Speak Gigantular Page 5

  It wasn’t just the food that drew him there. After the door swished shut behind him and the scent of vanilla tickled his nostrils, he spotted her standing beside the counter chatting and laughing with another member of staff, a red-headed girl wearing a waistcoat over her shirt. Grace, his crush, was a young statuesque black woman with skin the colour of cocoa beans. Braided hair loosely tied back revealed a slim, angular face, dark brown eyes and a wide mouth.

  Hair a little damp from his brisk walk and brandishing a tattered copy of The Guardian tucked under his arm, he headed for a corner booth. Its seats were still warm from previous occupants. The café’s interior boasted a high white ceiling trimmed with gold, ornate hanging crystal chandeliers and white pillars. There were plush Burgundy leather chairs and black, circular tables. Large windows provided views of passers by ambling past. Menus in cranberry leather covers dotted the tables.

  He’d walked in craving a tiramisu. Grace wandered over, her blue pen poised above a small pad.

  “What will you have, sir?” She smiled distantly, politely. He flushed at the thought of wanting to know her intimately.

  He saw himself through her eyes then: Filipino American male, six foot, handsome but probably not her type. He looked as if he’d slept in his wrinkled pinstriped suit and the stubble on his jaw itched. That undetectable gene that made him want to say inappropriate things kicked in.

  Why do you look sad sometimes even when you laugh?

  What are you most scared of?

  Have you ever listened to Coltrane’s “A Love Supreme”?

  I don’t have the language to say what it means; maybe you can interpret it better?

  He said these thoughts internally, lifted his head abruptly as though she could hear them.

  “Sir?” she enquired.

  “Oh!” he replied. “I’d like scrambled eggs, two bagels, one hot chocolate and a piece of New York vanilla cheesecake.”

  She scribbled quickly, flashing another meaningless smile.

  “Coming up!” She slipped the pad in her apron pocket before darting off.

  He watched her discreetly between mouthfuls; flitting from tables, realising her total disinterest wasn’t personal to him. She wasn’t warm, but efficient. She had a quiet confidence, an air about her that made you want to know more.

  Sometimes he imagined her in his life, playing scenes in his head. In one, he was at dinner with his family, Grace by his side. His father attempted to make humorous conversation to lighten the atmosphere but failed woefully since his jokes were terrible. His mother’s head sat practically buried in a deep bowl of Miso soup, snorkeling for her disbelief. His older brother eyed him resentfully. Haha, he thought, not the centre of attention this time, shithead.

  His sister smiled admiringly, winking at him conspiratorially before the curtain of her sharp bob obscured the left side of her face.

  At night he dreamt of lover’s limbs entangled; twisting and turning always back to each other, to a centre. He tasted brown skin slick with sweat. He suckled Grace until she howled, burying his head in the valley between her breasts that felt knowable and caught fractures of light. He dreamt of aggressive sex, of hands around her neck squeezing while his body trembled its release. And smacks from a mean, metal-toothed belt buckling against her skin, wrenching far flung screams from her as though she were another country.

  *

  The café had its own symphony. In moments of stillness, Grace allowed it to wash over her. The jangling cutlery from the kitchen at the back, hissing kettles, cappuccino machines interrupting conversations, the door groaning as customers streamed in, a hum you could hear from outside. It was during such a moment the note arrived, delivered by manager Francois, a squat man with jowls and a permanently clammy forehead. He slapped it in her palm.

  “For you!” he told her dramatically, wiping his hands on black trousers. “I see this is your personal residence now.” His expression morphed into a fake scowl.

  “Thanks, Francois. Nobody delivers things like you do.” She ripped open the crème coloured envelope with a blood red seal.

  A white card folded in two fell out. On the front was a sketch of her wearing a detached expression so uncannily accurate she laughed. She was holding a small treasure box with light bulbs spilling out of it. The note said:

  For Grace, who dares to go hunting, a short poem to make you smile randomly throughout the day.

  I listen for your heartbeat in the flurry of pigeons wings.

  Your laugh fills a drained coffee cup,

  The sadness in you will make a skeleton we can take to water,

  Stars duplicate your jaw line and yell to street lamps,

  They respond with light.

  Say yes. One ticket reserved in your name to see Kurusawa’s Rashomon, this Saturday 8pm at The Ritzy cinema.

  Mxx

  PS: Don’t worry, I won’t chop your body up into little pieces and shove you in a bin bag, at least not with a roomful of people around. ;-)

  Whoever he was, his handwriting was beautiful, assured. It was slanted as though leaning against a storm. His words echoed inside as she served Chai teas, coconut truffles, bread and butter puddings. She was curious, excited. In this city that often created jaded versions of its inhabitants, how often did you truly receive a romantic, mysterious gesture? She was more intrigued than worried, happy to at least have this one thing to herself.

  By lunch time the café was full. Grace scanned the faces of male customers, waiting for one to reveal himself as her admirer. There was the guy who always wore a grimy tweed jacket and only ever showed one hand. His left hand was hidden in his jacket sleeve. She guessed it was gnarled or a claw. Either way he was too busy scooping up mushroom soup with broken pieces of baguette to pay her any attention. A father whose frustrated expression screamed I didn’t sign up for this admonished his kid through gritted teeth and threw embarrassed glances around. There was the old man at the back who sat starring at his croque monsieur. He was so still he had the aura of a stuffed animal. She ambled over.

  “Excuse me, sir, do you want me to order something else for you?”

  “I used to be a spy you know,” he said distantly.

  “Sure.” She smiled patiently and signaled at Alberto and the other two waiters to keep watch. Midway through his tale of cold war days, Grace drifted.

  What if Mxx had just been released from prison? What if he was a psychopath with a penchant for stalking unsuspecting women before sending them poetry? A man with an egg timer ran through her mind. The egg timer exploded and the man was left with no head.

  Grace searched for the flat keys in her pocket, a little distracted by the sound of kids riding their bikes and squealing in the courtyard. Their voices mingled with car tyres screeching to a halt, traffic in the distance, the rumble of girls in the small playground out back, passing their future selves on each apparatus making noises they didn’t understand. Grace shoved the key into the lock, saying a short prayer silently. She sighed, already bracing herself for that feeling of dread that would lodge in her throat. One of these days, she fully expected to see her twin sister Hilly on the other side, clawing at their childhood carcasses until there was nothing left.

  She walked in, shutting the door carefully. She flicked the hallway light on, hanging her coat on the rack she’d almost smashed a finger nailing to the orange wall. The flat smelled of curry. Hilly must have cooked. She didn’t bother calling out but she bumped into Hilly, whose lean, tall frame nearly knocked the wind out of her, whose face floated in the dark. Her onyx eyes bore into Grace’s with barely concealed irritation.

  “Oh, you’re back,” Hilly muttered, already turning away as though Grace being home was inconsequential. Grace dropped her rucksack by the white shoe rack. The clock read 11pm. One day, she thought, one day Hilly might forgive me.

  Once, she’d dreamt about them in a gladiator ring, pitted against each other. The audience was made up of thousands of versions of their father, all sportin
g the same black whistle round their necks, the same caterpillar-like small scar on the corner of their lips, all trying to still a certain rage in their shoulders, cracking their left hand fingers intermittently. Grace’s weapon had been a blood stained rounder’s bat she and Hilly had found in the trunk of their father Odun’s car aged ten, rolling over a pair of brown gloves, an ignition choking and the outline of the mouth it had silenced. Hilly’s weapon had been Odun’s worn leather belt, which she’d flogged Grace with relentlessly, winning the fight, the approval of their fathers cheering in the stalls, until she broke Grace’s skin, resurrecting old injuries to the surface to mutate.

  They were identical physically but different in many ways. When they were girls, Grace had been the outgoing, bubbly one, curious about everything. Hilly was surlier, insular, brooding. Grace liked Wonder Woman, comic books, carnival, Inspector Gadget, sour Coca-Cola bottle sweets and challenging the boys in their neighborhood to games of football she attached to bets where she’d managed to fleece a few out of pocket money and even a game boy.

  Hilly preferred girly girls and occasionally following Odun on his runs, sitting in his beat up Green Vauxhall Cavalier, flicking the radio stations over and humming along to tunes she liked. Sometimes, she played with Elvira, the daughter of their babysitter. They painted each other’s faces, braided their hair unsuccessfully, or played hide and seek indoors with the TV on full blast. As if either of them would attempt to hide in the scenes on the screen, bourbon sweet wrappers crinkling and whispering like second tongues.

  Odun was a physically striking man. You couldn’t help looking if you spotted him swaggering by. At 6 foot 3 he was intimidating, broad shouldered and ruggedly handsome. The son of a Trinidadian lawyer and a Nigerian nurse, he’d grown up in Trinidad. His skin was the colour of molasses and that sweet Trinidadian accent which made panties explode had a deceptively laidback charm that masked a steeliness and a dark temper. Odun delighted in playing his girls off against each other.

  “Why can’t you solve this equation?” he’d bark at Grace, checking over her math’s homework book in the evening. “Hilly would have done this in two minutes! Do you want to be the stupid twin?”

  Grace would shake her head, confused by the thunderous expression on his face, his looming figure leaning towards her and into her brain. Sometimes when they played in the park, he’d force the girls to race each other. Inevitably, being the slower of the two, Hilly would lag behind. And Odun would blow that damn whistle he wore, yelling, “Come on, catch her rass! You want to be the weaker twin? Are you my daughters or are you my daughters?”

  “Yes sir!” they would answer, out of breath but pushing, limbs aching, arms pumping towards some invisible demon Odun had placed on the fading white line, growing in stature as the girls approached. And when they crossed the line, collapsing in a heap, Odun was waiting, scooping them up and raining kisses on their foreheads. “Milkshakes for my beauties! But Goddamit, Hilly, your timing needs to get better. You want to be Daddy’s wingman one day or not?”

  Now and again, the girls heard Odun throwing things in his room at night, before crying softly. They wondered whether it was their fault, whether he’d ever get over their mother Pearl dying giving birth, leaving him holding two girls who looked exactly like her.

  Grace walked into the kitchen, sweeping the beading in the doorway to the side. It was too late to eat. She took a bottle of apple juice from the fridge, poured herself a glass while Hilly watched, leaning against the washing machine, holding her long, red false fingernails up, blowing on them.

  “You see Odun today?” Grace asked, trying to keep her tone measured, light.

  Hilly placed her hands on her hips, glaring. “Why do I have to be the one to go see that bastard? Why can’t you do it after work or something? You think you’re the only one with a life?”

  “Because we’re supposed to take it in turns remember? You haven’t been the last three times. You know I can’t go after work, visiting hours stop way earlier. Please? He’s been asking about you. Hilly, he’s dying,” Grace muttered, rubbing her shoulders, watching the magnets on the fridge; little Tasmanian devils mid-motion as if they were running from the cold, from wounds the girls couldn’t bring themselves to face.

  “So big man Odun is dying and the world has to stop?” Hilly spat, grabbing a tangerine from the fruit bowl and peeling it swiftly. There were cigarette stubs in an ashtray on the counter, a rolling pin with bits of dough in the sink.

  “Hilly, it’s time.” Grace stood, moving towards her sister to hold her, to give some sort of comfort.

  “You know what? I wish he’d hurry up and die already.” Hilly said, storming past, dropping a few orange coloured missiles in her wake.

  It was summer when it happened. The girls were ten. It was so hot that Friday, they spent half their pocket money buying ice lollies and when those ran out, drinking from big Evian bottles they’d filled with a mixture of juices.

  In the evening, Odun went out on one of his runs. The girls kept the big living room window open, watching soaps after a dinner of spaghetti and meatballs they’d cooked themselves. Grace would always remember small things about that night, shrinking and looming in the lens time built. She remembered the sound of the front door opening, thinking maybe Odun had forgotten something and come back, Hilly leaning her head against her shoulders on the aquamarine coloured sofa, the TV blaring loudly, an old episode of Beadle’s About on.

  A strange man appeared in the doorway and dragged away a screaming Hilly. Grace grabbed Hilly’s hand as the man placed a finger over his mouth. She began to shake, she thought she’d faint but she held onto Hilly tightly as the audience’s laughter on Beadle’s About rose. Grace would always remember the sheen on the man’s neck, his stocky build, his cheap smelling deodorant mingled with sweat, his pink tongue darting out over the maroon mask he wore that oddly made him look like a superhero. She’d remember her and Hilly being dragged into a blue car, the man’s scarred hands at the wheel, the soft purr of the vehicle pulling away, a rolled up copy of The Times on the floor. And suddenly thinking she was older than Hilly by four minutes. Four minutes was a long time, anything could happen in four minutes! A 4 by 100 metres relay team could set a world record; a tree could fall and kill someone during a storm, at least three fireworks could be released into the night sky. What if Hilly had been born first? Maybe Pearl would have lived, maybe they wouldn’t have been left to fend for themselves in the evenings because Odun had to bring money in. Maybe the man with the scarred hands would have kept away.

  When they got to the house, they were locked in a room that had two dog bowls on the floor, a chintz curtain, a rabbit chew toy and a gun target silhouette pinned up near the window covered in holes. The dog kept barking in the garden. Grace thought she could hear its heart beating. It kept circling, getting closer. Then Hilly started crying and the man punched Grace repeatedly in the face, till the dog’s heartbeat stopped beating in her chest, and its mouth travelled into the room, snapping at the last bits of light she saw. When she came round, Hilly was trembling in the corner, unable to meet her eyes, a damp, sticky patch on the front of her jeans shorts, drying into the shape of a small spaceship.

  Odun rescued his girls two nights later. In the back of her mind, face aching, worrying that even worse was to come, Grace had always thought he would. When he burst through the door of that room after breaking it open, there were at least ten men behind him. He shook with anger, with relief, clutching his girls, desperately clinging to them for several minutes as if he couldn’t believe they were real. On the way back home, Hilly was silent in the car.

  Afterwards, the rumour was that Odun had set Michael Hayes alight, the man responsible for those terrible few days of that summer. Acting on behalf of his loan shark boss whom Odun owed a substantial amount of money, he’d kidnapped the girls in retaliation. Nobody ever found his body. Odun believed in the act of revenge, swift and uncompromising. He had one rule he swore by, you
never touched a man’s children. Ever.

  Grace would never forget the night they came home. Odun sat in front of that large sitting room window in his white vest, legs up, smoking the biggest spliff she’d ever seen, daring anybody to come for his girls again, turning the whistle on his neck sporadically. He sat there for hours, refusing to let the girls out of his sight, smoking into the bloody edge of the night, where a gun target, a chew toy and a dog riddled with bullet holes met on ground made of old newspapers, arguing over who was the best witness before dying in their corners.

  Grace knew Hilly would never forgive her. The girls struggled with nightmares for months afterwards. Sometimes, Grace would see the stain from Hilly’s shorts that night in the corner of her nightmares, a tiny hovercraft edging its way over the dark, sometimes Hilly would appear, choking on the hovercraft before being rendered silent.

  Grace decided not to press Hilly further. She was exhausted and didn’t have the strength to argue. Instead, she soaked in the bath, listening to Nina Simone blaring from Hilly’s room. Afterwards, standing naked in the mirror, she watched their organs float. She reached for Hilly’s heart bleeding over her rib, trying to hold the beat, crying a little, murmuring apologies as the steam continued to fade.