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| Not Patrick and Cyril, but, eh, close enough. |
Patrick Kay is some kind of international man of mystery, and I still don't think I understand where he's from. London? Singapore? Australia? Not-America is the point. Today he talks about how the little lies inevitably catch up to us. His last piece for PTSOTL was I never learned the value of money.
Cyril was non-specifically exotic. He could have been a sleek Moroccan, a particularly patrician light-skinned Sri Lankan or even a fine-boned Guatemalan. He was actually half Chinese and half Malay; his parents were from Singapore. Cyril’s younger sister, the same age as my younger brother, was notorious for having tossed off her boyfriend on the tube underneath a jacket spread over his lap.His family ran the best of several fish and chip shops near my house.
I knew who Cyril was in the way you always know the names of people older than you at school; I don’t think I had ever said a word to him. Sixth-formers, high-schoolers, at my school didn’t have to wear a uniform. Cyril affected a kind of maverick librarian look. Battered brogues, flared cords and dusty blazers. Polo neck tops. He’d been born in Singapore so I sometimes idly wondered how he dealt with the chilly assault of London’s gritty air. It must have been an unpleasant new experience. Cyril was effortlessly cool and effortlessly thin, a natural hep cat.
Er, no homo.
I was three years younger than him. Cyril finished school and left London. In his parents’ chip shop one evening I inexplicably asked his father how he was, surprising myself as much as him. I’d never previously communicated with his mother or father apart from “please” and “thank-you”. His dad – he was Malay – had that air of worried optimism common to immigrant business owners the world over. Stressed, but deep down certain that things would work out. That they had to work out.
His worried perma-frown unfolded into a surprised smile when I asked him about Cyril.
“Cyril, he good. In Manchester. University. You he friend from school?”
Yes, I was. Cyril’s father gave me half an order of spicy chicken wings gratis alongside my battered sausage and gherkin. From then on every time I went in I would enquire about Cyril and his dad would always slip me some crispy potatoes or a saveloy, perhaps a mini pastry. His parents soon started to greet me enthusiastically; his mother was agelessly sexy in that plain Chinese way although it was always his father who seemed most pleased to see me. Our conversations never went beyond a couple of sentences, mostly dwelling on Cyril, but I felt like they liked me. Cyril liked Manchester; it rained a lot there; there were lots of good Chinese restaurants and two Malay places which weren’t so good.
I have some kind of need to insert myself into people’s lives with slivers of precision small talk.
I was a good customer – English people like chips. I would visit at least once a month. It became something of a running joke amongst my friends. We laughed at the fact that Cyril would probably only have the vaguest knowledge of my existence if he were to meet me. We parroted his father’s idiosyncratic English. We enjoyed the pickled eggs. Somehow names were never mentioned by his mother or father. I would have felt funny asking either of them their names and they never asked me, either.
This went on for a quite a while; perhaps two years. One day, inevitably, reckoning came. I went into the shop as usual. Cyril’s father greeted me with particular enthusiasm.
“Cyril, he here!”
I suddenly realised how embarrassing this was going to be. His father shouted up the stairs with a few tropical syllables. Cyril loped down. His face went into a reverse – a completion of the cycle, I suppose – of that of his father when I’d first asked about his son. Pleased smile into bemused frown.
“This your friend that I tell you about!” his dad said. The father’s eyebrows were raised in anticipation.
How can a middle-aged man’s eyebrows break your heart?
Cyril stood on the top step. No one said anything for a few excruciating seconds. The radio burbled obliviously in the back of the shop, late 90s pablum bouncing off our bubble of silence.
“Alright Cyril,” I said. “How’s it going?”
He didn’t even say hello, just tilted his chin in my direction. He popped off a few syllables of bahasa to his father and went back up the stairs. Quite possibly he’d never seen me before in his life.
His father looked hurt, confused and quite angry. What had Cyril said? “I don’t know him”? Later I pictured the two years or so of Cyril’s father periodically telling his son that I’d been into the shop. "Your friend popped in. Brown hair, white bloke. There’s a nobility to him – a kind aching loneliness. You missed him again. "
I had got caught up in my lie, my warm web of pretended friendship. The free food was only a bonus – a central hook to the story for my friends. I felt surprisingly lonely, a hollow fraud, as I waited for my chips. No freebie. His dad didn’t look at me.
I didn’t go in again. Some Vietnamese people run it now.
--PATRICK KAY
Er, no homo.
I was three years younger than him. Cyril finished school and left London. In his parents’ chip shop one evening I inexplicably asked his father how he was, surprising myself as much as him. I’d never previously communicated with his mother or father apart from “please” and “thank-you”. His dad – he was Malay – had that air of worried optimism common to immigrant business owners the world over. Stressed, but deep down certain that things would work out. That they had to work out.
His worried perma-frown unfolded into a surprised smile when I asked him about Cyril.
“Cyril, he good. In Manchester. University. You he friend from school?”
Yes, I was. Cyril’s father gave me half an order of spicy chicken wings gratis alongside my battered sausage and gherkin. From then on every time I went in I would enquire about Cyril and his dad would always slip me some crispy potatoes or a saveloy, perhaps a mini pastry. His parents soon started to greet me enthusiastically; his mother was agelessly sexy in that plain Chinese way although it was always his father who seemed most pleased to see me. Our conversations never went beyond a couple of sentences, mostly dwelling on Cyril, but I felt like they liked me. Cyril liked Manchester; it rained a lot there; there were lots of good Chinese restaurants and two Malay places which weren’t so good.
I have some kind of need to insert myself into people’s lives with slivers of precision small talk.
I was a good customer – English people like chips. I would visit at least once a month. It became something of a running joke amongst my friends. We laughed at the fact that Cyril would probably only have the vaguest knowledge of my existence if he were to meet me. We parroted his father’s idiosyncratic English. We enjoyed the pickled eggs. Somehow names were never mentioned by his mother or father. I would have felt funny asking either of them their names and they never asked me, either.
This went on for a quite a while; perhaps two years. One day, inevitably, reckoning came. I went into the shop as usual. Cyril’s father greeted me with particular enthusiasm.
“Cyril, he here!”
I suddenly realised how embarrassing this was going to be. His father shouted up the stairs with a few tropical syllables. Cyril loped down. His face went into a reverse – a completion of the cycle, I suppose – of that of his father when I’d first asked about his son. Pleased smile into bemused frown.
“This your friend that I tell you about!” his dad said. The father’s eyebrows were raised in anticipation.
How can a middle-aged man’s eyebrows break your heart?
Cyril stood on the top step. No one said anything for a few excruciating seconds. The radio burbled obliviously in the back of the shop, late 90s pablum bouncing off our bubble of silence.
“Alright Cyril,” I said. “How’s it going?”
He didn’t even say hello, just tilted his chin in my direction. He popped off a few syllables of bahasa to his father and went back up the stairs. Quite possibly he’d never seen me before in his life.
His father looked hurt, confused and quite angry. What had Cyril said? “I don’t know him”? Later I pictured the two years or so of Cyril’s father periodically telling his son that I’d been into the shop. "Your friend popped in. Brown hair, white bloke. There’s a nobility to him – a kind aching loneliness. You missed him again. "
I had got caught up in my lie, my warm web of pretended friendship. The free food was only a bonus – a central hook to the story for my friends. I felt surprisingly lonely, a hollow fraud, as I waited for my chips. No freebie. His dad didn’t look at me.
I didn’t go in again. Some Vietnamese people run it now.
--PATRICK KAY
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6 comments:
This was cute.
if it were a kebab shop, i would've told the dad i saved the kid's life once.
Yeah, there's a sliding scale of lie-to-payout. Kebab is worth a bigger one.
Somebody has yellow fever! Not like it's a bad thing, Pat. I like the way you almost get one over on an Asian only to be taught a life lesson. From Thailand to the UK those wily little people come out on top despite your efforts to the contrary. That Thai hooer still dreams about the crazy Irish kid who ate dat pooshy AND paid her. My God, man.
Ha. I think learning lessons from a hoo-er is one of the best lessons a man can learn.
Australian? Them's fightin' words.
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