Something on
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Writing extracts by Rosa Barbour |
Something on
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Writing extracts by Rosa Barbour |
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Don, attempting in vain to get hot water to run through the espresso filters, lets out an indiscernible bellow. Beside him stands a young man I’ve never seen before. His glasses magnify his already-huge eyes slightly, lending an owlish quality to his sincere, tanned face. ‘Is clogged, in the pipe,’ he says calmly in a thick Italian accent. He leans over Don and flicks the water switch on the offending coffee machine. Unsurprisingly, nothing happens. ‘Is pipes.’ says the new boy again. His tone is one of gentle finality. ‘It’s no’ the pipes,’ barks Don. He doesn’t seem to be talking to anyone in particular. It’s more like a (very loud) prayer. ‘Donal. If you try again to run water through this, it’s not come. We need the Graham.’ ‘Can I just have a tea?’ attempts the man queuing in front of me. He is immediately drowned out by Don, who is now, quite clearly, on the verge. ‘I TOLD YOU. WE’RE NOT GETTING GRAHAM OUT.’ The Italian touches his fingertips to the bridge of his nose and looks up at the ceiling. Despite my own dark morning-mood, this brief gesture of exasperation (resigned, yet respectful somehow, and totally without insolence), is very funny to me. ‘Can I just have a tea, though? I’m really just wanting a tea,’ pleads queue man. ‘Right, ffffff— right, aye. No, I’ll get you a tea, that’s fine. What tea are you wanting—’ ‘Just normal with mi—’ ‘ 'Right - Andy, speak to Nina about the fucking curry powder business, would you. Let's sell some wares.’ Andy? Surely not. Don slops hot water from the kettle into a takeaway cup for the now-distressed tea man, plonking in a Twinings English Breakfast as something of an after-throught. The new guy stares at him, finally dwarfed by the extra language barriers erected by Don's idiosyncratic weirdness. 'What do you mean curry powder?' Don stabs a thumb at the counter next to the till, where two white cups are on display, tipped and filled to the brim with bright-coloured powder; one a mustardy yellow, the other a dense, highly-pigmented green that looks a bit like Urban Decay’s Kush eyeshadow. ‘Donal. Christ, man. Okay. You want to try? Is Matcha, or Turmeric. For lattes.’ I realise that possibly-called-Andy was addressing the latter to me. I’ve heard of this Matcha stuff before, but I had always thought it was a syrup, or powder, or something, that you add to coffee. I tell him so. ‘No, no. Tea. Is tea from Japan.’ I meet his huge green eyes for a moment. His air of benevolence and unassuming humour makes me grin, again(!), despite myself. ‘An Italian selling me tea?’ ‘Sί. Trust me - is struggle,’ he says with a small smile. He takes a jar of the bright green Matcha powder from the counter-top and sprinkles a measure into a large cardboard cup. From a silver jug, he swirls some cold milk on top and stirs the mixture into a thick paste. He reaches elegantly over Don (who is now dealing grumpily with the tea man’s change), and swivels the milk wand from the broken coffee machine towards him. He doesn’t bother with the thermometer, instead tapping the pad of his thumb against the jug to test the heat. When the milk is ready he pours it smoothly and steadily on top of the Matcha, creating a pretty, unfussy leaf print on its surface. ‘Okay, here,’ he says. ‘You are Little Matcha Girl.’ I laugh at this. He’s about to pass the cup over the counter to me, but decides against it, clutching it instead to his chest to fasten a lid on top. Don, having finally dispatched of his only other customer, is now doing inconsequential things with a spanner to the draining chamber of the coffee machine, which, as far as I can see, has nothing whatsoever to do with the plumbing connecting the machine to the water mains. ‘You know this tale? 'The Little Match Girl'?’ the boy asks me. ‘Yes. Yes, I remember. It’s very sad.’ ‘In Italian, ‘La Piccola Fiammiferaia’. They make a play recently, in London. Her name is Fiammetta.’ ‘Ahh. I see.’ ‘Is very beautiful story. I know it because my sister…’ He loses concentration for a second, staring intently at his long fingers as he presses to make sure the lid's pressed down properly. ‘Your sister liked the story?’ I probe gently. He looks up at me again and gives a tiny apologetic shake of his head. He is bright, very bright, that is clear to me. One of those 50-thoughts-a-minute types. I guess that his momentary lapse of concentration was not an isolated trait, but when his eyes meet mine again they are warm and fully engaged. ‘No, no. She doesn’t like this story at all. They use it to teach her English. But my sister cried every day so had to change. My sister is very, you know… how do you call it. She is caring for things. Sorry, I hope that you won’t think I am… in English, how do you call. Always pretend. You know, like…’ He makes a wanking gesture next to his mouth with his hand. I laugh again, very loudly this time. ‘Pretentious? No, I don’t think that at all—’ Don pauses in his fannying-about-with-the-spanner type activities for long enough to give me a filthy look. ‘Pretentious, sί. In Italy we say pretenzioso. Lots of guys do this kind of thing. Is stupid, you know. Sorry, is not good English. I am Andrea.’ He holds his hand out over the counter as he keys my latte into the till. He shakes my hastily proferred fingers without looking up. ‘Oh! Eh, I’m Nina. And, no. No, it's good, your English is lovely.’ (It is. It’s delightful. He’s delightful. I’m delighted). ‘No, really, my English is very shit,’ says Andrea solemnly, finally handing me the steaming cup of bright green milk. (Extract from a longer piece).
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You can view my entry to the September 2019 John Byrne Award pool at www.johnbyrneaward.org.uk/entries/is-empathy-a-dying-trait/
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