Shrinking Violet’s Chopped Cucumbers
Friday
afternoon. Late-ish.
Even from
his bedroom, he could hear them. And his bedroom was far, far from the front
door. There was a longish L shaped corridor from there to here.
You see, the
truth is, that Stuart lived on the ground floor.
What’s so
bloody truthful about that, you might ask, given the import of the previous
declaration; what’s the deal? I mean it seems a small thing to point out,
doesn’t it?
Well,
nothing really. It’s just that being on the ground floor of the block meant it
was near to elevators for all the others.
Floors.
Ungenerously,
the architect had provided only two such.
Yes, stairs,
of course, but they were a tad narrow and uninviting. With those push bar to
open fire things.
And, during
the busy hours, there were…people.
Impatient neckbottled
people, awaiting transport.
Friday
afternoons between four and six o clock were particularly messy, due to it
being the end of brunches, whereupon those hotels so welcoming at midday became
weary of four hours of tiresome drunkenness and gluttony. They applied velvet
gloved iron hands, nailed boots and chucked out hordes of pissheads onto the
hot, Kata streets.
Most of
these were young, most of them Irish and all of them wankered.
How they
clamoured for taxis, how they cursed as wiser drivers passed them by, wary of
damp patch jeans and slippery strapless mini-dresses on their pristine seats.
The yoof of
today made their way back to the apartment building in dribbles, some quite
literally, then, by the elevators, and reunited once more, sang boldly of their
adventures. Mainly football chants they had heard on the telly – well because
most were too young to have actually been to a game.
Listening to
them, Stuart scowled. The girls were extremely shrill and noisy.
He blocked
his ears with pillows as they pierced his brain, devising ever more brutal
traps to slaughter them, then reflecting that it would all be over in another
hour until mid-morning Saturday, when, upon waking, they’d discover who’d shagged
who, questioned why and, under clouds of hangovers, tears and tantrums would
start to fight each other.
Bloody
teachers.
Stuart
looked at his phone again and tried to read the message. His sight was nowhere
near as good as it had once been and the screen was small, of course. Unwisely
he had taken to spraying Covid disinfectant over his glasses until a student
pointed out he was probably ruining the varifocal lenses.
Now he had
to tip his head back slightly to read – or push the bottom of the frames
upwards.
Her words
swam into view. He strained harder and his headache worsened.
‘I failed
you in hunky panky,’ he thought he read, ‘I am feeding up play sensitive games.
You are serious to me with no dramas.’ he scrolled up slightly. ‘but before
hunky panky, I need your intentions. We should go on to conquer the world. I
raised my son and daughter with God’s grace, but sadly ruined my lovelife.’
Stupid God,
stupid grace.
Stuart
sighed. Rolled over. Listened once more to the hedonistic clamour outside. Some
of that shrieking sounded positively impure.
Mid-morning
Friday, outside the Blue Salon, adjacent to C Ring Road.
It being
Friday, the road was quiet. There was literally no traffic, save for a sad-face
Filipino riding his bicycle. It was one of those with a wicker basket in front
which contained a large bottle of water – probably five gallons – to be upended
into a cooler.
Do they even
have gallons in Kata?
As the
bicycle made its melancholy way past him, creaking slightly with age or abuse,
Stuart was reminded of a film. He knew not which. But a line came into his
head. ‘It is time to keep your appointment with the wicker man’.
Stuart
glanced at his watch, then back at C Ring. Where was she? Twenty minutes and no
sign of her car. And the sun was baleful, burning his neck and shoulders
viciously.
Fishing in
his pocket for the phone, he opened it and reread her morning messages.
‘You feed me
yoghurt with a spoon?’
‘Yes, of
course. Cool yoghurt on your hot tongue.’
‘I excited.’
‘I should
think you are.’
‘I come to
ur apartment.’
‘Now? Or
tomorrow?’ Stuart had wanted to go swimming; if she came now, his plans would
be in disarray.
‘I already
in car.’
Blast. ‘OK.
I’ll wait by Blue Salon, C Ring.’
It was
spooky, C Ring being so empty of life. At any other given moment it was a
gridlocked soundscape of angry horning from frustrated drivers, weaving lanes.
The intertwining was extremely irksome, bonnets thrust aggressively across
white lines, causing obstructions beyond the wit of humanity to solve.
A tangled
skein of quick step and side kick woolly momentum. Judging just how far to push
out, how much to retract, mishearing the traffic signals which had a habit of
shouting stop, just when you’d put your engine into first.
Stuart
licked his lips with thirst. Waiting for her.
But she’d
already arrived. He could see her small figure in the distance, waving.
Obviously she’d come by another route. Her diminutive Filipina boobs bounced as
she strutted towards him with a smile.
Stuart was
unsure whether to be pleased or afraid. Above him the signals changed colour
again.
To get to
his apartment, just a stone’s throw from Blue Salon, involved a great deal of
huffing, puffing and blowing the house down. There were tricksy manoeuvres
involving her car, u turns and parking.
“No, turn
right here. You should remember this, Sweet Violet, surely?”
Then the
lobby and security had to be negotiated. It was a good ten steps from the
entrance to his door.
“Will Anis
see me? What about Tessa? I could be recognised.”
“Well, wear
dark glasses and a hijab next time.”
“Next time?”
Finally, he
fumbled and dropped the key, noticing a gecko scuttle away.
“What was
that?”
“A gecko.”
“Is it your
pet?”
“No.”
“Do you have
a pet?”
“No.”
“I have a
turtle.”
Once they
had entered that L shaped corridor, Stuart embraced her like a lover would. He
regretted that choice of clause, due to it being a lyric from ‘Louise’ by Human
League – a break up song.
Upon hearing
intruders, Mr Stabs was making a lot of racket in the spare room. Shrieks,
squarks and telephone ringtones.
“What’s
that?”
“Mr Stabs. A
parrot.”
“I think you
have no pets?”
“I’m minding
him for a friend. She left me with him. Only temporary. She said. Six months
ago.”
“Mr Stabs is
strange name.”
“If I go
near him, he bites me.”
“Really? Can
I see?”
Reluctantly,
Stuart plucked a grape off the bunch sitting on his dining table in the bowl
and walked along the small corridor which separated the living area from the
two bedrooms. Violet padded behind him, all four foot of her, blinking through
thick, pebbly glasses and panting in excitement.
Mr Stabs
regarded Stuart and the proffered grape malignantly as both approached his
cage. He was silent – a silence that presaged only doom and torture. True to
form, as Stuart’s fingers got nearer, he stabbed at them, seizing the grape and
drawing blood in exultation. Then he tossed the grape aside in amused contempt.
Violet was
delighted.
As Stuart
winced, sucking his forefinger, she hopped up and down to see, then her face
creased with concern. “You need band-aid.”
“Yes.”
“You have?”
“No, not
really. Sorry.”
Now both of
them sat on his sofa, a cushion’s distance apart, as Stuart waited for the
bleeding to subside. He was unsure how to proceed on this second date, having
hoped for a coffee and cake at the mall, or something. Neutral ground. Difficult
sophomore album syndrome.
Should he
put his arm around her? Go in for a snog? What did she actually expect? Maybe
get the yoghurt and a spoon?
Reading
minds is so difficult.
Violet
wasn’t being very helpful.
So, he
showed her round the apartment, to kill five minutes, and dispel an awkwardness
that hung between them.
“This is my
study.”
“What
through door?”
“A toilet.”
“Bathroom?”
“Yes.”
“Ah-ah. Who
that?”
“Who?”
Violet was
indicating a printed picture that Stuart had pinned to his bookshelf a while ago.
“That is Angel.”
“Angel? That
a man?”
“Is it?”
Stuart squinted. It was definitely Angel she was pointing at, not his son. “No.
It a woman.”
“Woman?”
Violet giggled. “Not woman.”
“It is
woman.” To be fair, it was an unflattering snap.
“Who Angel?”
“A woman. I
keep it there to remind me not to have any more. She helps me write.”
They
continued the door. “This kitchen.”
“Ah-ah.”
“This spare
bedroom.”
“Ah-ah.”
“This my
bedroom. I put clean sheets today. I always put clean sheets on Friday.”
“What
through door?”
“A toilet.”
“Bathroom?”
“Yes.”
They padded
back to the sofa and sat apart once again.
Stuart
inched his arm along the back minutely, so as not cause alarm. Mr Stabs would
have approved. His hand was on her shoulder, then at her T shirt. He casually
shifted his fingers slightly so that they moved underneath the short sleeve and
he had the top of her bra strap. Result.
Violet
flinched, pulling away, freeing the erroneous digit from elastic, then roughly
pushed his back. “I massage you.”
Get in.
She pulled
up the back of his shirt from where the belt secured his waist, then prodded
her fingers into bare flesh. His spine cracked under her touch and he winced.
She giggled.
“You tense, Mister.”
“Yes. A bit.
I injured my back in a tug-of-war competition, one sports day.” Which was true.
As nearly all of this is.
“You have oils?
Scented oils work good.”
“No. I only
have Ajax.”
“What Ajax?”
“Toilet
cleaner.”
Her fingers
worked him, like a dilettantish keyboard player who spots one in a church hall
and tries chopsticks. After the first bum note, a wan smile and finish, hallas.
She pulled
his shirt back down with the finality of a closing piano lid.
“What for
lunch?”
“Lunch?”
Stuart ushered
Violet the three or four steps from his sofa to the dining table.
“Wow.”
Like she was
seeing it for the first time? Hadn’t he given her the tour?
Still, living
alone, he took a little pride in his table which was quite well apportioned for
one person. Maybe he was fairly unusual in that he cooked his own meals when he
had time, rather than ordering out for shawarma, pizza, chicken or beef-burgers.
Another
favourite pastime of the block dwellers.
When not
pissed they ordered lakes of fizzy pop and mountains of processed meat,
delivered by unhappy looking, small men on scooters, pretty much around the
clock.
Just last
week, Stuart had seen one of them tottering across C Ring from MacDonald’s
carrying a small mug of diet coke and a tray of fries in 45 degree heat.
He, however,
kept table. Fruit in a bowl. Six bottles of condiments, an electric salt and
pepper grinder. That sort of thing. He also scattered ashtrays around the
apartment – like many men his age, he enjoyed a quiet smoke.
Violet’s
round face was smiling. She wriggled her bum in the IKEA chair.
He fussed
her, bringing salad, hummus, crackers, cheese. The sort of thing he liked, well
obviously, because it was lying around and in the fridge.
Lunch?
Well, okay,
so they munched on the cold collation and chatted idly. It wasn’t long before
love reared its ugly head, because, Stuart supposed, that was where this was
heading.
He wondered
if he could still perform.
At least the
sheets were unstained. Always changed them Friday’s. He was a stickler for
that.
“My husband
cheat on me. I leave him. I waiting for annulment one day soon. So I bring up
two children. They grown now.”
“Are they
here in Kata?”
“No, Mister
Stuart, they in Manila.”
“Ah, I
expect you miss them.”
“Sometimes I
miss but I bring then up with God’s grace.”
Stuart knew
bits of this story from the first date where he’d plied her with bottled water
and she’d struggled to eat five or six mouthfuls some chicken pasta arrabiata
in a very expensive Italian she had chosen.
They
should’ve shared a pizza, really.
Maybe it had
been four of five weeks ago.
Last day of
summer term, he’d wandered into the school library to see Violet, checking
books in. Those dumped by life’s stragglers.
“Have a
happy summer, Violet.”
“You travel,
Mr Stuart?”
“No, no.
What with Covid, endless PCR tests and the UK on the Red List in perpetuity, it
seems...” (he rolled the ‘r’ of perpetuity, enjoying the feel on his tongue and
the dramatic flair it lent) “…there seems no point. I shall stay in my
apartment.”
“Me too, Mr
Stuart. I sad. My flatmate leave and I alone.”
Which had
led to him messaging her, having drunk too much watching England beat Germany
in the Euros.
That can
happen.
He returned
to his table, listened and watched as she pecked at a Ryvita. Mr Stabs would
put her to shame. No wonder she was small, with such an appetite.
He seized
the initiative.
“Do you miss
it? The hanky panky, I mean?”
“Hunky
panky?”
Flickering
his eyebrows, five rounds rapid, in what he hoped was a non-threatening gesture,
he grinned. It had worked for Wayne in ‘Auf Wiedersehen, Pet’.
“You know.”
She
understood. Chewed thoughtfully on the corner of the Ryvita. Smiled. Answered.
“Ah. That is
hunky panky. I not hunky panky for 10 years.”
“Really.
That’s a long time to go without.”
Stuart knew
this because his wife had frozen on him some eight years ago and he’d moved
firstly to the spare room, then later to another country.
It was now
or never. Hook or me this time.
By no means
a Machiavelli, Stuart hit upon a plan as they cleared away the table together,
drifting in and out of the kitchen like two clouds of summer butterflies.
He could see
the bed waiting, waiting, each time he returned to the table and she, humming a
tune pleasantly under her breath, washing the few dishes carefully; stroking,
rinsing.
It so
happened that Stuart’s Egyptian doctor, a lady of undetermined beauty, due to sunshades
and a hijab, but of a kind, loving nature, had dropped into his apartment kilos
and kilos of fresh fruit and salad, two days ago.
Until now,
he had not the slightest idea would should be done. How would they not waste?
Now, he had
it.
“We must
cook.”
“Cook?”
Violet replaced
a tea towel she had been drying plates with and Stuart put them in the top
cupboard. He thought about lifting her, but he was somewhat aroused and did not
want her to feel it against her back.
Instead, he
reached into the bottom drawer of the fridge, taking out a huge bag of
cucumbers that had been cooling, along with the huge tub of plain, Arabic
yoghurt.
He pointed
at an adjacent cupboard beneath the sink. Violet looked inside and had no
trouble kneeling down, to take a large glass bowl.
With a flourish,
Stuart produced a knife and board.
“You chop.”
He tumbled
out all the cucumbers onto the kitchen surface and stood alongside her.
Comically,
they began to jostle into each other. Why? Violet was insisting on rinsing each
and every stiff vegetable under the cold water.
“No need.”
“Covid.”
He nodded,
jostled her once again, feeling her small breasts press into his elbow
accidentally, and took the cucumbers. Now as he rinsed each one slowly, he
passed them to the left and watched as she deftly chopped each down to size.
Chop, chop,
chop.
The juices
oozed out, onto the surface.
Chop. chop.
chop.
Each piece
decimated, becoming smaller, then smaller still.
Chop, chop,
chop.
She licked
her fingers; rubbed the wet onto her chest.
Chop, chop,
chop.
Wincing slightly,
and yet still somehow drawn as the moon draws water, Stuart poured yoghurt into
the bowl, mixing in the mint and stirring the pot.
Now she
tipped in the cucumber. A sparrow could not have filled his beak with one
piece, so diminutive were those cucumber morsels, yet together they were
plenty.
He took her
hand and joined it to his so that they stirred together, watching the white
stuff as it tinted green.
Stirring,
stirring.
He took the
spoon, scooped some of the ice cool mixture and placed it to her lips. With
eyes closed, she drank.
Now their
hands slipped deep into the yogurt and they began to squeeze.
Squeeze,
squeeze, squeeze. For minutes they squeezed until they were almost melting into
it, in a strange dual insanity, until they were squeezing each other’s hands,
mistaking them for the gentle milk. Squeezing the yogurt, squeezing the
yoghurt.
Annie get
your gun.
Somewhere
deep in the sweaty mixture, two hands were clasped in a promise, and way above the
slippery lip, two pairs of eyes met.
Then,
catastrophe.
The bowl
moved, somehow animated for a brief moment, self aware, malignant, and in those
few seconds of consciousness, chose death.
It fell those
four terrible feet to the kitchen floor and smashed into a thousand splinters.
Yoghurt
spread.
What had
once been firm, was formless.
It was a
lake. No worse, it was a white whale, vengeful and terrible, covering every
surface in a tacky, pale cucumber and mint slime.
Stuart swore
vengeance almost immediately.
‘I was going
to eat that!’
‘Mess. It
everywhere.’
‘My
cucumbers, see what you did to my cucumbers.’
‘All on
wall, on floor.’
‘My yoghurt,
my yoghurt’
‘My hand hurt.’
‘What
through there?’
‘A toilet.’
She
disappeared. Stuart knelt in the spreading, dispersing whale flesh, seized glassy,
spermy liquid in both hands mesmerised, raised them above his head and watched
in horror as it oozed in glaciers down his arms and covered his shirt.
Then, realising
this was a stupid act, he sighed, and filled a bucket. It was to be a long
afternoon.
He barely
heard the door as she let herself out.
Friday
afternoon. Later-ish.
If anything,
the shrieking was getting worse out there. Stuart wondered if they were
copulating in order to pass the time as the elevator passed between floors.
He smelt his
fingers, wishing the scent was something other than sour milk sea and mint,
remembering afternoons when perfumes where altogether more…tangy.
Squinting
again, he read some more. Somehow, the words seemed pathetic; sorrowful…and old.
‘I fail in hunky
panky. I will take time. We will find our intentions. I enjoy lunch with you.
Thank you. Next time.’
No.
No time.
Time is for
tortoises.
Time was a
spreading white whale of turning milk inviting swimmers to shun diving in and risk what lies beneath. Cuts? He'd had a few.
Bollocks to
it.
Stuart
rolled off his bed, padded down the corridor, grabbed a bottle of gin and unlocked
his door.
He balled his right fist. Unsure what he intended to do, of that much he was certain.
