“He seems quite fond of you,” the young lady calls out to him.
He startles and chokes on his own saliva, sending him into fits of violent coughing. The young lady peels strands of her wind-blown hair from her lips and patiently waits it out.
“I’m sorry…” Landon coughs into his fist and breaks a smile. “Beg your pardon?”
“The old man,” says the young lady. “He rarely looks at people.”
“Really?” Landon steals a look at the old man and catches a vacuous stare. He turns away quickly. “Maybe I look like an enemy.”
The young lady gives off a short, expressive laugh.
“Have we met?” says Landon. “You look incredibly familiar.”
The young lady tilts her face. “As passing strangers perhaps?”
“Maybe.” He gives an obliging chuckle. “So what do you do?”
“I’m a nurse. Paediatric intensive care.”
“I would’ve thought elder-care.”
“They’re not so different behaviourally.” She brushes a tiny leaf off the old man’s shoulder. “Especially when they get too old.”
“That’s an interesting perception.”
“You are Eurasian, aren’t you?“
“I’m unsure myself,” Landon scratches the back of his ear. “I’ve been led to believe I’m mainly Chinese and a quarter Malay, maybe with an eighth of Javanese, a sprinkling of Portugese and a dash of Dutch.”
The young lady smiles. “I see you have that rehearsed.”
He feels his ears heating up.
“I thought you look like a good blend,” she adds.
“Like a Klingon?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Never mind.” Landon clears his throat to change the subject. “You’re not the usual caregiver?”
“I’m standing in for Pam—” she slow-blinks her lovely eyes and tosses her head, “the regular one you might be referring to.”
“Pam,” he parrots, parses and then decides against asking her name.
“You could help out here. The Lodge is always looking for volunteers.”
“Oh no,” Landon waves a hand across his face. “Once is enough.”
“You’ve done this before?”
“No,” Landon laughs and looks at the gravel at his feet. He finds it difficult to meet her gaze and he wouldn’t want to be caught looking at any other part of her body. “I took care of my mother the year before she died.”
“Sorry to hear that. Must’ve been hard.”
“Can’t remember much of it. It’s been a very long time.”
“You don’t look very old.”
“I have an awful memory.” Landon blurts without thought.
At once an air of awkwardness comes between them.
Never had a wit. You won’t find a worse moron in the world. What kind of an idiot would forget his mother’s passing?
“That’s not what I meant,” he chuckles. “It’s medical.”
At his confession the young lady breaks into a smile, and in it he detects sympathy.
Medical? That’s it. Blown it.
The old man is still staring at him. His eyes are large and cadaverous; one of them is slightly paled with cataracts. A strand of drool plops onto the blue handkerchief. Landon turns miserably away.
“You off to somewhere?” asks the young lady.
“I run a café at the end of Dempsey Road.”
“Nice. You own it?”
Blew it twice over. “Wrong term.” Landon chuckles again, very uncomfortably this time. “I sort of operate it; you know, prepare food, drinks and all that.”
“You’re a chef?”
“No, I ah… make drinks and coffee.” He jabs at the gravel with the tip of his shoe.
“I won’t hold you up then.”
“No, not at all.” He wags his head and feels silly for doing so. “I’m early.” A stolen glance at his watch tells him he is ten minutes past his shift.
The young lady lifts the old man’s free leg and puts it back on the rest. Her white linen blouse billows in the breeze. She plucks more strands of hair from her lips and tucks them behind her ear. Her shoulder-length hair glows in the sunlight, their pure, silky tones glistening in shades of natural brown.
He breaks the impasse. “On the other hand, I shouldn’t bother you more than I have.”
“Not at all.”
“I’ll see you around then.”
Her lips stretch into a smile. “See you around.”
He departs and resolves not to turn back.
Sometimes one doesn’t get any wiser with age. You just become more desperate for company and reckless with words.
4
CLARA
FOURBEES IS A niche little cottage restaurant and café set in one of the many colonial buildings of Dempsey Hill, modelled after an old English storefront; its capitals, pilasters and cills fashioned in unfinished hardwood, spliced here and there with a bit of brass and Corten steel for a contemporary twang. The buildings were part of a barracks compound, and many have been restored and remodelled into swank restaurants, voguish fashion houses and art galleries.
Landon hates the late shift. You arrive in the heat of the manic lunchtime rush, work through the night and get off at two in the morning. He enters and Raymond, the café manager swirls past him with four steaming plates on his arms. Landon evades his gaze and grabs his apron.
Above him, a chalkboard lists the mains of the day. Another column lists the premium beans and brew. And between them a dab of poetry, written in a childish hand, reads:
A perky waitress named Samantha sashays back and forth with poise, now with a notepad and now with dishes. She has a couple of black stars on her cheeks that she touches up every morning with a skin pen.
Landon takes the helm at the espresso machine, behind a classicmodish counter of lacquered teak and a surface of honed blackstar granite. Andy, who was supposed to be relieved some 15 minutes ago, shoulders his way past him, visibly frustrated, and slips quietly through the swing doors.
Landon ignores him and examines the order chits, then checks the reservoir and sets the temperature from 88 to 85. He waltzes into place, lays four porcelain two-ounce espresso cups in the warmer and twists the portafilters off. With his pinky he examines the grind in them. Way too fine. I’d risk an over-extraction. He raps them into the bin and refills the grinder with fresh African arabica.
The burrs buzz and pulverise the beans. He uncaps the hopper, tests the grind, spins the burrs for five more seconds and then empties two scoopfuls into each portafilter. He tamps them, twists them back on and the pressure-jets in the reservoir hisses. Two warmed cups go under the spouts. A concentrated concoction trickles and fills the white porcelain; a silky film of rust-coloured crema coats the surface. Its aroma pervades the space. Landon steams out the wand, holds a jug to it and gyrates the froth to a lustrous sheen. He slides one of the cups across his worktop and pours a swirl of flavoured syrup in a thin, high stream—all with the élan of a spirited dancer. The brew goes onto a saucer and Landon taps the bell.
“Fantasia, table twelve,” he calls without looking.
The other espresso shot goes into a seven-ounce cup. He adds a third of warmed milk and tops it up with the silky froth and swirls the pour into a rosette. The bell rings twice.
“Cappuccino, table five.”
Samantha glides over, dumps three more chits and takes the beverage.