Almost Immediately, Id regretted my brusqueness. If it had hurt, or offended him in anyway, it wasnt reflected in his face or demeanour. This was the juncture, at which I was scripted to shake his hand; take the extension cable from him; commiserate with him; thank him for his kindness; wish him goodbye, good luck and leg it across the main road. But, although there was no discernible look of hurt on his face, caused by me, he did have the melancholic look that had waxed and waned, throughout our journey along the High Sreet. It was the describing of his unenviable task, and the probable heartbreaking consequences, should he not be up to that task, that had brought about the sinusoidal peaking and inevitable troughs of Chisti`s spirits.
Convinced (as I had become), of his integrity and innate decency, unfortunately, I was just as convinced, Chisti was on a hiding to nothing. Of my own inability to be of any help to him, I was even more convinced. Also, truth be told, I harboured neither inclination, nor intent, just then, to become involved, I just didnt feel up to it. And! Im a great believer in leaving a drowning man to drown quickly, rather than throwing him a life jacket, with no life line attached, if that life jacket serves only to keep him afloat long enough for the sharks to get his scent. I suspected Chisti felt like a man drowning in a sea of overwhelming futility. What was causing me concern, was wondering if he was looking to me, to come up with a verbal life jacket with lifeline attached. I just didn`t have one. With or without lifeline.
So there wed stood, facing one another, about to go our separate ways: the thoroughly decent young man and the ill equipped old codger. I couldnt just walk away. I thrust iMac at him, “Here! Get hold of this!” which he did without protest. Searching my pockets, I found a £5 note. I pushed the fiver into the breast pocket of his jacket, “Go get two coffees, while I dump these. Mines white, no sugar.” Without questioning, he did as I asked. He relinquished his hold of iMac and cable, and toddled off towards the Armenique Deli, in his new, but temporary role, as Head of Coffee Procurement. So, obviously, as far as Chisti was concerned, it wasnt time for, “Cheerio!” I, for my part, ignoring the protestations of ill mannered drivers, as I dodged between their vehicles, crossed the High Street, and surrendered iMacncable, unto the safe keeping of the trio of amiable scallywags, that ran the Florists shop. That was with the proviso, that I retrieve them within the hour, as the shop was closing early, for miner shop fitting to take place.
The Armenique Delicatessen was situated on a corner, at the intersection of the High Street and a residential side road, not many yards from where Chisti and I had temporarily parted company.
Whence came the inspiration for them, I know not. Whether, as a nod, to our Continental cousins, in acknowledgement of our willingness to accept our new shared European identity; or merely an attempt at emulating the pavement cafe culture of Montmartre or Wenceslas Square, the two stainless steel tables and four chairs outside the deli, seemed a pathetically meagre gesture.
As I left the florists, and crossed over the road I`d watched, Chisti in the distance, as he placed our two cups of coffee, on one of the steel tables.
I find that the middle fingers of ones hands are admirable means of communication. Especially with drivers, who think, 30, is their daily target, for the number of car dodging old codgers, they are allowed to harass and verbally abuse in a single day, and not, the maximum number of MPH, at which they are allowed to drive. Nob eds!!
As I approached him, Chisti started to laugh. “Something funny?” I asked as I sat down.
“Look at those three shops over there. The florist and the ones on either side. Something makes them stand out from all the other shops on the High Street.”
“Colour! The three of them are ablaze with colour. That what you mean?”
“Spot on! I watched you enter the florist, like a friendly old bee disappearing into the wide open petals of a flower, in search of nectar. Then when you came out and crossed the road, you reminded me of a bad tempered old wasp, who hadnt found any!” In a forlorn attempt at sustaining his lightened mood, I joked,“Hey! Less of the old!” Sadly, over the ensuing fifteen minutes, the inevitable dissipation of that mood occurred. By the time we shook hands and said our good byes, it was a disconsolate young man who said, “Thanks for listening,” for in truth, thats all Id done. Id uttered barely a word. Then, with that sad smile, and a look on his face that seemed to say, ‘I know you, and you know me’, he said, “Thanks for caring, and sparing me the platitudes, Vic.” With that he turned and set off towards the Salam.
“Chisti!” He turned and strolled back, “Thats all they wouldve been, son, platitudes, nothing more.”
“I know, but you wanted to help. Thats whats important.”
“Chisti, how do y…?”
He silenced me with an upraised hand, and a smile “It was written all over your face.”
I watched that troubled young man walk back along the High Street, and stop at Bangla`s door. I wonder if he knew I was watching him, because he turned and waved. That was the last I ever saw of Chisti.
The dilemma you face, when your available stock of life jackets, are all without life lines, is: how can you be sure that someone in a canoe, or a quarter million tonne oil tanker, wont come along, before the sharks get the scent. You can`t. Walking away from a drowning man, is no easier than watching it happen.
Chistis departure had left me juggling a variety of emotions: the debilitating pangs of impotence, with its attendant sense of failure; multi-faceted rage at the dilemma, forced upon the other four members of this family of five, by the reprehensible behaviour of just one. Four people: Mother and father; the oldest and youngest of three siblings, living their lives, doing all the right things for all the right reasons, but facing the possible heart breaking disintegration of their loving family. Then, my own irrational impulsion to inflict serious physical or emotional hurt (preferably both), on the loathsome Azim. Irrational? I didnt think so then.
The longer I dwelt on Chisti`s words, the more intense my irrational compulsion became.
2 b concluded…
).
)
