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.
