One
long afternoon, cotton clouds translated the blushing sun’s muttered spells as
he descended towards a mustard dust horizon, sugar coating dewdrop jewelled
bottles in glittered spangles.
These
were racked up alongside revellers like a glass slippered castle; liquid of
every hue and cry, every regret and sigh, and they had lured many seekers of
answers to life’s loves and truths to a sick, sticky hangover the next morning.
Still,
tomorrow morning’s gummy pillows were a lifetime away from now, and, in front
of the gathered multitude, was a feast like no other. Every conceivable cuisine
was represented from around the world, from the plainest breads, fruits and
cheese to delicacies like lobsters, oysters and thick black caviar. Soups babbled
quietly in huge cauldrons, delicately spiced curries and stews chuckled
together in good humour, sweets and trifles whipped themselves to a frenzy and,
best of all, thick chocolates, white, brown and bitter dark, gushed ceaseless
from fountains into sweet rivers attended by striped trousered guardians.
And
these small men and women were busy ferrying the banquet to tables surrounding
rose petalled fragranced pools; murmuring quietly into the ears of the diners.
As
the afternoon stretched its shadows, the throng became louder, noisier; some
breaking off to dance long threaded congas, weaving haphazardly amongst tables
where they were good-naturedly pushed off by the seated, like badly piloted
paddle steamers. And the scurrying of the waiters became more frantic as four o
clock approached and snapping fingers intensified…for as every child knows,
four chimes break the spell.
All
are shown the exit and those with any sense stumble straight to bed, some with
each other and others quite, quite alone.
At
one of the smaller tables, pushed back against a wall, shaded by a parasol and
quite some distance from any pool, petalled or otherwise, sat two men. One was
a giant.
An ogre, bearded, with a vast, inverted rainbow smile and twinkling
gemstone eyes. When he laughed, his armchair shook as though hit by twenty
thunderbolts. When he spoke, his voice was so deep as to threaten to crumble
any soft sandstone the hotel was carved from. He was dressed from head to foot
in flowing golden and white robes – not quite a thobe, something altogether
more magnificent. He was armed only with a huge wooden spoon hanging loosely
from a leather thong that he wore around his thick, hairy neck. The spoon’s chunky handle was covered in ornate carvings of miniature African animals, ivory in
colour, and he used the ladle to eat with, regardless of dish,“for it is all I need
and it serves its purpose.”
Next
to him, his opposite. Small with a long cactus spike of a nose and eyes close
set together, his voice reedy, and as sour as a pint of unsweetened grapefruit
juice, dressed in a loose T Shirt, jeans and sporting a pork pie hat with ‘kiss
me quick’ scrawled upon it.
The
one sipped water and consumed the mountain of foods heaped upon his various
bestrewn plates, whilst the other threw back glass upon glass of blood pink
Campari Bitters, often forgetting to dash the drink with the silvery lemonade at his
left hand. He observed his giant companion eat, necked another drink down his
throat and snapped his fingers.
“Why
don’t you drink, anyway, Ahmed?” he complained, as his companion mopped gravy
with a hunk of rough bread before placing it into the cavern that passed for
his mouth.
Ahmed
chewed thoughtfully, then waved his spoon. “Whilst it is not forbidden, of
course,” he boomed, after a few movements, “I don’t like it.” And he laughed,
delightedly at his answer, spraying bread due to the suddenness of his
response. “I do beg your pardon, Felix,” he continued, pulling out a tissue and
gently cleaning the small mess he had made from the table, for he was golden-hearted and considerate. “That was thoughtless of me.”
“Think
nothing of it,” grumbled Felix, who wasn’t, then continued griping, “If you
drank more, or even something, we might be invited to join the conga. I mean,
look at the fun they’re having.” He indicated the dancing, stumbling line which
was, even now, staggering its way back to complete another lap, whooping and
hollering like a scream of enraged guillemots. “Those Irish sure know how to
party. Every week here they are, shouting ‘it’s the craic’, having the best of
it and every week the conga.”
“It’s
true, Felix. I expect they’ll be sick soon. Then maybe I must help with clean
up the mess, carrying them out to taxis and calling ambulance.” Ahmed scratched
his beard, because he remembered a few occasions where he had done just that -
but never with any sense of unwillingness. He was big. He would bear them.
Felix
ignored him, scanning the linked people. “Look!” he snapped. “Disgraceful. That
girl’s top is off and the man behind her is groping her boobs. Cupping a good
handful. Disgusting. I should report them; that’s haram” He continued to stare,
his head bobbing absently in time to the shaking bodies until he dragged his
eyes away and returned to table, swallowing more bitters.
“Well,
well,” grinned Ahmed, looking, then slapping Felix across the back, “he will
drink from full cups tonight as well as this afternoon. For she is certainly
gifted.” He threw back his head and laughed, “my friend, what harm is there,
anyway?” He took his spoon and sliced it into a wobbling plate of blackberry
jellies, balanced some carefully and manoeuvred them towards his mouth.
Felix
watched him resentfully. Stupid spoon. Stupid friend. Lumbered with a giant and
always on the periphery of the action, never the centre. Mercifully for him,
four o clock had arrived; departure time. “Let’s go,” he snapped, rising very
unsteadily and swaying slightly as he waited for Ahmed. As usual, the waiters
were fussing over the giant, beaming with delight as he congratulated them for
the magnificent service, the food, the company. Felix scowled and stalked off. “I
need better friends than these,” he muttered, not sure if he’d been heard or
not, then unceremoniously shoved a few revellers aside – one was clearly Irish,
thin, tall and pissed, blinking at him stupidly.
Ahmed
could see his friend was not happy; had not been happy for some time and Felix,
for his part, continued to glower, whereupon his colossal companion helped him walk,
supported him across the marbled foyer and poured him into his car.
So,
the pages turn and soon another magical Friday, it is twelve thirty and the
tables of every hotel across Kata are once again laden with more dishes than it
is humanly possible to turn into five loaves and two fishes and wine enough to
water every wedding guest.
Felix
once more grouched his way to an offered table he was unsmilingly led to and
sourly noted it had only two seats, as ever. “Even the small ones have
recognised that I only need a trivial table, a table their size, they either
know me, or sense that I have no friends, none,” he berated himself, and
further than that wondered why they bothered. “We never have any fun. No conga
for us.”
But
where was Ahmed? They had been doing this for years and the giant was usually
first in line; his appetites were legendary across Kata. Staff were always keen
to greet him, eyes smiling, fist bumps and handshakes; enclosing their palms
within his and he would affectionately drape a giant arm across shoulders whilst
introducing ‘his good friend, Felix’.
“Abandoned,
hah.” grumbled Felix, after a few minutes. He thought to send a message by
phone, then snapped his fingers brusquely for the Campari bottle.
Before
it could arrive, he was surprised by the tallish, thin young fellow from last
week standing above him. Felix bristled a little, for, being small in stature,
he could ill afford a scrap which was, he suddenly saw in a moment of blue-sky
clarity, why Ahmed was useful to have around. Where was he? Why this day of all
days?
But
there was nought to fear. The young fellow offered a hand and introduced
himself. “Hey, dude. My name’s Patrick, but call me Paddy, hell, everyone else
does. I think I’ve seen you around, hey, for sure. It’s a good craic here,
anyway.”
“Join
you?”
“Sure.
We’re all by the pool. We kept a seat for you.”
So
Felix allowed himself to be ushered over by the beaming, dark haired boy and,
before long, a chair had been pulled out for him, right bang in the centre; a
good chair, a throne almost. Yes, surely a throne for now he was surrounded on
all sides by young men, young women, all hanging on his every word. “My name’s
Felix,” he’d announced, and there were gales of laughter, even at that
utterance.
Youthful
girls, new teaching staff, probably, were literally purring at him. “sure, I’m
Sinead and this here’s Aiofe. We seen you here before, sure enough. Where’s
your friend? He seems like a good laugh.”
“Ahmed?
He’s not really a friend. Him and his stupid spoon. I’ve been trying to dump
him for years but he keeps turning up. Doesn’t even drink. He’s one spoon short
of a cutlery set, that one.”
“Eh?”
“One
spoon short of a cutlery set. Quite frankly I wish he’d fork off.”
And
they laughed. Hesitantly at first, but after a few drinks, the stirrings became
full gusts.
Flanked
on either side by dark eyed, sultry beauties was he and even the sun, still in
the Gods, shone upon him, spinning his every word into pure gold: why, he was
an undiscovered raconteur, every thought a gemstone of the purest quality, a
treasure chest of wisdom and wit. “Certainly,” he nodded, to one of the ladies
near to him, “it was a dead parrot and it had ceased to be.”
Without
Ahmed, the drinks kept coming, as was just and right; drinks of burnt amber,
drinks of emerald green. And with each drink, each word was more precious than
the last: “You have a woman’s purse! A woman’s purse! I’ll bet that purse has
never been used as a lifeboat and had seven sailors tossing in it…” and when he
spoke of the chair that when you sat down, it farted, he’d floored them.
“Great! Super!”
Before
long, Aoife had taken his sticky palm in hers, their faces swimming in and out
of focus like playing with the tracking button on a VHS.
“What’s
a VHS?” she’d asked.
“Well,”
Felix slurred, softly, “it was a machine, a machine that recorded, everything,
you put a tape into it, a tape into it and the box, snapped shut…”
“Ah,
for sure,” Aoife purred, “you’ll be liking my box that snaps shut, sure
enough,” and she’d put his arms to her waist, “let’s dance.”
Felix
could scarcely believe it. Even now, these years later, he still finds it hard.
For here and now, the conga began to weave its way through tables, round pools
and, whilst he was not leading it, true, he was third or fourth.
One
two three, kick. One two three kick.
His
arms around Aoife’s waist. Oh, Aoife. And her scanty, flimsy top riding up, up
with every kick, her warm, browned, bare back ever more visible, and no bra, he
was sure of that. It’s the craic. He had to find the craic. So he pushed his
hands upwards and cupped firmly.
She
screamed.
There
was a fuss, a rushing onslaught of people.
He
first felt a fist. Then a boot to the head.
Later,
there were two strong arms underneath his back, lifting and a voice he would
ever remember. “Felix, my dear friend, I have erred, my dear, dear friend. I
shall never forgive myself for arranging it.”
Maybe
an ambulance. Then ice cool sheets. When he awoke, there was a spoon on the
table beside hid bed. He recognised it instantly.
On
long afternoons, when cotton clouds listen to the blushing sun’s muttered
spells as he descends, it is true that often they frown upon a sad, small man,
sitting long away in hotel after hotel, ticking each one off his list. Seeking,
seeking, and never giving up.
Still
sipping Campari, Felix sees the long snaking congas, which he might smile
sardonically at, maybe even listfully, but always he waves them away with the
carved spoon.
And then asks one question. Always the same question.
Until
he strikes a long wavy line through the first entry on the paper. Yet,
as one hotel is deleted from his list, the same name still reappears at the top,
as if by magic...
...for
this is, after all, a fairy story, isn’t it?
