Cafe Corante
-1-
5 years ago I bought this bookstore with a friend, Eddee. At 28 and 29 years of age respectively, we were sick of working for others and being busy. Books are quiet, slow and really no trouble at all.
Ed has a wife, Sarah, but no kids. I have no wife and three kids. One in India, another in Canada and one in England, three in Botswana and two in Malta. I have a girlfriend, Angie, though I don’t think she likes me very much; a situation that suits me because it removes the pressure. I don’t feel obliged to make an effort to impress her because I know I can’t, and I feel not a morsel of guilt when fooling around with other women because I know she doesn’t like me.
I wrote her a poem once in a vain attempt at burlying her into a lustful frenzy:
Angela, so pretty in pink
Take time out for love
Then back to the sink
Angela, so pretty in red,
You’ve probably done enough out there
So come back to bed.
My name is Nedward. Some call me “Noodle”. I am skinny and apparently look like pasta. Eddee is a bit tubby and looks more like mashed potato – pale and lacking definition. His wife Sarah is fit, tanned and probably the best looking female to ever talk to either of us. She’s also a very nice person. Neither myself nor Ed can possibly imagine what she sees in him.
You’ll find our bookstore in Fremantle, Western Australia, if you want to find it. “Freo” is an historical port town full of character. Travellers seem to like it. We get all sorts passing through the store, so we set up a little corner with comfy old couches and coffee and pre-loved “Lonely Planets” to accommodate them. Don’t think we’re nice people because of that. My motives are purely financial and sexual; I like to call them “sexnancial”. And Edwardo’s motives are financial, sexual and emotional. I like to call them “finesexmotional”. He is attempting to garner as many potential contacts as possible in an effort to weave a global emotional safety net to catch him when he drops from that high cliff from which Sarah will inevitably kick his sorry arse.
It’s a fairly rustic old joint. Well, downstairs it is. Upstairs is a bit different. There’s a fully stocked bar and freshly polished dance floor up there. Thick purple felt curtains, cosy burgundy couches and a plush dark green carpeted floor. Bring a bottle of something expensive to get in. We’re open every night. It’s not a business venture. It’s a community service really. We cater to those who need to escape. Things happen up there. It’s not for everyone.
-2-
So this is a story about one month in particular which was particularly peculiar. I’m telling it because I need to, and also because I think you may enjoy it, or get some other value from it, even if it just keeps you out of trouble for a couple of hours.
It all started on a Friday.
Twas just after three of the clock prime meridian when the welcome sound of ice cubes clinking in a glass full of Baileys welcomed my cochlear. “Thankyou old chum”. Eddee winked and placed the old yellow tainted glass in front of me along with a chestnut and a length of string, “Don’t mention it sport”.
As we sat facing each other, engaged in a conker duel, the door opened and a pair of very long, gorgeous legs balancing on high heels walked in. The legs belonged to a short red skirt which, after some time, we realised belonged to a woman. She was stunning, and I’m not just saying that to keep you reading, she was genuinely sizzling. Long silky brown hair, big brown eyes, plump red lips and a full firm bosom accentuated by her tight red dress (yes it was a dress, not a skirt as I’d originally thought).
We wondered if she’d like some help.
“Can we help you?” we enquired pathetically.
“Ed? Ned? Is it really you?” Apparently she knew us. I sensed trouble immediately and responded accordingly with a resounding “No!” Unfortunately Ed, bless him, hadn’t sensed trouble and responded with an equally decisive “Yes!”
She didn’t like that. She promptly whipped out a small yellow revolver from her cleavage, clever, and asked again, quite seriously this time, “yes or no?”
“Yes!” I yelled.
“No!” yelled Ed simultaneously.
“Ooh” I said, covering my mouth with my hand and looking pathetically apologetic at the crazy fox.
“Faaark” exclaimed Ed, running his fingers through his hair and looking at the ground.
BANG! She fired one off, drilling Ed’s glass of Baileys.
‘What the fuck are you doing!?’ Screamed Eddee.
‘I want my life back! I want my fucking life back you bastards!’
‘What do you mean? What have we done?’ I asked in as placatory a manner as I could muster. Her demeanour softened and she removed one hand from the gun to tuck her fringe behind her ear. Ed and I started to breathe again.
‘I came here two years ago. Up there', she gestured upstairs, ‘and it fucked me up’. Her eyes filled with tears as she stared into mine. ‘You took my soul’.
Ed and I remained silent. The mystery woman stared at us but spoke no more. Her eyes suggested she had more to say, but she was probably thinking the same thing as me; that this was not the most comfortable situation for chatting.
‘Would you like to chat about it over a drink?’ I offered.
‘Yes. Can we go upstairs?’
‘Certainly, I’ll just get rid of these bums’ replied Ed with an accommodating and slightly nervous smile. The people to which he referred were a small band of three travellers. Two young ladies from Belgium and a Swedish fella who was a boyfriend to one of the girls. They were travelling the world in search of new experiences, self discovery and adventure, so it’s not really that surprising that they remained to watch the show when the bosomed bandit whipped a pistol from her cleavage and scared the absolute crap out of me and my buddy.
‘Can we join you?’ asked Adele of Belgium. My first instinct was to ask ‘Why? Why the hell would you want to do that? This lady has a gun!’ But I knew. I knew why they were prepared to sit down and have a cuppa with this mad bitch who might just shoot them if they set her off. It’s the same reason the people go upstairs. It’s because no-one has a freakin’ clue what we’re doing on this planet, alive and thinking. Evolutionists will tell us it’s to pass our genes on to the next generation. Ya-fucking-hoo. How exciting. What do the philosophers say? I wanna know what the philosophers say. I want more options! And so does Adele.
-3-
“Cuppa or booze?”
“BOOZE” they all reply in unison. Maybe this will turn into a party.
Ed and I dish out the bevvies, then, when we are all comfortably seated on the big circular cosy couch, Ed asks the obvious question.
“So what’s this all about? What’s your name? How did we steal your soul and what have we done with it?”
“My name is Ebony. You stole my soul by teaching me to question my existence, and I do not know what you have done with it. In fact you don’t actually have it, I’m sure, I was just speaking metaphorically to enhance the drama.”
“Cool. Should you really try to shoot us for that though, or was that for dramatic effect too?”
“I have a very good reason for wanting to shoot you”
“Oh.”
To be continued...
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