Shadow Play by Rajorshi Chakraborti

Author:Rajorshi Chakraborti
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9781429934435
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

The Perfect Worker

London Diary: Martina’s Story

As soon as she’d been poured her Jack Daniels with Coke, she’d head straight for any available table for two and settle down to text on her phone, but rarely was she left alone. Some smartass who fancied his chances would inevitably walk over to try, not so much the regulars but the punks who strode in from fixing the road, each of them succumbing to the enticement of the unspoken contest, as if in pre-arranged turns. She always refused to look up from her mobile after the initial brush-off, four or five of them within half an hour at peak-times when they all poured in to wet their beaks, and I think this was what attracted Patty’s attention and then her sympathy. Because the second week onwards, she glared down anyone who gave any hint of sidling in that direction, becoming Martina’s unpaid guardian angel, her self-installed filter of spam. A month later and Martina was history, but for those three weeks between being a constant novelty and disappearing without warning, she became, how do I put it, a feature of the afternoon that reliably marked the passage of time. Noted with silent satisfaction, like anything peaceful.

It wasn’t long before Martina grew aware of this favour and repaid it by remaining at the bar for a few minutes after receiving her drink, her attention devoted solely to Patty. Just small talk, but a small talk laced with mutual respect, which somehow made itself apparent even to me, though I was too far away to eavesdrop. They resembled each other in some peculiar inner way, nothing to do with their discrete physical qualities. Martina was tall and looked like she scored a lot of coke. Brown hair, small mouth, very urban and frail, not someone who’d usually visit our kind of pub. She would never be in The Sun with her top off, she wasn’t someone any of us ordinarily fantasized about, yet that is what made her compelling. No one would have glanced at her in Chelsea, she would have even seemed shabby there. But she baffled us by returning daily, five times a week, materializing and disappearing without any context.

It was Patty who introduced us one slow afternoon, perhaps as the one male of novelty value who would never consider bothering her. This obliged me to acknowledge her the next few days with a greeting, and culminated in her joining me in the conservatory that Thursday even though it was obvious I was reading the paper. I was startled, but pleased despite myself. Sure, the pub was full, and all her usual tables had been taken, but she could have just stayed talking to Patty. We didn’t have much of a conversation: a nod, an offer by me to hand her a section of the newspaper, Martina declining with a smile so she could text. After half an hour she left. The only outcome of that afternoon was that I too started showing up daily instead of thrice a week, though it wasn’t for anything specific.

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