Though it is now long past midnight, I must just sit down and start writing part four of my lipogrammatical diary. I am in fact so angry that I cannot wait until tomorrow to do so. I could in no way simply fall on my divan right now and calmly drop off, with my mind in such turmoil. So much for my plan to pass a compulsory half hour of a morning updating my biography, following Doctor Smith’s instructions! I must launch into it right now at this witching hour.
To put it frankly today was an awful day. In fact, not to put too sharp a point on it, today was a bloody awful day. Frustrating, humiliating, catastrophic! But wait an instant, fair’s fair, not totally disastrous. I must start coming down to ground with a bump as I do admit that things did all start calmly.
In fact I got up with that famous lark, bright and happy and I was fit for action. It was a mild sunny morning—surprisingly for April. Following all that trauma and activity of past days, I found it most comforting just to climb into my old hammock, hanging from that Victorian oak down in my small grassy back yard, to think hard and plan how to claw my way up that tricky inclination to normality. Rocking slowly, I put down in writing my to-do list: Major points. First: contact Lisa and do all I could to win that lady back. Part two: work out how to do my job this coming night in Luigi’s, by finding out how to chat to patrons, noting down ways of talking about this or that dish, passing on such options to our flamboyant cook and finally coping with bills—and tips!
Starting with sorting things out with Lisa? First priority: I just had to call my florist and buy and ship a glorious bunch of blooms with a stylish romantic card containing my fond thoughts and also broadly outlining my affliction and all that Doctor Smith had said about solving my condition. I would also call Lisa at work around midday with an invitation to a cosy gastronomic visit to a top multi-star culinary attraction on Friday night. But most important for winning Lisa back, I had to work hard on amplifying my vocabulary so that I could start talking in a distinct and normal sounding way. My plan for doing this was writing down and committing to mind a long list of groups of words, chit-chat, small talk, gossip, opinions, wit and jocularity, charm, humour, admiration, proposals (not that sort, just for now!), in fact a total gamut of oral communication without you know what.
I had a slow start but fairly soon, going backwards and forwards through my dictionary and tapping into my skill in doing crosswords, I was off and running, building groups of OK words and scribbling down in black ink such bits of communication which I would imprint on my mind.
“Ah Lisa, you look so smart today. That outfit suits you fantastically”
“I am sorry I was not at all on form for your visit last Saturday. Silly, as I was missing you. And I did find your photos truly amazing. You must try to publish a book.”
“Doctor Smith is a fantastic guy and his diagnosis was spot-on. My brain just will not allow my using any word with that sign in our “abc” which sits twixt “d” and “f”. Silly, isn’t it? But I will surmount it all by following all his instructions. You must not think I am totally dumb.”
I got prodigious satisfaction from composing and writing down all such bits of colloquy, and I soon had a vast list of sundry topics. Lisa was bound to go along with it all, I thought. It was my plan to call my darling around midday and put it all on trial.
Rubbing my hands with gusto, I swung calmly to and fro for almost half an hour, basking in that comforting sunlight. And I was starting to think about my job at Luigi’s and draw up a similar list of word groups for using at work tonight. It soon struck my mind that this would turn out a tough nut to crack.
If pasta and salsa, pizza and ragu, macaroni, pollo and pomodori, ricotta, prosciutto and salami would not tax my ability to talk, many a dish on our carta would. In Italian or in our British way of talking (as I must call it!) Should a patron ask what dish or two our cook was advising today and I was caught out, should I simply try looking dumb, and start communicating using signs? I could not simply say its adjoining group of digits. Trout with mushrooms was fifty two and Pork in milk was sixty four. But this would not work as a vast majority of digits was out of bounds for my vocalisation. In fact I would just point out words on my list.
A quick look at my watch and I saw it was approaching midday—a good timing to call Lisa who normally had a sandwich for a quick lunch at this hour, prior to going out for a short walk to a ‘cash and carry’ to do a bit of shopping. Back in my sitting room and just slightly shaky, with my word lists and talk plans in hand, I got hold of my Nokia and gritting my molars tightly, rang.
“Natural World Tourism. Good day”
“Could I talk to Lisa Johnston? If you don’t mind. Thank you”
“Sorry I can’t pass you Lisa, as all our staff is caught up in a brainstorming all day. Can you call back as from 4 pm?”
“Right. Many thanks”.
I was civil to that switchboard lady but was a touch cross about having to wait to chat with Lisa again. How should I pass what would probably turn out a long frustrating four hour stint? Think up additional Q and A’s in my quaint idiom? Possibly. But first I had to down a stiff drink—a shot of Scotch to build up spirits, don’t you think? Why not! Taking a cut crystal glass from my drinks cupboard I put in a good inch of liquid Highland ambrosia and was quickly calm and warm within. Mmm, what an aroma, this truly is a godly spirit! Mmmmm! . . . . Again? Just a tiny dram, no? Don’t mind if I do…
It was not until half past four that I was coming to from a most profound nap. It was not just forty winks! I was not proud of my foolish action in partaking of a drink too far and had a blind panic that I would possibly find out that I was too tardy now to catch Lisa still at work.
Rushing to pick up my communication apparatus and punching in digits as if I was crazy, I got through. I was in luck as that NWT switchboard was still working and I was told that Lisa was still taking calls. With my voluminous crib containing all my lists of OK word groups, sayings and licit oral communication in my right hand, I was in orbit:
“Hi Lisa, this is Paul. How you doing? I do miss you, you know.”
Lisa was frigid and wary. “Oh! So you can talk again now.”
“Lisa, I’m so sorry for what I said, or for what I didn’t say, but I was… ill… (long gap) . . . Your stock of photos was just brilliant, you know.”
It was not going smoothly, as Lisa abruptly cut in:
“You still sound funny, not totally with it at all. So what do you want? I’m right up to my chin with a proposal for a two-month Pacific study into Japan’s whaling plans and I cannot go wasting hours talking to a clown.”
Doom and gloom but, trying to show normality, I said:
“I saw a world-famous doctor with a diploma on my condition on Sunday last in Slough who did a thorough analysis. His diagnosis was that I had what is known as a lipogrammatical hiatus in communication. My vocal bits work satisfactorily, my hang up is in my brain. I can talk but I just cannot say a particular group of words.”
“Paul, what is this rubbish?”
“Lisa, I know it’s all a frightful complication but I am saying nothing but plain truth. I’m not playing around. This is an unusual affliction but it is known to doctors. I am truly ill but my condition can vanish as quickly as I caught it. May I just link up with you to lay it all out?”
Not a sound from Lisa apart from a cynical snort. Obviously, I had to vary my approach.
“Look, how about us both going out for a cosy talk about it all this coming Saturday, with a spot of that fantastic cooking at our usual haunt—now it’s got two stars—La Maison du Vin. I won’t act foolishly, on my honour! No talk of work or my nutty condition.”
A sigh and a small laugh from Lisa and my optimism was starting to grow.
“That sounds fun, but I’m afraid it’s my Grandma’s birthday that day with a big party down in Brighton for all my family. Pity!”
“I know!” I cut in, my spirits buoyant now. “So what if us two go for a quick romantic trip to Paris, say, in a fortnight? You and I could book first class on that fast train from St Pancras, with all that bubbly on board, and stay as last spring at that cosy Right Bank mansion. Aux Jardins du Marais, wasn’t it?, with its stunning courtyard and its saucy art on show on all its floors, just fifty yards from Picasso’s famous flat.”
I thought I had won now, as Lisa gushingly put in:
“O.K. Paul, but on a strict condition. That you drop all that rubbish and talk normally. I can’t stand silly word-play. It’s too irritating! Is that plain? Will you do it?”
In panic, it struck my foolishly optimistic brain that, paraphrasing or not—as my good doctor had said—I just could not bring out that short common word of affirmation.
“Aha!” was all I could do.
“No, Paul, don’t start that rubbish again. Will you simply say that tiny word?”
“I will!”
Lisa was now showing distinct signs of irritation. “Can’t you talk normally? I’m asking you just to say that obvious word that starts with ‘y’. Or is it that you want to say ‘no’?
I was panicking now. “No, it’s not ‘no’.”
“Right, so if it’s not ‘no’, what is it?”
“Lisa. It’s just ‘not no’ as I don’t want to say ‘no’ but I simply cannot say that opposing word to ‘no’. So I’m not saying ‘no’ and I am saying ‘not no’. Is that obvious, now—or no?
Building up to a paroxysm of fury, my loving lady was now paranoid.
“Paul, that is IT! A final straw! I cannot stand your irritating, childish, absurd, farcical, ridiculous, idiotic load of rubbish. I am finishing with you this instant. I’m giving it to you straight up and down. Do I want to go with a fool such as you to Paris? No, a thousand fold! Do I want to go out dining with an idiot such as you? No, a million fold. That’s it, Paul. Curtains!” A loud click brought all that initially promising conciliation to an abrupt and tragic conclusion.
Fast forward now two and a bit hours and surprisingly, but happily, my mood is calm and lucid again. Far from still harbouring any black thoughts about Lisa’s angry outburst, I am totally wound up now for doing a grand job as Luigi’s minion and surviving that forthcoming night’s task in hand. I am in fact found this instant walking to work briskly from my flat to our local station with a strong conviction that with all my wordlists (which I am still holding tight, softly chanting or adding to) and all my intuition, I can win through. A cool light invigorating wind uplifts my spirits.
A half hour on and I am not in such a good mood. For I am on board a hot, odorous and ludicrously busy Piccadilly train, trying to commit to mind all my sayings and gambits. A distinctly difficult activity as I am in an almighty squash, stuck flat against a pair of sliding doors by a loud jovial crowd of young black musicians playing gongs, banjos and harmonicas and passing a hat around for contributions to a charity for poor African orphans in Tanzania or Zambia or Somalia or Madagascar or Angola or was it Ghana? I didn’t find out.
Arriving at Kings Cross station, I just had to alight and go up and outdoors and grab a lungful of cool invigorating night air by abandoning that madding crowd and carrying on by foot to Luigi’s in Farringdon. I thought I would just waltz along, chanting out loud all my bits of culinary vocabulary (with no sign of that sign, obviously!).
But alas, I found to my horror that it was now raining cats and dogs, a total downpour, and as I had foolishly not brought a raincoat, nor a brolly, I quickly got a right royal soaking. I ran as fast as I could, splashing through that rising flood. My hair was stuck down across my brow, with raindrops trickling down my collar and through to my back, my clothing dripping and drooping, as I, awash now from top to tail, was finally making my way into Luigi’s. I was hoping to God that Luigi was not, as usual, standing on guard in his doorway, nodding languidly at his staff and smiling warmly at his patrons. But as I ran up, I saw Luigi was on duty up front and so would strongly frown upon my condition—risking a disastrous start to what could build up to a catastrophic night. Il capo was, and it did.
Without saying a word but with a brutal look of disapproval, Luigi thrust a bunch of cotton napkins into my hands, so that I could dry my hair and swab my suit, and also parts of that day’s La Stampa for wiping out my smart black boots. It did cross my mind that I might just try to say a word or two to him about my vocal condition, but I hastily had to stop short at his ominous look. Could I pull it all off and do a night’s normal work?
My stomach was starting to twitch with worry but without warning I thought that I had found a brilliant solution. I would simply say to all and sundry (through signs if I had to) that on account of all that rain, I had in fact lost my vocal faculty and could just about mouth an odd word or two, softly and sparingly, but occasionally would stop making sounds and start making hand signals. If any local word was taboo, I could also opt for an occasional Italian match pianissimo, as a way out. Luigi was always in favour of all of his staff using his own idiom—and our patrons too. This was promising!
Looking dry and tidy by now, I was last, as usual, to join all staff at Luigi’s “tonight’s culinary status” summary, or as us lot would simply call it—“what’s on and what’s off”. Luigi was buoyant tonight, informing us all that it was a full booking in our trattoria, our main dish array was duck or rabbit or lamb—to say nothing of our usual various sorts of pasta and ravioli (I was noting down with joy my ability in coping with all such OK words!) But now with patrons starting to turn up, my trial was looming.
And do you know, starting off was not difficult at all! My first contact was with two charming old folk, habitual patrons, a dwarfish old man with long gold locks and his lady with curly black hair, both big fans of Italy and its food, happy parlando italiano, smiling at my soft vocal outburst of Ciao, signori, and choosing (also in Italian) una birra and un Cinzano bianco. To my inquiry “What can I bring you from la carta?” I was again lucky. Both had Prosciutto con Fichi to start, and to follow, it was Pollo con Rosmarino for la signora and for him Stufatino alla Romana. Amazing! No sign of any vocal snag in all that. Things going brilliantly—so far!
As for choosing drinks from our list, I was making signals that I could not talk loudly, tapping my hand against my mouth and saying “laryngitis”, nodding and pointing to two options in my black plastic list—36 and 42. Both took on board my proposal, smiling happily, and so I had won that first trial of my ability to do my job.
Fast forward an hour, with our trattoria now virtually full, and I was coping skilfully with this mix of schoolboy Italian, artificial loss of vocal communication and using hand signals, managing both patrons and cooks. Until, that is, to my horror I caught sight of an all too familiar group of loud City louts, arriving straight from its out-of-hours trading floor, with Luigi disastrously motioning that mob to sit in a solitary gap in my part of our dining room.
A foul bunch, high on substantial financial gains throughout that day’s trading—and no doubt on additional stimulation—cannabis? opium? or a similar comforting drug—who knows? Its boss man was as always highly vocal:
“That’s our big black Jaguar out in front, just park it for us, would you, my good man?” This was said to old Paolo by our front door. And to our boss…
“Hi, Luigi, you old bastard, just bring two jars of your top bubbly, would you? Us lot want to toast big, big winnings today”.
Pushing blindly through and arriving in my domain, this uncouth group sat down in a good spot, by a window with a vista of our patio—as a loud shouting match was starting up. And with Luigi hastily following with two magnums of that sparkling ambrosia.
“Wow! What a day, huh, you guys? Up and up in bounds of sixty points all bloody day—it wouldn’t stop. I sold all my BT straight away this morning and got 40 grand and I still had my coat on—hadn’t sat down. And on and on. Apart from that CAC, which took a whack. Down 56. Bloody frogs!”
“Too right, old son! But at two pm, with that data on US factory activity, did you watch that sodding Dow? Wow!”
“Bow wow, you dog—barking mad, that’s you! You didn’t buy what I said. Goldman Sachs and WPP. No complaints on my part. I also had a killing with Gold and Oils. And you, Sid. What about your Industrials and Transport? Was that a good trip?”
“No, I wouldn’t touch that particular lot. Too cautious, too rigid—and from now on I plan to avoid any banking stock too. City analysts just won’t back that stuff nowadays. A crunch is on its way again. So says J P Morgan. But I did play with Bonds. And also got into Dollars, Pounds and also South African Rand. That was grand!”
“Yup! Too right, son! To win, my good chum, you must always act hungry.”
“Hungry! Who said hungry? I’m f—ing starving.” It was “boss man” again, downing his third glass of Mumm Grand Brut, taking control and looking for staff to satisfy his crowd of gluttons. And quickly. That poor individual was, catastrophically, yours truly. With disdain and gloom, I slid up to start taking down this group’s copious blow-out. Making signs and with odd words, I told that group about my lost vocal chords and inability to talk loudly and I did try my Italian “solution” to this particular condition but got no sympathy from such a ploy.
“Whatsat? Talk loudly, you idiot. And in British, if you don’t mind. Drop this Italian mumbo jumbo’. “Big Mouth” standing up and shouting, ran down a list of what food and drinks to bring, adding tauntingly, as if I was stupid: “Hungry, hungry, rapidissimo, O.K?”
By now I was livid, but could not show it and just had to humour that bunch. I saw that my charming old pair of patrons was moving off, quickly vacating our grill room with a sad look and similar patrons, bills paid, sliding away to avoid that growing turmoil. But our trattoria was still fairly full and I had much work to do, with many a dish to bring out. I had a lot of sympathy now for all Luigi’s good patrons calmly sitting around waiting and having to put up with that bunch of yobbos cursing and complaining loudly about how slow it all was. Why did not Luigi simply throw that lot out?
Four Dutch tourists, just a yard or two from that diabolical bunch, calmly sat in anticipation of giant portions of pasta con pomidori which I was at last carrying out from our frantically busy cook. Sliding and twisting my way through all that throng sitting in such tightly knit groups, with my hands up high, balancing a tray with such big bowls of food, I was slowly approaching my goal. What was to follow was nothing short of catastrophic—in fact, my nadir.
I could not avoid brushing past that loud City crowd with my load. “Aha, that’s probably ours—at long last! Look, stop, that’s all for us”. Arriving in front of that lot, I said that it wasn’t. Quickly a foot was stuck out so that I would stop in my tracks, but I was not conscious of it. I saw it all in slow motion as I was tripping forward—my four portions of Luigi’s luscious Italian pasta and its rich colourful oily garnish flying up and coming down all across that City group’s classy mohair suits.
A bloodcurdling angry howl rang out from that bunch, in addition to a long list of filthy words. (Such as “H*ly Sh*t! Which though I could, I will not print out in full!) Rabid hands took a firm hold of my collar, fists hit my chin and body and a chair was brought down on my skull. Furious in turn, I was not going to submit to such an attack without a fight and hitting back, I laid a mighty punch on Big Mouth’s stubbly chin. Blood burst out from his vulgar mouth. Bingo!
In an instant Luigi was at hand to stop our fight, pulling us apart and shouting to all to calm down.
“This suit cost a grand, you bastard” was Big Mouth’s indignant cry, picking or flicking off bits of food from its light brown fabric and wiping his dirty lips with his hand.
Luigi too had a flaming look, turning my way and loudly announcing it was obviously all my fault. I was guilty of gross, shabby, scandalous actions towards his good patrons, unworthy of his casa and in saying so, in front of all and sundry, it was a prodigious public sacking. I had no opportunity to put forth my own account of that affray.
“Go wait in our back room, you big fool. I will do your job from now on until closing. With our doors finally shut, I will pay you and hand you your cards. Sit down now, all you good patrons”
You must know what mood I was in as I sat waiting in hiding, whilst all was calm again without. Luigi had in fact told that city crowd that as an apology, all costs would go back to him, with him also not charging for lunch for a fortnight.
I had to sit fuming in that back room until past midnight. Finally with all now still and locking his takings away, Luigi slid through that door for our final discussion, saying how sad it was to part in such a way, as my approach to working was to his mind upright, trustworthy, brisk, smart… (Why was my boss so blooming laudatory, if sacking was still on his mind?) . . . good and loyal and rapid.
But… in his book, anybody providing custom is always right, including occasions on which it is that rascal who is at fault. So that was it—sad but compulsory. Luigi put into my hands two month’s salary and a tin full of tips and said ciao with a warm Italian hug. It was hard not to hug him back as I took off. I was fond of that old bastard.
Back in that London night air, with my mind in turmoil, I had to find a way of going back to my flat with probably no public transport still running. Damnation, I thought, shaking my tin of cash, I’ll just go back by black cab. A long run—but I’m worth it! Luckily at that instant, coming down that road, I saw a bright “vacant” roof light on an approaching taxi and I stuck my hand up to stop it.
“Going far, guv’nor?”
“Wandsworth”
“Good, jump in! Foul night, innit?”