Come Let Us Sing Anyway by Leone Ross

Author:Leone Ross
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Peepal Tree Press

THE WOMAN WHO LIVED

IN A RESTAURANT

One high day in February, a woman walks into a two-tier restaurant on a corner of her busy neighbourhood, sits down at the worst table – the one with the blind spot, a few feet too close to the kitchen’s swinging door – and stays there.

She stays there forever.

She wears a crisp cotton white shirt with a good collar and cuffs and a soft black skirt that can be hiked up easy. She has careful dreadlocks strung with silver beads – the best hairstyle to take into forever. There is no more jewellery; her skin is naked and moist. She keeps a tiny pair of white socks in her handbag and, in the cold months, she slips them onto her bare feet.

She watches the waiters, puppeting to and fro, the muscles in their asses tightening and relaxing, thumbing coin and paper tips, tumbling up and down the stairs and past her to the kitchen, careful not to touch. The maître d’ has a big belly and so does the chef, who is also the owner of the restaurant. Nobody holds it against them; they work very long hours and the chef’s food is extremely fine; this is not fat, it is gravitas.

‘Smile, smile,’ the maître d’ says to everybody, staff and customers alike; he has been here the longest and she never hears him say much more in front of house, although you would have thought he might.

She goes to the restroom in the mornings and evenings, to wash her skin and to put elegant slivers of fresh oatmeal soap to her throat and armpits. She nods at the diners, who bring children and lovers and have arguments and complain and compliment the food – and some get drunk, and then there’s the sound of vomiting from the bathroom that makes her wince. So many come to propose marriage she can spot them on sight: the men lick their lips and brandish their moustaches and crunch their balls in their hands. They all flourish the ring in the same way, like waiters setting down the pièce de résistance – fresh steak tartare or twisted sugar confections that attract the light. Their women – provided they are pleased – do identical neck rolls and shoulder raises and matching squeals. Like a set of jewellery she thinks, all shining eyes, although one year a woman became very angry and crushed her good glass into the table top.

‘I told you not to kill it with this lovey-dovey shit!’ she yelled at the moustachioed man, and stalked out. The man sat with the napkin under his chin, making a soft, white beard. The napkins are of very good quality.

‘Hush,’ said the restaurant woman, like she was rocking the small pieces of the leftover man. The people around them ate on, and tried to ignore the embarrassed, shattered glass.

‘What shall I do?’ he asked, rubbing his mouth with the napkin.

‘Love is what it is.’ She stretched one finger skyward, as if offering an architectural suggestion.

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