffled, “There will be no dessert today. It would not be just.” And with as much dignity as he could muster he left, in a trail of guy ropes and yellow tent.

“That tent cost 90 riyals,” screamed Nikolai, “you’ll be hearing from me, never think you will not.”

But we never did hear from Nikolai again, though. He just disappeared. Left in a most enigmatic fashion, no messages, contacts, explanations…nothing. Some whispered about the wife; she’d had enough, but after a week or two I looked in Alexandru’s office at school and saw that he had two new book-ends upon his shelf. Shoes – one slightly bigger than the other.

You see, now when I sleep, I dream of chopping, fishes swimming in newspapers and see a seven foot il capo di capi looming over me humming tooti frutti quietly to himself.